FETISH: MY PENS CAN’T BLOP

April 14, 2014
PEOPLE

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

fet·ish: “an object regarded with awe as being the embodiment or habitation of a potent spirit or as having magical potency; OR, any object, idea, etc., eliciting unquestioning reverence, respect, or devotion: to make a fetish of . . . .” –Dictionary.com

“FETISH-RELATED WORDS”:monomania; complex, hang-up; appetite, craving, desire, fascination, hunger, infatuation, longing, lust, passion, pining, thirst, urge, yearning; idiosyncrasy, quirk; bent, disposition, inclination, leaning, partiality, penchant, predilection, predisposition, proclivity, propensity, tendency…

“When does collecting turn into an addiction–or become a fetish?” Good question.

I used to hear, when I signed my name, or put comments on a student’s paper, “You write like a girl!” That I had been hearing for many years since learning the ups and downs of The Palmer Method of handwriting, the scrolls and the loops and the curls.

Now, in the era of being nice, and equality, and political correctness, I hear something more like “Nice handwriting.” “Yes, that is my best cursive, taught to me many years ago.” And I continue to write notes and memories in longhand–and, sign checks. (See my blog posting from September 2013: http://memoriesofatime.com/2013/09/19/rulers-for-writing/.) I even try to write a note on each Christmas card I send. Something special, in cursive.

With a good gel pen or a fiber point, I can make my way across a piece of paper, stay on the ruled-line paper, and write in my college-ruled journal books IF I have the “right” kind of pen.

I have a fetish for pens. I have two coffee cups on my desk, one full-tight crammed with ballpoint pens and gel-ink pens; one reserved only for my collection of Cross pens.

“When I was a child, I spoke like a child, thought like a child, and reasoned like a child. When I became an adult, I no longer used childish ways.” (Paul 1 Corinthians 13:11).

As a child and youngster, I had some good fountain pens; then cartridge types (which were not effective–always had to have cartridges in some drawer for refills). Then came ballpoint pens, with a thick and gooey ink that made blops and smears on the paper. Unsightly, and messy. (Blue exam books had near-tissue-thin paper. Ballpoint and fountain pens certainly kept me from getting all A’s in college. But pencil was not allowed. No right answer there.)

In 1976–I can remember it–I bought my first Cross pen and pencil set: chrome. (I still have both in the cup.) The purchase was a status symbol for this guy with a pen fetish (“an object regarded with awe”).

CrossPens1

CROSS PEN AND PENCIL SET

The pencil worked smoothly; the pen slid out of my fingers, slid down my writing fingers when I tried to write quickly, despite the knurling on the barrel near the point [“Knurling: The operation performed for producing indentations on the part of the workpiece. Knurling allows hands or fingers to get a better grip on the knurled object than would be provided by the originally smooth metal surface. Occasionally, the knurled pattern is a series of straight ridges rather than the more-usual crisscross pattern.” –See wikipedia.org.] The tighter I held the pen, the less control over it I had.

CHROME CROSS PEN WITH KNURLING

CHROME CROSS PEN WITH KNURLING

So that was that. Until the next Cross pen (“infatuation”): one in red, or grey, or blue–or classy black [“The Cross Classic Century is the signature Cross pen. It has become an icon with its mid-century modern design (since 1946) that has been alluring writers for decades. The slim design and smooth writing ink make this one of the most highly regarded ballpoint pens of its time.”]

Then, added to my collection, two gold, one chrome with gold accents (“idiosyncrasy”).

I had to stop. They are usable, but too thin and smooth for my arthritic fingers.  

But thankfully, somehow, someone created or invented the gel-ink pen (see Sakura, 1984). I was convinced it was for me (“inclination, leaning, partiality”).

No refilling, no “perfect” gold nib needed, and no blips-blops. And the best ones have a rubber cushion for my writing fingers. All in many colors, to make strokes in bold, micro-thin, fine–or just plain “regular.” (I have learned, however, that the ink runs out faster than in a ballpoint.)

