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.
