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Lessons from a Lost Pocketknife

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When I was a small boy, like many up-and-coming business folks, my parents sought a getaway near the city—a haven from the hustle and bustle, but not too far for quick trips filled with camping, fishing, and swimming.

For my older brother and me, this sounded wonderful. He’d already experienced more rustic life on the family farm in the mountains before we relocated, but that spot was too distant for weekend escapes. My folks eyed two burgeoning options outside Atlanta: Lake Lanier in Hall County and Lake Capri in Rockdale County. They bought a lot at Lake Capri because it was closer to home. At the time, the lakes were neck-and-neck as getaways, but in hindsight, Lanier would have been the better choice.

Still, we became Lake Capri owners, and our treks began. We’d load the fishing gear, lawn chairs, and Coleman stove into the camper on our pickup truck. The cooler brimmed with potato salad, cold cuts, bread, ketchup, mustard, and Mom’s chocolate-frosted cake—plus breakfast items for overnights. Off we’d go.

During grass-mowing season, we’d add a push mower and gas can. That was an unforeseen chore my brother and I hadn’t anticipated: more acreage meant more legwork for us. It was worth it, though. After a couple of hours mowing, we’d switch to swimming trunks for a dip or grab rods for bank fishing.

There was always a peacefulness about sitting on the lake shore as puffy white clouds drifted across the blue sky. All you could hear were crickets chirping in the bait box, awaiting their dunking in hopes of dinner. Of course, we had plenty of red wigglers ready for a bath, too. While my older brothers became skilled fishermen, I never inherited the gene. I tried, but sometimes I felt like the jinx from The Andy Griffith Show who spoiled every catch.

I remember one trip when I’d gotten my first pocketknife as a gift. I was so proud—it was a tool, a rite of passage marking my progress from boyhood to manhood, like getting a BB gun and later a .22 rifle. I carried it everywhere, even to school back then. My swimming trunks had pockets, so in went the knife without a thought.

We fished first that day. I’d cast my line and set down my small rod, distracted by something. Suddenly, a fish big enough to yank it into the water struck. I chased after it, blending fishing and swimming in one frantic splash. Waist-deep (which wasn’t far for my size), I grabbed the rod and tried to set the hook, but the fish had skedaddled with my bait.

The sad part: in my enthusiasm, my pocketknife slipped out and sank to the lake bed. Heartbroken, I went back in and searched frantically, but to no avail.

My parents consoled me, but it stung. In my mind, I’d stepped backward on the path to manhood by losing that possession. I was still the same boy, of course, and they soon replaced the knife—perhaps I guarded it better because of the lesson. That mishap, and those family times, left a sharp memory I’ve cut my teeth on all these years later. Are you making lasting memories with your family? Maybe today is a good time to start.

The Last Ride: A Father’s Voice, a Son’s Memory

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I dreamed recently of riding with my dad. He was behind the wheel of his 1969 light green Chevrolet pickup truck, the engine humming softly as his voice filled the cab. We weren’t discussing anything profound—just the small, easy talk of a father and son on a familiar road. The cracked vinyl of the seat, the faint scent of motor oil, the rhythm of his words—it was a comfort, a tether to a time long gone. That dream carried me back 38 years to our final ride together. I was driving then, my hands gripping the wheel of my new 1986 blue Chevy S-10 pickup while he spoke of his hopes for my future, his love for me, and the adventures we’d shared chasing my music dreams. I didn’t realize those words would be his last words meant for me. He passed away in the wee hours of the next morning, and only then did his voice sink into my soul, echoing through the years.

That ride was a gift, though I couldn’t see it at the time. As a young man, I was too focused on the road ahead—both literally and in life—to fully hear him. His words were like seeds, planted in my mind, taking root only after he was gone. I can’t recall every detail of what he said; grief and time have blurred the edges. But the feeling remains—one of the most fulfilling moments he left behind. It was a moment of connection, rare in its simplicity, when he wasn’t just my father but a man sharing his heart.

