The old man followed the trail up the rocky incline, and glanced back at the woman following him. His wife of almost 50 years was hiking along steadily in back of him, alleviating any worry about her regained abilities. The past year had seen her beat the breast cancer and they were looking forward to more years of blissful retirement.
The trail finally came out at the outcropping of rock that gave a great view of Lake Georgetown. The sun glinted off the blue waters and they could almost see the white cumulus clouds reflected on the surface of the water. Taking off the day packs, they eased out the light weight compact folding chairs bought at a local R.E.I. outlet and sat down side by side and admired the view for a few moments. The Texas weather had cooled off and light nylon windbreakers were put on while they sat admiring the view they had hiked in to see from a favorite place.
“You hungry yet?” The man asked.
“The walk in stirred up my appetite a bit, yeah.” The woman replied.
Without talking, they set about a routine honed by almost a half a century of practice. The man took a small light weight plastic cutting board out his pack while his wife handed him a plastic cased summer sausage.
“You can start on that while I get the rolls cut.” She told him.
He unpeeled the sausage and started to slice it with a pocket knife. It was an old well used Buck stockman that had seen much better days. The saw cut texture of the black scales was long gone, the black delrin worn smooth by years of handling and use. The main blade was a thinner profile than it once was. His wife looked over and laughed.
“My God, I haven’t seen that one in along while!” She said, “I thought you gave that to Ryan years ago?”
“I did, but I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic and begged hard enough that he loaned it back to me for a little while. A very little while. I had to make all kinds of promises to not lose it.”
His wife didn’t say anything, but rummaged around in her pack and took out a knife to slice the sour dough rolls, and something about her movements were suspicious. The man looked intently at the pocket knife in her hand.
“Am I now senile or is that what I think it is?” He said.
His wife was trying to hide the smile, and not doing a good job at it. She held out her hand and the man looked at the very old scout knife she held. The old blade was so darkened with the years that it looked like had been blued and then parkerized in a haphazard manner. Deeply stained by the years with some light pitting, but not bad. Yet there was a bright ribbon of polished sharp edge running down the blade that bespoke of a recent honing. The old delrin scales were warped from the many decades of use, but the Boy Scout shield with the motto of “Be Prepared” was still there. Her father, his father in law Billy Thomas, had got many years of use out of that scout knife before he gave to his daughter. Karen had carried it for many years, before it went their daughter as a keepsake of her grandpa.
“I remember you slicing a chocolate iced doughnut in half with that knife.” The man said. “A very long time ago it was too.”
“I guess I was feeling a bit nostalgic too.” She said, “ I got it back from Jessica last time were were in California.”
They both laughed for bit, then his wife finished cutting the sour dough rolls and the man started handing her slices of the sausage that she put on a roll then added a squirt of mustard from the plastic bottle in her pack. She handed the finished sandwich back to her husband while she had one herself. They ate in comfortable silence for while, and they passed the thermos cup of Costa Rican coffee back and forth as needed. After finishing the second sandwich the man took a paper towel from his pocket and started to wipe off the blade of the old stockman, paying careful attention to the nail nick.
“You were carrying that knife when I met you.” His wife said, “I was always so impressed at how much you could do with a pocket knife.”
“You were supposed to be. I had to figure out something to impress you, since you were a better shot than me.” He said.
His wife reached over and took his hand and they sat there holding hands for while. They often went for long periods without talking, almost as if sharing thoughts by some some inner sense. It had been a lifetime of being partners, lovers, and even a few times coconspirators, and talking wasn’t really needed at times. He glanced over at his wife and noticed that she had the old scout knife her hand, and was running her thumb over the worn scales and round Boy Scout shield.
“What are you thinking?” He asked.
“Oh, just thinking what a trip it’s all been. Thinking of daddy a bit, and the kids. Thinking how I’m just thankful to just be alive. I don’t think its ever going to be the same again. Yeah, I know Doctor Ashcroft says I’m fine, but when you have some doctor tell you that you have cancer, its never the same again. It’s like everything ever after is gravy. You have to learn to be grateful for the little things you have that most people don’t give a second thought to. Like sitting in a nice spot over looking a lake with someone you love, having simple summer sausage sandwiches and good coffee on a cool but sunny day. Like not worrying about small stuff, and most the big stuff will take care of itself. How sometimes some little thing is way more important than we know.”
She held up the old scout knife, looking at it.
“Like meeting some guy on a shooting range and not knowing that it was going to lead here and now.” She said.
The man was silent for bit.
“You think we need to get our guns back?” He asked.
His wife knew instantly what he was talking about.
“I’ll have to ask Jess. “ she said, thinking of her old K22 Smith and Wesson.
“I’ll probably have to threaten Matt.” He said, referring to their third child, and thinking about his old Model 18 Smith and Wesson.
"We’ll go all the way back to the beginning. To the range down there in San Antonio.” He said to her. “We’ll renew our vows on the range where we met. Kind of like completing the circle.”
She held up the old scout knife.
“Do you think we could have a chocolate doughnut to share?”
He nodded. “That would be the clincher alright.”
They sat and looked out at the lake sparkling the Texas sunshine, and again there was little need for talking. Her right hand was in his left hand, and in his right hand the old Buck stockman was a reassuring presence. His wife held the old scout knife in her left hand and let her mind replay old but good memories from the past.
