Dribbles and Blots - Tales From The Fountain Pens

From my Journal - 5/25/16

And what tale could it tell, this pen of my father's?
This pen that went to war
And came home safely,
Could it write the things
Pop would rather not?
He left ugliness behind
As much as possible
But war marks a person
Whether they fought in it or not
And Pop fought 2 long hard years
In the Pacific
Heat and humidity and unrelenting
Sun
Hard on a mountain-raised man.
Killing and death all around him,
Himself called upon to kill.
My husband went to war as well

On a much smaller scale
In a supporting role,
But still,Separation from loved ones,
Danger, because he was a flyer.
Anytime large, slow aircraft fly in or near
A war zone,
There is danger.

I am amazed at this pen
It's been through so much,
Yet responds well to my hand
Not normal for a fountain pen
They tend to get worn to the owner's
Hand, and don't adapt easily to the way
Another writes.

What would Pop think of the trip Matt and I are embarking on tomorrow? A waste of money? Too dicey leaving the house alone during storm season?  Or FUN- a chance to fly together, a chance to see friends and look at things we find interesting
One long date after 32 years (almost) of marriage - An chance to have fun together.

5/27/16

Weary
But not sleepy.
So full of joy
 For seeing friends and renewing
Aquaintences
Also apprehensive
About things coming up
Trying hard not to worry
Letting God take care of it
But I'm only human.
Uncertainty sticks its head up
 and scowls at me
Sometimes.


Rain
Loud
Dripping
Slapping pavement
Splashing down the sidewalk
Soaking the weary stragglers
Homeward bound from
Their day of revels.


6/6/16

Sometimes having a body
Is a pain
Literally.
Your mind is trapped-
Chained to the demands
Of a pile of biology.
Sometimes a body
Is powerful
Stretching
Running
Dancing
Loving
Alive
Giving a glorious feeling of freedom
 But more often as I age
It is a limitation,
A place where my mind is stuck
Captive to its pains and whims.


This pen has not lived much,  It has been in a cup on my desk most of its life.  None of my own pens has had the adventures Pop's pen has had,  But they keep it company in the "Little joys of teaching" mug on my desk.
And perhaps
In the wee small hours,
When the house is sleeping,
It shares those stories
With the young pens gathered around.
This one is sleek, silver, and slim -
A very lady like fountain pen

This pen is more substantial,
A deep cobalt blue barrel and cap with silver fittings
Could be considered rather masculine,, I suppose
But I like it.  It makes it easier to write boldly.
Though tonight, my writing is awful due to itchy burning eyes and a sneezy, sometimes congested nose.

I know there are others out there that share my odd fascination with antiquated writing implements like fountain pens -
I have several, and these few are very balky and temperamental.  There are a few like Pop's old Parker that should be balky, but work like a dream.
Then there are these that Matt made for me - and they are so very temperamental.
The worst, though, are the two most expensive Waterman pens I own.  I didn't even get them out tonight to try to coax them into writing.  Didn't feel up to the fight.
All the pens Matt made for me will write pretty well once properly started, but some are scratchy.  Some flow surprisingly smoothly over the paper.
I have not done much inspired composition with any of the fountain pens.
They require attention and are a mechanical distraction when the muse is adamant about being heard.
Still, sometimes I like to get them out, and gather them around, make sure they are comfortable,
and listen to see if they have any stories for me.

That's about all from my alternately drippy and stuffy, sneezy and bubbly self tonight.

Fountain Pens in the Little Joys of Teaching mug.