Cuts Like a Knife

I look at the sign over the door, “Beauville Historical Society,” my new home. I am now an artifact, a historical thing. How have I gotten to be this old, this obsolete? Does anyone even use grinding wheels anymore to sharpen things? It has been a long time since I have felt anyone’s hands on me. Prior to coming here, I had been sitting in a dusty old barn for years, unused, unloved. That is, until someone decided to move me. A tattooed young man wearing an earring, a stranger to me, threw me in the back of his pickup and brought me here, dropping me off unceremoniously at the front door. He then sped away as if he were relieved to be rid of me. I have to say that hurt my feelings. He slammed me down and didn’t even say goodbye before speeding away in his monster truck with the jacked up wheels and loud muffler.

I try to look on the bright side. No use crying. Tears might make my metal frame and seat rust, although my heavy stone will be no worse for the wear. Chin up, I tell myself. At least now that I’m here, occupying a place of honor by the front door, perhaps I will be looked at and admired, if not used.

I look around and spot other artifacts nearby, my peers. The first thing I notice is a horse plow, the kind that has a platform, really just a metal square, for its driver to stand upon while he steers the horses. I remember, back in the day, when my master had one just like it, pulled by giant, strong horses, a breed called Percherons. I remember it was a long, slow process. The horses were very strong, but sometimes hard to control. Nevertheless, the plow did a remarkable job, plowing deep, even furrows in the rocky soil.

Next to the plow, there is an ancient piano, with scrolled curlicues and whorls carved into its polished mahogany woodwork. There is no rhyme or reason to this crazy museum. Outdoor farm equipment is jumbled together with indoor furniture and other sundry items. The piano’s deep, dark polished wood is still in good shape, but the ivory has worn off its keys, making the keyboard look like a person with blackened or missing teeth. I suspect the piano needs tuning. I wonder if it even can be played. It looks like the kind of piano that has been sitting for years in someone’s dark basement, with mice possibly making a nest inside. Alongside the piano, I spot a spinning wheel with a foot pedal; an ancient freestanding gas oven and stove with spindly legs; a roll top desk along with an inkwell and feathered pen missing some of its quills; and other ancient, worn items too numerous to mention.

Like the spinning wheel, I also have a wheel, a circular thick, heavy stone. The wheel is activated by a foot pedal which causes it to spin and sharpen things into a fine point. The person doing the sharpening has to bend down and press the object firmly into my wheel for an extended period of time. It’s a little bit like riding a bizarre bicycle. The ride is sometimes long and arduous. The user has to be patient, giving rise to the old saying of “keeping one’s nose to the grindstone” to achieve good results. Back in the day, I was used to sharpen knives, axes, saws, really all kinds of things. It has been a very long time, however, since anyone has used me to sharpen anything. I honestly can’t remember the last time I felt cold metal of any kind pressing into my hard stone. 

 I am now over a hundred years old, but am still in great shape, if I do say so myself. Still firm, solid. I can still sharpen with the best of them. I stand ready and willing to sharpen whatever comes my way, although I should have learned my lesson, based on my past mistakes. 

I wonder idly if anyone cares about my abilities. What will they write on my informational placard? Will anyone even read it? Every object in the museum has a brief description displayed. I imagine the curator of the museum probably will stick to brief facts – how old I am, who owned me, what kinds of things I sharpened long ago. I think my viewers deserve a more exciting story, however. They deserve to know the truth. 

I should really write that story myself. Maybe I’m a tad conceited, but I would like everyone to sit up and take notice of what I can do, the results that can be achieved with a sharp tool or weapon. The results you see are really quite astounding. And deadly. 

Once upon a time, a very long time ago, I sharpened something to a very fine, edgy point. That point was used for something dangerous. Although I am proud of my abilities, I must confess that I feel somewhat guilty about the whole thing. I guess you could say I was an accessory to a crime. 

My master (we called him Big John due to his immense size) came to me one day for service. He bent over me for hours, keeping his nose to the proverbial (and actual) grindstone, sharpening his favorite knife into a razor fine point. The knife had a long, hooked blade. He kept it in a black leather sheath in the pocket of his overalls. It didn’t look like the kind of knife a farmer should carry. It wasn’t a knife for whittling, or cutting branches or barbed wire, or even gutting the catfish that swam in our creek. No, that knife was a weapon – a weapon he kept in his pocket, just in case. Big John was a hothead, you see, the type of man who always believed in carrying a weapon, convinced that he might one day need it. 

