THE TOOLS WE HAVE

When I was a boy, on fishing trips Up North with my family, I always liked to have a sheath knife on my belt. It made me feel grown-up, outdoorsy, and a little bit Daniel Boon-ish. I had a favorite—a Royal Canadian Mounted Police souvenir knife my grandad had given me. It wasn’t really a very good knife, but with its faux mother-of-pearl handle containing a picture of a Mountie, it looked pretty cool.

My Uncle Wilbur always wore a knife on his belt, too. Always. But his, I thought, was rather ugly and beat up. Yet he was never without it, and often pulled it out to cut some fishing line or some other simple chore. My beloved uncle’s knife, I learned decades later, was his WW2 combat knife. 5th Army, Red Bull Division, North Africa, Sicily, Anzio and Monte-casino, desperately fighting fascist armies ever inch of the way. No wonder he never took that knife off.

Now I have it, in our rustic, North Woods cabin, just miles from where we fished so often together. Who can say all that knife meant to my uncle? Depths and meanings I will surely never understand. But I know one thing for certain—it was a tool. A survival tool. To help him through difficult and desperate times. And later surely, a remembrance—a symbol of all he had been through and survived. And what he’d fought for. For his country and his family and unborn children he might, against all odds, someday see. And perhaps, even, a little nephew who loved to fish with him.

The knife hangs on the log wall of my cabin now. Still beat up and a bit ugly. But with a sharp edge. I honor that knife, that tool, and all it means. It reminds me that we must go to battle with the tools we have. In the battle against fascism we now face, the foe is armed with their favorite tools and weapons: Ignorance. Fear. Stupidity. Slavish cultism. Bullying. Dishonesty, dishonor, disinformation, and disgrace. But we have tools as well. Old ones, that have triumphed before: Integrity. Honesty. Truth. Gumption. Ideals. Decency. Bravery. Belief in something better than mere power.

We also have examples of those who came before us. Who didn’t flinch, who didn’t quit. Who survived hell. Who helped decency vanquish the rancid, reeking ambitions of ignorance and malevolence.

And sometimes, we may even have a memento. A favorite old tool. Still sharp, still functioning. But a reminder and a symbol of so much more. My Uncle Wilbur’s ugly old knife looks beautiful to me now. Absolutely beautiful.