Sod Buster Jr … A bedtime story when there were too many Blade Forum 522 Errors last night !!!
With me like an old friend. No matter what, through thick and thin. Reaching into my front pocket I gain reassurance, finding there, this pocket knife. More than an attachment, a feeling of kinship. Lost without it.
Have carried a pocket knife since almost as long as I can remember, to school, work and leisure adventures untold. Cut leather, cloth, boxes, bags, letters, cords, straps, whittled on a stick, never as a weapon, where has common sense gone? If I were to go through a metal detector at any airport right now, this pocket knife would be seen as a tool of mass destruction! I’m left perplexed. How vexing, how complex …
Idly and like the plight of a simple man, this pocket knife unmoved, does the least that it can. No oil changes no wedding band. Existing, surviving this life with all the time that most never venture to find before the last goodbye. Nothing to show, nothing to hide ... the Sod Buster always at the ready to trail blaze the countryside.
But scrap all the smoldering, winsome words ... the lovely odd truce made of letters. Trip over shoes which should still be for dancing and spin them right into the bin. Blow open windows long stuck closed with paint and push all the clutter to the sill. Cast notions and bias to the wind. Thus wordlessly held high to the light and closely examining this pocket knife from all angles ... My intuition twisted, almost missed the simpleness where so called wisdom depicted and pondered the boundless abyss of a staggering array of pocket knife choices, before my vision was transformed herewith and only just bears witness to this pocket knife’s selfless existence. A startling epiphany exposed ... I suppose if this were the only pocket knife I own, my collection would be complete.
And they all lived happily ever after. The End
But that was last night. So what am I totin' today? ... Yep, an Indian River Jack
