It had been a tumultuous month, and the old man just needed a bit of time to slow down a bit. They had settled on the sale of their Maryland home on the 28th of October, Loaded the rented Penkse truck on the 29th, and set out for Texas before dawn on the 30th. Now, not even a month later they had settled on a nice all stone home in Georgetown Texas not 15 minutes from his sister in law and her family. Stepping out of the Williamson County tax office, the old man saw a small coffee shop just across the town square. A moment of quiet and maybe even a doughnut would be a good thing.
He found the coffee shop to be a new age kind of thing, with coffee's that the could only guess at with latte's and mocha's and all kinds of high tone pastries. Looking at the menu posted above where the young lady was looking at him expectantly was confusing.
"Can I help you sir?" she asked.
The old man thought for a moment.
"Yes, I'd like just an old fashioned coffee. No latte or mocha stuff, just coffee. You have that?"
"Oh yes sir. You want our Columbian blend."
"I'll take it, Thanks." the old man said, and then saw the plate of cinnamon buns on the counter. The young lady saw him eyeing the buns and told him, "Those were baked fresh early this morning, and we pride ourselves on our cinnamon buns."
The old man paid for the coffee and a bun and made his way to a table by the front window so he could watch the town square. Taking a sip of the black coffee he admitted it was darn good coffee, so he started to unwrap the cinnamon bun. It was practically mummified in plastic wrap, and for a few minutes his arthritic fingers fumbled with the wrapping. Finally, taking out his small pocket knife, he eased the pointy main blade into the plastic and sliced it off. Then not wanting to get back up and go to the back counter for a plastic knife, he gently pried the coils of the cinnamon bun apart for easy eating. Then he took a paper napkin and carefully cleaned off the gray patined blade.
"Say, is that a Case?" a voice from the next table over asked.
The old man looked up, and saw an older gentleman about his own age, squinting over through some rimless eye glasses at his knife. Snow white hair and a white carefully trimmed mustache against a very deep tan marked him as a native Texan, or at least someone who had been there a long while.
"No, it's a Remington UMC, made by Camillus. It does have good carbon steel blades though." the old man said, as he handed over the little peanut shaped pocket knife over for proper coon fingering and chicken eyeing. The other older gentleman carefully looked it over, and nodded in approval as he reached into his own pocket and produced an equally small pocket knife, and handed it over for examination. The old man from back east recognized the knife immediately as he was very familiar with both the brand and model. The once jigged bone bone handle scales were worn almost smooth, and the blades that he pulled out to examine were worn down with the years of use and sharpening. Dark gray patina covered the steel, with a little light pitting here and there, but nothing to interfere with function. The blades opened smoothly on well oiled pivots, giving testimony that while the knife was well used, it had never been abused, and was well maintained. It was a very good example of a Case penknife that had been a loyal companion for many years.
"Ahhh, a wonderful little Case." said the old man from back east.
The White haired Texan was impressed and said so.
" You know the brand. Not many folks these days would."
"Well, my old man put a great store in a small Case pocket knife. He always told me that 'it didn't have to be big, just sharp.' He carried a little Case peanut for most of his life, and I always thought his knife was too small. It only took me about 50 years to figure he was right." the old man from Maryland said.
"Yeah, I wish I'd paid a bit more attention to my old man when he was around. Woulda saved me a lot of money and aggravation in the long run."
They talked knives for a while, and life in general. The pocket knives got handed back to their owners. Then the old man from back east started laughing. His companion in the coffee shop looked at him with a quizzical look, and the old man explained.
"Here I am in a coffee shop in a nice town, and we're handing pocket knives back and forth, looking them over, and nobody says boo and no weird looks. Back home, they'd maybe called the cops by now."
The white haired Texan just smiled.
"You ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto." he said. "Folks around here don't get too awfully rilled about stuff like this. Heck, it's just a pocket knife. Most folks got one in their pockets, or should have. Although I do admit times have changed some, even here. I got a nephew that would prefer to have the new Smart Phone rather than have a pocket knife. He opens packages with his house key."
They both shook their heads at the shame of it, and the old man from back east took the last swallow of his boutique Columbian blend coffee, and shook out the last drop. Feeling the edge on his little Remington peanut, he turned the coffee mug over and gave it a few licks on the bottom ring. Satisfied at how it felt afet, he closed it up and placed it back in his pocket. The Texas man did the same and they got up from their small adjoining tables.
"Names Ron Larkin, retired flooring man. Welcome to the real world, old son." He said as he took out a card and handed it to the newcomer. "Ya need any flooring, my boys are running the business now. We'll do right by ya."
The old man from back east looked at the card.