Nevertheless, despite my need for writing speed and my like for gel ink, I recently obtained a new Cross pen: a “fat boy,” in blue enamel, with chrome accents. [“The Cross Calais Ball Pen reflects Deco’s embrace of geometry, handicraft, and streamlined form. This magnificent pen is available in two lacquered finishes along with two-tone chrome and single tone chrome finishes.” Magnificent! I had to have one! Definitely “appetite, craving, desire.”]

I can really hold it tight as it rests on my “tall-man” writing bump on my right hand. It is stylish, though the technology or twisting to open-close the ink cartridge refill is still the same as in my first Cross pen.

JIMMY'S NEW CROSS PEN 2013

JIMMY’S NEW CROSS PEN 2013

And that is that. For now.

“You thrive on novelty,” an older gentleman cautioned me. Is that so bad?

So, about my blue-suede “box toes”…

JIMMY'S NEW BLUE SUEDE "BOX-TOES"

JIMMY WITH HIS NEW BLUE SUEDE “BOX-TOES” (c.1954-1955)

 © James F. O’Neil 2014

 

**To fulfill a desire you might have for further reading, see http://www.penhero.com/Your on-line writing instrument magazine, featuring detailed reviews, history, news, shows, and product announcements, and more links to writing-instrument-focused sites than any other source…

HEADLINE: “LOCAL 5TH GRADER SAVES NUN”

March 29, 2014
EVENTS, MEMOIRS
1 Comment

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

“The Witch fell down . . . and . . . melted away to nothing, . . . Dorothy . . . being at last free to do as she chose, she ran out to the courtyard to tell . . . that the Wicked Witch of the West had come to an end, . . . There was great rejoicing. . . .” — L. Frank Baum, The Wizard of Oz

If memory serves me right…in 5th grade…

Sister Mary Dolorita (a pretty face, all the flesh that showed–except for two hands–and a smile) taught my classroom of 5th and 6th grade boys and girls.

I liked our school on the South Side of Chicago. The building faced Honore, near 72nd Street. The structure, mostly one story, in a U-shape, was built around a beautiful church.

saint justin photo 2Saint Justin Martyr School and Church

Near the front of the building (at the south end), a stairway made its way up to a landing, with a second-floor classroom and the principal’s office. At the top of the stairs, on each side of the building, a door led to the choir loft. The church organ was situated in the center of the loft.

From 1949-1955 (my 8th grade graduation), a considerable part of my life was bound to these structures. Much I remember, yet so much I have forgotten.

However, I will never ever forget standing in front of church, lined up by grade, standing outside in the rain “Until there is quiet!” The principalshouted at us from under her umbrella. That year, my 5th grade, was the year from hell with her as principal, with

D-I-S-C-I-P-L-I-N-E
O-R-D-E-R
Q-U-I-E-T
O-B-E-D-I-E-N-C-E.

She was in absolute charge of the school. Nevertheless, we endured.

With the School Year nearly over, including nice Chicago weather, school activities included packing unused schoolbooks to be sent off to the missions. One morning, while we were quietly doing our seat-work tasks, Sister called upon me (always the acquiescing “Go-for”) to bring boxes from storage. Where was the storage for boxes?

Next to the choir loft. Of course….

Leaving my busy classmates, I entered the Silence of the Hall, looked both ways, and then headed to The Stairway.

(“Abandon hope, all ye who climb these stairs….”)

Looming at the top of the stairs, “Door Number One [left]: Choir Loft.” “Door Number Two [ahead]: Storage.”

Quickly–and softly–I moved to the top of the stairs, one linoleum-covered step at a time. I saw: “Door Number Three [right–and open]: Sanctum Sanctorum Principal.”

I opened Door Number Two. Absolute Darkness. Yet from the light of the open hall area surrounding me, I saw inside. Certainly, against extant Chicago fire codes, cardboard and corrugated boxes of all types and sizes were stacked un-neatly in this small storage facility.