My dad and I didn’t always talk so openly. Throughout my youth, our conversations were often father to son: him as teacher, disciplinarian, or storyteller, me as the eager but sometimes stubborn student. We butted heads like rams, especially in my teenage years, when I was itching to spread my wings and prove myself. He’d lecture me on responsibility; I’d roll my eyes, eager to carve my own path. He died too soon, before we could fully bridge the gap from father-son to man-to-man. I was still a boy in many ways, and we hadn’t yet found the rhythm of talking as equals. I wish now for just one more ride, one more chance to ask him about his dreams, his fears, his life beyond being “Dad.”

In my experience, men don’t often connect through words alone. We build things—birdhouses, car engines, dreams. We fish, we hunt, we work side by side. That’s what my father taught me. I remember weekends spent in the carport or workshop, the clank of wrenches and the low hum of country music on the radio as we rebuilt an old carburetor. Those moments were our talks, our way of being together. He also taught me patience, a lesson I’m still learning. I can still see him, calm and steady, untangling a knotted fishing line while I fumed at the delay. “Slow down, son,” he’d say. “The fish aren’t going anywhere.” Those were the lessons that shaped me, not in grand speeches but in quiet, shared doing.

Why share this memory now? Because time is fleeting, and I see it clearly. To fathers reading this: Don’t wait for the perfect moment to connect with your children. They grow up fast, and none of us knows how many days we’re given. Be intentional. Share a ride, a project, a story. Teach them patience, even when they push back. Discipline with love, not just authority. Encourage their dreams, even if they seem far-fetched—mine was to be a musician, and Dad never stopped cheering me on, even when the gigs were small and the pay was smaller.

Listen to your children, too. Ask about their hopes, their fears, what makes them light up. Those conversations will linger, just as my father’s voice does in me. Be the memory they carry into adulthood, the voice that guides them when they’re lost. You don’t need to be perfect—just present. Your words, your deeds, your love will shape them, not just for today but for decades to come.

I’ll never take another ride with my dad, but his lessons ride with me. Every time I’m patient, every time I choose to listen instead of lecture, I hear his voice. And in my dreams, we’re back in that old Chevy, the road stretching out, his words filling the air. Be that voice for your children. Be their memory, their guide, long after you’re gone.

A tool bag full of answers

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With my nose pressed against the window, I anxiously watched for the arrival of my father from work. With him he would often carry a large, black leather tool bag which, for a little boy like me, held a world of adventure.

After dinner, Dad would spend time at the kitchen table working on various fix-it projects.

I would walk by the table where he was working on some gismo. It is amazing how many little parts would be meticulously set out where they could be cleaned, re-worked and replaced. Every tool had it’s purpose.

“Can I help you daddy?”

“Yes, son. Get me my pliers out of my tool bag,” he said.

I would search through the bag to find the pliers. With each odd looking tool I would say, “Daddy, what do you do with this?” He would tell me, even though he knew I would ask again the next time. Finally, I would find the tool he asked for and hand them over.

He would say, “Just in time.” He would do some little something with it and then set it neatly with the other tools.

Thinking back, he probably did not need those pliers, but he found a use for them anyway just so I could say I helped him fix whatever it was.

Usually as he was nearing the end of his project, I’d run in and ask, “Dad when will you be done?”

He’d say, “Soon son, soon. When I get these tools cleaned up.”

My father was a man of tools, and with them he accomplished great things. The tool bag to him was like a doctor’s stethoscope or a preacher’s bible — it helped to solve the mysteries in his life.

He had the ability to fix almost anything. I am sad to say the mechanically-minded trait did not pass down in my genes.

Much of what my father did for a living rotated around his ability to fix things.

During his life, he worked for several companies fixing everything from Singer sewing machines to Royal typewriters. The job he retired from spoke highly of his abilities to adapt to new technologies. He was responsible for keeping the computers at the IRS running. I’m not talking about these little personal computers. I’m talking about when super computers ruled the world, and they took up the space of nearly a football field.

When he passed years ago, many of his tools came to me. Some are still packed away as he left them. Many of the tools I have no idea for what they could be used. I keep them simply because they were his.

More and more, I find myself doing various jobs around the house. While I am still not mechanically inclined, with patience I usually manage to figure out how to fix whatever it is. Many times I find myself looking through his tool bag for tools that might be put to use in my objective.

