By Bill King
I was around ten years old. Like many days at that time in my life, I was helping my dad at his place of business, or at least hanging around there. I got my education in those days at Plainview Elementary School and at King’s Coal and Building Supply Store.
Dad’s place did its best business in the wintertime. Winters back then seemed much colder, especially in the northern end of the state and on top of Sand Mountain. The cold was good for business because Dad’s main business was selling coal.
Many people still heated their houses with coal, as well as their chicken houses. It seemed to snow more back then too. A good snow shower, or even the threat of one, was better for business than a free puppy with every pound. The customers flocked in. Dad had a big-coal heater right in the middle of the office. Customers often came in there to warm themselves around the hot fire while Dad, or one of his helpers, loaded their coal. There were regulars who hung out there too, even when they weren’t buying anything. They did usually buy an RC and a Moon Pie or a six-ounce coke and a pack of peanuts to pour in it. They swapped yarns, as well as pocket knives. Some of their stories were true. Most were entertaining and occasionally educational!
I guess, since most of them were old-timers, they traded their Old Timers…as well as their Schrades, Cases, Boker Tree Brands, and Queens. In case you’re wondering, those were pocket-knife brands.
By that ripe old age in life, I was an experienced pocket-knife totter. We even took them to school back then. I had an old beat-up Barlow in my pocket, the kind that had two blades on the same end. One was about as dull as the other. About two-thirds of the handle had a dark-brown, saw-cut finish, and the other third was steel that had the Barlow brand stamped on it. I think that was the first pocket knife I ever owned, and ugly as it was, I couldn’t have been prouder of it…that was until I saw that yellow handle, three-bladed, Queen. I don’t remember the man’s name, but I remember his knife.
He opened all three blades for us to envy. I got my turn when he passed it around. My eyes were as big as lump coal as I slid my little fingers over that smooth yellow handle. It was love at first sight. I was proud of my old Barlow but not quite as proud as he thought. I think he was trying to tease me when he said, “I’ll trade with you.” The joke was on him when I instantly replied, “Okay!” Then he tried to wiggle his way out of the deal until my dad, who was a towering man, said, “I think you told the boy you would trade.”
I’m not sure whatever became of the object of my treasured trade. I either lost it or traded it for something else.
In recent years, I’ve searched high and low for an old-yellow-handled Queen. Thanks to my sweet wife, I found not just one of them, but two, under the Christmas tree. She bought one and then found another one that was more like the one I had. A flood of memories rose right up and leaked out of my eyes. Oh, it wasn’t just the knife, but the memory of my long-gone dad’s voice, as he sealed my deal all those many years ago. The best treasures in life are not about knives or things but the people we love.
