Fountain Pens and a Cold War Childhood
Gary W. Thorburn
I placed a small order for some vintage"dip pens" a while ago. One of those moments on the internet when curiosity turns to exploration, exploration produces yearning, and yearning gives way to a purchase. When the package arrived, opening it brought back memories, the way a long forgotten scent can stop us in our tracks, arrest us in a wistful pause, and awaken ambiguous appetites from the past.
It's late October, 1962 at the Brown School, Somerville Massachusetts. I've proudly been a Third Grader for well over a month. First and second graders had to write with a pencil. But in 3rd grade, we learned to write with a pen -- a dip pen. I realize now that this was a rather archaic city school system. Sputnik had awakened America's technological endeavors, the Cuban missle crisis dominated the news, and daily sonic booms rattled the windows of my old school promising to sweep in a bright new world. But at the Brown school, wrought iron desks with inkwells stayed firmly rooted to the scuffed and ancient floor. But destiny called any young soul resonating with those booms and caught up in the spirit of the times. So even as even a child, I did my part to keep the free world free.
One day, at the height of the cold war, Old Miss Kelly sent me on an mission. Down to the basement; following the "fallout shelter" signs to where the school supplies were kept. In the midday school silence, I trod down two wooden flights alone. The janitor looked up from his paper, and saw urgency in my eyes. I relayed my mission: to fetch some ink. He returned a worried expression, I figured it was those Soviet missles. But it wasn't the bomb he feared might be dropped. I followed his eyes to a large glass jug of blue-black, destined for my grip. The ink stroked and adhered to the glass, and had left an iridescent crust around the hard rubber stopper which held back the fluid. It was impossible to tell just how full it was. I squared my shoulders, looked him in the eye, and thrust my little sweaty fingers into the handle ring like a man. Creative juices were passed to a new generation, and up the polished staircase I returned.
Pen lovers include fine calligraphers, and passionate collectors. But I suspect many Real Pen users are aging boomer males, more intrigued by cryptography than calligraphy; more likely to deal in faxes than flourishes. We don't want our nibs too flexible. What is the ether that enters our nostrils, and carries the excitement of these old objects into the veins of the likes of us? What secrets are hidden in our hearts about these arcane tools we treasure, pocket proudly, and brandish at crucial moments? Did Freud recognize pseudo-phallic images in a pen? Would Alfred Adler or Robert Bly see in that nib a wannabe warrior's bayonet?
For me a Real Pen recalls the scents of those early bright school days, and all they portended about growing up. The back-to-school smell of Miss Kelly's Red English polish, pencil shavings, pungent ink, and international intrigue. The crisp electric air of a new school year. Memories of a hunger to be grown up. Could that be Karen MacLeod there in the front row? She looked so much older after the long summer.
Saturdays at home, Mom could tell that I was growing up. Before lunch she'd pop into my room where I was hard at work with my chemistry set. "Hotdog for lunch OK?" The chemistry set came from Grandma's, it had been Dad's, and it was now entrusted to me. The thick stained instruction book showed dismal line drawings of gassed trenches from the Great War, and discussed the chemistry of mustard gas. In Mom's face was a gentle apprehension as I mixed up a blue ferrocyanide brew which I called Ink. From my pocket came an old pen found in a shoebox in the bottom of a closet. I thrust it deeply into the test tube, prepared my message, and neatly folded and delivered it. A broad gloppy azure script replied, "Hotdog with mustard, please."
Pen Men have always lived dangerously, and respected the power in their tools. Today, on my desk, an ink bottle stands, its rim round open lips to a deep pool of delights. A sleek enameled holder with a ready nib rests lightly on the bottle's groove. A pleasure prepared and waiting to be savored. Or perhaps an invitation to explore an ancient landscape: The ink bottle a wild space, perhaps the last unfenced chasm in North America; and a nib, civilization's last unregistered sharp object. Dens and desks of explorers still harbor these tools, as we scoff the dreary cautionary warnings our welfare state drapes across every tantalizing detour on life's road.
But the big world beckons, drawing us away from childhood's wistful pleasures. With our Pens we seek fulfilment in the world, where pragmatic writing tools and Palm Pilots mock our devotion to pen and ink. How do we carry with us that rich anticipation of pen poised over ink which so enthralls?
By resignation or choice, we must carry our pens with us. Some may think it a compromise, but a fully satisfying answer to this problem exists, of course, the fountain pen. So carefully cradled in the folds of pressed white cloth over our hearts rest new and vintage works of art, playful, rich and delightful, yet heavy with bladders which could release heaven-knows-what at any time. Instrument of pleasure and reservoir of risk, Gold and Ink, fluid chemistry of Aphrodite ensconced in Vulcan's rare metals: an unstable equilibrium clinging to the edge of our pockets; an ecstatic but temperamental union whose fruit is true creativity.
Some will admire us on the street or across the conference room, and lower their eyes as they quietly recognize what rides in our pockets. But most will stare past us unaware, mindlessly clicking a cheap ball point, it's barrel advertising somebody else's dream.
© Gary W. Thorburn
Maynard, Massachusetts