I had to go down to the V.A. hospital the other day for a little visit to the doc's. Nothing serious, just the routine of getting older has it's pains. I checked in with the outpatient desk and had a seat in the waiting area. I don't know why, but for some reason doctors waiting rooms are all the same. A stack of out of date magazines, and boredom. So one tends to people watch the ones comming and going.
It's easy to spot which vets are from what war. All too often now I see some young early 20's guy who looks like he should be parked down at the Tasty Freeze with his girl friend. But here he is getting his prothetic arm or leg adjusted. He's the Iraq vet. A bit older, the guys late 30's to early 40's are the Gulf war vets. Then theres the older grey guys of my own generation of Viet Nam era vets. Then we have the increasingly rare ones; the Korea and WW2 vets. They're the really old guys in wheel chairs, or walking real slow on a cane. It was one of them I had an interesting talk with.
Sitting there in the waiting area, I watched him come in. Walking very slowly, a bit bent over on his cane, he was an old African American guy, maybe well into his upper 70's. His hair was snow white, and his face was creased with the years of life he'd been living. He sat down catty corner from me in the L shaped way the chairs were set up. We nodded to each other, and he took out his newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it and leafed through it.
What got my attention was the pocket knife. He'd been looking through the paper, and he laid it out flat on his lap and smoothed it out with great care, and reached into his pocket and took out a small pocket knife. Of course, being a bonafied knife knut, I peered over to see what he had.
Very carefully, he made a slit in one corner of a coupon, then slid the knife blade into the slit and slowly sliced along the edge of the coupon. The knife glided through the newsprint with hardly a whisper. When he got to the corner of the coupon, he turned the knife 90 degrees, and then slit along the short side of the coupon. That he had the little knife razor sharp was evident that it slid through the paper like it was warm butter on a July afternoon.
Finishing with the cutting, he laid the knife down on his leg and carefully folded the coupon once and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Reaching for his knife, he was about to close it when I had to say something.
"You've got that knife sharp enough, don't you." I said.
He looked over at me, and smiled.
"Well brother man, a good tool is supposed to be taken care of and maintained, ain't it?" he said. "I've had this knife so long, it's like an old friend, so I take good care of it."
He held out the knife in the palm of his hand, and they seemed to go together. The knife was old and worn, and the hand that it laid in was knarled and callused from years of work. It was the hand of a man who had worked hard. He motioned for me to take the knife, and I picked it up off his palm. It was a very well worn old knife, that like it's owner, had seen a hard working life.
What he had was an old Schrade-Walden two blade jackknife, about 3 1/4 inches long. The light brown bone handles had at one time been jigged, but there was only a faint trace of the jigging left. They sell a pocket worn knife from Case, but there was no way they could copy the rounded off sides and corners of this knife. Only decades of use and handling could produce the smoothness. The dark grey clip blade was worn away maybe 40-50%, but there was an unmistakable bright ribbon of shiney edge running down the blade from kick to needle tip. The kind of edge that when you gently feel it with your thumb, it grabs the little ridges of the finger print like it's eager to bite. Or whisper through newsprint like it's not even there. A bit of wobble in the blades, but nothing that would keep it from cutting like a razor.
I handed him back his knife, and remarked to him that it must hold alot of memories since he'd had it so long.
"Yes sir, it does that. It's one of the oldest things I own. But more than that, I look at it and think of that pretty gal I married when I got back from Korea. She gave it to me one Christmas, and it's been with me ever since. My gal's been gone a few years now, But sometimes I reach in my pocket and think of her."
He held the little knife in his hand for a brief moment, then closed it with a good snap. Old and worn it may be, but it still walked and talked just fine. He looked at it for a second, then slid it in his pocket. I'd seen that look before, and knew it. It's funny how a couple pieces of carbon steel and old bone can hold memories. Can be a key to the past.
Conversation came to an end when the nurse called my name. The old man and I just nodded at each other, no more words needed. We were just a couple of old soldiers passing on the road. I went in and had my talk with the doc, and when I came out, he had gone. But where ever he goes, he'll be able to reach in his pocket and have his memories.
