Here is how the ritual of my first knife played out. It was Christmas Eve, and after opening the rest of my gifts, my dad gave me a small box. He gave it to me with an air of seriousness that one usually reserves for a religious rite. I opened it carefully; as soon as I saw the Swiss Army logo I knew my time had come. I was a man now. Inside was a gleaming red and chrome Swiss Army Spartan.
“Now remember, be careful with that, it’s very sharp,” my father said, beaming with pride (and “Jim Beaming” as well). “Don’t cut anything you shouldn’t, especially yourself.”
“I will, father, and I will keep your trap lines running all winter.” Did I mention our family teaches sarcasm at a young age?
First pocket knives are magical for boys, it’s often the first legitimately dangerous thing you are trusted…
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