It lies here now before me,        
A whalebone pocket knife, 

Still sharp enough to shave with,   

A cipher of his life. 

The faded stamp of ‘Sheffield’,        

And, ground to faintness: ‘Steel’, 

Good scrimshaw on the handle,      

A perfect heft and feel.  

It speaks to me of Empire, 

Which I was taught to curse, 

Yet who would care to argue   

That there are things far worse...  No matter.  

My old grandpa        Long, long since left this life; 

He served the Royal Navy,         

And this here— is his knife.

An Encomium of the Drop-Knife.

No knife is so slick, 
It is quick on its trick 
And a joy that will last you through life. 
There is none 'neath the sun
Just like it, not one, 
It's the Schrade Safety Push-Button Knife.

If the button is pressed 
The blade does the rest, 
Opens out like a thing all alive; 
You break no thumb nail 
In your efforts--that fail--
If you're owning this Push-Button Knife.

It's the handiest yet, 
It is everyone's pet,
And with all good knife merits it's rife. 
Its blades are rare steel, 
And really ideal 
Is this notable Push-Button Knife.

It's the very quick pick 
Of club, class, and clique, 
Its equal they cannot contrive; 
It's a true treasure trove, 
And a thing you will love 
Is this wonderful Push-Button Knife.

A. W. BELLAW, DeGroff, Ohio

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This blade was so sharp, yet now is dull.
Will it ever cut again, only with love and care.
Left alone for such a long time.
Dust gathered upon it and rust seeped it's way in.
The color faded as time ran away.
The knife still yearns for a piece of wood, 
To carve a new life if only it could.
Yet no one will hold it and death come to soon.

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Many people have family mementoes that are special to them. For Audie Alexander in Pleasant Plains, it’s an old pocket knife that belonged to his father.

That knife has a story behind it.

It went to the Pacific in World War II with Audie’s brother. Audie took it with him to the Korean War in 1953. When he returned, he gave it back to his father, who kept it until his death in 1981. Audie inherited it and is presenting it to his nephew.

“I’ll give it to somebody who will take care of it and keep it,” says Audie. “I know he will.”

The story of the two-bladed Case pocket knife begins at the end of the 1930s, when Pleasant Plains farmer William Robinson gave it to Audie’s father, Henry Alexander. Henry had worked for Robinson on his 500-acre farm for about 10 years.

“Dad and he got along really well,” says Audie. “I think he wanted to show his appreciation.”

In 1944, Audie’s brother, Haywood, shipped out for the Pacific during World War II. He carried the knife through two beach landings in the Philippines. Haywood and the knife were on their way to Japan when the war ended in 1945.

When Haywood returned to Pleasant Plains, he gave the knife back to his dad.

Henry Alexander kept it until Audie, his youngest son, left for the Korean War. Audie kept it in his pocket during his time in Korea.

“I was a little apprehensive,” says Audie. “I wanted to make sure I didn’t lose it. I hung onto it pretty tight.”

After he came home safely in 1954, Audie also returned the knife to his father.

Henry held onto it for the next 27 years until his death in 1981 at the age of 83. His first wife, Audie and Haywood’s mother, had died. When Henry was about 80, he married an old friend he had known in his younger days in Kentucky. She became Audie’s stepmother.

“After Dad died, she gave the knife back to me,” Audie says.

He has kept it for the past 30 years, but says it is time to pass it on. It will go to his brother Haywood’s son, James Alexander. James is a northern Illinois district commander with the Illinois State Police.

“He should have it,” says Audie. “His dad carried it longer than I did.”

In preparation for the transfer of the knife to his nephew, Audie has written its history, affixed the knife to the history and framed it. As a final touch, he had his account of the knife notarized by a teller at the bank in Pleasant Plains.

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Whittling

The front porch was a very important part of Grand-dad Will's home. The house itself was rather small, and the front room – the living room – was used only during the coldest months or on very rainy days. Otherwise, if you were not in the kitchen then you were out on the porch.

On hot summer evenings, we often ate our supper on the porch. From it, we could look out over the cornfields and down the driveway to spot a visitor as they first turned into the drive. Visitors were always a welcome sight. Many a long summer evening was spent story telling and gossiping with friends and family who came to visit.

No matter how early I would awaken and run down the stairs, I would find Grand-dad Will sitting at the kitchen table or out on the front porch having his morning cup of coffee, always with a big smile and a "Did you sleep well, little sister?" greeting. If I found him on the front porch, there would usually be a surprise waiting for me, something he had whittled while waiting for me to wake up. These intricately carved animals, birds and reptiles were some of my most treasured possessions. I remember once finding a little turtle that he had carved and then attached a little head so that it moved back and forth when touched – a bobble head of that era. I was delighted with the turtle and can recall to this day how precious it was to me.

Grand-dad Will and I spent many wonderful hours on the porch, story-telling and whittling the hours away. One day I had a 'great idea' and approached Grand-dad Will about it. I was about nine or ten years old at the time. I had concluded that I must learn how to do this marvelous carving. After telling Grand-dad Will that this was what I wanted to do, he said: "Well, if you are going to learn to carve then you must have a carving knife."

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Sooooooo.........I found all these fun poems and stories surfing the net.....Does anyone have any to add ?

The Old Pocket Knife

It was 1910 in the train station in Cheyenne 
An old cowboy sitting with pocket knife in hand 
Just an old knife he said had it for years 
Seen plenty of laughs and many tears 

I was thirty in eighteen sixty three 
Rode with old Stonewall to see General Lee 
Fought for the South to the end 
Didn't want to give up but knew we couldn't win 

Rode west in seventy two 
Spent time with some Lakota Sioux 
Traveled down to Texas but didn't stay 
Not liking the way the land lay 

I broke horses and herded some steers 
Drank my share of warm stale beers 
But I'll tell friend it's now my trails end 
Truth being I have slipped a time or two to sin 

I have strived to live my life 
Like I keep this old knife 
If you neglect it, it becomes useless and dull 
And the blade becomes hard to pull 

Keep it clean and always sharp 
Then maybe you can collect a heavenly harp 
The old Cowboy stood and gave me a grin 
Saying here take this knife my young friend 

As I sat looking at it laying in my hand 
Thinking who is this grand old man 
As I looked up he was no where in sight 
With the gift he left he had shown me the light 

Now too my years have flown by 
Knowing I have found grace in God's eye 
With the old Cowboys advice I kept it maintained 
Now as he did I sit here waiting on my final train 
                                             
                                      Edwin J. Smith 
                                    The Old Cowboy Poet 
                                      Mar. 29th, 2008