And the one naked light bulb, in a socket, hanging down from the ceiling on a dark black fuzzy cord, with a barely-visible chain hanging across the bulb.

light bulb fotosearchLight Bulb. Credit: fotosearch

I pulled the chain, turning on the light bulb. At that very instant, the pump motor for the church organ began to run. The organist had begun to practice. With the light on, I could now see the green metal-mesh cage over the large black belt connected to a motor and flywheel. This motor ran the pump to operate the bellows–making the church music we so liked to hear. Noise and light nearly overwhelmed me in my Quest-for-Cardboard. So which one box would be perfect, would show my Dear Sister Dolorita I could do the job?

Of course, The Beautiful Perfect Cardboard Box on top of a pile near the back of the small room.

Behind me, while I made my way to the boxes-taller-than-I-was, The Voice of Principal shrilled: “What are you doing?” Frozen, I turned and blurted out, “Getting a box for Sister.” Then, something like, “Well, get on with it. Go on!” I pointed and tried to reach. “Never mind!” Pulling a step stool, then reaching for…all in slow motion (of course): She reached. She fell. She tumbled. She went down. Down. Down. Screaming. She screamed: “Oh!” as she went down, down, down into the depths, behind the metal cage.

Then I saw two laced high-top black shoes, pointing upwards, connected to two skinny lower legs, and ankles covered by dark black nylons.

“Help me! Help me!” she cried out, behind the running motor. “Turn it off! Turn it off!” (Turn what off?)

So I reached for and grabbed onto the bulb socket and chain, receiving a shocker! I pulled the chain. The motor kept running. Music continued from the church organ.

I barely saw the legs as I turned and ran to the classroom on the landing. I pulled open its door, shouting to the nun-like silence inside, all eyes on me: “Hurry! Sister fell into the organ!” In a flash, the good nun was pushing me aside, out of her way–and making headway to the space emitting music and motor sounds.

“JESUS! MARY! JOSEPH!” (They would certainly come to help when they heard their names shouted out in helplessness.) “Get Mr. Joe [the janitor]!” He would come for sure when I found him. I found him somewhere. Wherever he had his hangout. I went with him, but was told to go back to my classroom.

I arrived there empty-handed, but memory-traumatized. Forever. I retold the story–tearfully (almost). Lunchtime bell. Dismissed for lunch. Saved by the bell.

Adults running. Rumors. Ambulance. Congratulations.

Congratulations? Yes, I was to be congratulated. I was a childhood hero–to my schoolmates. “You tried to knock off the Old Witch. Is that true?”

Of course, it was true.

More likely, however, I probably did cry, knowing how fragile I was then.

The Principal never returned. Summer came. Then 6th grade. No mention of The Fall. I entered 6th grade, like all my other classmates, hearing from Sister Mary Georgine:

“YOU BOLD BRASSY THINGS!”
“YOU DON’T KNOW BEANS IN THE BAG OPEN!”

freshly roasted coffee beans in a jute bagBeans in the Bag Open

And we were now happy in school, lining up in good weather, a few times a week.  I was never again sent to find another storage box. Besides, they moved them–and, as far as I know, locked forever that Dantesque Doorgate.

(I bet Mr. Joe and the organist could get in if they wanted….)

© James F. O’Neil 2014

“HAPPY SAINT PATRICK’S, PATTY’S, PADDY’S DAY!”

March 17, 2014
JOURNALING, MEMOIRS, PEOPLE

BY: JAMES F. O’NEIL

Nickname: “A name added to or substituted for the proper name of a person; some descriptive or familiar name given or received, sometimes humorous, sometimes sarcastic, some one of affection or ridicule.  Often, more likely, a shortened version of a person’s given name.”

Nicknames are certainly interesting, as is the word itself.

My wife and I were watching a TV doctor/hospital show.  The heroine’s nickname is “Pit.”  Why that?, the characters asked.  As she raised her arms in embarrassment, to rub her head, she had wet perspiration marks in the armpits of her scrubs.  Thus, “Pit.” 

I was curious about what “Old Nick,” “Saint Nick,” and “in the nick of time” had in common.  I was especially curious when I saw the movie Omen III.  An old fish, a pike, if I recall, lived in a lake.  Its name was “Old Nick.”  Since the movie is about Satan, this was worth some research.

“Saint Nick” or “Old Saint Nick”–even “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas”–are common expressions in December, on 6 December especially. 

