Sooo, I had to go to the courthouse the other day for a minor thing. No jury duty, no ticket paying, just a will to be files. I'd made a minor change to my will, and wanted to file the new one with the register of will department. I pull up in the parking lot, take off the SAK classic from y keyring, take the Leatherman Squirt out of my pocket and set off across the sun baked parking lot. Its summer here in Texas, and its 97 degrees so I look forward to making it into the nice air conditions Williamson Country court house.
I get to the door, go to the walk through metal detectors and takeout everything from my pockets like pipe, tobacco pouch, Bic lighter, pen, belt buckle, keyring, and put it all in the little plastic tray and then have a moment of "OH S--T!!!
I feel it there in my pocket. My little Boker 240 penknife. I make a disgusting sound at own dimwittedness, and a young sheriff's department deputy comes over as I ask for my tray to be handed back to me.
"Is there a problem, sir?" he asked very politely but guarded.
'Yeah, I'm an idiot and forgot this was in my pocket!" I tell him showing him the little Boker. "I'll have to hike back to the car to put it up."
He looks at the little pocket knife in my palm and has a funny look on his face. Almost kind of wistful.
"Wow, my grandfather had a knife just like that" he says, and talks about how the old man would sit on the front porch after dinner and whittle a toothpick. Then he asks respectfully if he could see it. I had it to him and he chicken eyes it and coon fingers it carefully, looking at the rosewood scales I'd polished only the day before with some mineral oil when I lubed the joints. He feels the dark mottled gray blade with the bright strip of steel going up the edge.
"That is a very sharp blade," he says, "It feels like a razor."
He looks thoughtful, and then surprised me. He asks what I'm going to be doing at the courthouse. I tell him I'm only going upstairs to register a changed will. I don't expect to be long.
'I'll tell you what, sir," He says to me, "If you'll trust me, I'll hang onto this while you go up, and I'll be right here when you come down and that way you don't have to walk all the way back to your car in that hot sun."
I tell him he's got a deal. So I go up and do what I came for, and sure enough there he was waiting right by the metal detector. He has my my little pen knife right in hand and I thank him gratefully. He says no problem, and that I reminded him of his grandfather who passed awy last year. He chicken eyes and coon fingers the Boker one more time and hands it back to me. Then he says an unexpected thing. He talks about how the pocket knife carried by his granddad and me have a class to them. We have a short conversation about old things that have what I call soul, and he nods his head. We part company and I trudge back to my car, go home. It was an unexpected turn to a routine day in the life. The young county sheriff deputy bedecked with tactical gear and Glock, chicken eyeing an old wood handle penknife. Like it was a relic from another time, and I guess it was, to him. And from the wistful look in his eyes, maybe a better time?
I get to the door, go to the walk through metal detectors and takeout everything from my pockets like pipe, tobacco pouch, Bic lighter, pen, belt buckle, keyring, and put it all in the little plastic tray and then have a moment of "OH S--T!!!
I feel it there in my pocket. My little Boker 240 penknife. I make a disgusting sound at own dimwittedness, and a young sheriff's department deputy comes over as I ask for my tray to be handed back to me.
"Is there a problem, sir?" he asked very politely but guarded.
'Yeah, I'm an idiot and forgot this was in my pocket!" I tell him showing him the little Boker. "I'll have to hike back to the car to put it up."
He looks at the little pocket knife in my palm and has a funny look on his face. Almost kind of wistful.
"Wow, my grandfather had a knife just like that" he says, and talks about how the old man would sit on the front porch after dinner and whittle a toothpick. Then he asks respectfully if he could see it. I had it to him and he chicken eyes it and coon fingers it carefully, looking at the rosewood scales I'd polished only the day before with some mineral oil when I lubed the joints. He feels the dark mottled gray blade with the bright strip of steel going up the edge.
"That is a very sharp blade," he says, "It feels like a razor."
He looks thoughtful, and then surprised me. He asks what I'm going to be doing at the courthouse. I tell him I'm only going upstairs to register a changed will. I don't expect to be long.
'I'll tell you what, sir," He says to me, "If you'll trust me, I'll hang onto this while you go up, and I'll be right here when you come down and that way you don't have to walk all the way back to your car in that hot sun."
I tell him he's got a deal. So I go up and do what I came for, and sure enough there he was waiting right by the metal detector. He has my my little pen knife right in hand and I thank him gratefully. He says no problem, and that I reminded him of his grandfather who passed awy last year. He chicken eyes and coon fingers the Boker one more time and hands it back to me. Then he says an unexpected thing. He talks about how the pocket knife carried by his granddad and me have a class to them. We have a short conversation about old things that have what I call soul, and he nods his head. We part company and I trudge back to my car, go home. It was an unexpected turn to a routine day in the life. The young county sheriff deputy bedecked with tactical gear and Glock, chicken eyeing an old wood handle penknife. Like it was a relic from another time, and I guess it was, to him. And from the wistful look in his eyes, maybe a better time?
...........If you find another I'll split the cost....What say you???