Mightier than the Sword

Back when I was in high school, I wrote everything in fountain pen. Call me pretentious if you will, but we were in Europe where they sold all manner of fountain pens from a twirly rack in every department store. 

My friend Amy shared my affection for that implement, and our pen of choice was a work-a-day model from Pelikan, the German factory. It was lightweight and inexpensive and made for students. The basic options when it came to ink cartridges were black and blue, but we sometimes entertained ourselves with turquoise and Fuschia. 

When we graduated, we both got fancy Mont Blanc fountain pens, which were heavier and of course, more expensive. Those pens also took a different-sized ink cartridge, one that was a little longer and that you could refill yourself from an actual bottle of ink. But the trade-off was that the smaller cartridges fit neatly two to the barrel, with one always in reserve for when its mate ran out. 

You can probably tell that I never did cotton to that fancy pen, but back in the States for college, I couldn't buy the right ink cartridges for my Pelikano, either, and so both pens ended up dry and in the back of my desk drawer, and over the years, I've lost both of them. 

Oh, I've found other stand-ins, and to be honest, I own three inexpensive fountain pens. The cartridges must be easier to come by now, in this age of easy, global mail-order. Even so, I never use those pens, and in fact, the ink cartridges I have are all filled with dried-up ink. It's hardly surprising: I think I probably purchased them when I visited Paris in the year 2000.

When Amy came to town for a visit back in April, she whipped out her fountain pen to sign the credit card receipt for her part of our "Raclette Experience." 

"You have to try this," she told me and handed it over. 

The thin and easy flow of ink on paper stirred a muscle memory in me, and I smiled in total agreement. 

Since then, she has sent me two handwritten letters, one of thanks for the small bit of hospitality I showed her when she was here, and the other a proposal that we hearken back to our younger years and become fountain pen pals. I do like that idea-- so much so that I dug into the back of my drawer and found those fountain pens, along with the one cartridge that still has liquid ink. Then I popped it in, wet my thumb and forefinger, and primed the nib, scribbling a bit back and forth on an index card until I was rewarded with a continuous flow of blue ink.