Posts

Lessons from a Lost Pocketknife

/in /by

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.

A breakfast that lingers

/in /by

As Mother’s Day morning drew near, I dreamed I stood over the stove in my childhood kitchen, frying pan in hand, setting it on the glowing red burner. Bacon sizzled, filling the air with its familiar aroma, while eggs waited in a bowl for a cheese omelet. Slices of Spam—a lunch or dinner staple from my youth—sat ready, perhaps a quirky twist of memory blending meals across time. I rarely eat breakfast, usually skipping it, but in my dream, I was stacking tasks like a seasoned cook: frying bacon, prepping Spam, whisking eggs. My mother sat in her favorite chair by the kitchen table, watching me work, our conversation as warm as the stove. I didn’t see biscuits, but I imagined them baking just inside the brown oven door below.

That vivid dream stirred memories of Saturday mornings long ago, when the smell of bacon frying would coax me from sleep. Our small kitchen buzzed with activity as my parents worked side by side. Dad, the omelet master, grated cheese and cracked eggs, while Mom patted out fresh biscuits, her hands dusted with flour. Bacon and sausage crackled in the skillet, and the oven warmed with the promise of golden biscuits. That cramped space never bothered them—they seemed to cherish it, perhaps recalling leaner times with even less.

Pearl and Floyd Franks

When the feast was ready, the table groaned under plates of cheese omelets, crispy bacon, sausage, and steaming biscuits nestled in a bread basket. My brother and I, still in pajamas and robes, stumbled in, bleary-eyed but eager. We’d bow our heads to thank the Lord, then serving plates would fly as the food disappeared. Homemade apple butter, a sweet Southern staple, was slathered generously on those biscuits. As we ate, we talked—about the day ahead, weekend plans, or some milestone from the week. Those breakfasts were more than meals; they were where love and laughter solidified our family’s bond.

Why, in my dream, was I the one cooking, Spam sneaking into the breakfast lineup? Perhaps I was stepping into my parents’ roles, honoring the care they poured into every dish. My mother’s been gone 19 years, but in that dream, we shared a moment across the veil, her presence as real as the sizzle in the pan. When I woke, I got up, fried some bacon, and made a sandwich—a simple act I hadn’t done in years, but one that felt like a quiet tribute.

As this next Saturday rolls around, gather your family for a meal or a memory, whether it’s bacon and biscuits or even Spam. Those moments, steeped in love, might linger in your heart long beyond the years.