"As a matter of fact I do. Just bought a place over in the River Bend neighborhood and I'm tearing out all the carpet to put in hardwood. I'll give your boys a call. Us knife nuts gotta stick together!"
The two men shook hands and parted as new friends.
He found the coffee shop to be a new age kind of thing, with coffee's that the could only guess at with latte's and mocha's and all kinds of high tone pastries. Looking at the menu posted above where the young lady was looking at him expectantly was confusing.
"Can I help you sir?" she asked.
The old man thought for a moment.
"Yes, I'd like just an old fashioned coffee. No latte or mocha stuff, just coffee. You have that?"
"Oh yes sir. You want our Columbian blend."
"I'll take it, Thanks." the old man said, and then saw the plate of cinnamon buns on the counter. The young lady saw him eyeing the buns and told him, "Those were baked fresh early this morning, and we pride ourselves on our cinnamon buns."
The old man paid for the coffee and a bun and made his way to a table by the front window so he could watch the town square. Taking a sip of the black coffee he admitted it was darn good coffee, so he started to unwrap the cinnamon bun. It was practically mummified in plastic wrap, and for a few minutes his arthritic fingers fumbled with the wrapping. Finally, taking out his small pocket knife, he eased the pointy main blade into the plastic and sliced it off. Then not wanting to get back up and go to the back counter for a plastic knife, he gently pried the coils of the cinnamon bun apart for easy eating. Then he took a paper napkin and carefully cleaned off the gray patined blade.
"Say, is that a Case?" a voice from the next table over asked.
The old man looked up, and saw an older gentleman about his own age, squinting over through some rimless eye glasses at his knife. Snow white hair and a white carefully trimmed mustache against a very deep tan marked him as a native Texan, or at least someone who had been there a long while.
"No, it's a Remington UMC, made by Camillus. It does have good carbon steel blades though." the old man said, as he handed over the little peanut shaped pocket knife over for proper coon fingering and chicken eyeing. The other older gentleman carefully looked it over, and nodded in approval as he reached into his own pocket and produced an equally small pocket knife, and handed it over for examination. The old man from back east recognized the knife immediately as he was very familiar with both the brand and model. The once jigged bone bone handle scales were worn almost smooth, and the blades that he pulled out to examine were worn down with the years of use and sharpening. Dark gray patina covered the steel, with a little light pitting here and there, but nothing to interfere with function. The blades opened smoothly on well oiled pivots, giving testimony that while the knife was well used, it had never been abused, and was well maintained. It was a very good example of a Case penknife that had been a loyal companion for many years.
"Ahhh, a wonderful little Case." said the old man from back east.
The White haired Texan was impressed and said so.
" You know the brand. Not many folks these days would."
"Well, my old man put a great store in a small Case pocket knife. He always told me that 'it didn't have to be big, just sharp.' He carried a little Case peanut for most of his life, and I always thought his knife was too small. It only took me about 50 years to figure he was right." the old man from Maryland said.
"Yeah, I wish I'd paid a bit more attention to my old man when he was around. Woulda saved me a lot of money and aggravation in the long run."
They talked knives for a while, and life in general. The pocket knives got handed back to their owners. Then the old man from back east started laughing. His companion in the coffee shop looked at him with a quizzical look, and the old man explained.
"Here I am in a coffee shop in a nice town, and we're handing pocket knives back and forth, looking them over, and nobody says boo and no weird looks. Back home, they'd maybe called the cops by now."
The white haired Texan just smiled.
"You ain't in Kansas anymore, Toto." he said. "Folks around here don't get too awfully rilled about stuff like this. Heck, it's just a pocket knife. Most folks got one in their pockets, or should have. Although I do admit times have changed some, even here. I got a nephew that would prefer to have the new Smart Phone rather than have a pocket knife. He opens packages with his house key."
They both shook their heads at the shame of it, and the old man from back east took the last swallow of his boutique Columbian blend coffee, and shook out the last drop. Feeling the edge on his little Remington peanut, he turned the coffee mug over and gave it a few licks on the bottom ring. Satisfied at how it felt afet, he closed it up and placed it back in his pocket. The Texas man did the same and they got up from their small adjoining tables.
"Names Ron Larkin, retired flooring man. Welcome to the real world, old son." He said as he took out a card and handed it to the newcomer. "Ya need any flooring, my boys are running the business now. We'll do right by ya."
The old man from back east looked at the card.
"As a matter of fact I do. Just bought a place over in the River Bend neighborhood and I'm tearing out all the carpet to put in hardwood. I'll give your boys a call. Us knife nuts gotta stick together!"
The two men shook hands and parted as new friends.
