I saw a jackknife on social media this week, and that’s all it took. Funny how something so small could whisk me back to the 1970s. And there I stood again—just another kid in the crowd—watching too.
“Now look at this,” Dad said in his thick Norwegian accent. “I can swallow a knife and bring it back up.”
He sat in the middle of the gathering, children circling his chair. He waved his small pocketknife around for the group to see. Cupping it in two hands so it was no longer visible, he tipped back his head and raised his hands to his mouth in a showy display. The knife dropped to the floor near his foot. “Oopsy daisy,” he said and snatched it up, tucking it behind his bent knee. He resumed the cupped-hands position, the kids never the wiser for the part his knee played in the illusion. “Let’s try this again.” He lifted his hands to his mouth once more, made a gulping sound, and flashed his open and empty palms for all to see. “All gone.” He shot a toothy smile at his audience.
A kid hollered, “Bring it back up!” and Dad was happy to oblige. He made all the contortions necessary to show he was working the object back up his throat. He leaned over his lap and gagged at the same moment he released his bent knee, and the pocketknife fell to the ground. The kids gasped and giggled. He scooped up the knife, swiped it across a nearby kid’s shirt to clean it off, and returned it to his pocket.
“Now don’t try this at home, okay?” he said, doling out the safety advisory that probably should have come at the beginning.
Dad kept a rubber coin pouch, filled with quarters, in his pocket. He would place one coin over a closed eye, rub it into his head, and make it come out the back of his neck. He plucked quarters from kids’ ears, made coins jump from one of his hands to the other, and changed the color of pocketknives with the flick of his wrist. I witnessed his impromptu magic shows countless times as a kid, but I could never unravel all the mysteries. How did he do it?
Life got fancier in the 1980s when Dad took his show on the road. By show, I mean he performed an hour’s worth of bigger tricks to wider audiences—schools, churches, community centers—and by road, I mean he traveled to a handful of neighboring towns to deliver the fun. And I sat in the bleachers or pews or folding chairs to witness the same tricks over and over, ever amused by his audiences’ reactions.
Mom and Dad discussed what to label his form of entertainment. It better not be called magic because that implied he dabbled in the dark arts. No, it should be referred to as illusion, and if Dad showcased his talents to congregations, he should call it gospel illusion, weaving Bible stories in with his sleight of hand to create a nifty object lesson one wouldn't soon forget.
“See this pitcher?” Dad held up his trick silver water vessel for the whole church’s viewing. “My great-great-grandfather gave it to my great-grandfather. My great-grandfather gave it to my grandfather. My grandfather gave it to my father. And my father sold it to me.”
He told the story of Elijah and the Widow of Zarephath—how the drought in the land drove the prophet to stay in the little town with the widow and her son.
“‘Would you bring me a little water in a jar, so I may have a drink? And bring me a piece of bread too?’ Elijah asked. But the woman said, ‘I only have a handful of flour in a jar and a little olive oil in a jug. I'm gathering some sticks to make a meal for my son and me to eat—and then we'll die.’ Elijah comforted her. ‘Don't be afraid. Do as you said and make the meal and make me a small loaf too because God says the jar of flour will not be used up and the jug of oil will not run out until He sends rain on the land again.’”
“The widow did just as Elijah said,” Dad said, pouring the water from the silver pitcher into a bowl until it was gone. He righted it. “And the next day and the next day and the next week,” and he emptied his magic pitcher again, “and the next week and the next week and the next month,” and he once again poured all the liquid from the container. “And the oil never ran out.”
Kids in the audience tapped their parents’ arms. “How did he do it?” they whispered. But Dad had moved on to the lesson of the story.
“And God will take care of you too,” he said.
The fun was endless, watching Dad’s tricks: the sword through a volunteer’s neck, the lengthening ropes, the changing colors of metal rabbits, and more. And Dad’s delivery was everything; his jokes were hokey, his timing clunky, and his level of amusement likely topped ours. We have the DVD to prove it, in case you were wondering.
I think of Dad now, and I imagine he entertains the angels with his brand of smalltown showmanship. Only God knows what all goes on up there. But there’s laughing. I'm sure of that part.
