How an engineer came to make things that last for generations
I spent the better part of four decades as a chemical engineer — working with solid rocket propellants, defense systems, and the kind of precision that leaves no room for guesswork. That training never leaves you. When I came to knifemaking, I didn't approach it as a hobbyist. I approached it as a problem in materials, geometry, and process — and I have never stopped thinking about it that way.
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An engineer doesn't guess at a measurement. He doesn't assume a material will behave a certain way — he tests it. That same discipline shapes every step of my process. The brass fillers I use for handle spacers are cut to thousandths of an inch. The marine spar varnish I apply to wood handles is progressively diluted across the first coats so it penetrates the grain rather than sitting on top of it. The leather I select is Hermann Oak — because its oak bark tannage produces a denser fiber that takes stamps with sharper contrast and ages more gracefully than anything else I've found.
These are not accidents. They are the result of testing, comparing, and refusing to accept a result that is merely adequate when an excellent one is achievable.
I've thought a great deal about why I make what I make, and the answer is simple: I want to build things that outlast me. A well-made knife — properly cared for — will be just as sharp, just as beautiful, and just as useful in fifty years as it is today. A well-made leather sheath will develop a patina that makes it more beautiful with age, not less.
These are objects worthy of being handed down. Not displayed behind glass, but used — and then given to someone who will use them too, and remember where they came from.
My wife Sherrie and I have made our home in the Nashville area for many years. The workshop is modest — the kind of busy, tool-filled space where real work gets done. Every piece that leaves it has been touched many times: measured, filed, ground, finished, and finished again until it is right.
If you're considering commissioning a piece, I'd genuinely enjoy a conversation about what you have in mind. The best knives and leather goods I've made started with someone telling me a story — about who the piece is for, what it will be used for, and what they hope it will mean one day to someone who wasn't there when it was made.
"I don't make knives for a season. I make them for a lifetime — and hope the lifetime is longer than mine."
— Charlie Funk