My father Floyd Franks died in August 1987 and one year later in August 1988, God sent another fatherly figure into my life, a television icon to all the world, but to me someone who in many ways picked up sharing fatherly advice in my life. One day, the late Carroll O’Connor and I were standing in a pawn shop set on “In the Heat of the Night” looking into a case of tools and knives. We talked about how you can often judge the character of a man by how he cares for his tools.

If he has respect for them, that will be reflected in his life. My Dad took care of his tools and he shared that respect with me.

Today we often depend upon others to fix things we cannot. Oftentimes this tendency carries over into other aspects of our lives as we look to others to fix things which are broken.

Patience and respect will lead you to solutions that can solve many problems.

The tools to fix them are often just inside your own tool bag; you just need to take the time to look.

These are lessons, we also share with Pearl and Floyd Franks Scholars as they embark on their lives continuing the traditional music of Appalachia. Learn more about how you can help make a difference in the lives of our scholars at www.shareamericafoundation.org.

A tool bag full of answers

/in /by

With my nose pressed against the window, I anxiously watched for the arrival of my father from work. With him he would often carry a large, black leather tool bag which, for a little boy like me, held a world of adventure.

After dinner, Dad would spend time at the kitchen table working on various fix-it projects.

I would walk by the table where he was working on some gismo. It is amazing how many little parts would be meticulously set out where they could be cleaned, re-worked and replaced. Every tool had it’s purpose.

“Can I help you daddy?”

“Yes, son. Get me my pliers out of my tool bag,” he said.

I would search through the bag to find the pliers. With each odd looking tool I would say, “Daddy, what do you do with this?” He would tell me, even though he knew I would ask again the next time. Finally, I would find the tool he asked for and hand them over.

He would say, “Just in time.” He would do some little something with it and then set it neatly with the other tools.

Thinking back, he probably did not need those pliers, but he found a use for them anyway just so I could say I helped him fix whatever it was.

Usually as he was nearing the end of his project, I’d run in and ask, “Dad when will you be done?”

He’d say, “Soon son, soon. When I get these tools cleaned up.”

My father was a man of tools, and with them he accomplished great things. The tool bag to him was like a doctor’s stethoscope or a preacher’s bible — it helped to solve the mysteries in his life.

He had the ability to fix almost anything. I am sad to say the mechanically-minded trait did not pass down in my genes.

Much of what my father did for a living rotated around his ability to fix things.

During his life, he worked for several companies fixing everything from Singer sewing machines to Royal typewriters. The job he retired from spoke highly of his abilities to adapt to new technologies. He was responsible for keeping the computers at the IRS running. I’m not talking about these little personal computers. I’m talking about when super computers ruled the world, and they took up the space of nearly a football field.

When he passed years ago, many of his tools came to me. Some are still packed away as he left them. Many of the tools I have no idea for what they could be used. I keep them simply because they were his.

More and more, I find myself doing various jobs around the house. While I am still not mechanically inclined, with patience I usually manage to figure out how to fix whatever it is. Many times I find myself looking through his tool bag for tools that might be put to use in my objective.

My father Floyd Franks died in August 1987 and one year later in August 1988, God sent another fatherly figure into my life, a television icon to all the world, but to me someone who in many ways picked up sharing fatherly advice in my life. One day, the late Carroll O’Connor and I were standing in a pawn shop set on “In the Heat of the Night” looking into a case of tools and knives. We talked about how you can often judge the character of a man by how he cares for his tools.

If he has respect for them, that will be reflected in his life. My Dad took care of his tools and he shared that respect with me.

Today we often depend upon others to fix things we cannot. Oftentimes this tendency carries over into other aspects of our lives as we look to others to fix things which are broken.

Patience and respect will lead you to solutions that can solve many problems.

The tools to fix them are often just inside your own tool bag; you just need to take the time to look.

These are lessons, we also share with Pearl and Floyd Franks Scholars as they embark on their lives continuing the traditional music of Appalachia. Learn more about how you can help make a difference in the lives of our scholars at www.shareamericafoundation.org.