My Randall Knife

    My Randall Knife





     There is a song I love by the great Guy Clark called "the Randall knife" that explains a lot about a relationship between sons and fathers. The knife symbolized his father's humanity and when he died the son wanted only one thing from his legacy.  I was there when my Dad spit out the bit but I did not cry or moan in grief like I did when my Mom did the same. The relationships my brother and I  had with my Dad was complicated and far from ideal because he was a great provider but not an ideal role model. It is a huge cliche about how your father gets smarter as you age but in my case it is all about my understanding of his struggles with his role in polite society along with the weakness for gin that demolished part of his family life. My brother has never forgiven him for his abusive reaction to being shackled to respectable behavior that restricted his true self. He was soft in self-control but powerful in the ways of creating an interesting life for everyone around him. He could be elegant but was not educated and he knew the streets enough to keep us clear of that scene. It was not until I was a grown man that he gave me his approval by telling me I was "the pick of the litter." When he grew old, where I am now he began to see his body breaking down and his need to hide his failings unimportant. He opened up some and tried to make up for mistakes he made that left scars. It was not until I got married and produced a grandchild that I was accepted as a son to be pround of in his world. I would have to go on for several hundred pages to descibe the stuff he laid in front of his kids who just thought that was the way everybody lived. Yet, this story is not about his life but his death and legacy. He was secretly delighted that I was willing to travel to Europe alone as a nineteen year old and actually came to the airport the day I left and gave me a Swiss Army knife that was more a good luck token than a weapon for protection. I was horribly hungover and emotional about leaving home alone so when I thanked him I broke up and tears filled my eyes. The next time I showed that much emotion to him was fifteen years later when I was feeling sorry for my own broken heart. I made it to Europe and had my $200 in travellers checks for the month. I brought back $80 but also purchased gifts for my Mom and Dad. On Grafton street in Dublin I searched for and found the legendary Donegal tweed and had an entire bolt of it shipped to South Gate for him. He took it to his tailor and had a fine topcoat made that he only wore on special occasions. It was a rare gift that meant something really deep to him. So, in November of 1992 and he was in an urn  his things were being divided between the four of us. There may have been watches and rings, shoes, hats and mementos for each of us. This is where the song came back to me and especially one part where a verse lines up with the day he died.

My father died when I was 40

And I couldn't find a way to cry

Not because I didn't love him
Not because he didn't try
Well, I'd cried for every lesser thing
Whiskey, pain and beauty
But he deserved a better tear
And I was not quite ready

I confess I claimed some good things and a few mementos like socks, ties and shoes that did not fit. However, when it came to a certain topcoat there could be no doubt where it would hang. Probably the second most precious heirloom was a pin he won for being top salesman at J.M. Taylor Oldsmobile in 1955 that is a rocket 88. It is on the lapel of the topcoat that allowed me to release my grief when I was quite ready.





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