Just An Old Boker Knife               

Why, you could buy just about anything you wanted at  Wilbur Powers's store there on the banks of the Licking River in Magoffin County. He had gears for the mules, flour for baking, and for fifteen cents the kids at the one roomed school could buy bologna, oyster crackers and a coke a cola for lunch. That's where my grandfather bought his long barrel .38 special he carried in a shoulder holster under his coat. And, that’s where he purchased his Boker knife.

“I don’t know when he purchased the knife. I know he had it when he bought his gun in 1950. I figure he bought the knife sometime in the ‘30’s” my father said when I asked “How old is the knife”.

My grandfather loved his pocket knife. He carried it everywhere he went. He used it to work on practically everything and when he wasn't working he would pull  it out along with a cedar whittling stick he carried and he would whittle. Oh, he never created any wonderful work of art, never carved a fine family heirloom. He just made tiny shavings that twisted as he carved them from the larger stick. He called them whirly Q’s. Granny put the piles of whirly Q’s in tiny bags made from cheese cloth and  put them in her dresser drawers to keep the clothes  smelling fresh.

One day while Paw was disking a bottom with his mules, Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out tobacco, he lost his knife. He knew he had it when he started work because he used it to work Ole Tobe’s collar. He looked for his knife every day, even had us looking for it when we worked the tobacco. After looking for a few hours one winter day, Paw said “Guess it’s just gone. Don’t matter much. It ain't worth nothin’. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried”.

The next spring as Dad was disking the bottom with Barney and Tobe, getting ready to set out the tobacco, something shiny caught his eye. He thought it was one of those pretty rocks with the flecks in it so he went on about the task at hand. On his next round it seemed the sun caught that shiny thing and cast a beam straight to his eye. He just had to check it out. He followed that beam out into the middle of the field but it seemed to be coming from nothing. He bent down to to look closer and sure enough he pulled Paw’s knife from the ground.

Dad couldn’t wait to give the knife to his father. He cleaned it up the best he could there in the field. At dinner, Dad, with the knife held tight, held his hand out toward Paw.

“Humph, what is it”, Paw asked, “I’m eatin' my dinner”.

 “Well, just hold out your hand and you’ll see”, Dad said.

When Paw held his hand out flat and Dad dropped the knife in his hand, there were no words to say. Paw, shook the knife in his hand, he rubbed the handles with his thumb, and looked from the knife to Dad and back to the knife. He shook his head up and down and from side to side, put the knife in his pocket and continued to eat his dinner.

A few months before my grandfather died in 1983, he and Dad were sitting in the glider on the front porch whittlin’. When Paw was through, he shut the old Boker closed his hand around it and held his hand out toward Dad.

“What!” Dad said.

“Well, it should be yours. You found it. ain’t worth much, probably couldn't get $5.00 out of it if you tried.

There were no words for Dad to say. He took the knife, rubbed the handles with his thumb, tossed it up and down a bit, and put it in his pocket. He carried that knife over 30 years. He used it for almost everything, even to work on Ole Tobe’s gears. Sometimes he would pull it out just to whittle. Oh, he never created any great works of art, no family heirlooms, just made whirly Q’s from a stick of cedar he carried in his pocket. Mom kept some in the dresser drawers to freshen the clothes.

About three weeks ago, I saw Dad with his little knife collection out. He picked up each knife, rubbed the handles, and held them in his hand as if to whittle.

“What are you doing”, I asked my father.

“Well, I’m looking for a good pocket knife. This old one of Paw Huff’s, well, the handles are loose and some of the blades are loose and I’m afraid I might lose it so I’m gonna put it up to keep. I don’t know  why, it ain’t worth nothing. Probably couldn't sell it for $5.00 if I tried. But  I still wanna keep it.”

Dad reached me the knife to look at. “Do you think it could be fixed”, he asked

I held the knife in my hand, it seemed to fit. It felt good. I rubbed the handles with my thumb and tossed it up and down in my hand and thought “if only you could talk oh what stories you could tell’ “Dad I know a knife maker, let me take it and see if he can work on it”. Dad agreed.

The knife maker thought it might be beyond his skills to work on such an heirloom. To no avail, I questioned everyone about getting the knife worked on. No one seemed to know. I had almost given up hope when Gene came in and handed me a neon yellow card with “Danny Ball” and a phone number on it. Underneath he had circled the word knife.

“I hear he can work on your dad’s knife. You should call him” he said

I called Danny. Told him the story of the knife. Told  him it probably wasn't worth anything, probably couldn’t get $5.00 from it I tried to sell it but it’s worth is immeasurable to my father”.

“Yes, I work on knives, bring it over. I’ll take a look at it”. My heart was filled with hope.

“Oh, My! Danny Ball said when he saw the near 100 year old knife, “That’s an old Boker. Look at those handles, why they’re wore paper thin. This knife has really been used. It’s been cared for too”. Danny opened the knife “This is one of the best knives you could ever buy. Them old fellers, they didn’t buy knifes to put in a collection, to look at, they bought knives to use. And this was one of the best”.

Danny looked at me and continued to talk “I can fix the knife but I won’t promise anything about the handles. These handles are made of bone and they get brittle with age. I’m afraid they might shatter when I start working with them. But”, he said, “if they do, I have some authentic Boker handles I can replace them with”.

A few days later Gene picked up the knife. It had new handles. It must have looked exactly like it did when Paw Huff bought it from Wilbur Powers, all shiny and new. Danny had cleaned the blades and sharpened them to a fine edge.

“He said he was afraid to mess with the old handles but he sent them back to you”, Gene said.

 I picked up those old handles and rubbed them with my thumbs. All those years of work and whittling had worn them slick. I could barely see a shadow where the Boker emblem had once told the brand. I put them in a jewelry box to bring to dad. It was almost like they were sacred. So much family history, an heirloom I would never have expected to hold in my hands. Just old knife handles….without a knife…with no value.

 I couldn’t wait to give Dad the knife. He was eating supper when I got there. I went straight to the table with the knife clasped tight in my hands. I held them close to my  father’s plate.

 “What is it? I’m eating supper”, my father said.

 “Hold out your hands. I've got something for you”.

 As I dropped the knife in my dad’s gnarled and twisted fingers, I said “It’s Paw Huff’s knife. I got it fixed for you. He couldn't put the original handles on it but those are authentic Boker handles and he gave me the old ones.”

 Dad looked at the knife. He bounced it in his hands. He rubbed the handles with his thumbs He looked at me, then the knife. He shook his head from side to side, then up and down, then he put the knife in his pocket and went on eating supper.

 The next day Dad asked “Honey, if I whittle and make a mess in the floor, will you clean it up for me?”

 “Dad, if you will make me some of them cedar whirly Q’s for my dresser drawers, I’ll clean up anything”.

 After he got through whittling he put the little black jewelry box on the coffee table.  He said “Honey, I have no reason to keep these handles, if you want ‘em, you can have ‘em”.

 Those bone handles have almost a hundred years of use by my grandfather and father. I intend to have a necklace made from them, maybe two. Neither of them will be worth much, probably can’t get $5.00 from them, even if I try.. But for me, they will be an everlasting hug from two of the most important men in my life. Just the worn out handles off an old Boker knife….not worth anything at all….