He'd got old.
The old man didn't really recall a special time or particular place it happened, but there it was. Staring him in the face in the form of his favorite pocket knife laying on the floor. He bent over and picked up his little bone handle knife and examined it anxiously, looking to see if there was a crack in the jigged bone scales. Breathing a sigh of relief, he saw no damage, but thought back to his own father so many years gone. He had dropped his old pocket knife and a piece of bone had sheared off from the impact with the cement sidewalk.
Now the old man gave a little thanks that it was only the bedroom floor that the knife had landed on. A soft area rug covering part of the wood floor had done no damage this time. The old man opened the knife and cut off the tag on the new item of clothing, and closed the knife. He stood there for a moment, then did something he never thought he'd do. Opening the drawer, he gently put the little bone handled jackknife in the drawer, and took out another knife that he'd had about a year. It was only a little bigger than the favorite, but it had an exotic look. A honey blond horn handle held a tapering needle pointed blade that had no spring. It was a friction folder from Sardinia, and the blade pulled smoothly out to the open position. The old man had carried this knife plenty of times before, but it had never quite taken the place of the other. But times change, and after fumbling a couple of times in a couple of days because of his arthritis, the old man knew the time had come to accept his aging abilities of dealing with small springy knives. He gave a sad look to his old friend, and closed the drawer knowing he'd not carry his bone handle little jackknife again. It was a mild shock for him to know that time, the greatest thief known to man, had slowly stolen something from him.
The old man went about his business that day, and for many days after. When he needed a knife he'd slide his hand into the pocket and feel the smooth horn, and was slightly startled to find it instead of the old jigged bone. But it was a good knife, and to be honest, the wide flat ground blade cut just as well as his old knife. Over a family members house, he assisted in making some shrimp salad by dicing the large shrimp. Holding the shrimp by the tail, it was like magic flicking the pointed blade through the shrimp, the fine point riding on the wood cutting board and the edge passing through the shrimp like they were made of warm butter.
The lack of a spring didn't bother him in the least, in fact it was a blessing. His old arthritic hands didn't have to struggle with opening the knife, and as far as working with it, it was just like using his old Opinel with no ring lock. The old man had snugged up the rivet on the Sardinian knife just a tad, so it was a little snug to open, but still a smooth even pull. He released how all the working peasants in many countries had gotten their work done with simple friction folders like Resolza's, Teramundi's, Opinel's, and the like.
One day while out back doing some gardening with his wife, some twine needed tone cut for the tomato plant stakes. This year they were growing grape tomatoes, and the plants would droop badly without support. The man took out the horn handled Sardinian knife and cut some lengths of jute twine. He saw his wife looking at him.
"It's been a while now you haven't carried your usual knife" she said to him.
"No, I fear that day has passed now that I'm edging into ancient status." he said.
She walked over to him and put her arms around his neck, looking up at him with those big brown eyes that he'd come to know so well in their many years together.
"Nothing is forever, honey. Things change, we age, and we have to flow with it. No real choice in the matter. Remember Old Rag?" she asked.
The man thought for a moment.
"You mean Old Rag mountain? Yeah I recall it very well. A heck of a climb up to the top. Last time we did it, I thought I wasn't going to make it."
"That's the point." his wife said, "We couldn't do it again now if our lives depended on it. But that's okay, because we've been there, and done that. There's a bunch of stuff we can't do anymore, but that's okay. Remember when we traveled cross country in a Volkswagon bug on a shoestring budget and camped out along the way? It was fun, but do we want to travel like that again? Or did we enjoy this last trip, cruising along in a nice new quiet car, books on disc, a nice motel every night?"
The man thought for a tiny moment.
"Yeah, I get your point. Life moves on, and we move with it. I'm okay with that, it's just a little depressing to realize that life as we know it is finite. And like the leaf on a tree, our time is limited, so we have to make the most of it."
"Good," said his wife, "Besides, just between you and me, the Sardinian one is prettier."
"Well I guess if it comes with your seal of approval, that counts for a lot." the man said.
