Todd Nelson, The Mighty Pen

When I sign my name—on a note, a letter, a legal document—I insist on using a certain pen. Signing tends to be the most handwriting I do, these days, since my laptop is faster and far neater for extensive written expression. I’m a fast typist. But a signature is different—my mark—and my pen is my emblem of writing, and more. “Pen” means fountain pen. I have a small collection, purchased on special trips to remind me of a day and time in a unique place: Milan (the green Delta pen), Paris’s Left Bank (the small yellow Jean Pierre Lépine pen), Glasgow (the transparent Pelikan). I can picture the shop, the street, the ambience of the day each pen joined my life.

Not all signing is alike, nor all signing pens. We sign letters and notes; sometimes documents with weightier intent: the mortgage, the employment contract, the marriage license—documents of exalted ilk. These require a signing pen. In my case, they require my father’s Mont Blanc Meisterstück, the plump, black, gold filigreed, classic fountain pen with the iconic white star on the end of the cap.

I had not known he owned one, until after his passing. And the more I think about it, the more significance it adds to his life, and now to mine. A Mont Blanc pen is the apotheosis of “fountain pen.” For me, like his Royal typewriter, another family emblem, it is the imprimatur of Dad.

That he owned such a luxurious pen, with his initials engraved on the gold clip, was news. He was thrifty, never spending more than required on a pair of shoes, a tool, or piece of equipment, sometimes to my chagrin. But his fountain pen was different. At some point he had splurged. Was it a token of accomplishment, a reward, something that spoke to his primal talent and passion, writing? And not just writing but handwriting.

Dad was a journalist—print, radio, television. And he had the most distinctive handwriting I’ve ever seen, recognizable instantly when I still find it in his marginalia, or signatures on old letters. He spoke Russian and had a handwriting style in English reminiscent of the Cyrillic alphabet. His signature had a rhythmic, circulating flourish that bespoke pleasure in the act of making letters and words. My sister found the pen among his belongings. It reminded me of how special it was to sit at Dad’s desk when I was a kid, rummaging in the drawers among his calligraphy pens and their
myriad interchangeable points, and bottles of India ink that seemed from an archaic era of penmanship. He loved creating ornate letters, and once took a course in Chinese calligraphy.

When I got married, he wrote a Chinese proverb with a calligraphy brush, on a long banner, for Lesley and me: “May you get white hair together.” We have. Writing made it so.