I'm a jackknife kind of guy. Heck, even my screen name is jackknife. I've been a fanatic supporter of the mighty legume to the extent of being Grand High Muckba of The Cult. But I've also been known to use and carry a Swiss Army knife for the sheer utility of it. But at heart, I've always been a jackknife kind of guy. But in my 'old age', there has been another kind of pocket knife sneaking into my retired life of leisure. They've been around forever, and have their supporters, but they never rang my bell until later in life. The Penknife.
Some years ago, someone gifted me a nice little Boker 240 penknife with some very nice figured rosewood scales. I sort of was, "Yeah, yeah, nice little knife" but I didn't carry or use it much. But little by little, in a slow insidious way, it sort of became used. I'm not really sure how it happened, maybe I was in a generous mood one morning standing in front of the sock drawer making a choice for the knife of the day. For whatever reason, maybe I felt sorry for it languishing in the socks, I slipped it into my pocket and set off for the day. I opened some plastic packages, cut a piece of jute twine for tying up some cardboard for the recycle bin, opened new bag of kibble for the dog. Usual pocket knife stuff. It did all with a smooth competence, and once in a while I'd slip a hand into the pocket and feel the smooth rosewood like a worry stone. At the end of the day it went back into the sock drawer. That was that.
No, it really wasn't. I feel a sort of unease, like something vaguely out of sorts, and later it went back into the pocket. I liked the single back spring for making a nice slim package. I liked the feel of the rosewood and looks of the rosewood and nickel silver bolsters. I felt a little like a traitor with my peanuts sitting there while I slipped the Boker into my pocket. Then as fate would have it, my friend Rick passed away from the cancer of the esophagus he'd been battling for years. How he made it to 86 smoking at least a pack a day, I'll never know. One of the last times I saw him we were just talking about nothing in particular, when he reached into his pocket and took out his old well used Wenger Patriot penknife. The scales are battered and worn, with a lot of the red anodizing worn off, but the blades are in fair shape. He hands it to me and says "Here, you're still into knives, take it." I make some noise about how I couldn't do that and he gives me the look, a hard look, and says he's definitely not going to have use of it in the near future. So now Rick is gone and I have his little penknife. Its about as think as a stick of chewing gum, a medium feather would outweigh it, and it literally disappears in a pocket. Again, the two blades one spring kind of setup. I've used it and it does do a good job of opening packages, slicing a bit of cheese of the block of cheddar in the fridge.
Now I find myself looking at penknives with a feeling of guilt. Like I'm cheating on my wife or going to another bar where they don't know my name, because I heard they have Guinness on Tap and my regular bar doesn't. So, here I am, member of The Cult of The Peanut, going about my day with a Boker 240 penknife or the old Wenger Patriot in my pocket.
Some years ago, someone gifted me a nice little Boker 240 penknife with some very nice figured rosewood scales. I sort of was, "Yeah, yeah, nice little knife" but I didn't carry or use it much. But little by little, in a slow insidious way, it sort of became used. I'm not really sure how it happened, maybe I was in a generous mood one morning standing in front of the sock drawer making a choice for the knife of the day. For whatever reason, maybe I felt sorry for it languishing in the socks, I slipped it into my pocket and set off for the day. I opened some plastic packages, cut a piece of jute twine for tying up some cardboard for the recycle bin, opened new bag of kibble for the dog. Usual pocket knife stuff. It did all with a smooth competence, and once in a while I'd slip a hand into the pocket and feel the smooth rosewood like a worry stone. At the end of the day it went back into the sock drawer. That was that.
No, it really wasn't. I feel a sort of unease, like something vaguely out of sorts, and later it went back into the pocket. I liked the single back spring for making a nice slim package. I liked the feel of the rosewood and looks of the rosewood and nickel silver bolsters. I felt a little like a traitor with my peanuts sitting there while I slipped the Boker into my pocket. Then as fate would have it, my friend Rick passed away from the cancer of the esophagus he'd been battling for years. How he made it to 86 smoking at least a pack a day, I'll never know. One of the last times I saw him we were just talking about nothing in particular, when he reached into his pocket and took out his old well used Wenger Patriot penknife. The scales are battered and worn, with a lot of the red anodizing worn off, but the blades are in fair shape. He hands it to me and says "Here, you're still into knives, take it." I make some noise about how I couldn't do that and he gives me the look, a hard look, and says he's definitely not going to have use of it in the near future. So now Rick is gone and I have his little penknife. Its about as think as a stick of chewing gum, a medium feather would outweigh it, and it literally disappears in a pocket. Again, the two blades one spring kind of setup. I've used it and it does do a good job of opening packages, slicing a bit of cheese of the block of cheddar in the fridge.
Now I find myself looking at penknives with a feeling of guilt. Like I'm cheating on my wife or going to another bar where they don't know my name, because I heard they have Guinness on Tap and my regular bar doesn't. So, here I am, member of The Cult of The Peanut, going about my day with a Boker 240 penknife or the old Wenger Patriot in my pocket.
