An Apple A Day

A true story about my father, Billy Jack Voelkle (1922-1991)


"Can I borrow your pocket knife, Jack?"

"Sure." he said, handing over his prized Old Timer, a gift from his own father.

Good old Edward, an otherwise likable fellow, unsnapped the long blade and proceeded to cut up his daily after lunch apple. Big and juicy, the sticky juice ran between the scales of the Old Timer and filled it like a cattle trough.

"Thanks," Ed said politely, just like every day, and said "here!" snapping the blade closed and handing it dripping back to my Father.

When Ed left, Dad washed off his prized knife, dried it carefully, put a drop of oil on one corner of his handerchief, wiped the Old Timer carefully, stropped it on a piece of cardboard and returned it carefully to his right front pocket.

Sitting next to him every day, silent witness to Ed's thoughtless ritual, Dad's good hunting buddy Inke finally said,

"Hey, Jack — how come you never say a word to that thoughtless S-O-B ?"

"Maybe he'll learn, or get his own knife someday. It's not a big deal." Jack replied.

It was something like this that set my Dad to thinking. He had always taught me that every man had a spark of genius somewhere, and if I shut up and observe that I could learn something from every man I met.

Now my old man was going to become the teacher — Inke said so out loud with certainty to the other guys, emphasizing the prediction with a practiced nod and twinkle in his eye. Dad just smiled. He never let one of Inke's predictions fall hollow. That sealed it. Action time.

The next day Inke had assembled a small crowd for lunch. They all sat around the loading dock trying to look casual, but Inke had told everyone that he knew Dad had a good one planned. My old man took his Old Timer out of his pocket, held it aloft and turned slowly to look each of his dozen buddies in the eye, smiling just a bit, and replaced the knife in his right front pocket, giving it a little pat.

He ate my Mom's specialty — a hard salami sandwich, sliced by hand from a country log of peppercorn filled Germanic delight. Over-shingled with thick slices of rat trap cheddar cheese from a giant 150 pound round sitting on the counter at Jack Sam's Grocery Store. Jack, a Chinese man from some lost city deep in the heart of China near Mongolia, knew our family well. He thought it was auspicious his chosen American name was Jack, like my old man. By now even he was in on the impending humor. Did I forget the great rippling waves of yellow mustard? Mom never did.

Lunch seemed to take forever. The suspense was palpable. A couple of minutes before Ed showed up to borrow the Old Timer, my Dad clears his throat. Everyone cranes forward to see. Now he does something he'd never done before at work...

He raises his left foot up onto the edge of the dock where he and Inke always sat. Unties his shoe with flourish, and when he sees Ed leave the little office shack across the parking lot, 120 feet away, he slips off his sock and lays it over his shoe on the dock.

"One thousand nine, one thousand ten ..." he slips the Old Timer out of his pocket, opens it with a snick, goes into slow motion a second as the crowd falls silent, and as Ed looks up from thirty feet away, Dad starts to use the Old Timer to clean under his toenails, making certain to wipe the knife off on his pants cuff, snap it shut and put it back in his pocket in one quick, smooth gesture.

He's slipping on his sock as Ed comes to a creaky halt in front him, holding his daily apple in one hand, holding the other hand out like normal, but then Ed says,

"Jack !! Do you do THAT often ... uh ... clean your toenails??"

"Every day, Ed. Sorry — I was a little late finishing lunch today ..." and at the same time he pulls his treasured Old Timer from his pocket and holds it out over Ed's extended hand ...

"Gee, you know Jack, I always wanted a pocket knife like yours ..." and he takes it, looks at the nameplate, saying "Old Timer" slowly, and hands it back to my Dad. Ed looks a little green around the gills and scurries back across the parking lot to the little engineering shack.

My old man, his good hunting buddy Inke, and the other guys all broke out laughing. The next day Ed proudly showed off his new shinyOld Timer, cuts up his apple with a proud flourish, and in one little instant looks at the dripping knife, looks at Dad and his good hunting buddy Inke, puts the new dripping Old Timer in his front pocket and smiles sheepishly, hustling back to the little engineering shack across the parking lot. Class dismissed.