So, like Nicholas becoming “Nick,” we have “Peg” or “Peggy”–and “Peg-o-My Heart” for Margaret.  Peter is “Pete” and Richard is…well, “Rick” (as in Casablanca’s “Rick’s Café Américain”).  But also “Dick.”  That?  Ouch!  Double-entendre here?  Because he could be a….  Ah, you can work that one out.  I grew up knowing that a penis was a “peter” (or even a “doodle,” for God’s sake).  Catholic boys in my young days had some mind-difficulties with Saint Peter’s nickname during our puberty….

Anyhow, continuing, Charles is “Chuck; William is “Bill” (not “Willie–and definitely not “a willie”), yet we have the 1993 film Free Willy.  Romualdas becomes “Rom”; Eugene is…yes, “Gene”; Thomas is “Tom” or “Tommy” (but “Tommy gun” is from the manufacturer Auto-Ordnance Company, naming the submachine gun for its designer, John T. Thompson).  (“British Tommies” will require another story.)

One of our teachers was Glennon E. Figge, initials “G.E.F.”: we called him “The Geef” (not a nickname used in his presence, of course).

And so it goes.  My name is James, that is “Jim,” “Jimbo,” and “Jimmy” (when my mother really wanted my attention).  In college, I was “Jim.”  That’s it.

Until Saint Patrick’s Day, 1961.  Whatever possessed me (“possessed”?) to paint a pair of my shoes green?  No doubt, “The Devil made me do it.”  There I was, celebrating my Irish heritage with green paint–bright green, for sure.

I attended the campus festivities of March 17, 1961:  corned beef and cabbage–possible. Special dessert?  I cannot remember.  Nor can most of my classmates at our small college.  However, many do remember my bright green shoes, though not remembering them as well as a pair of “ruby slippers” in some Wizard movie…  But, hey, I made MY mark to this day.

“Greenie, how are you?  “Hello, Greenie.  How are things?”  “  Greenie!  What’s up?”  A lasting memory from one special Saint PADDY’S Day (a “patty” is a hamburger-thingy; “Patty” is a girl’s name–mostly….  Look it up.).

©  James F. O’Neil  2014  

Note: A special thanks to my Irish classmate Michael Toohey for suggesting I write this memory.  “Thanks, Mike.”  Or, is that “Mikey,” “Mickey,” or “Mick”?  Or would that be now “Mícheál”?  Ah, that good old Hebrew name….

 Irish_clover

ABOUT CATS: LIFE WITHOUT CATS?

March 12, 2014
MEMOIRS
2 Comments

BY:  JAMES F. O’NEIL

Just this side of Heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.”  — The Rainbow Bridge,  –Unknown Author

I thought I hated cats.  Aunt Nell and Uncle Charlie had them everywhere.  At least that’s what it seemed like.  When I was young, and not visiting Aunt Nell and Uncle Charlie’s cats, I had gold fish and guppies.  They died–mostly from overfeeding, or lack of oxygen because of the slime never cleaned off the sides of those little bowls won at carnivals, or the sides of a bigger “tank.”

There were some dogs and birds, and stories to accompany them and their lives as part of the family.

Off I went to college, then marriage.  My 20-year-old bride and I had no pets: plants, ice skates, a 1962 Corvair, but no pets.

With the births of our two boys came some talk of having some other living creatures to promote responsibility and appreciation of living, not stuffed, animals. 

One gold fish, then guppies, then bottom-dwellers for the others in a five-gallon tank.  Then a Dutch Checker, black and white bunny-then-rabbit. 

dutch checker sweetpea foundation

Dutch Checker. Credit: Sweetpea Foundation

He was donated to a Purina Stud Farm…where he was forever loved, fed, and made happy.

No pets then for a while, yet a sailboat we called “KATT.”  For it was cat-rigged: a sail with a sleeve, which fit over the 20-foot mast. 

sail-2Chrysler Man-O-War

Then, we moved, pet-less, in 1973, to the farms and farmlands of Western Minnesota, where pets ran wild, in town, on the farms, and in homes.