He was also on the prowl. Not for a perceived enemy, but for a wife. He was convinced that the farm needed a woman’s touch. Convinced he needed to sire some children to carry on his bloodline. He was somewhat of an old fashioned man, wanting an adoring little woman and a whole passel of children surrounding him, working alongside him on his beloved farm.

To achieve his goal, after a long hard week farming, one Friday night, he took himself off to town, spiffed up in his best overalls. The knife occupied its usual sheath in his pocket. 

Big John had his eyes on a young barmaid named Sarah. Sarah was the daughter of the tavern’s owner. She was a buxom blond, cheerful and friendly, serving her customers with alacrity and a bright smile. She seemed to be a hard worker, keeping up with the demands of a rowdy, thirsty crowd effortlessly. Clad in a lowcut frilled blouse and a flouncy skirt, she immediately caught Big John’s attention. Being a practical man and a farmer, he noted with approval her broad childbearing hips, swishing along as she carried a wooden tray filled with heavy steins of beer. 

Usually, she could deflect the wandering hands of intoxicated, grabby men who got overly friendly when she served them their beer and whiskey. One man, in particular, an uptight, prissy banker with a gray combover on his bald head, would not take no for an answer. Forgoing her usual politeness, she slammed down his beer and turned hurriedly to leave, knowing that he would undoubtedly try to detain her. Sure enough, the man’s whiskey breath was hot in her face, and he grabbed her around the waist. 

“Stop, sir. I need to get going,” she forced a smile to dull her sharp words.

“What’s your hurry, darling?” he slurred, grasping her tighter.

She once again tried pulling away, to no avail. For a man who sat behind a desk all day, his grip was surprisingly firm. 

Big John, who was sitting one table over, felt fury rising in his chest. He stumbled to his feet and quickly stomped over. 

“I believe the lady told you to remove your hands, sir,” he choked out the last word. In his opinion, the man did not deserve to be treated like a gentleman. The good manners his mama had instilled in him prevailed, however, forcing him to be marginally polite.

“Whatcha going to do about it, farm boy?” the man sneered.

Sarah squirmed in the man’s grasp, trying to pull herself free.

Big John saw red. “Who you calling a boy?”

“You, of course,” the man said coolly.

“I’m no boy,” Big John spat. 

Suddenly, he pulled the knife out from its sheath in his pocket and brandished it menacingly at the banker. 

The man at last dropped his arms from around the barmaid’s waist.

“Whoa there, big fella. No need to get violent. Put that thing away.”

Big John continued to hold the knife.

All at once, the banker’s hand shot out like lightning and he knocked the knife away from Big John. The knife clattered to the floor. The bar room was suddenly silent, its customers frozen in stupefied fascination at the scene rapidly unfolding in front of them. 

Both men bent at once to pick up the knife. Being smaller and more agile, the banker was the first to reach the weapon. He raised it in the air triumphantly, the knife’s sharp metal gleaming in the candlelight, emitting an eerie glow.

“Give me that back!” Big John yelled.

“Never!” screamed the banker.

The two men were now struggling over the knife, Big John trying unsuccessfully to wrestle it away from the banker who was surprisingly strong for a skinny, middle aged desk jockey. In one last desperate attempt, the banker brought the knife down forcefully, stabbing it into Big John’s thickly muscled chest.

Big John made a horrible gurgling noise and fell heavily to the floor, the blood pooling around him. The metal part of the knife sank deeply into the big man’s chest, only its black handle protruding.

Yes, my friends. Big John died. I am sorry to say that my sharpening skills led to his demise. I never saw that coming. It still tears me up inside. When I first heard the news, I shed a few tears. Someone had to wipe me off with an old towel. They wondered if the barn roof was leaking at the time. Luckily, I didn’t rust.

 Big John was a good man. May he rest in peace. He was only trying to protect his lady love. Maybe if the knife hadn’t been so sharp, he might have lived. But no, he bled out. Like a stuck pig. 

His parents buried him at the base of the big hill, down by the creek, on the farm. Resting on his beloved land, the land he had hoped one day to pass down to his children. Sarah, the barmaid, came to his funeral. The children they might have had together never came to be.

The knife, I am sorry to say, was never recovered. I don’t know what ever happened to it. I am sure its point is just as sharp to this very day. I still feel guilty about the whole thing. My own pain cuts like that knife. When I do something, I do it right. Big John was the same way. If only he hadn’t kept his nose so long to my grindstone, it’s possible he just might have lived.