The pocketknife

When I was thirteen, I got a pocketknife for my birthday.

It was slim and small, but it had a really pretty rosewood handle with a locking back so it wouldn’t accidentally close.

Now, you’ve got to remember this was before the days of zero tolerance in schools. A pocketknife wasn’t considered a "weapon,"it was a valuable tool. On a really good day you could use it to cut fishing line, clean a fish, and eat an apple. Sometimes all within a twenty-minute period, which was OK, as long as you remembered to wipe the blade off on your pants leg in between uses. I learned never to underestimate the value of a good pocketknife.

The aforementioned birthday present came from my "uncle" Dale.

He wasn’t actually a blood relative but he had been my Mother’s boss, and one of my family’s closest friends since before I was born. When I was old enough to play Boy’s Club football, somehow he always ended up being the couch of whatever team I played on. Now, I was never a big kid but he always played me at center making sure I faced the biggest kid the other team had to offer. He taught me how to take a hit, and how to hold my own. I still got stomped on, but I learned never to be intimidated.
Dale, himself was barely over 5’6, but he was immensely strong, I remember his forearms being as big as a man’s calve. His hands were as strong as a wood shop vice. But his eyes always had a benevolent mischievous spark to them that instantly brought you in, and made you his friend.

When my dad was in the hospital, Dale was up there with him to watch sports. And after my Dad passed away, Dale and his wife were there for my Mother, and looked in on her when I couldn’t. For forty-one years he was the closest thing to a brother my mother had.

Last week cancer took his life. He left behind a wife, daughters , grandkids, and more friends than he will ever know. For me his passing leaves a huge void that I can only try to fill with a bunch of great memories and one really good pocketknife.