No knife is more special to me than my first* – my Leatherman Charge TTI. As Father’s Day approaches, I’m reminded of this special tool, the adventures I’ve had with it, and most importantly, how it has become, for me, a symbol of my father’s love. Today, I’m going to tell that story.
Before we get started, I’d like explain that asterisk in the previous paragraph. When I turned 8, I was given a small pocket knife. A few days later, my older brother asked if he could borrow it for scout camp, and then he lost it. A little over a year later, I got my Leatherman, and I still have it. As far as I’m concerned, it’s my first knife.
With that out of the way, it’s story time.
My Brother’s Birthday
In November of 2007, my family celebrated my brother’s birthday. When it came time to give presents, my dad gave him the now retired Charge XTI. When my brother pulled it out, turned green with envy. I desperately didn’t want to ruin my brother’s birthday, so I ran and hid in the basement.
Not long after, my father came looking for me and found me crying quietly in a corner.
“What’s wrong, George?” he asked.
“I’m sorry,” I sobbed. “That’s just a really cool knife, and I’m jealous.”
He sat down, put his arm around me, and told me even though my brother got such a special gift, he still loved me. This didn’t temper my jealousy, but I was comforted enough to pull myself together and go have cake and ice cream with the rest of my family.
Christmas
A month later, Christmas came. There was a box under the tree with my name on it, and inside it I found the newly released Leatherman Charge TTI. My mind immediately filled with the crazy adventures I wanted to take that tool on, and I was smiling so big it hurt.
I didn’t know it at the time, but my father had given me the best multitool on the market. It had a razor-sharp blade made of CPM S30V steel, full titanium handle scales, replaceable bits, the whole nine yards. No nine year old, let alone me, is worthy of such a tool, and I’m sure my father knew that, but he gave it to me anyway.
My first chance to use it came when my much-older brother David came home from his in-laws and asked if I wanted to go rabbit hunting with him on New Year’s Day.
Hunting
Bright and early on New Year’s Day, We loaded up in the car drove about an hour out to the West Desert near Tooele, Utah. Once we arrived, David grabbed his shotgun and we started looking. Where I was, who I was with, what we were doing, and what was strapped to my belt all felt like the property of grown men, and I felt lucky to be there.
After an hour or so, we had two rabbits in the bag, and David said the words I’d been longing for him to say: “You got a knife?”
He then showed me how to clean a rabbit and left me to skin them while he went off to hunt more. My brother returned about half an hour later without any more rabbits, and at this point, my hands were COLD. We quickly packed up our game, loaded up in the car, and drove back home.
The Aftermath
When we arrived, I found my father in his happy place – comfortably seated on a recliner, watching college football, holding my mother’s hand.
“How was your first hunting trip, George?” he asked.
“Oh, you should have been there!” I raved. I excitedly told him how much fun it was to stalk the rabbits, chase them down, and most importantly, to use my Leatherman to clean them from full animal into just meat and bones.
“It sounds like you had a good time,” he responded with a smile. “Where’s your knife now?”
I reached for the sheath on my belt, lifted the flap, and felt my stomach drop as my fingers grasped at nothing. I had lost my new Leatherman.
That knife wasn’t a toy – it was a real tool. My father had trusted me to use it responsibly, and I had let him down. I looked up into his face, expecting to see deep disappointment, but I didn’t. He smiled and had his arms oustretched for a hug. That was nice, but even though I felt loved, I still felt humiliated and sad at the loss of my Leatherman.
“David,” my father said. “Where did you go hunting?”
David explained exactly where in the desert we had been, and my father stood up, grabbed his keys, and said “Let’s go get your knife, George.”
He drove me all the way out to Tooele, to the very same gut pile I had left, and to my cold, bloody Leatherman.
What This Meant to Me
My father, Dr. J. Brent Muhlestein, is a cardiologist who has spent his career researching and providing treatment for heart disease, the leading cause of death in America. In my lifetime, he has never taken a sick day because his clinic is just too busy. I know how valuable his days off are, and I know how he likes to spend them: watching football in a comfy chair and holding my mother’s hand.
But even though my father probably didn’t want to, he knew me and loved me enough to see how important that knife was to me, so he gave up a good portion of one of his precious few days off to help me find it.
The Makings of a Great Father
That Leatherman has since been a trusted companion on trips, campouts, and more. Although it’s still a capable tool and has eight years left on its warranty, I’ve retired it from service because I have too many valuable memories attached to it. But my most fond memory of this tool is my father proving on that cold New Year’s Day that he loves me more than his time off, more than college football, and more than his comfy chair. To me, that’s the mark of a great father – when your children know without any doubt how much you love them.
