Because my Heavenly Father always knows what I need, even before I ask, He inspired my earthly father to write a story for me this week. Thanks Dad……for everything.
The Pocket Knife
Little boys,, and little girls too, I’m guessing, are fascinated by things that at a later point in life would not even register on a blank page of the mind. My earliest memories and fascinations are of the visits to my maternal grandparents home in Vilonia, Arkansas. The big two-story farmhouse, the smoke house, the barns and all things agricultural in the 1940-50’s had plenty to stimulate the curiosity and fascination of my impressionable mind. But one thing that made an indelible impression in my youthful mind was my grandfather’s pocket knife.
Granddad, as we called him, was a farmer. He wore stripped overall’s, chambray shirts and brogan shoes. He probably had no more than two of each, old ones for work and “good ones” for when company was coming. He did, however, have what he called his “Sunday duckins” that were worn only for the rare and special occasions that took him off the farm. Three small items were always in the pockets of whatever he wore. There was his Barlow pocket knife with a genuine bone handle, a small flint stone and his pocket book (as he called it) with the snap closure for whatever bills or coins he may have.
The pocket knife always caught my attention. The flint stone was for keeping it razor sharp. He could whip it out and use it on about anything. Cutting string from a bale of hay, skinning a squirrel and cutting a watermelon were just a few of the services that Barlow was expected to perform. I think the one that caught my attention the most was seeing him sitting in the rocking chair in front of the old wood stove. This was time to get his knife out for cleaning and trimming his fingernails. The manual nature of tending crops, cows, horses and hogs left their residue beneath his nails and each days ending demanded this simple act of hygiene. This concluded the day’s utilitarian expectations of his knife.
I was in my teens when Granddad passed at age 83. It may have been a bit selfish on my part but I asked my mom, his oldest daughter, if I might inherit the pocket knife. My wish was granted and I became the proud owner of a small item that gave me both a physical and emotional link to someone I had idolized. I did not carry it on a daily basis keeping it among my “stuff” as a valued keepsake.
Years passed and I became the father of a son. He, too, had his curiosities and fascinations that evidently included Granddad’s Barlow. I arrived home one day and saw him in the front yard throwing something against the trunk of a tree. I found my 7-8 year-old son with the cherished knife, blade open, attempting to stick it into a tree. Upon quick retrieval and examination, I could see that a chunk (just a chip, really) of the bone handle was already gone. Anger gripped me and I could see the fear in his eyes. What to do? How to react?
Here is how I remember the ensuing few moments. My son may remember it differently and he may be more correct than I. As I looked at my damaged keepsake, the missing chip now had a new significance and reminder to me. It became a link of my son to a great-grandfather he never knew. The damaged handle was now a generational connection in my heart and mind with two people who are the dearest on earth to me. Without that missing chip it’s just a knife. With the chip, it’s a treasure.
As I passed the three-quarter century in my life, I realized that some of my emotional attachments needed to be reshaped and enhanced. At Christmas time after my 75th birthday, I presented Granddad’s Barlow to my son. I think he will keep it until it is time to pass it along and keep the family connections intact. The pocket knife that cut watermelons, skinned squirrels and trimmed fingernails has fulfilled its utilitarian purposes, purposes that its creator could never have imagined with even more awaiting. “Greg, you may not have been successful in sticking it in that old tree trunk but you sure have make it stick in my heart.”
Love,
Dad,
