Wheaton Maryland, 1980.
The old man was feeling his years these days, and he had grown used to having his abilities more limited than in his younger day. He was a realist, and knew to just deal with what was, and not fight it. And today, he kept up a bright face as his daughter had come by to take him to lunch.
They had dined and on the way home had stopped by the old park the neighborhood kids had played in for several generations. As they walked, Anne slipped her arm through her fathers, and they sat down on a park bench and watched the world for a bit. They talked of many small things, and as the old man talked, he picked up a little twig and took out a small pen knife sized blade to whittle with. Anne had seen him do this many times in her life, her dad picking up a twig and whittling just like some people do with a pencil when they are on the phone. But this time was different.
Instead of the little brown bone handled knife, her father had a Christy knife in his hand. In her entire life, Anne had never seen her father with any other knife than his little brown one that he called a peanut. It was mildly disturbing to her.
"Daddy, where's your knife? I mean the one you always carry? I've never seen you without it."Anne said.
"Oh," the old man said, "I don't carry it much anymore, these arthritic hands of mine are starting to make it hard for me to do some things. Opening my old knife in one of them. Besides, I'm an old crock out to pasture now, I don't need much of a knife."
"But daddy, you've always had that knife. I actually don't remember ever seeing you without it. I remember how you told me that grandma gave it to you on the train platform when you were going off to the university for the first time. That was so long ago, I figured you'd always have that knife."
The old man looked at his daughter, and was struck by the erie way genes could skip a generation. It was odd how his daughter looked so much like his mother. The same long, almost raven black hair, and those light gray eyes that could look so serious one moment, then sparkle with humor the next moment.
"Well honey, that little knife was a companion for many years when I was on the go. But it was more than that, it was a little bit of home. I kept it because not only did it do what I wanted out of a pocket knife, but it had the sentiment of a memory. It was a bit of home that I could reach into my pocket and touch, and feel, and then remember everything that home was. Mother, father, my brothers, the house on the Choptank. Where ever I was, I had a little bit of home with me, that I could touch and feel. And sometimes that was enough to get me going some more." the old man said. "When I was in France, during the war, a buddy and me had blown up something that the German's got really mad over, to say the least. Anyway, we were running for days in the mountains with the jerries hot on our tails. One day I was laying there, and I thought 'this is it. I can't go any more'. Then I reached in my pocket, and I felt my little knife. I thought of mom on that morning at the train station, dad, the Lady Anne, my wife and kids, and I thought about you all, and what it meant to them if I died there. So I got up and ran some more."
"Well if the knife had those powerful memories, why not carry it now, even if it's a little hard to open?" Anne asked her father.
"Well, for one thing, it's got so many memories, I'm going to leave it for you and your brother. Be a shame if it got lost after all this time, wouldn't it? For another, I'm in my twilight stage of life now. No, let's face it, I'm an old man now, and most of my life is over, so I'm just taking it easy now, and for what my life is now, the Christy knife is just fine. Besides, I'm a little ashamed of myself for dropping the peanut. My damm hands were giving me trouble, and I dropped it on the sidewalk and cracked a scale. If I drop the Christy knife, no bother. Besides, I can open the Christy with no problem. Heck, you should know what a Christy can do!" said the old man.
Anne thought back to that dark alcove by the trash dumpster long ago, and remembered how a little Christy knife had saved her from an assault.
"Oh daddy, you're not in any twilight years, I don't want to hear that. You're going to be around a long time yet!" said Anne as she laid her head on her father's shoulder.
"No, it's okay to admit human frailties. We live in stages, just like stars do. There's white giants, and red dwarfs, white dwarfs and all different stages. Now I'm in a stage of life where I don't need much. I've always believed in matching the tool to the activity. I guess now I don't need as much tool as I did 25 years ago. Just like your brother needs his bigger tools for what he does in his life. Since I'm not going backpacking or wilderness canoeing I can get by with smaller tools. It all depends on what we are doing at a certain stage of life. And I've always been the guy in the gray suit, so I've never needed a very big knife. A pen knife sized cutting tool is good for my needs."
Anne thought about her fathers words, and thought about growing older, with needs changing. She had been watching her father's hands as he talked, and he'd been whittling the twig into a perfect square stick. First, he'd skinned all the bark off as he'd talked, and then she watched as he's taken off thin, almost translucent shavings of wood, until the stick was totally squared off. The knife's blade was apparently as sharp as a razor blade.
"Well, daddy, it looks like even in your so called twilight years, you still know how to keep a knife sharp!" Anne said.
The old man smiled at his daughter.
"Well, sweetheart, like your grandpa always told me; 'it don't have to be big, just sharp.'
The old man and his daughter got up and slowly walked off down the park path, with the daughter curling her arm through her fathers.
