414:126) Uncle Josh
Date: 09-MAR-94  16:59
 MaryPat the meat cleaver, named for the assistant on whose
 departing day the blade was bought, grinds in complaint against
 the whetstone.  Alto cries of steel on stone, like iron on rock,
 an ancient sound of battle misplaced in my warm kitchen.  Have we
 grown so little after so long?  My left hand aches from angling
 the blade against the rough-grind side.  I scrape MaryPat back
 and forth.  I flip it, drip more mineral oil on the stone, and
 rub the other side.  What a wonderful sheen.  But the edge looks
 raw, and particles twinkle in the halogen glare.  Off to the sink
 to wash MaryPat.  The oil resists the hot water, then slides
 away.  My glasses steam.  Wipe the warm blade, and it's back to
 the stone, this time for fine grind.  A soprano scrape this time,
 from a lighter touch.  Edge looks smoother now.  Another warm
 wash.  Wipe.  There.  Ready for action.
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