Given a choice between carrying only my cellphone or my pocketknife, I’ll take my knife every time. No joke. It has two simple blades. I keep the large one sharp, and long ago let the small one go dull. Big and small, sharp and dull. One blade cuts twine, opens over-packaged products, cuts into the seams of troublesome mail. It is often sharper than any kitchen knife, and so I fillet with it at the grill, trim chicken skin on the coals, peel apples while watching television. The other has a squared-off point, so it can double as a screwdriver in a pinch. I use it for nudging, scraping, prodding, freeing up, prying, and notching. I clean my fingernails with it. Twenty-six years ago, my dad slid that pocketknife to…