The old man didn't really recall a special time or particular place it happened, but there it was. Staring him in the face in the form of his favorite pocket knife laying on the floor. He bent over and picked up his little bone handle knife and examined it anxiously, looking to see if there was a crack in the jigged bone scales. Breathing a sigh of relief, he saw no damage, but thought back to his own father so many years gone. He had dropped his old pocket knife and a piece of bone had sheared off from the impact with the cement sidewalk.
Now the old man gave a little thanks that it was only the bedroom floor that the knife had landed on. A soft area rug covering part of the wood floor had done no damage this time. The old man opened the knife and cut off the tag on the new item of clothing, and closed the knife. He stood there for a moment, then did something he never thought he'd do. Opening the drawer, he gently put the little bone handled jackknife in the drawer, and took out another knife that he'd had about a year. It was only a little bigger than the favorite, but it had an exotic look. A honey blond horn handle held a tapering needle pointed blade that had no spring. It was a friction folder from Sardinia, and the blade pulled smoothly out to the open position. The old man had carried this knife plenty of times before, but it had never quite taken the place of the other. But times change, and after fumbling a couple of times in a couple of days because of his arthritis, the old man knew the time had come to accept his aging abilities of dealing with small springy knives. He gave a sad look to his old friend, and closed the drawer knowing he'd not carry his bone handle little jackknife again. It was a mild shock for him to know that time, the greatest thief known to man, had slowly stolen something from him.
The old man went about his business that day, and for many days after. When he needed a knife he'd slide his hand into the pocket and feel the smooth horn, and was slightly startled to find it instead of the old jigged bone. But it was a good knife, and to be honest, the wide flat ground blade cut just as well as his old knife. Over a family members house, he assisted in making some shrimp salad by dicing the large shrimp. Holding the shrimp by the tail, it was like magic flicking the pointed blade through the shrimp, the fine point riding on the wood cutting board and the edge passing through the shrimp like they were made of warm butter.
The lack of a spring didn't bother him in the least, in fact it was a blessing. His old arthritic hands didn't have to struggle with opening the knife, and as far as working with it, it was just like using his old Opinel with no ring lock. The old man had snugged up the rivet on the Sardinian knife just a tad, so it was a little snug to open, but still a smooth even pull. He released how all the working peasants in many countries had gotten their work done with simple friction folders like Resolza's, Teramundi's, Opinel's, and the like.
One day while out back doing some gardening with his wife, some twine needed tone cut for the tomato plant stakes. This year they were growing grape tomatoes, and the plants would droop badly without support. The man took out the horn handled Sardinian knife and cut some lengths of jute twine. He saw his wife looking at him.
"It's been a while now you haven't carried your usual knife" she said to him.
"No, I fear that day has passed now that I'm edging into ancient status." he said.
She walked over to him and put her arms around his neck, looking up at him with those big brown eyes that he'd come to know so well in their many years together.
"Nothing is forever, honey. Things change, we age, and we have to flow with it. No real choice in the matter. Remember Old Rag?" she asked.
The man thought for a moment.
"You mean Old Rag mountain? Yeah I recall it very well. A heck of a climb up to the top. Last time we did it, I thought I wasn't going to make it."
"That's the point." his wife said, "We couldn't do it again now if our lives depended on it. But that's okay, because we've been there, and done that. There's a bunch of stuff we can't do anymore, but that's okay. Remember when we traveled cross country in a Volkswagon bug on a shoestring budget and camped out along the way? It was fun, but do we want to travel like that again? Or did we enjoy this last trip, cruising along in a nice new quiet car, books on disc, a nice motel every night?"
The man thought for a tiny moment.
"Yeah, I get your point. Life moves on, and we move with it. I'm okay with that, it's just a little depressing to realize that life as we know it is finite. And like the leaf on a tree, our time is limited, so we have to make the most of it."
"Good," said his wife, "Besides, just between you and me, the Sardinian one is prettier."
"Well I guess if it comes with your seal of approval, that counts for a lot." the man said.
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