Each holiday dinner in my folks' house is a banquet planned, prepared, and timed to perfection by my mother. My Dad helps out a fair amount, but it is still her production. Everything was perfect this year. I should discuss this more, but what I really want to talk about is her butcher knife.

It's an ordinary butcher knife. About 8" long, wood handle. By modern standards it would not be a high-quality tool, as I have heard the quality knives all have three rivets in the handle, and this has only two. But it was made in a different time, to different standards. This knife was made to last.

As I looked at it in my hands (yes, I actually helped with the dishes once or twice), I was astonished to see how narrow it had become. The blade, which used to be at least an inch wide, is now barely a quarter-inch across. A stiletto dagger.

She keeps her knives sharp, my mother. A lesson learned from her farmer father, whose knives she says were pencil thin when he died.

This knife was a wedding present.

She has been using and sharpening it for 52 years.

Fifty-two years.

And it has served this family, in her hands, for all those years.

Fifty-two Christmas, Thanksgiving and Easter dinners. Over 2700 Sunday dinners. Uncounted roasts, hams and chickens, plus all the vegetables besides.

Fifty-two years.

And it is still sharp. I can attest to that. For some unknown reason, she sets all silverware into the dishwasher with the eating surfaces down, except for the long knives. These she sets in handle first, blade up. So naturally, being unfamiliar with the household's rule (the dishwasher arrived years after I left) I quickly thrust a handful of silverware into the tray, and skewered myself on this antique.

Fifty-two years.

I don't know how many years the knife has left. But I cannot imagine her trying to break in a new one.