The Knife

Knives and I don’t mix.

I have the scars on my hands to prove it.

Would you believe I once cut myself with a BUTTER KNIFE?

When my daughter (who was quite young at the time) learned of my boo boo and how it happened, she used the word “talented.”

I guess it does take something akin to talent to manage to cut oneself with a butter knife….

Or, just plain bad luck.

Rewind time about 8 years.  There I am in a Southwest Georgia okra field, 5 gallon bucket at my feet and a sharp paring knife in my right hand.  With my left hand I grip the okra and with the right I cut the okra from the stalk.

Halfway into filling my 5 gallon bucket, I slice into the side of my hand just below my little finger and the blood pours.

The remaining half of the bucket is filled with red spotted okra and when I carry the paring knife back to the farmer I’d borrowed it from, his wife notices the bloodied hand and the red drops falling onto her porch.

“What did you do…cut yourself?” she asks.

(If I had a dollar for every time someone has asked me that in my 55 years I could fill the car up with gas – several times.)

“Yes, Ma’am,” I say. What else is there to say?

She invites me inside to wash my hands, which I accept willingly, and offers to “doctor it” for me, which I graciously decline.  I assure her I have experience with knife cuts and have butterfly bandages, plenty of bandages and antibiotic ointment at home.

With a paper towel wrapped around my hand, I pick up my bucket of bloodied okra and head home.

Hubby takes one look at the bloody paper towel wrapped around my hand and asks (yep, you guessed it), “Did you cut yourself?”

Yes.

Daughter appears and asks, “What did you do, Momma? Did you cut yourself?”

I think it’s quite obvious what I’ve done and if it isn’t clear enough to them, I remove the bloody paper towel and show the bloody cut.

“How’d you do that?” Daughter asks.

“With a knife,” is my reply.

“But, how?” she asks.

I take a knife from the kitchen drawer and begin to pantomime the action that produced the cut hand.

Hubby grabs my right wrist and says, “I think we get the idea.”

Fast forward to 2013 and roll back four days.

A friend, who designated my nickname “The Knife” because of this event I’ve shared with you, surprised me with a gift.

It was a box about 18 inches long and several inches wide.  And, it was heavy.

The outside of the box said “Control the Wild” and “American Hunter.”

Curious, I removed the lid and glanced at my friend who was grinning a lopsided grin, eyes twinkling.

It was a knife.

Not just any knife.  It was an American Hunter Pig Sticker Bowie Knife.

Yes it was.

And, it was heavy –  2 lbs of steel blade and stag handle.

The blade alone measured 12 1/4 inches.

The length of blade and handle combined brought the knife to a whopping 17 inches.

When I think of the damage I did with a short paring knife (and don’t forget the butter knife) and look at what this Pig Sticker is capable of, I feel something akin to excitement course through my veins.

I think the word would be trepidation.

Where’s the knife now?

It’s in its leather belt sheath (which makes it even longer and heavier), tucked into my underwear drawer.

I want to keep it handy, but out of sight.  It’s not exactly something I want just lying around the house for a burglar to run across.

Why “handy”? And, why in my underwear drawer?  Well…what better place to keep it than someplace that I frequent?  You never know when I might need to trim my toenails, clean my fingernails, or slice a string from Hubby’s undershirt.

And, if someone breaks into our house at night, it’s within easy arm’s reach.  I’d sure pity the dude that ran up against a scared and angry Me with a Pig Sticker in hand.

Jim Bowie, I’m not.  Annie Oakley? No way.

I’m just me and I’ve proven time and again just how dangerous I am with any knife. 😉

** I suppose I should share Hubby’s, Daughter’s, and Mom’s reaction to the knife.

Hubby – eyes wide open – “What are you going to do with that? You know how you are with knives! Is that thing sharp? You’d better sheath it right now before you cut yourself…or someone. You’re not going to just leave it lying there are you?”

Daughter – eyes wide open – “Wow! That’s really a knife, isn’t it! You do know you aren’t allowed to hold sharp knives, don’t you? You do remember what’s happened in the past, don’t you? Is it sharp? Stop! Don’t run your thumb down the blade to find out! Where are you going to keep that thing? You’re going to hurt yourself if you don’t put it up.”

Mom – eyes even wider open – “You’d better put that back into the box, carefully.  It looks sharp. Look out, it will cut you! You don’t need to take that home with you.  I need to hide that somewhere here.  It scares me and it scares me even more to think of you having it. What are you going to do with it? Use it as a toothpick?  NO! Don’t even think of doing anything foolish with a knife, especially one that large. Put it away, right now.”

🙂  Knives are so much fun. 😉

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2 thoughts on “The Knife

  1. Pingback: A Thin Red Line | suzansays

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