Eulogy for a Confiscated Swiss Army Knife

Dear Swiss Army Knife (Victorinox Recruit model in red, to be specific),

I’m sorry. I failed you. If I’d remembered you were in the inner pocket of my backpack, of course I would have taken you out and left you at home before going through airport security. That I opted to let them throw you out rather than go all the way back to the line-up at the desk and see if I could check you in my already enroute luggage is my own personal betrayal, and although I regret it, I can’t say I’d do it differently.

But, Swiss Army Knife, I haven’t forgotten you. Though I have other foldable, portable knives and tools of various brands, you will always be my first.

I remember how badly I wanted you when I was in elementary school. All the characters in Enid Blyton , C. S. Lewis, and E. Nesbit seemed to have a knife as a matter of course. And it always came in handy, whether they were exploring a hedgerow, trapped in an abandoned lighthouse by the bad guys, or stranded without food and water on an overgrown magical  island.

What if I, I thought, were to be stranded on an overgrown magical island? What if the smugglers tied me up? Without a trusty pocket knife, what would I be able to do?

Nothing, Swiss Army Knife, that’s what. But you changed all that.

At first, my parents didn’t want to buy you. They said I was too young. They said a knife was a lot of responsibility. They did not say that I had already done things like accidentally crack an egg down the heating vent while making Mother’s Day breakfast and probably ought not to be trusted with sharp objects that required dexterity.

So I mooned over you, knife. I looked at ads in magazines and illustrations in camping books. I decided exactly which of the available tools I would need you to have: a blade, obviously, for cutting through kidnappers’ ropes. A can opener for eating tinned tongue (whatever that was) and a bottle opener for drinking ginger beer when my friends and I were permitted to stay overnight at a rental cottage suspiciously close to the thieves’ hideout. A fish scaler for feeding myself when lost in Narnia, because although I didn’t know how to catch or clean a fish, I was pretty sure that the scales had to go.  And, obviously, knife, you had to have a wood saw and a metal file, because I couldn’t be sure where the bad guys would keep me, and I needed to be able to cut through any variety of restraints.

But when my parents finally agreed I was acceptably less likely to injure myself with you, and we met at long last, I loved you at first sight. Even though the only cutting implements you had were two regular blades. Even though I had no idea how to make your can opener work. You were shiny, knife, and you were mine, even if you had no problem leaving me to the mercy of kidnappers who locked me in a cage with metal bars.

You were not as easy to use as the books suggested, knife. I was sure that once you were in my hot little hands, I would become a master whittler, able to carve whistles and small likenesses out of any wood. I would also be able to throw you with pinpoint aim when playing a mysterious game called “mumblety-peg“* old cartoons mentioned but never described (and Wikipedia did not exist then). At the very least, I thought, I’d be able to sharpen my own roasting stick at the campfire.

But, knife, you were harder to get to know than that. My parents warned me to be careful opening and shutting your tools; in consequence, I was scared you’d cut my finger off if you closed at the wrong time. You didn’t, but you did have such strong hinges that I had trouble getting out the large blade.

When I did, I found I didn’t have enough strength to do more than strip the bark off the branches I picked up. Sure, my hotdogs and marshmallows weren’t so much “impaled” as “stuffed with wood,” but they tasted all the better for having been cooked using nothing but my own two hands — and my trusty Swiss Army Knife. Whittling turned out to be pretty easy — as long as I tried it only on bars of Ivory soap. And as for mumblety-peg… well, you were never much one for games, were you?

We had our good times and our bad times. Remember when we fought at Guide camp? You were so angry you sliced my thumb open, and I — well, I guess there’s blame to be placed on both sides, knife, and it’s no good pointing (now fully healed) fingers. I approached the leader with blood streaming over my hand, so calm that at first she thought I was playing a joke. You introduced me to a new friend that day, knife: iodine.

But as the years went by, you and I grew closer and closer. Together, we built tripods, tripods, and also tripods.

“Sarah,” you’d say, “I know you’re too lazy to go find scissors to cut the tags off the shirt you just bought. Let me help.” In the same way, you helped me waste five minutes on loose pot handles and broken chair legs until I gave up and went to find a real Phillips screwdriver. I never quite figured out how to get you to open cans, but you freed the contents of many a root-beer bottle, and eventually, I even managed to whittle campfire skewers instead of campfire Allen keys. At the cottage, we had a system: large blade for wood, small blade to make spider dogs.**

The Sharpie’d “KRIGER” wore off your shiny surface after many washings, but you never complained, not when I didn’t know how to sharpen you, ever, or even when I brought home a new penknife — this one with a corkscrew — from Switzerland two summers ago. And now… I’ll never lend you out among my cousins again.

So, I guess it’s true, knife: you don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone. I picture you now in Airport Security heaven, partying with nail clippers and large containers of liquid all night long. And maybe, sometimes,  when the safety scissors are being a bit too rowdy or a Nerf gun is hogging the spotlight with humblebrags, you’ll spare a thought for our golden summers together.

I know I’ll think of you.

With fond memories,

Sarah

* Don’t.

** There’s actually a website. Holy crow.