Pocket Knife and Fatherly Advice Are Treasured Gifts

A daughter shares the story of her father’s wisdom regarding Old Timer knives and life, and how he wanted her to have his special pocket knife.

| January/February 2014

  • The Old-Timer pocketknife given to a reader by her father is displayed with one of the blades open.
    Photo By Cheryl Richards

A year before he passed away in 1996, my father gave me his Old Timer pocketknife.It was the knife he carried for as long as I can remember. Always clean and sharp, it slipped in and out of his bib overalls pocket for any job, small or large. I can still hear him say, “A man ain’t much of a man without a good pocketknife.”

Until recently, I kept the knife in my jewelry case. One day, I opened the blades and found lint from Daddy’s pocket imbedded inside. It took me several days to stop tearing up before I decide to clean the knife and put it in my pocket, knowing my dad would want me to use it.

My dad loved people, especially kids. He had nine kids, all fairly successful. Seven of his children were girls, and all of his daughters answered to “sister.” He would chase us around the house trying to pinch us with his toes – it was funny to see him bounce around on one leg. He loved to tease and laugh, and we knew he loved us. I was his youngest, and because of that, he took a little more time with me.

He shared his great respect for God and family, hunting and fishing, and the importance of wildlife management. By the time he retired from the blue-collar auto industry and owning a landscaping company, he had built his retirement home. Then, together we created a catfish pond and game bird habitat area. We fed the catfish nightly, and we would linger long enough to hear the first calls of the bobwhite quail and the fat bullfrogs.

Those were special days. Sometimes we just sat quietly, and other times we talked about anything and everything. Daddy spoke of his childhood, riding with his uncle in a horse-drawn buckboard wagon from southern Kansas to Detroit to pick up the family’s first Model T Ford and how in his 20s he owned several dump trucks that he and his five brothers used to haul coal to manufacturing plants.

He talked of the day he met my mom, how he was mesmerized by her outgoing personality and carrot-red hair. He told me that on their second date, he gave her a lunch sack with more than $500 in it – which in 1940 was a lot of money – and asked her to take it to the bank. He said, “I knew if I could trust her with my money, I could trust her with my heart.”

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