The man and boy sat in the shade of a large sycamore tree beside the slow moving river. Overhead, the summer sun was high in a clear blue sky without a cloud in sight. The man was close to middle age, and his young son sitting besides him was ten years old. A lazy day fishing by the river was a rare and cherished thing for the man, as his job sometimes involved being away from home for periods of time. They sat in a companionable quiet, making small talk now and then.
The man took out a small pocket knife and upon opening the small pen blade, scraped the inside of his pipe bowl carefully before tamping in fresh tobacco. His boy watched him carefully, least he miss some small clue on what a man does. Also, the boy loved pocket knives, and had an almost obsessive interest in anything with a blade.
"Dad? Can I ask you something" the boy said.
" Sure, son. Ask away."
"How come you carry such a little knife? It seems so small to do much with."
The man looked down at the little Case pocket knife, and thought for a moment. He thought of all th places and times that a sharp edge had made a difference. How the little knife was more than a tool, but an old companion. And he thought of the womon who had given him the knife.
"Well boy, it's a funny thing, but I'd never have picked this knife for my own if it wasn't given to me. But after a while of carrying it, I found it did about all I needed to do with a pocket knife. Yes, it's a little thing, but then that means my pockets are light enough to carry other things I may need now and then. But most of all, your grandma gave me this knife when I was leaving home for the first time. I was the first one of the family to go off to a university, and they were very proud of that, me becoming a suit type. So your grandma gave me a knife that she thought would be better for an academic. I got real used to it after a while, and changed my mind about some things."
"Like what, dad?" the boy asked.
"Like never to underestimate anything or anyone because of size." The man said, looking over a t a honeysuckle bush. Butterflies flitted about the white flowers, and he pointed them out the the boy.
"See those butterflies with the bright yellow with black markings?" he asked his son.
"Those are the Monarch butterfly. Look carefully at them and note how thin a butterflies wings are. They seem so delicate, yet they migrate in the fall and can go all the way to the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico for mating. Those gossamer wings can get them a hundred miles in a day, and cover thousands of miles before they're done. yet to look at them, you'd never guess it."
The boy was amazed, and tried to imagine the long flight to distant Mexico. Tissue paper thin wings beating mile after mile, all the way to a far off place. He began to see the point his father was making.
"So your little pocket knife is like a butterfly. Don't underestimate it because it's so small. Yeah, I can get that." the boy said. "Is that why you carry a .22 instead of a bigger gun?"
The man shifted his position uneasily, a bit uncomfortable in the new direction of the conversation.
"Well, kind of. Growing up we always had a .22 around for shooting small game and critters that got in the garden. I just got real, real used to a .22, so when I bought my first pistol before the war, I bought that Colt Woodsman. It was light, flat, easy to carry, and accurite as all heck. Plus ammo was cheap enough that I could shoot a lot for practice. That Colt gave us a lot of Brunswick stew and fried rabbit in it's day. That was a help in the depression when times were really hard."
"Tommy Hawkins father has a .45 he brought home from the war. He said it's a man's gun." said the boy, "Did you have a .45 when you were in the war?"
"No," the man said, keeping his voice even as he repeated the old lie, "Moving around a lot as we did as file clerks, we had to travel light. Lugging a typewriter around and office stuff, a gun was too much to add to our stuff. We were office people, so we didn't need a .45 as we were going around straitening up files that were messed up. Moving around a lot, we learned to keep our stuff down to just a minimum of gear. The stuff we did have, had to be small and light weight to fit in our pockets. That way we were sure that we had certain stuff where ever we went."
"I always wondered why you carried really little stuff. Like that pen light you have, or the tiny screwdrivers. The little knife." the boy said, as he picked up the Case pocket knife from the log where his father had set it. He felt the razor sharp edge grab at the ridges of his finger print as he tested the edge with his thumb. He admired the jigged bone scales and how the reddish brown color still looked good after so many years. "The smaller the stuff is, the more stuff you can carry at one time. Cool"
"Sometimes it's a matter of degree's. How much do you gain vs how much do you loose by not being able to carry something because it's just a tad too big for that instance. For example, my old barlow knife I carried before I was given the peanut, was my favorite knife. But after I used the peanut for a while, I realized that the blade was only a fraction of an inch shorter, and that wasn't enough to really limit me. If a 2 inch blade is not enough, another 3/8ths or 1/2 an inch is not going to make a real difference in most cases. It's the 'right tool for the job' kind of thing. If my little pocket knife is too small, it's time for something else."
"Like your bushwacker?" exclaimed the boy, pointing at the olive green canvas bag with the shoulder strap that his father called his 'possables' bag. There on the shoulder strap was taped a green canvas sheath that held a cut down machete with a 10 inch sheepsfoot blade.
"Yes, my bushwacker is a good example. Between it and my pocket knife, all bases are covered. The pocket knife does 98% of what I have to do, and if I'm going someplace where it may not, then I carry something that will cover the other 2% of what I may have to do. You see son, life is all about compromise. You try to be ready for most of what you will likely encounter, and carry the tools for what you do most of in a day to day life. For the really odd thing that pops up, you learn to improvise a bit."
