Blade

This was my grandfather's penknife. It is old and broken now, but there was a time when that small blade was sharpened to a fine point. He used it for delicate operations. I learned not to complain about prickles in my feet when he was about. It wasn't that my mother was any more gentle with her needle. She wasn't. But it was the thought of the blade that scared me.

One day when I was about four years old I was caught short while out in the paddock. A flat scotch thistle the size of a dinner plate was nearby. I thought what fun it would be to pee on it, but as I straddled it I lost my balance and sat down. With a burning backside I bellowed my way back to the house. My grandfather was there. I'll never forget the terror of lying belly down across his lap as he plied the knife.