JOSE MACIEL: Times stole my friend, the knife
| Monday, Feb 22 2010 09:52 AM
Last Updated Monday, Feb 22 2010 09:52 AM
Thought I'd start carrying a pocketknife again. Haven't carried one on a regular basis since 9/11. Those knucklehead terrorists ruined that for me too.
As with other things, I learned to carry a pocketknife as a young boy from my father, and he taught me the responsibilities as well. Back then it was not big deal to have one in my pocket, even while in school, but it always stayed in my pocket while in class. It was one of the rules. But times and fathers were different back then. Carrying a pocketknife was an art, to be handed down from one generation to the next.
Took me a while, but I finally found my stash of knives, there on a shelf in my closet, inside a cardboard box packed with a bunch of my other stuff during our last move. Inside that box was a pine needle basket I had made years ago. I pulled out my "Old Timer" brand pocketknife, not the original knife Dad gave me, but one of them. I held it in the palm of my hand as memory after memory came. I'm not sure how long I sat there alone with my thoughts. Finally, I put the box back and slipped the knife into my pocket. Welcome back, old friend.
As young boys, my friends and I all carried knives. Nothing fancy. Usually a much smaller version of what our fathers carried, with small blades for small hands. Just sharp enough to cut string -- sometimes, with just one quick pass of the blade, if we stretched that string tight enough. But we never used them as weapons on each other or others. That never entered our minds. But we could've easily removed them from our pockets and unfolded the blade had we ever needed to take down any rampaging wild animal.
Back then, teachers and school districts had the luxury of being less concerned with weaponry in the classroom and were able to focus on teaching. Plus, we all knew better. It would've been the end of our world had we been caught pulling a knife out in class. After the school administration was done with us, we had our parents to face. Yikes.
In Boy Scouts, I went on a Jamboree. My first, and last. For the occasion, my parents bought an official Boy Scout knife for me. It had several blades, plus two types of screwdrivers and a can opener. It was considerably bigger than my usual knife, and I was anxious to use it. But instructions from my parents were simple: the knife was not to be used until the Jamboree. That day finally arrived. With the backpack ready I proudly slipped the knife in my pocket and out the door and into the world of Jamborees I went.
The Jamboree was miserable, beginning with the hike into camp. I remember my Keds getting wet and my feet being very cold. Fortunately it was only an overnight event, and I was happy to get back home. Until I started looking for my knife. My official Boy Scout knife.
It didn't take long to realize that it was lost. I had violated a trust between my parents and me. I had let them down. They had thought me responsible enough to own a real knife. The burden of shame was unbearable for such small shoulders. But if they were angry or disappointed, my parents never showed it, which of course added to my burden.
I've had plenty of knives since then, including one memorable Swiss Army Knife, the "Cadet," which was confiscated at the L.A. Sports Arena years ago. It was while taking my son to go see Hulk Hogan during his heyday as WWF champion.
It was raining hard that night and I had scooped my son up, covered us with a parka and made a mad dash across the parking lot, arriving at the entrance safe and relatively dry. But as it turns out, that was the easy part.
While being asked about having any weapons such as guns or knives, I responded by saying there was a pocketknife in my pocket. So I was given the choice of turning over the knife to security or going home. Some choice. Or, they suggested, I could take my lethal weapon back to my truck. This was all pre-9/11 and it made little sense to me. But the thought of leaving my son alone or running back and forth with him in my arms was too much. Out of my pocket and into the trash my knife went.
It didn't last long in the trash, of that I'm certain. I'm pretty sure one of the security guys fished it out and carried it around in his pocket. I like to think that maybe while trying to peel an apple with that knife, karma stepped in and he cut himself. Nothing serious, maybe just a really small nick. Enough for him to pass the knife along to a more deserving owner.
So now I have that old-timer in my front pocket, a gentle reminder of gentler times. I even honed the blade on a strop, all the while more memories pouring out. It's not quite sharp enough to shave with, but may the gods help any rampaging wild animal that ventures into my living room.
These are Jose Maciel's opinions, not necessarily those of The Californian.