The boy thought about the logic of that, and promised himself he'd try to be just like his dad when he grew up.
The man took out a small pocket knife and upon opening the small pen blade, scraped the inside of his pipe bowl carefully before tamping in fresh tobacco. His boy watched him carefully, least he miss some small clue on what a man does. Also, the boy loved pocket knives, and had an almost obsessive interest in anything with a blade.
"Dad? Can I ask you something" the boy said.
" Sure, son. Ask away."
"How come you carry such a little knife? It seems so small to do much with."
The man looked down at the little Case pocket knife, and thought for a moment. He thought of all th places and times that a sharp edge had made a difference. How the little knife was more than a tool, but an old companion. And he thought of the womon who had given him the knife.
"Well boy, it's a funny thing, but I'd never have picked this knife for my own if it wasn't given to me. But after a while of carrying it, I found it did about all I needed to do with a pocket knife. Yes, it's a little thing, but then that means my pockets are light enough to carry other things I may need now and then. But most of all, your grandma gave me this knife when I was leaving home for the first time. I was the first one of the family to go off to a university, and they were very proud of that, me becoming a suit type. So your grandma gave me a knife that she thought would be better for an academic. I got real used to it after a while, and changed my mind about some things."
"Like what, dad?" the boy asked.
"Like never to underestimate anything or anyone because of size." The man said, looking over a t a honeysuckle bush. Butterflies flitted about the white flowers, and he pointed them out the the boy.
"See those butterflies with the bright yellow with black markings?" he asked his son.
"Those are the Monarch butterfly. Look carefully at them and note how thin a butterflies wings are. They seem so delicate, yet they migrate in the fall and can go all the way to the Sierra Madre mountains in Mexico for mating. Those gossamer wings can get them a hundred miles in a day, and cover thousands of miles before they're done. yet to look at them, you'd never guess it."
The boy was amazed, and tried to imagine the long flight to distant Mexico. Tissue paper thin wings beating mile after mile, all the way to a far off place. He began to see the point his father was making.
"So your little pocket knife is like a butterfly. Don't underestimate it because it's so small. Yeah, I can get that." the boy said. "Is that why you carry a .22 instead of a bigger gun?"
The man shifted his position uneasily, a bit uncomfortable in the new direction of the conversation.
"Well, kind of. Growing up we always had a .22 around for shooting small game and critters that got in the garden. I just got real, real used to a .22, so when I bought my first pistol before the war, I bought that Colt Woodsman. It was light, flat, easy to carry, and accurite as all heck. Plus ammo was cheap enough that I could shoot a lot for practice. That Colt gave us a lot of Brunswick stew and fried rabbit in it's day. That was a help in the depression when times were really hard."
"Tommy Hawkins father has a .45 he brought home from the war. He said it's a man's gun." said the boy, "Did you have a .45 when you were in the war?"
"No," the man said, keeping his voice even as he repeated the old lie, "Moving around a lot as we did as file clerks, we had to travel light. Lugging a typewriter around and office stuff, a gun was too much to add to our stuff. We were office people, so we didn't need a .45 as we were going around straitening up files that were messed up. Moving around a lot, we learned to keep our stuff down to just a minimum of gear. The stuff we did have, had to be small and light weight to fit in our pockets. That way we were sure that we had certain stuff where ever we went."
"I always wondered why you carried really little stuff. Like that pen light you have, or the tiny screwdrivers. The little knife." the boy said, as he picked up the Case pocket knife from the log where his father had set it. He felt the razor sharp edge grab at the ridges of his finger print as he tested the edge with his thumb. He admired the jigged bone scales and how the reddish brown color still looked good after so many years. "The smaller the stuff is, the more stuff you can carry at one time. Cool"
"Sometimes it's a matter of degree's. How much do you gain vs how much do you loose by not being able to carry something because it's just a tad too big for that instance. For example, my old barlow knife I carried before I was given the peanut, was my favorite knife. But after I used the peanut for a while, I realized that the blade was only a fraction of an inch shorter, and that wasn't enough to really limit me. If a 2 inch blade is not enough, another 3/8ths or 1/2 an inch is not going to make a real difference in most cases. It's the 'right tool for the job' kind of thing. If my little pocket knife is too small, it's time for something else."
"Like your bushwacker?" exclaimed the boy, pointing at the olive green canvas bag with the shoulder strap that his father called his 'possables' bag. There on the shoulder strap was taped a green canvas sheath that held a cut down machete with a 10 inch sheepsfoot blade.
"Yes, my bushwacker is a good example. Between it and my pocket knife, all bases are covered. The pocket knife does 98% of what I have to do, and if I'm going someplace where it may not, then I carry something that will cover the other 2% of what I may have to do. You see son, life is all about compromise. You try to be ready for most of what you will likely encounter, and carry the tools for what you do most of in a day to day life. For the really odd thing that pops up, you learn to improvise a bit."
The boy thought about the logic of that, and promised himself he'd try to be just like his dad when he grew up.
