Pocket knife

This week, it's been a year since my grandfather died. I'm still in a bizarre state of denial over it. I was there his last week, I saw him and I know he's gone, but for some reason I don't feel like he's gone. Every time I see a manila envelope in the mailbox, my pulse sorta quickens.

My mom and I were recently remembering the consistent stream of letters he would write. I've been truly horrible at keeping up correspondence in the past few months and have been bent over the old typewriter as of late, trying to start up again. Make my grandpa proud.

I think this photo of the Emerson gang was taken in the late 1930s. 1939? Grandpa Bill is in the front next to his mother, Helen, who looks stunning.

My most cherished grandpa thing is his old pocket knife. It still has some antique crumbs of cheese from a long ago picnic inside. Sort of charming in a way, but I must resist the urge to become sentimental about other folk's dirt.

In classic Emerson fashion, he dremeled his address into the handle and carried it in his pocket as he trekked across the Sahara, went on archeological digs in Crete and hiked up our beloved Mt. Monadnock. It's so freakin dull I'm in constant danger of killing myself every time I try to use it. In the realm of knife fixing uping, I am a total novice. Any advice?