Another Random Childhood Memory Arisen at the Hour of the Wolf

In the dark basement, my father's professional-grade whetstone. (He was a professional carpenter and shipwright after all).  It sat in something that looked a bit like a dirty butter dish.

The whetstone became wet only when he spat on it, after which he would use a forefinger to spread the spittle all around the top surface as, perhaps, his own father taught him to do.