Relics

“Any relic of the dead is precious, if they were valued living.” Emily Brontë.

Back in the 1980s, one of my three jobs entailed working weekends at a horse stable. It was hard, but mindless, work and always satisfying. My love of horses is lifelong and I appreciated the ability to be around them. In those days I carried a small buck knife, the kind where the blade folds into the handle. At the stable it was useful for many things including cutting the strings on bales of hay, opening bags of feed, cutting up apples for horses, and many other useful tasks.

Little did I know it would come in handy for other reasons. My full-time job back then was working in a bank in the downtown area of a city. The cost of parking was outrageous so many of us parked quite a distance away requiring a 20-30 minute walk. This was not a nice area to walk. Standing at a stop light waiting to cross the street one morning, a local man next to me (who had been following me) pulled out a sizable knife and started cleaning his fingernails while eyeing my purse. So, I pulled out my much smaller knife and started cutting up an apple. I looked at the guy and said, “handy things to have no matter the size.” He ceased following me at that point.

Fast forward a few decades. When I was teaching, a very slim box cutter resided in my desk drawer. It was mostly useful for opening boxes, cutting paper and trim for bulletin boards, etc. But it was calming to know it was there, especially after the Columbine massacre. I’m certain I was the only one who knew of its existence. It sits in the desk of my home office now that I’m retired.

Cleaning out a drawer the other day, I found a few small penknives. These were the early precursor to multi-tools but many just had one small blade. It seemed to be customary for men to have one in a pocket throughout the late 19th and early 20th centuries. My paternal grandfather, first-generation American born in 1896, always carried one and it never failed to fascinate me. When I cleaned out my father’s apartment after he died, I found several of them. They were mostly my grandfather’s and showed they were well used. Looking at them and handling them always brings a smile to my face. My Papa wasn’t a warm and fuzzy guy but his stories were interesting.

Today I drove my almost 95 year old mom to an appointment. Returning her to the assisted living facility I noticed she had a bit of a white hair growing out of her chin. Yes, ewwww, but it’s part of our future I’m afraid. I produced a small set of tweezers from my pocketbook and got rid of the offending hair. My mother was enthralled by my tiny Victorinox “multi-tool” and wanted to see the gadgets. It’s small so it didn’t take long and she was mesmerized by the toothpick, the tweezers, and the scissors. Hard to think such a small object has saved the day so many times.

I do have a larger multi-tool that stays at home. Though it could be a good weapon merely by being in my purse if I swung it to thwart a bad guy. The tool has some heft and could make someone see stars if it clanged them on the head. Don’t think that possibility doesn’t cheer me.

It’s one reason I’m loathe to get rid of some stuff. Just handling it brings back memories, mostly fond. I’m a person who feels memories are very important regardless if they’re good, bad, or ugly. They are part of one’s own being. I think many of us kept a small box or container of some sort with our “prized” possessions. We could look through it and remember. I’m always reminded of a song from my youth when I think about this. Jim Croce had such a way with words and we lost him all too soon. “If I could make days last forever/if words could make wishes come true/I’d save every day like a treasure…”. “Time in a Bottle”