Every day since I can remember, which as I get older is a shorter span than I like to admit, but at least for the past thirty-five years, my left front pocket has contained a folding three blade knife. Somehow, however, on this day it was missing; frantically I went through the britches from yesterday, tearing the pockets wrong side out, to no avail. I searched for hours, seeking a lost friend, grieving, morning its absence.
To comfort my left front pocket, I opened the top drawer of my dresser, and in the back where all my other knives have been retired, I resurrected one to serve again, like a reserve soldier being called up for active duty in a time of national emergency. Taking the knife from the back of the drawer I looked it over, noticing dust balls wedged between the blades I opened each one – giving a strong blow of air to free its mechanism from the intruding dust, small fragments floating to the carpeted floor where they would be hidden from my wife. Each blade inspected for function and sharpness, sliding my thumb across the blade feeling the tell tale sign of a finely honed edge. It needed polishing, but it would work. Like the dozen or so knives before it was an Old Timer 34, the best pocket knife ever made. Brass ends, three blades, and a brown faux stag handle. Three different blades for three different functions, one kept razor sharp, the middle blade is the most utility blade, so its sharp, but not too sharp, and then the smaller blade, the “give ‘em hell” blade. Used for cutting fence wire, and scraping copper pipe, and whatever else an edge is needed for that doesn’t include cutting. It’s the perfect knife.
Several days later, I offered a ransom for the knife. Telling the children that who ever finds it will receive a dollar. Sure I could buy another, but that was sacrilege, it was my knife and I wouldn’t leave one of my children out lost without a valiant search, and so to my knife.
How it happened I am still not sure, but just this morning, I was getting dressed, following the same routine as always, when I saw it there, sitting on my dresser - a lost friend returned. I still don’t know how it got there, but there it was none the less and I am better for it. I immediately went running through the house proclaiming its return from hinterlands wherever knives disappear to and miraculously return from; withdrawing my ransom as I paid myself one of my two dollars for its return. Now my pants seem to fit better, there is a spring in my step, and I feel more confident to take on the world.
After I found my knife, I then took the old soldier who had born the burden for its lost brother and returned it to its resting place in the back of the top drawer of my dresser. The same place this one too will retire, with the dozen or so others who have served their duty without complaint and without failure. I am now on a mission to replace this knife, so that if it decides to go missing again, I will have a new knife ready to take its place. For thirty five years, I have carried an Old Timer knive; alas they are not to be found anymore, so I bought a Buck knife. A life long carrier of Old Timer buying a Buck is akin to a Baptist joining a Catholic church, its still a knife just like the Catholics are Christian, it just ain’t quite the same.
