grrlTravels

Less time for the little things

K. is a pen thief. Actually, to be more accurate, he is a writing implement thief. He will steal any writing implement left lying around. K. denies this vigorously. What actually happens, according to him, is that he just happens to pick up any pen, pencil, marker, or crayon left lying about and without noticing it at all he places said implement into his pocket, briefcase, truck or whatever and takes off with it. What this means for the short version of the story is that I never have pens at my desk when I need them. I've really given up on having a pen anywhere else in the house, like the kitchen for the grocery list, or the bedroom to scribble notes to myself so that I can allow myself to finally go to sleep on those bad, thinking-too-much--please-let-it-STOP nights.

So last trip to Walmart all of the school supplies were out in full force. I was reminded of myself in college, when having the right pen was of the utmost importance. I knew exactly what kind of pens I liked and which I didn't. I was quite particular. I also liked to write letters (you know, the old fashioned kind where you sit down with a pen and a piece of paper and laptops and laser printers are not allowed) and having the right pen, and really, a wide variety of pens for whatever mood might strike, was important. My best friend in college (Hi, S., are you reading yet?) had lovely handwriting and always decorated her envelopes (and still does). Perhaps our mutual disregard for Bics drew us together.

I bought some pens in Walmart. I bought them probably mostly for the packaging and the promise of curly, flowy letters. And I got them home, and realized that I don't like them. I don't like the way the ink comes out, and I don't like thickness of the line and I don't like the way they feel and I just don't like them. And then I really started longing for the days when I had the time to go out to the stationery store and test out pens and know which ones I really liked and which ones I didn't. I have no idea why this longing is so strong for me right now. Some weird coping mechanism to keep me from obsessing about my mother? (Good luck!) Some throwback to the fun of buying school supplies, back when school was still fun and much anticipated? Just another example of my complusive brand of perfectionism? I don't know.

All I do know is that ever since I bought those pens, I've been unhappy with them and really longing to go out and get Some Good Pens. What can I tell you? I'm not going to try to explain it except to say:

I keep thinking about my mother's handwriting and her cards. I can't really look at her handwriting yet. It's just too overwhelming for me. I have things in her handwriting that have become all the more precious, but I don't want to look at them. The day before the funeral, my aunts came to the house to see my sister and I, and one of them had something written in my mother's hand about some last items she wanted some people to have and some thoughts about the funeral. It was terrible. She whipped out the piece of paper before I knew what was going on and I looked at it, and then just about pitched over sideways.

And, in my credenza (or credenzela, I can never remember which) next to my desk I have a little silly Christmas card. I keep it there all year long. It was the last thing my grandmother ever sent me, and it means a lot to me. It's a goofy card (my grandmother was VERY FRUGAL, even to the point of washing paper plates and I kid you not about that) and all she wrote was "Love Grandmom Van Syckel" and for that it is one of my most precious keepsakes.

Handwriting. It's important. It's unique to each of us. It can invoke memories and tenderness and affection. And it's all the better if you have the right pen. And I don't.

Posted by grrlTravels at October 5, 2004 3:52 PM