Cliff has a lot of old pocket knives that I keep in a made-in-Germany stein that our son bought when he was stationed there. Every single knife has a story. Tonight we were watching something about knives on Modern Marvels: Buck knives was mentioned, and the memories began. I told Cliff that if he passes on to the great beyond before I do, I will be keeping the Buck knife that Boyde Dudley gave him one time when he was drunk. Don't ask. And then I told him that I'm pretty sure the kids and grand-kids would all like one of those knives as a keepsake.
"They don't care about that stuff," he said.
"Oh yes they do," I replied. "They may not care about my grandma's stuff, but they will care about your stuff. If the kids don't want them, a couple of grand-kids will."
Then he lovingly picked up each knife one at a time and told the story about it. The three on the bottom right are K-bar knives, every one completely worn out. The third from the right on the top row is one he used to castrate pigs with, although he wasn't particularly fond of that knife. The black one in the middle of the top row is the one I want.
Every knife has a story. I intend to put each one in a baggie with a note telling the story about that particular pocket knife. I'm pretty sure somebody related to us will want one of them.