My introduction to pocket knives began at age five. It really wasn’t much of a knife but when I found it lying around the house I claimed it as my own. In reality, with only a 1-inch blade, it was nothing more than a keychain trinket. The blade was so dull I’m not sure it would have cut my finger if I tried. But that didn’t stop me from whittling on a church pew during a particularly dry Sunday service. My mother apparently was not as bored as I since she sat focused on the speaker, oblivious that her five year old was defacing God’s house. When she finally glanced my way, her face turned to horror. I got smacked. The pocket knife was confiscated. After the meeting I was tearfully marched to the bishop’s office where I was prodded to declare my sin and ask for forgiveness. Fourteen years later when I stood at the pulpit in that same chapel prior to embarking on a full time mission, the third pew from the back still bore the scares inflicted by a thoughtless five year old.
In fourth grade I was trustworthy enough to have a pocket knife of my own – a real one. I may have gotten it for my birthday. It resided full time in my blue jeans pocket. I took it to school. With it in my pocket I felt grown up, like my big brother, who at 16 years my senior was an avid outdoorsman and always carried one.
As a teenager I carried a knife. As a Boy Scout, it was one of the ten essential items for the outdoors. My Kabar pocket knife was used for a variety of purposes – from cleaning my fingernails to eating apples one slice at a time. The blade got cleaned between uses, if wiping the blade on a pant leg could be considered cleaning. As an adult I continued carrying a pocket knife. Even in middle age, a knife in my pocket served as a reminder of my big brother, especially after he passed away.
As my sons grew, times were changing. As adolescents they learned like I did that a knife was a Boy Scout ten essential. But if they carried one to school, zero tolerance resulted in a week-long suspension.
The September 11 demise of the Twin Towers brought more change. Since then, I’ve twice found myself in an airport security line and realized too late that I had a knife in my pocket. Both times I removed myself from the line and searched for a safe hiding place in the airport. When I returned to those airports a week later, my knife was still there – once under a sink in a men’s room and the next time on a high ledge in baggage claim. I felt a little guilty, clandestinely hiding contraband, trying to avoid security cameras, but at least I kept my knife.
Further change was evident yesterday when I read about Monday’s police shooting at Boren and Howell streets in downtown Seattle. John T. Williams, better known by the street name “Cowboy”, sat whittling a piece of wood. This homeless man was actually an accomplished carver who sold his wares nearby at Ye Olde Curiosity Shop. When a police officer ordered him to drop his knife he didn’t comply. The office responded by pumping four balls of lead into the man’s chest. Witnesses were dumbfounded by the act and felt the man posed little or no risk to the officer. The officer’s version, though yet to be released, will undoubtedly claim he felt threatened. Either way, the knife cost the man his life.
In recent years I’ve quit carrying a knife. It’s just too much of a hassle with security checkpoints.
Things have changed. I liked them better the way they were.
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