He's a rich man.
It's easy to spot which vets are from what war. All too often now I see some young early 20's guy who looks like he should be parked down at the Tasty Freeze with his girl friend. But here he is getting his prothetic arm or leg adjusted. He's the Iraq vet. A bit older, the guys late 30's to early 40's are the Gulf war vets. Then theres the older grey guys of my own generation of Viet Nam era vets. Then we have the increasingly rare ones; the Korea and WW2 vets. They're the really old guys in wheel chairs, or walking real slow on a cane. It was one of them I had an interesting talk with.
Sitting there in the waiting area, I watched him come in. Walking very slowly, a bit bent over on his cane, he was an old African American guy, maybe well into his upper 70's. His hair was snow white, and his face was creased with the years of life he'd been living. He sat down catty corner from me in the L shaped way the chairs were set up. We nodded to each other, and he took out his newspaper from under his arm and unfolded it and leafed through it.
What got my attention was the pocket knife. He'd been looking through the paper, and he laid it out flat on his lap and smoothed it out with great care, and reached into his pocket and took out a small pocket knife. Of course, being a bonafied knife knut, I peered over to see what he had.
Very carefully, he made a slit in one corner of a coupon, then slid the knife blade into the slit and slowly sliced along the edge of the coupon. The knife glided through the newsprint with hardly a whisper. When he got to the corner of the coupon, he turned the knife 90 degrees, and then slit along the short side of the coupon. That he had the little knife razor sharp was evident that it slid through the paper like it was warm butter on a July afternoon.
Finishing with the cutting, he laid the knife down on his leg and carefully folded the coupon once and tucked it in his shirt pocket. Reaching for his knife, he was about to close it when I had to say something.
"You've got that knife sharp enough, don't you." I said.
He looked over at me, and smiled.
"Well brother man, a good tool is supposed to be taken care of and maintained, ain't it?" he said. "I've had this knife so long, it's like an old friend, so I take good care of it."
He held out the knife in the palm of his hand, and they seemed to go together. The knife was old and worn, and the hand that it laid in was knarled and callused from years of work. It was the hand of a man who had worked hard. He motioned for me to take the knife, and I picked it up off his palm. It was a very well worn old knife, that like it's owner, had seen a hard working life.
What he had was an old Schrade-Walden two blade jackknife, about 3 1/4 inches long. The light brown bone handles had at one time been jigged, but there was only a faint trace of the jigging left. They sell a pocket worn knife from Case, but there was no way they could copy the rounded off sides and corners of this knife. Only decades of use and handling could produce the smoothness. The dark grey clip blade was worn away maybe 40-50%, but there was an unmistakable bright ribbon of shiney edge running down the blade from kick to needle tip. The kind of edge that when you gently feel it with your thumb, it grabs the little ridges of the finger print like it's eager to bite. Or whisper through newsprint like it's not even there. A bit of wobble in the blades, but nothing that would keep it from cutting like a razor.
I handed him back his knife, and remarked to him that it must hold alot of memories since he'd had it so long.
"Yes sir, it does that. It's one of the oldest things I own. But more than that, I look at it and think of that pretty gal I married when I got back from Korea. She gave it to me one Christmas, and it's been with me ever since. My gal's been gone a few years now, But sometimes I reach in my pocket and think of her."
He held the little knife in his hand for a brief moment, then closed it with a good snap. Old and worn it may be, but it still walked and talked just fine. He looked at it for a second, then slid it in his pocket. I'd seen that look before, and knew it. It's funny how a couple pieces of carbon steel and old bone can hold memories. Can be a key to the past.
Conversation came to an end when the nurse called my name. The old man and I just nodded at each other, no more words needed. We were just a couple of old soldiers passing on the road. I went in and had my talk with the doc, and when I came out, he had gone. But where ever he goes, he'll be able to reach in his pocket and have his memories.
He's a rich man.
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