Bury me with my Buck knife

Somebody recently pointed out that I never leave the house without my Buck knife snapped inside its leather sheath on my belt.

In truth, I don’t even think about it. It stays on my belt all the time and it goes on when I get dressed in the morning along with my pants, shirt, etc. But when somebody points it out, I have to wonder — how do people get along who don’t carry a knife?

My step-dad always had his Buck knife. We all got our own somewhere around age 8 or 9. Of course, we thought it was “cool” to have a knife and we immediately proceeded to lose, mistreat or otherwise ruin the blades no matter how serious the speech we got upon receiving them. We would pick up random sticks to whittle, try to hone our knife-throwing skills by tossing them at the woodpile or otherwise abuse them at every turn. To us they were just cool toys and I don’t think any of us were able to keep a knife for very long. In retrospect, I guess it wasn’t a good idea for my step-dad to get us those knives. But looking back, I can vaguely remember all those times that he had his own handy when we needed to cut a gas or vacuum line, bailing wire, tape, pop a hubcap off, strip an electrical wire or even cut open a biscuit.

Not too long after leaving home, I got my own Buck knife and I’ve had it ever since. It’s a knife, a screwdriver and a letter opener. When we went camping and forgot some stuff, it was our can opener. Not enough knives to go around when we go fishing? Dad whips out his Buck knife. I’ve had the blade replaced on it more times than I can count.

My wife, Glenny, has an affinity for knives and used to sell them as a part-time job. Her collection is extensive (yes, my wife is as dangerous as she is beautiful.) And while she has the cool knives made here and there with the blah blah blah special edge or the whatever special design by the Cool Knife Co. from wherever, I stick to my old-school, just-like-grandpa’s, plain Jane Buck knife. I’ve always been kind of old-school like that. It has gutted salmon on the Kenai, cut frayed gas lines in emergency repair jobs and made my kids screw up their faces in disgust because I don’t mind using it to cut my sandwich on a road trip (hey, I wash it).

I think my favorite story with the trusty old knife was the one in Disneyland. It happened years ago when one of my sons (I won’t mention his name here out of fear of humiliating him) was very little and wasn’t quite done with potty training. We were still doing the Pull-Up thing and figured he was almost there. But, as I learned while walking to Splash Mountain, apparently he wasn’t quite ready for the varsity underpants just yet. And lucky me, it was my turn at bat to deal with the dirty deed. Poor kid was more sad at himself than anything, so I couldn’t bring myself to give him the “what happened?” speech. I just took his hand and we made our way to the restroom.

And that’s where I kicked my mind into strategy mode. Now, I’ve had buddies who just can’t bring themselves to change a dirty diaper. Some of these guys are big, strapping men I have been shoulder-deep in guts, mud or grease with, but God help them if they’re confronted with the horror of baby poo. I think it’s because of this revulsion that their brains become locked and the situation quickly gets out of hand. Before you know it, this big man is standing there looking like he’s going to get physically ill while he has a toddler hanging upside down, sans-pants, from one hand and the other arm is fully extended holding the fouled Pamper with the barest of touch from a thumb and index finger. They’ve used up the entire package of wipes and now they’re contemplating running the child under the sink and hoping the water pressure will clean the child’s bottom so they don’t have to get their hand near it.

But that part of babies and toddlers never bothered me much. A runny nose is another story, but I won’t go into that here (snot, bleh). No, I was saved again that day by my trusty Buck knife.

I took my little boy to one of the two empty handicap stalls in the bathroom so I would have room to operate. I hung his little shoes on the coat hanger and his pants went up over the shoes. And that’s where it got tricky.

You see, Pull-Ups don’t have those great little tabs on the side that allow you to do the quick-release. No, you have to pull them off like regular pants. And when you’re dealing with a mess, well, that means things just get messier. As I stood there pondering my predicament, while my little boy stood in his shirt and socks looking up at me with true sadness over his accident, a light went on in my head. I whipped out my Buck knife and flipped open the blade. At this point my boy blurted out, “I love you Dad!”

Carefully, I slowly slipped the knife between his leg and the Pull-Up, making sure to keep the back of the blade against his skin, and with one smooth jerk I split open the side. I repeated on the other side and off came the Pull-Up without the nastiness of having to pull it down. A few minutes later I exited the bathroom with a clean little boy and we enjoyed the rest of our trip accident-free.

I feel naked if I leave the house without my trusty blade and I don’t know how anybody can go through life without having one on them.

I know the old saying, “You can’t take it with you,” but I want to be buried with my knife. And I honestly hope that God makes an exception and lets me bring it with me. Who knows, I might notice a loose screw as I enter the Pearly Gates!

Ben Compton is a Palmer resident and publishes his column under the tagline “Compton’s Corner,” the same title used by his grandmother, Phyllis Compton, a longtime Frontiersman columnist.