The year I was eight

My family lived in a small cottage

On an island of the St. Lawrence River,

Near Kingston on Lake Ontario.

Our new home was under construction

In a government housing project:

'Building for the Boys'.

For war veterans, like my Daddy.

 

The island was connected to the mainland

With a long, narrow causeway,

The waters on both sides full of lilies.

I walked two miles on the busy highway

To reach a tiny, rural school.

In the mornings I hurried.

In the afternoons I dawdled.

The flowers were just out of reach

But I could 'talk' to them.

I made sure nobody could hear me.

 

There were few resident children.

But I do remember four lads,

Mid-teens, maybe younger.

They were 'big kids'.

The single tourist shop closed in September.

It had a front platform with wide, wooden steps,

An ideal 'meeting place' after school and on weekends.

The weathered planks were perfect for 'JACK KNIFE-ING'.

All the boys carried jack knives.

Not for killing! For building!

Be prepared! was the postwar message.

Daddy carried one for years, next to his wallet.

 

But anything can become a 'toy'.

The lads collected on the store steps

And played 'Jack Knives',

Opening out the blades

And flipping the knives into the air.

The goal was height, speed and rotation

As the knife spun upwards, pointed down

And dropped, embedding its biggest tip

Deep into the wooden plank

So that the knife stayed straight up

Quivering with power.

It was very competitive.

 

So, I would linger and watch, and admire.

Until one day, a boy said, laughing, 'Do you want to try?'

'OH, YES!'

And all the lads smirked but I didn't care.

As it turned out, I had a certain mathematical skill

In assessing the weight of the knife,

Its trajectory, its height, and the thrust of the throw.

I wasn't just good, I was ACE!

 

Suddenly, I had friends.

Until, one Saturday my mother found out.

'Do you know where your daughter is?'

Which she didn't.

I wasn't hiding anything; I just didn't think of it.

So she came looking and that was that.

'GIRLS don't play ALONE with a GROUP OF BOYS

And GIRLS don't play with JACK KNIVES!'

I had never seen her so upset

And I felt really bad.

 

I don't think I ever flipped another pocket knife

In my whole life.

But I sure enjoyed that group of lads.

And the challenge.

I never met another girl who had even tried.

If I even broached the subject eyebrows flew up.

I learned not to ask.

Cynthia Buell Thomas, March, 2020