Being a thoroughbred New England Yankee, I had myself a little tradition that I started as a teen. I used to walk in the forrest near the home I grew up in and as I was walking, I would look for sticks of good length and diameter. I wouldn't measure or anything, just eyeball it. If I saw one that looked good, I would pick it up and swing it against an oak. If it broke, it was no good. If it didn't break, I would take it home, whittle the bark and skin off, sand it smooth and put it in the attic to dry.
I put a lot of care into those sticks. They each had a personality. Then a made one for a hiking friend and I wrote a passage from Walden (my favorite)on it: "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived."
I gave this to him senior year of high school. We parted ways that summer. He went off to UNH and I to a school in VA. Early that fall, I got a call from home telling me that my friend had been on sitting on a railing on the roof of a building and that he had fallen, hitting his head on the pavement, and died. I stopped making those sticks. That was the last one...