I’d never heard of paying for a gift, but my friend Jody said I’d have to hand him a penny for the object he wanted to give me. He thought knowing the need 
for the exchange would be a clear clue as to the nature of the present but I was mystified, especially since the offer came unexpectedly and not apropos of any occasion. Besides, what can you get for a penny these days?
Jody is a consummate woodsman, not merely a person who spends time in the woods, but a man of the woods. So, it should come as no surprise that my gift was an axe. But, not just any axe. It was an old two-pound Collins Hudson Bay model, a tool that had been made in the middle of the twentieth century in the factory just down the street from where I live in Collinsville, Connecticut. It’s been over 50 years since the plant was shuttered and their well made, long lasting axes not only remain utilitarian, they are useable pieces of history.
When I saw the gift, my eyes widened and I swiftly held out my hand, both eager to hold it and grateful for my friend’s generosity. But first, he insisted, I had to hand over the penny.
A knife or other sharp edged tool is a time-honored gift, valued for an amalgam of practicality and beauty since the dawn of human culture. And somewhere in the distant mist of ancient custom 
whose origin is unknown, it’s obligatory for the person receiving the implement to provide some compensation lest it be bad luck for the relationship, as if the blade would otherwise metaphorically sever the connection between two people. Surrendering a penny for something sharp was a tradition in Jody’s family going back generations. Invited into this circle of ritual, I felt our relationship deepen.
Call a penny for a blade superstition, myth or folklore, on a profound emotional level it made perfect sense to me the second it was explained. A scientist might call it bunk. But the ritual had a power of gripping, unfathomable mystery.
As much as I admired the axe head that Jody had carefully cleaned and sharpened, the real gift was the handle he had crafted from a piece of hop hornbeam, a small tree that typically grows no more than thirty feet tall and tends to blend into the forest. Harder than oak or hickory, naturalist Donald Peattie called it “ideal for use wherever great toughness is required . . .” such as “for the handle of a mallet or an axe or a lever to endure great strain.” Of course, “this presupposes a man who knows of the high quality of the wood, and can recognize this rather undistinctive tree when he sees it.” Such a rare man is Jody.
The handle is a work of art. The grain is tight, the color a light but rich nutty brown. It shows a couple small knots and is freckled with the tiny marks of powder post beetles. Crafted into a graceful shape, 
it curves toward the blade at the top, straightening and growing slender in the middle before curving inward at the grip and ending with a well defined knob. It’s based on a pattern Jody found in a nineteenth century house near his home on Canaan Mountain.
Well balancing the axe head, its handle makes the tool feel good in the hands giving it a true beauty that extends beyond mere looks. When I hold it, I feel an urgency to go out and split kindling for a fire. It’s an object I’ll have a long term relationship with, an heirloom that one of my children will be eager to inherit. Of course, the real gift was not in the thing itself, but in the skill and craftsmanship of a friend. No penny needed for that ultimate present.
