- Joined
- Sep 5, 2012
- Messages
- 78
Don't post much here but I thought I would share with the brotherhood.
About a month ago my wife and I went to visit my mother-in-law at her home. She just had knee surgery so my wife bought her some fresh flowers. Being the good guy that I am, I offered to take the flowers and find a vase somewhere in the house. Undid the roll of flowers and pulled out my trusty small micarta insingo --Note: This particular knife had been with me since 2012. It was a birthday gift from my then girlfriend-now wife. She could not understand how a pocket knife could be 450 bucks but she gladly bought it as she knew that it was the ultimate for me (apparently she got it from knifeart and the guy couldn't believe a girlfriend would do such a thing for her boyfriend). I could go on and on about how awesome the knife is, particularly the way so many elements come together perfectly. Blade to length ratio, its small size yet robust strength... Over the intervening 5 years, I probably carried the knife 300 days out of the year, at least. I work in distribution so the knife saw nothing serious, but a lot, and I mean a LOT, of boxes, packages and other similar material.
So I bring the flowers in and everyone is impressed by how they are arranged so nicely since "The Awesome" (I called it that) made such quick work of everything. Chit chat for a bit and then we leave.
I am getting sick as I am writing this as we all know what happened when I got home. I reached for my back pocket... and nothing. A very small chill went down my spine but there were a few times (twice) that I had misplaced the knife and it somehow always found its way back to me. Well, not this time. Flipped my house, my MIL's house, the car, both driveways and all the random places where it could not possibly be. Did I possibly throw it away with the flower wrappings? Did I somehow drop it on the way to the car? Did all the spirits of decimated cardboard boxes finally take their revenge?
My only consolation is that its last act was one of service and perhaps the hope that some lucky bastard now has "The Awesome" in their back pocket. Or, if it's in the dumpster somewhere, some lucky archaeologist will find it 1,000 years from now- still sharp.
Thank you gentleman. I will wipe the tears from my keyboard and find the courage to move on. But damn, it still hurts.
About a month ago my wife and I went to visit my mother-in-law at her home. She just had knee surgery so my wife bought her some fresh flowers. Being the good guy that I am, I offered to take the flowers and find a vase somewhere in the house. Undid the roll of flowers and pulled out my trusty small micarta insingo --Note: This particular knife had been with me since 2012. It was a birthday gift from my then girlfriend-now wife. She could not understand how a pocket knife could be 450 bucks but she gladly bought it as she knew that it was the ultimate for me (apparently she got it from knifeart and the guy couldn't believe a girlfriend would do such a thing for her boyfriend). I could go on and on about how awesome the knife is, particularly the way so many elements come together perfectly. Blade to length ratio, its small size yet robust strength... Over the intervening 5 years, I probably carried the knife 300 days out of the year, at least. I work in distribution so the knife saw nothing serious, but a lot, and I mean a LOT, of boxes, packages and other similar material.
So I bring the flowers in and everyone is impressed by how they are arranged so nicely since "The Awesome" (I called it that) made such quick work of everything. Chit chat for a bit and then we leave.
I am getting sick as I am writing this as we all know what happened when I got home. I reached for my back pocket... and nothing. A very small chill went down my spine but there were a few times (twice) that I had misplaced the knife and it somehow always found its way back to me. Well, not this time. Flipped my house, my MIL's house, the car, both driveways and all the random places where it could not possibly be. Did I possibly throw it away with the flower wrappings? Did I somehow drop it on the way to the car? Did all the spirits of decimated cardboard boxes finally take their revenge?
My only consolation is that its last act was one of service and perhaps the hope that some lucky bastard now has "The Awesome" in their back pocket. Or, if it's in the dumpster somewhere, some lucky archaeologist will find it 1,000 years from now- still sharp.
Thank you gentleman. I will wipe the tears from my keyboard and find the courage to move on. But damn, it still hurts.
