The first knife I ever carried was a small, bone-handled pocketknife with a single two-inch blade. This occurred a couple years before I even started school, but I was allowed to carry it because, well, folks, it was quite obvious I couldn’t open the blooming thing!
However, I looked upon it as a status symbol of sorts, because just about everyone I knew carried a pocketknife, even my mother. It is a handy item to have readily at hand, especially on a farm.
A year or so later, I was able to eventually open that pocketknife, much to my exultation, but I made the mistake of proudly showing this feat off to my parents, who immediately confiscated it.
The knife was eventually returned to me, but with some set rules which have stuck with me to this day. The fact is, I even carried a pocketknife to school from kindergarten on, something absolutely forbidden these days. For me, it was a necessity to always have on hand, especially for farm chores before and after school (try cutting binder-twine on straw or hay bales with your teeth), not to mention I often had a trap-line during the winter.
Somewhere along the line, I lost that particular first and beloved pocketknife due to a hole in my front pants-pocket. The fact is, I have lost a number of beloved pocketknives over the years. Not long ago, I discovered one I had long lamented over losing, under the cushion of my easy-chair while looking for my suddenly missing cell…
