Bushido Blade

This morning, my boss and I went to visit a local nursing home. We have asked all of the retirement communities in the area if they could spare any scraps, ribbons or craft items that we can use at an upcoming Festival of the Arts. The scraps serve a dual educational purpose; to teach kids the joys of creation and recycling.

Terrace House was one of the first to agree and we loaded into our van, or what my boss has affectionately dubbed the brown beast, and arrived at the quaint facility complete with classical music playing in the lobby, a crystal-chandeliered dinning room and signs posted outside warning drivers to watch for strolling residents (an octogenarian was in fact meandering dangerously when we arrived). Our contact was a sprite, older woman with short gray hair. She greeted us energetically, pumped our hands with surprising strength and led us up to the second floor, past the library that resembled a used book store and into a room with a large table and a closet. She threw open the closet door to reveal shelves of boxes brimming with brightly colored objects and instructed us to take whatever we liked. She pulled down several boxes to show us what was inside and then grabbed a little-red riding hood basket with a red bandanna attached to the side. A weathered, wooden handle peeked out of the clutter and she noticed our attention drawn to the random and seemingly misplaced object.

"Oh yeah, this thing." She gripped the handle and yanked it out, revealing a 2-foot blade sheathed in faded, green canvas. She pulled the bland out of its covering and a sharp, rust-colored metal weapon stood before us. It looked well used. She turned it in her hand for a few seconds, examining each side and then returned it to its home. "Yeah, this horrible thing belonged to a resident. He pulled it off a dead Japanese in World War II. He died a couple years ago and his family didn't even come to the funeral so of course no one claimed it. I haven't been sure what to do it with." And with that she set it nonchalantly on the table and began rummaging through fabrics and feathers and chattered on about what we could take.

"Is that really from World War II?" I asked incredulously, unable to take my eyes away from the relic. My imagination ran wild as I pictured a young soldier hastily pulling it off a dead man he had just shot, bullets raining overhead as he escaped into the jungle at the sound of explosions. (My imagination may have been combining Vietnam and World War II).

"Oh yeah, definitely. It's a weird thing to have around and frankly creeps me out just thinking about it."

However, my sweet, Christian boss became extremely excited about the artifact and explained that her brother was obsessed with World War II and had attended West Point and majored in history. My boss marveled at how much he would love an object like that knife.

"Well take it then, I don't want it. I'll be glad to get it off my hands." My boss looked at her, eyes large and questioning. "Really?" The old woman nodded and my boss shoved the knife back into the basket we would be returning with, a large girlish grin remaining on her face. She then proceeded to cover the knife with sparkles, ribbons and kids items and babbled excitedly about what an amazing Christmas present it would make.