Dad peeled with an incredibly thin, old and worn-out knife. I asked him about the knife, but he didn’t hear me. He is somewhat deaf, or was perhaps too engrossed. In such cases, mother takes over the conversation. She likes to do that… Talking never tires her out!

“Yes, boy, now that’s the famous mill knife that always stays razor sharp. It even gets sharper if you peel a lot with it. Oh well, you can’t buy knives like that in Canada, of course. But what can you get in Canada, right? Look at those new Canadian trousers of yours. There is no crease in them anymore. A pair of baggy trousers it is! Well, then the trousers from the Groninger Clothing Group. Pure worsted yarn!”

She wanted to go on like this for a while, but it had started with me about the knife, not my trousers. I let her go on for a while, because even now, in middle age, I was still afraid to interrupt her. You simply didn’t do that before… Imagine if she pulled out the mat beater!

Mother ended her argument by saying that the mill-knife was only sold on the Grote Markt, you couldn’t get it in any shop. And I could find the merchant just in front of the town hall, and if I was quick, I could just about catch Line 5, and haggle well mien jong, and here’s a ten-ride ticket, that’s so easy these days, you can get anywhere with it. Father sat quietly laughing over the potatoes…He was always so amused when mother went off like this. He didn’t say much himself… didn’t need to say much either!

So, I bought a nice mill knife on the Grote Markt. Of course, I couldn’t resist going to the Vismarkt for a gourmet bite…and an ice cream…and a croquette. Those are the kind of things you miss in Canada.

When we returned to Canada, my wife was delighted by the peeling qualities of the grinder knife… never had she peeled so thinly!

But like my parents’ knife, it did start rusting soon. The wooden handle also soon started to look greasy. It was not a knife that adorned a spoon tray, and there were years when my wife tried to hide it away, but I always managed to prevent that. You get so attached to some things. There was no better knife to cut open envelopes with…There was no better knife to scratch my pipe clean. Mother was right: the knife got sharper and sharper!

We were again allowed to give out and receive gifts at Christmas. For instance, we received a very luxurious gift from our son who lives in Grand Rapids: a set of knives so beautiful that my wife gave a cry of delight. Oh boy, what did we deserve that for, she said, and gave him a hearty grab. There was a fine paring knife with that set of knives. Bare steel and a plastic handle. “Good,” my wife said, “now that mill knife can go.” She put her money where her mouth was, throwing the thing into the plastic bag behind the kitchen sink door. When she wasn’t looking for a moment, I quickly took the thing out. It moved to my office.

Now we have another kid at home. I think he’s sixteen or seventeen. You sometimes get confused when you have to remember eight birthdays. They hang in the toilet anyway, my wife then says, but somehow, I can never remember even that. Maybe somewhere there is a limit to what a person can decorate? Just saying…

That kid of ours is suddenly doing woodcarving. He has had a whole shebang of other hobbies, but these days it’s woodcarving. He makes a beautiful boat out of softwood and uses my mill knife repeatedly. I do find this annoying, but it has been pointed out to me by someone that sonlief is developing his personality and in that process, hobbies play a big role. It was also pointed out, that woodcarving is qualitatively far superior to scratching a pipe clean.

I now often have to go to the basement to look for my knife in the clutter on his worktable. I used to say it very sweetly: boy, when you’re done with the knife now, just bring it back upstairs to put it on my desk, yes?  Does the post come the next morning…no knife to open the envelopes. Does my pipe get clogged, and quite delighted I run downstairs, very much in my delight because my boy has such a fine hobby and is busy forming his personality. That a rusty old mill knife from the Grote Markt in Groningen can contribute to that…well, one can be justifiably grateful for that, can’t one? 

I got clean enough of it. I hid the knife behind my Short Statements. He found it and hid it under his mattress. After three hours of searching, I found it and put it behind the thick Jerusalem Bible, but even there it was not safe.

And my wife (his mother) kept saying, “Come on, guys, don’t be so sulky with each other! It’s only a knife, isn’t it?” Almost father and son looked at each other understandingly. That she didn’t understand that now …the knife was a necessity of life for us! We had both gotten it so sweet…

Our youngest is an enterprising young man. For a few months now, he had been brooding…while cutting his boat with my knife. He wanted to visit Grandpa and Grandma in Holland in the summer holidays. And then also take a trip through Europe. I told him this continent was quite big, but that didn’t matter, he said worldly wise. With a Euro pass of the Dutch Railways, you could get everywhere cheaply. He slept by the side of the road in his nylon tent. He had also already bought a dagger to peel potatoes on the side of the road and deal with thieves…that wouldn’t go down too well with the milling knife…it didn’t pierce far enough, he thought!

He went into maths and shook his head regretfully. No, not this summer, but next summer he was sure to go. I said to him, “Then you will also have reached the age when we will withdraw our parental authority a bit.”  Then, just like that, the following plan came to mind…!

He came into my office. “Father, may I have the knife for a moment?” Immediately his hand shot out for the thing, but I pinched his wrist. Startled, he looked at me, as that had not happened before. I said sternly, “sit down, young man, I think we should have a proper discussion about this.”  Blood flew to his head, and he looked at me like a sheep who suspects she finally has to go to the butcher.

Slowly, I pulled out $500.00 from my almost worn wallet. “Here,” I said, “with that you can go back and forth to the Netherlands. It might be a bit more expensive, but you’ll have to add that yourself.”  His sleepy eyes turned into those of a newborn calf. Once more I reached into my pocket and came up with $50.00. “What’s that for,” he asked with trembling mouth. “Dutch Railways, return Schiphol-Central Station Groningen, third class,” I said. Then I held out another two-dollar note to him. “And that, my dear wood-cutter, is for a bus ride to the Grote Markt, and Grandma will give you money to buy a mill knife there.” I slipped a sheet of paper around my worktable and drew him out exactly where the merchant would be in the market.

The little fellow almost sobbed with joy and for the first time in seven years I got a kiss from him. I got a little embarrassed and said, ” well, that’s enough, please come home with a knife and not a girl…

Then he said, Dad, can I use the knife for a while? I want to give my boat to Grandpa…