The Elusive Henckels

[Obie]

Gentlemen,



The Henckels lay in its coffin like an ancient relic from the palace of Sargon II in Khorsabad.

It was locked in a display cabinet in a small Minnesota town — and the attendee could not find the key.

What’s this? How could it be? A key was a lock’s mate: like 1 and 2, husband and wife, razor and strop. One without the other was incomplete.

No, the key to the cabinet had been there a few days ago. Today it was not. The attendee looked everywhere, opening and closing drawers, digging into envelops, jiggling sets of keys. No, no sign. Was I watching a surreal movie of myself?

This could not be happening. But it was. My Henckels lay asleep for who knows how many years and I could almost touch it. Almost.

Outside the small town antique shop, the Minnesota deep freeze stood at 20 degrees below zero. Yet it felt like 50, 60, 70 below.

Which was the least of my problems. I wanted my Henckels and she lay locked in the cabinet and nobody knew where the bloody key was. Oh, fine, how illuminating. That the coffin appeared to be nice and clean, almost new, somehow gave me the impression the razor’s condition would reflect it. I could have been wrong, but a sweet whisper in my ear promised otherwise.

The razor was locked in the display cabinet and the key was nowhere to be found. It was that simple. My heart sank. I did not own a Henckels. I would have liked one — that one, which lay locked in the display cabinet, to which no key was to be found.

The antique shop attendee telephoned the owner, who lived some miles away, and the conversation led to another excavation in search of the elusive key to the display cabinet that buried my Henckels. Oh, there were plenty of keys, big and small, probably to every display cabinet except the one with my Henckels in it.

My wife, daughter and I finally left the store in utter disappointment. Two days later, after my wife and I returned to Wisconsin from the visit with our daughter, I telephoned the antique shop. No answer. I telephoned the next day. No answer. I telephoned the third day and the owner answered. They had been closed because of a blasted snowstorm.

Her name was Mary and she turned out to be one of the sweetest people with whom I have spoken on the telephone. Minnesotans are the nicest people — “Minnesota Nice.” She remembered me, and asked me to call back in a week to see if the key was found, and if still missing, her husband would cut off the lock on the display cabinet door. I called back. The key was found buried in her son’s car, which had been in an accident a few days before. So finally we had the key to the display cabinet that held my Henckels.

I asked her to take the razor out, open it carefully, and we proceeded to examine it together methodically. Of course she knew nothing about razors. I explained about blades that were measured in eighths. From what she could determine, my Henckels had a 5/8” blade. She saw no rust, but there were some dark spots on the blade. I assured her that was common with most of these buried old razors.

I asked her to look for chips in the blade, little pitting, and serration on the cutting edge. There were none from what she could determine. The Handle looked good, black, without cracks or scratches. “The razor looks to be in a pretty shape,” she said. I asked if she saw any markings on the razor, which would be imprinted on the shank, the area between the handle and the blade. She hesitated a moment, as she tried to make out the writing, and read it to me.

I bought the razor, without having seen it, and Mary shipped it that afternoon, yesterday, promising me delivery in couple days. I can’t wait. I telephoned Lynn, excited with the news, and he noted that if the razor was in good shape, I had made a great find.

I know I have, because the sweet whisper in my ear tells me so.

Gentlemen, my razor is a “Red Injun” No. 101.

Regards,

Obie