[dropcap]I[/dropcap] lost my pocket knife. It happened years ago, and it nearly killed me. I can’t think of anything more sacred than a pocket knife, to a boy. I own several. I have one that looks like it could skin a Kodiak bear, I use it for opening bills. Another knife accompanied me to the Grand Canyon, I couldn’t have survived without it. I used it to carve walking sticks, open beer bottles, and slice through Twinkie wrappers.
But the knife I lost, disappeared when I totaled my truck. That is to say, the first truck I totaled – not to be confused with the other two I’ve sent to the be with Jesus.
Immediately after the wreck, the paramedic told me to gather my things. He told me to make it “snappy,” then he called me “speedy,” a name I didn’t particularly care for. And I forgot the knife in my glovebox.
God knows whatever happened to it.
I first got that knife when I was twelve. I sat before our Christmas tree with only two gifts bearing my name. The first, a pair of slacks from Mother. I did my best to smile , but the truth was, the last thing anyone wants on the morning of Christ’s birth is something that needs regular ironing.
The next gift was a tiny box. A nice pocket knife that must’ve cost Daddy nearly a hundred dollars. My initials were inscribed on the blade, and it took my breath away. Well, I think about that knife a lot. I hope someone has it. And if somebody does, I hope he gives it to his boy.
Because.
All boys need a good pocket knife.