Once upon a time I lived with a woman who had been a denizen of Hollywood literally her whole life. She had been married to a lighting director who drank and drugged himself to death in his early 40s. He left her no money, having put it up his nose and lost it on the ponies, but he did leave her some things. Among his relics was a Buck knife similar in appearance to what Buck now calls its "Ranger" knife, a big, very heavy hunting knife with a 3-3/4" blade, which she gave to me. She called it a "gaffer's knife." Gaffers (lighting technicians in movies and TV) must cut through wires, electrical tape, and a heavy-duty form of duct tape called gaffer's tape. It was incredibly strong and took a fine edge. When I've gone camping, every other guy's knife was clunky and dull in comparison. Although the knife weighed a bit too much to be a true pocketknife, it was well-balanced, handsome, and easy to use. Well, about a month ago, exterminators "tented" the place I live, and the crew ransacked my apartment, stealing various odds and ends, including my beloved knife, to which I now realize I had become very attached in the 15 years I owned it. In the past couple of days, I've shopped on the web for a knife to replace it, although I despair of replacing its sentimental value. I don't know whether that shows I "deserve" a Buck knife, but I'm sure I want my old knife back.
