I have spent most of my life, not carrying a ‘weapon’. More recently, however, it travels with me almost every day.
My father died in 1999. Some weeks after the funeral, my mother gathered us around a bed covered with a few of dad’s personal items. My children and I stood staring down amongst the things my mother and selected to distribute. My father had carried a weapon all through his retirement years. He carried one and kept one in reserve, in the tool box.
The TSA would call them weapons, and most assuredly they could be, my father called it his Barlow, a pocket knife. Being the hoarder that I am, I took the Barlow, as well as the one in tool box, none of my other children carried one.
Retiring, a few years later, I began carrying the Barlow, it made me feel close to him. The better, older Barlow’s are made the USA or England.
It times of emergency, I have found all kinds of uses for my ‘weapon’. It’s been known to scrape rust from metal, shave wood, cut into the middle of a broiling steak to confirm doneness (when no one is looking) or as my grandkids remember, to cut night crawlers into pieces for fishing hooks.
So the other day the wife was talking about a small cyst on the top of her foot. I began getting my Barlow out. She yelled!! You’re not working on my foot with that!!! (I love to make her yell, honesty, she wouldn’t let me operate with a clean knife, let alone the Barlow) She says, “you cut worms up with that knife”.
Think I better not tell her about the steaks…… Really th0ugh, I always wipe off on my pants when I’m done with it.