Memory is a sharp tool sometimes, and carrying a favorite pocket knife as a talisman is a handy way to get cut.
The knife was perfectly comfortable to carry and sat easily at the bottom of a pocket alongside change. It was about the thickness of two quarters and, folded, was less than three quarters long. Its handle was a modern, smooth stainless steel, and its blade was a highly-polished glass alloy, similar to obsidian, very dark gray but not jet black. My dad had given it to me as a high school graduation present.
Its ease of carry and smooth sides were its eventual undoing. It slipped out of my pocket and made brief forays onto many recliner seats and couch cushions over the years, so I knew it was bad to try to get away.
It made its first serious bid for escape while I was sitting in a theater-style lecture hall at Mississippi State, listening to David Gergen, who’d been a senior advisor to United States presidents of both parties. I guess it needed a better angle from which to hear. As I was leaving, I put my hand in my pocket and missed it in time to go back to the seat I had occupied and pick it up off the floor.
I had it with me on the first field production trip I made for Mossy Oak, when we were hosting some big names for a turkey hunt on Giles Island. A land guide and I had gone out on the first afternoon to listen. We sat by a tree, yelping every now and then but mostly waiting to hear birds fly up to roost somewhere, and we succeeded in calling up a skunk, which approached way too close for comfort before meandering harmlessly away. I didn’t miss the knife until I dumped my pockets back at camp that night. The guide who’d been with me had been in just for the day and returned home, across the river cutoff to Natchez, and the chances of me driving out to exactly the tree against which we’d sat were precisely zero, so it was gone. Probably the mosquitoes carried it away, though they didn’t need it. Sharp though it was, they were already far better armed.
I inherited several of the Old Man’s pocket knives and have carried various of them from time to time, but several of the best of these are not made of stainless steel and have to be kept oiled. They tend to be bulky, too, though I’ll still pocket one now and then for a day I’ll be working in the yard. Mainly though, they’re a little too precious to lose, and that’s the catch. We carry our memories with us, and a pocket knife is a great talisman for that. It just doesn’t mean as much sitting in a drawer or on a shelf. But you have to risk losing it to enjoy it, to cut or to remember either way.
I amended my habit of carrying a pocket knife every day when metal detectors sprang up around every corner. I don’t envy the officers who have to police that, I can only imagine the arguments they must put up with, and I’m glad they’re on hand doing what they do, but it makes pocket-knife carrying a pain. I still keep one with me most of the time, though.
The knife I carry now is one I bought myself somewhere, sometime I don’t clearly remember. It’s not as nice as my high school graduation present and has no special memories attached so, naturally, it’s never come close to being lost. Like cheap gas station sunglasses, it’s set to hang on eternally, unthreatened by psychological forces passing it by.
Maybe someday the Boy will carry it. It’s not all that special, but it’s good for what it does. It’s easy enough to carry, but its sides have insets of grippy rubber and it doesn’t slide around. Maybe he’ll keep it in his pocket someday and remember the person who passed it on. Sort of like its original owner, it’s not terribly sharp, though sharp enough, and built mostly just to hang in there until needed, not likely to try getting away.
Kevin Tate is a freelance writer. Email [email protected].
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