When I was 12 I begged my parents for a 20ga for Christmas. The day came and went with no shotgun. There was a beautiful Scharade lock blade tho. A few days later, while playing with the knife before dinner I put a 6" long, 1" deep slash across my thigh. I showed my mother, who almost fainted, and we headed for the car with a towel to soak up the blood. My father, who was in the barn, came out when he saw us loading into the Pontiac Grand Safari wagon, and asked what was up. Mom said "Tom cut his leg with the new knife!!". My dad's only words were, "Good thing we didn't get him the gun", then headed back to the barn. I felt like one dumb sob but looking back 30+ years! I guess he was right (grin). Two years later there was a Mossberg 500 under the tree. I guess he knew more than I thought he did. Still got the scar in case I think I know it all to remind me I don't.
