Ode to Fountain Pens

                 Ode To Fountain Pens
Foreword.
My friend Lou Mechanic and I got around to discussing fountain pens. We segued on to the subject of my dad’s old Parker pen, which sits in my desk drawer with all the memories still intact.

Said Lou:
          “Yes, those Parker pens! That was the ultimate. Our desks in elementary school still had the wells in them. Those of us who used fountain pens at that time usually brought their own bottles of ink to the classroom in our book bags. (What’s a book bag?!). Those more modern fountains had those inserts in them filled with ink. Our signatures back then looked much fancier when done with fountain pens.”
I agree: scribbling names and notes with a fountain pen is a passion I never could relinquish.

And so, this is dedicated to Lou Mechanic, who inspired me to write this memoir.

 
Fountain Pen Lust and Ink-stained Memories
Why do writers write?  For one thing, we can't help it. The opportunity is always there luring us in. Choose your favorite 'mode of transportation'- pens, pencils, sheets of white paper, or a computer. Deposit me among leather-bound journals and I feel happy and fulfilled. But once you get me started on fountain pens, I practically swoon. Hand over a fountain pen and I have found nirvana.

My pen obsession began as soon as I could hold one in my hands. My father, Benjamin Katz,  and I took weekend walks to the local “candy store” - as it was called - which sold everything that could delight a child's budding curiosity and appetite: a plethora of candy bars and miniature wax Coke bottles filled with sickeningly sweet gooey syrup, stationery, notebooks, and magazines that appealed to every interest. Add to that an array of comic books that occupied an entire wall, and kept kids riveted on Saturday afternoons until we were chased away by Mr. Hyman, telling us to either purchase one or scram.

Then there were the ice cream sundaes topped with hot fudge, whipped cream with the proverbial cherry on the top. I can still visualize the cracked red leather swivel stools that lined the marble counter where I sat, also devouring cherry cokes and the best tuna fish sandwiches of my youth. These were served by a girl named Nan, with strawberry blonde hair and a smile that drew men in. Nan became my role model for all that I aspired to become at a time when I was still rattling around as a gawky adolescent struggling to cultivate an identity. All that being said, my favorite spot was the back of the store where boxes of Esterbrook fountain pens lay in their faux-marble splendor next to bottles of India ink. These pens so enticed me that I would constantly coax my father into taking a walk into town - ''a walk into town" being code for a chance to sneak a peek at those writing accoutrements.

These excursions became legendary as they always offered a treat of my choosing. There were little porcelain dolls of all nations dressed in their indigenous attire. Pink Spaldeen rubber balls that bounced to the sky, jump ropes with wooden handles, B-B guns that could poke out an eye - off limits to me - and Dick Tracy decoder rings, which all the boys scrambled to buy, and which I longed to own during my tomboy phase. I was willing to bypass them all, as I headed straight for the pens. If it were a special occasion like a birthday or the first day of school, I was invited to choose one. And sometimes, there needn’t be an occasion at all. If my dad was in a generous mood, he would bestow upon me the gift of a pen for no other reason other than he saw a budding writer in the making.  My mother, too, encouraged my lusty preoccupation.

The pens came in a variety of colors including one in metallic gold, which shimmered in the sunlight. The marbling that ran through each one made them look more expensive than they actually were. The selection took time. Most often I settled on green (my favorite color) but occasionally chose the red or blue faux-marble depending on my mood of the moment.  If my dad was feeling particularly benevolent, a notebook was also included as part of the deal. After all, you can't own a pen without a place in which to scribble. 

And scribble I did. On rainy days I wrote my heart out. On damp green summer afternoons under a weeping willow tree, I invented little stories. I wrote a skit in my parents’ car on our way to visit relatives, and when I was down with chickenpox, I composed what I believed was the all-American novel that would guarantee my future success as an author. I even brought a fountain pen along to sleep-away camp, and during après-lunch ‘rest hours’ I penned poems. Then one day, my pen mysteriously vanished, and for the rest of the summer I had to resort to ball point pens, the bane of my writing existence. 

 I never knew then how relevant those early fountain pen days were, or how much they would impact my future life, but recalling them now with nostalgic alacrity, they helped pave the way to what my career path would ultimately become. Little did I know that when I stood eyeing those pens that I was embarking on a journey that would endure for my entire life, and be experienced with a passion that still remains palpably resonant.

Sometimes I regret not having pursued a career in medicine, a serious consideration during my college years. But I turned my attention to the arts, instead, and I became a writer, a decision that has held me in good stead, and proved personally gratifying and professionally rewarding.

So, what happened to those Esterbrook pens that stimulated my childhood longings? They vanished along with my other earlier possessions: my Howdy Doody doll, a gold charm bracelet, my dancing ballerina jewelry box, and a stuffed bear named “Willy,” though the memories of each are still indelibly recorded in my mind.

Back then, Passaic had a plethora of candy stores, each with its own personality and merchandise. There was also Woolworth’s and Kresge’s, and a general store on Passaic Avenue with items like back scratchers, mousetraps and plastic girdle bones that women slipped inside these contraptions. (Don’t get me started on my mother’s girdles. Better we stick with fountain pens for now!)

When I recall those fountain pen days, my thoughts take flight. I carried one with me on all occasions. Once, when standing at the stage door of the St. James Theatre, I whisked out my pen and handed it to Yul Brynner fresh off the stage of “The King and I.”  When scrolling his autograph in my Playbill, Brynner said: “Young lady, one day I hope to own a pen like that.”  In my star-struck stupor I offered him mine, which he politely refused. But he did give me a smile that can never be replicated.

I still envision myself holding an Esterbrook pen and a notebook, the ones my father bought me when we walked into town from our home en route to Mr. Hyman's candy store where so many of my future fantasies took flight, and where my inky memories lie safely sequestered. As for my dad, Benjamin Katz’s Parker pen, when I peek inside my desk drawer and pick it up, my entire childhood, once again, becomes illuminated and memorialized.

So it is that fountain pens have played a significant role in my life. Although I sometimes salivate over a Mont Blanc - my favorite, the Greta Garbo pen with the little pearl dangling off the top - in my heart I am still an Esterbrook girl all the way.  My dad paved the way, and he would be proud. 

So, thanks, Lou, for helping to rekindle these ink-stained memories.

Judith Marks-White, JHSNJ   
     Since writing my memoir on “The Pen,” I felt inspired to capture it in a prose poem.  The pen takes us to places unfamiliar as we let it loose on the page, not always knowing where it will go, but trusting the process.

The Pen
If you hold a pen in your hand long enough
the words will start to spill out.
One by one they fall onto paper in no particular order.
The arrangement of them is up to you.
All you need is a barrel of ink,
some inspiration,
perspiration
and you’re good to go.
The pen will lead you to places unexplored.,
until a sentence appears.
A paragraph emerges
Treat it with reverence.
Ink up and allow your mind to wander.
The pen will do the rest,
carrying you all the way home.

Judith Marks-White

Photos on right:

The top features an assortment of those desirable Esterbrook fountain pens that my dad would buy me on special occasions. The bottom image shows the exterior of a typical 1950's candy store where Esterbrook pens, jump ropes, baseball cards, Spaldeens and almost anything could be purchased.