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When I emerged from my mother’s womb I had a small knife clipped to my baby fat at my waist. I immediately used the knife to cut the umbilical cord. Then I folded the knife (for safety) and hugged my mom.

That’s the way I remember it. But it was a long time ago.

I have always carried a knife. Growing up in Arkansas, no one cared if you had a knife at school (or if you rode a horse to school). Those are two of the beautiful things about rural life. When I went to college in Chicago, my friends were horrified at my affection for my knife. I didn’t much care.

But I’m not a fancy knife kind of guy. Kooky scales and exotic blade materials seem like fuzzy dice hanging from the mirror of your monster truck. Until recently, my favorite knives were from Kershaw, which are inexpensive, made in the USA and built to last.


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