I love pens. When I’m caught without one, I feel naked, even if I have the laptop and Blackberry in tow, as I do now, writing to you in an airport lounge awaiting a flight to San Francisco.
Not all pens are classy—the ball point that says “Lenny’s Pizza” has definite kitsch value, but it doesn’t fall into this category of admirable object. In my hierarchy of pens, fountain pens are on top. Somebody pulls one out of a purse or pocket and there’s an aura around him (her). It doesn’t have to be an expensive fountain pen, just a pen with ink it, whether from a bottle (that’s best: it takes skill and filling) or a cartridge. I learn the art of the fountain from the nuns at Notre Dame de Sion in 3rd grade. I’ve discarded some of the theology, but none of my reverence for a fine writing instrument. Fountains pens are the only wonderful ones, of course. A variety of pens are lovely to write with, as long as they glide over the paper like a skater on the ice, and leave a lovely hand. People sometimes say at book signings, “This must be tiring,” but it never is, as long as I have the right pen.
A good pen deserves lovely paper, of course. I was in a Crane’s store last week to purchase single note cards—not the fold-overs, a card-stock card, monogrammed or not, that can stand alone or nest in an envelope. The power of the hand-written note was always strong, but these days when getting one is a rare occurrence, people take notice. They may as well be noticing you.
There are other objects, too, that harken to an earlier time, a time when, at least in our imagination, men and women were gentlemen and ladies who knew and exemplified certain graces we seem to be short on today. Cloth handkerchiefs are one of these. I received a slew of them once from my friend, Suzanne, who has a knack for unearthing treasures in thrift shops. I keep them, wash them, iron them, and carry one every day up to the present time. It’s perfect for tiny sniffles, a sad movie, applying club soda to a new spill spot; and, when neatly folded and pristine from the wash, a lovely handkerchief with lace or embroidery or nothing at all but neatly hemmed edges is ideal for handing a friend who’s telling you with a tear or two that she broke up with her boyfriend, or just got engaged. Sure, a Kleenex would work. But this isn’t just about working: this is about working with finesse left over.
What simple objects of daily life fill this need for a little extra in your life? Maybe you wear gloves sometimes, even when it’s not cold. (Your hands will look young a great deal longer if you adopt this practice.) It could be the fragrance your grandmother wore. Cloth napkins and the good dishes. A lovely case for your business cards (mine is from Urban Outfitters and cost about three dollars). Well-tailored clothes; if they come from a consignment shop, what’s the difference?
When you outfit your life with a few of these, it slows you down and grounds you in the moment. There’s a bit of extra beauty in your life. You’re not just floundering around in the unknown of what’s coming next. You know that, whatever is coming, you can document it with your fountain pen and offer anybody who needs one a handkerchief.
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