The trail finally came out at the outcropping of rock that gave a great view of Lake Georgetown. The sun glinted off the blue waters and they could almost see the white cumulus clouds reflected on the surface of the water. Taking off the day packs, they eased out the light weight compact folding chairs bought at a local R.E.I. outlet and sat down side by side and admired the view for a few moments. The Texas weather had cooled off and light nylon windbreakers were put on while they sat admiring the view they had hiked in to see from a favorite place.
“You hungry yet?” The man asked.
“The walk in stirred up my appetite a bit, yeah.” The woman replied.
Without talking, they set about a routine honed by almost a half a century of practice. The man took a small light weight plastic cutting board out his pack while his wife handed him a plastic cased summer sausage.
“You can start on that while I get the rolls cut.” She told him.
He unpeeled the sausage and started to slice it with a pocket knife. It was an old well used Buck stockman that had seen much better days. The saw cut texture of the black scales was long gone, the black delrin worn smooth by years of handling and use. The main blade was a thinner profile than it once was. His wife looked over and laughed.
“My God, I haven’t seen that one in along while!” She said, “I thought you gave that to Ryan years ago?”
“I did, but I’ve been feeling a little nostalgic and begged hard enough that he loaned it back to me for a little while. A very little while. I had to make all kinds of promises to not lose it.”
His wife didn’t say anything, but rummaged around in her pack and took out a knife to slice the sour dough rolls, and something about her movements were suspicious. The man looked intently at the pocket knife in her hand.
“Am I now senile or is that what I think it is?” He said.
His wife was trying to hide the smile, and not doing a good job at it. She held out her hand and the man looked at the very old scout knife she held. The old blade was so darkened with the years that it looked like had been blued and then parkerized in a haphazard manner. Deeply stained by the years with some light pitting, but not bad. Yet there was a bright ribbon of polished sharp edge running down the blade that bespoke of a recent honing. The old delrin scales were warped from the many decades of use, but the Boy Scout shield with the motto of “Be Prepared” was still there. Her father, his father in law Billy Thomas, had got many years of use out of that scout knife before he gave to his daughter. Karen had carried it for many years, before it went their daughter as a keepsake of her grandpa.
“I remember you slicing a chocolate iced doughnut in half with that knife.” The man said. “A very long time ago it was too.”
“I guess I was feeling a bit nostalgic too.” She said, “ I got it back from Jessica last time were were in California.”
They both laughed for bit, then his wife finished cutting the sour dough rolls and the man started handing her slices of the sausage that she put on a roll then added a squirt of mustard from the plastic bottle in her pack. She handed the finished sandwich back to her husband while she had one herself. They ate in comfortable silence for while, and they passed the thermos cup of Costa Rican coffee back and forth as needed. After finishing the second sandwich the man took a paper towel from his pocket and started to wipe off the blade of the old stockman, paying careful attention to the nail nick.
“You were carrying that knife when I met you.” His wife said, “I was always so impressed at how much you could do with a pocket knife.”
“You were supposed to be. I had to figure out something to impress you, since you were a better shot than me.” He said.
His wife reached over and took his hand and they sat there holding hands for while. They often went for long periods without talking, almost as if sharing thoughts by some some inner sense. It had been a lifetime of being partners, lovers, and even a few times coconspirators, and talking wasn’t really needed at times. He glanced over at his wife and noticed that she had the old scout knife her hand, and was running her thumb over the worn scales and round Boy Scout shield.
“What are you thinking?” He asked.
“Oh, just thinking what a trip it’s all been. Thinking of daddy a bit, and the kids. Thinking how I’m just thankful to just be alive. I don’t think its ever going to be the same again. Yeah, I know Doctor Ashcroft says I’m fine, but when you have some doctor tell you that you have cancer, its never the same again. It’s like everything ever after is gravy. You have to learn to be grateful for the little things you have that most people don’t give a second thought to. Like sitting in a nice spot over looking a lake with someone you love, having simple summer sausage sandwiches and good coffee on a cool but sunny day. Like not worrying about small stuff, and most the big stuff will take care of itself. How sometimes some little thing is way more important than we know.”
She held up the old scout knife, looking at it.
“Like meeting some guy on a shooting range and not knowing that it was going to lead here and now.” She said.
The man was silent for bit.
“You think we need to get our guns back?” He asked.
His wife knew instantly what he was talking about.
“I’ll have to ask Jess. “ she said, thinking of her old K22 Smith and Wesson.
“I’ll probably have to threaten Matt.” He said, referring to their third child, and thinking about his old Model 18 Smith and Wesson.
"We’ll go all the way back to the beginning. To the range down there in San Antonio.” He said to her. “We’ll renew our vows on the range where we met. Kind of like completing the circle.”
She held up the old scout knife.
“Do you think we could have a chocolate doughnut to share?”
He nodded. “That would be the clincher alright.”
They sat and looked out at the lake sparkling the Texas sunshine, and again there was little need for talking. Her right hand was in his left hand, and in his right hand the old Buck stockman was a reassuring presence. His wife held the old scout knife in her left hand and let her mind replay old but good memories from the past.
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