The old man was feeling his years these days, and he had grown used to having his abilities more limited than in his younger day. He was a realist, and knew to just deal with what was, and not fight it. And today, he kept up a bright face as his daughter had come by to take him to lunch.
They had dined and on the way home had stopped by the old park the neighborhood kids had played in for several generations. As they walked, Anne slipped her arm through her fathers, and they sat down on a park bench and watched the world for a bit. They talked of many small things, and as the old man talked, he picked up a little twig and took out a small pen knife sized blade to whittle with. Anne had seen him do this many times in her life, her dad picking up a twig and whittling just like some people do with a pencil when they are on the phone. But this time was different.
Instead of the little brown bone handled knife, her father had a Christy knife in his hand. In her entire life, Anne had never seen her father with any other knife than his little brown one that he called a peanut. It was mildly disturbing to her.
"Daddy, where's your knife? I mean the one you always carry? I've never seen you without it."Anne said.
"Oh," the old man said, "I don't carry it much anymore, these arthritic hands of mine are starting to make it hard for me to do some things. Opening my old knife in one of them. Besides, I'm an old crock out to pasture now, I don't need much of a knife."
"But daddy, you've always had that knife. I actually don't remember ever seeing you without it. I remember how you told me that grandma gave it to you on the train platform when you were going off to the university for the first time. That was so long ago, I figured you'd always have that knife."
The old man looked at his daughter, and was struck by the erie way genes could skip a generation. It was odd how his daughter looked so much like his mother. The same long, almost raven black hair, and those light gray eyes that could look so serious one moment, then sparkle with humor the next moment.
"Well honey, that little knife was a companion for many years when I was on the go. But it was more than that, it was a little bit of home. I kept it because not only did it do what I wanted out of a pocket knife, but it had the sentiment of a memory. It was a bit of home that I could reach into my pocket and touch, and feel, and then remember everything that home was. Mother, father, my brothers, the house on the Choptank. Where ever I was, I had a little bit of home with me, that I could touch and feel. And sometimes that was enough to get me going some more." the old man said. "When I was in France, during the war, a buddy and me had blown up something that the German's got really mad over, to say the least. Anyway, we were running for days in the mountains with the jerries hot on our tails. One day I was laying there, and I thought 'this is it. I can't go any more'. Then I reached in my pocket, and I felt my little knife. I thought of mom on that morning at the train station, dad, the Lady Anne, my wife and kids, and I thought about you all, and what it meant to them if I died there. So I got up and ran some more."
"Well if the knife had those powerful memories, why not carry it now, even if it's a little hard to open?" Anne asked her father.
"Well, for one thing, it's got so many memories, I'm going to leave it for you and your brother. Be a shame if it got lost after all this time, wouldn't it? For another, I'm in my twilight stage of life now. No, let's face it, I'm an old man now, and most of my life is over, so I'm just taking it easy now, and for what my life is now, the Christy knife is just fine. Besides, I'm a little ashamed of myself for dropping the peanut. My damm hands were giving me trouble, and I dropped it on the sidewalk and cracked a scale. If I drop the Christy knife, no bother. Besides, I can open the Christy with no problem. Heck, you should know what a Christy can do!" said the old man.
Anne thought back to that dark alcove by the trash dumpster long ago, and remembered how a little Christy knife had saved her from an assault.
"Oh daddy, you're not in any twilight years, I don't want to hear that. You're going to be around a long time yet!" said Anne as she laid her head on her father's shoulder.
"No, it's okay to admit human frailties. We live in stages, just like stars do. There's white giants, and red dwarfs, white dwarfs and all different stages. Now I'm in a stage of life where I don't need much. I've always believed in matching the tool to the activity. I guess now I don't need as much tool as I did 25 years ago. Just like your brother needs his bigger tools for what he does in his life. Since I'm not going backpacking or wilderness canoeing I can get by with smaller tools. It all depends on what we are doing at a certain stage of life. And I've always been the guy in the gray suit, so I've never needed a very big knife. A pen knife sized cutting tool is good for my needs."
Anne thought about her fathers words, and thought about growing older, with needs changing. She had been watching her father's hands as he talked, and he'd been whittling the twig into a perfect square stick. First, he'd skinned all the bark off as he'd talked, and then she watched as he's taken off thin, almost translucent shavings of wood, until the stick was totally squared off. The knife's blade was apparently as sharp as a razor blade.
"Well, daddy, it looks like even in your so called twilight years, you still know how to keep a knife sharp!" Anne said.
The old man smiled at his daughter.
"Well, sweetheart, like your grandpa always told me; 'it don't have to be big, just sharp.'
The old man and his daughter got up and slowly walked off down the park path, with the daughter curling her arm through her fathers.
Last edited:
barf
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