I still have my very first pocketknife, a Henckels three-bladed stockman with a red bone handle. It’s safely stowed in a drawer now because its everyday utility was long ago surpassed by its sentimental value.
It was a gift from my father, as should be the case for every child’s first pocketknife, but it was so long ago I can’t remember if it was a birthday or Christmas present. I do know I was still young enough that opening the blades was somewhat difficult.
The clip, or the largest of the three blades, was by far the easiest to dislodge from its safe resting place. Its size compared to the smaller sheepsfoot and awl blades also made it the blade of choice for an impressionable youngster who might have seen “Rambo” far too early.
Consisting of polished steel and a deeply grooved handle, this pocketknife – my pocketknife – was similar, yet different from, other knives I’d briefly held to open a present on Christmas morning. My knife didn’t have the patina I’d seen on my father’s and grandfather’s. The handles on theirs were also smoothed by years of handling. Still, I knew my knife was more than a physical gift. It was a signal my father had trust in me to possess a dangerous object. I have no doubt I tested this trust from time to time, but I would like to point out I still have all 10 fingers. I do carry a couple of scars from a misplaced blade, but those came when I definitely knew better.
After the initial euphoria of becoming a pocketknife owner wore off, I did experience some disappointment. It turns out that while I could be trusted with the sharp blades, I couldn’t seem to find a reason to use them regularly, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. Just as someone holding a hammer begins to see nails everywhere, I used my knife to cut any loose strings on clothing, trim my nails or just whittle points on sticks.
While my first pocketknife is no longer in use, that doesn’t mean I no longer have a use for a pocketknife. Rather, it’s such an indispensable tool I now have several of them. The nicer ones are strewn about the house with one on my dresser, one on the table near my recliner and another on my desk. There are at least four in my truck and two in my tacklebox, not counting the filet knife.
Some are similar to my original three-bladed knife, while others are single-blade folding knives that can be opened with the flick of a finger. There’s a boot knife or two included in the accounting as well (for whittling really big sticks).
Though I’ve purchased and inherited some of this collection of sharp objects, I’ve received the vast majority of knives as gifts.
While the first gift taught me there are limits to the uses of a pocketknife, its true treasure has been understanding that it’s far better to have one and not need it than need one and not have it.
— Greg Doering is with Kansas Farm Bureau. “Insight” is a weekly column published by Kansas Farm Bureau, the state’s largest farm organization whose mission is to strengthen agriculture and the lives of Kansans through advocacy, education and service.
