Norris Gaynor, I Found Your Pen
We meet at the Lowe’s Home Improvement Store. I am carrying bundles of wire coil and a three-pronged claw hammer that looks to be from the Hundred Years’ War. I hoist myself up into my mangy pick-up and spy You behind the seat, tangled in the bungee cord thoroughly chewed by Godzilla dog. A pen! A classy writing utensil; royal blue and smooth in hand. Intuition tells me you’ll write in those silky thick lines I like. Where have you been all my life? This is no place for your glam, amongst dirt, dog fur, and wadded up Dunkin Donuts napkins. Gently, I lift you into my clean palm. My eyes linger over your cobalt blue and silver trimwork—and, wait, what is this?! Lettering? On your side, a tattoo? Wrought in classic Times Roman font:
Norris Gaynor
Summit Hill Elem. Sch.
A fine, educated name for the owner of this personalized pen. The abbreviation tells me that a 22-letters-and-spaces-per-line limit was encountered in its manufacture. Norris Gaynor, I feel your struggle to make the best use of letters: shortening here, punctuating there, until you reach a satisfying verbiage. After the finished instrument was delivered to you, Norris Gaynor, I feel your pleasure, clasping pen in hand, writing, writing. Then too, I sense your loss of the pen and the disappointing search. Are you yearning, Norris Gaynor? Later today I will Google “Summit Hill Elementary School” to find it located 1,000 miles away from here, in Alpharetta, Georgia. How a pen like this landed in my Massachusetts truck is one of life’s mysteries.
I uncrumple a napkin and set it across my blue jeans. The doodle I draw on its crinkled surface is a smooth pointed pressure against my thigh. This pen has a proper weight. Over time, using it will cause the hand to become finely muscled. I write, Norris Gaynor, I found your pen.
Norris Gaynor
Summit Hill Elem. Sch.
A fine, educated name for the owner of this personalized pen. The abbreviation tells me that a 22-letters-and-spaces-per-line limit was encountered in its manufacture. Norris Gaynor, I feel your struggle to make the best use of letters: shortening here, punctuating there, until you reach a satisfying verbiage. After the finished instrument was delivered to you, Norris Gaynor, I feel your pleasure, clasping pen in hand, writing, writing. Then too, I sense your loss of the pen and the disappointing search. Are you yearning, Norris Gaynor? Later today I will Google “Summit Hill Elementary School” to find it located 1,000 miles away from here, in Alpharetta, Georgia. How a pen like this landed in my Massachusetts truck is one of life’s mysteries.
I uncrumple a napkin and set it across my blue jeans. The doodle I draw on its crinkled surface is a smooth pointed pressure against my thigh. This pen has a proper weight. Over time, using it will cause the hand to become finely muscled. I write, Norris Gaynor, I found your pen.
Comments
Saw your comment on Marytree's blog (button, button, who's got the button!, and thought I'd stop by. Your blogs look well worth perusing and I look forward to doing so.
I see you are a practicing writer--I guess I've become one as well. A therapist first and a writer, second, though that may not always be the case!
I just started my blog after an experience in a summer writers' bootcamp where it was recommended. Just having been at it four days now, I'm beginning to get the feel of it and become a little more agile at navigating around in this space.
Drop by and sample some of me! I also spent some time in Edgar Cayce study groups and am into the world of psi and other non-ordinary experiences.
I have a wide area of interests as do you, so I will benefit from seeing how you've managed to arrange yours in a sensible and accessible way!
Oh, and from all of us, Welcome to the Internet.
P.L. Frederick
Small and Big
(Thanks so much for your kind words.)
P.L. Frederick
Small and Big