“Cat?  I hate cats?”  I could never forget the smells in Aunt Nell’s home.  And food bowls everywhere.  And dried up milk.   

“But they have a new litter on the farm” (which was across the highway beyond the football field which was behind our rhubarb and raspberries and apple trees and our one-car garage-shed).

The four of us (one former cat-lover among us: the wife was raised with cats when she grew up in a farmhouse) made our way across the field along the 50-yard line, across the two-lane highway, to the large farmhouse belonging to friends of the boys.

I’ll never know how I let myself be put into that position of looking at cats.  “OK, but we’ll just look.”  Perhaps.  Or maybe it was more like, “OK, if it’s all right with your mother, we’ll go look.  But we’re not getting any cats or kittens or whatever.”  (Our boat KATT was the only cat I wanted.  And mute, too.)

Up the stairs to see the mew-ers.  Mewing from everywhere.  “Yes, she’s really pretty” (the mother cat).  And all those little furballs with noses and little legs and mouse-y tails.  And I heard myself saying unintelligible–irrational–words, something like “We have to take two….”: Bert and Ernie.

Bert stroked out–and was gone: our first experience together with the Right-to-Die Movement in a vet’s office.  This first cat-I-would-never-have was 16 years old.  A year later, at age 17, Ernie.

Anger accompanied our second loss.  “No more pets!”  I shouted as I tearfully bagged any reminders and remnants of cat-dom.  The litter box went into the trash, along with catnip, cat toys, blankets, towels, and litter scoopers.  I loaded the food into the car, drove to the Humane Society, and gave them the food and a donation.

No more cats.

“No more cats!  I’m not ready.  They are too much.  I cannot get involved with pets anymore!”

“How about this one, Grampa?”  What was I doing back at the Humane Society?  “These two twin kittens.  Aren’t they cute?”  Yet I saw the runt, who had been in a home, but was brought back.  Not a mewing kitten but an older-young cat (three months, for sure).  A female?  The eyes got to me.  The paws on the cage, she on her hind legs begging to take her with us.

“She’s such a PRISS.”  And Priscilla Elizabeth, who was Miss Princess of Everything.  Ah, alone.  In her own cat-dom.  Unconditional love.  She was the It-Cat.  Until, “Grampa,…”  Along came Emma Louise, the white Turkish Van kitten.

And Brewster Robert?  A.k.a. Sylvester, the Lover, the Clown, the Acrobat.  He was the cat on loan, the one we were going to take care of for two years.  “Two years?  Sure, that’s all right.”  Twelve years later….

And Kitty?  “Miss Kitty”?  Raised with a dog, she became our orphan-resident, another furball-pooper-crier-sleeper to feed and clean up after, but who wiggled her arthritic paws into my heart.

So there we all were.  All comfortable, “three meals a day, anytime, day or night.”  And I was ok, for feline-inity had found its way into my being, easily seen by the number of cat toys lying about, the number of cat books in our library, the amounts of the veterinarian bills, the softness and the fun I had learned of cat-dom since I crossed over.

Now we no longer have any cats, after nearly forty years of being a feline household.  Old age and illness.  Old age or illness took each one.

No matter how many times we had to perform the Right-to-Die Ceremony, it never got “easier.” 

Maxwell Being Silly

Maxwell and Henry. Photo: Kim Kelly

Sometimes cats act dumb, or like little children; or behave as babies, or as cunning plotters–or show elation over a simple sound made by the Human Can Openers.  Quiet most of the day, they are easily spooked by strange sounds at night.  And are Fraidy-Cats.  Really.  They do not listen, do not behave, do whatever-damn-well-pleases them.

So, about Cat-dom: it has its shortcomings: piles of ant-covered throw-up–and those hairballs!  And the crying-mewing-meowing, and growling fights with fur-a-flyin’.

It took others to bring me to this place, to become a Cat-Lover.  A Softy for Felines.  And I loved it–despite the litter between my toes or in my socks–or the catnip-covered toy mice hidden inside my shoe.

And that is that.  We are now too old “to start another family.”  The house is quiet.  Yet every once in a while…a shadow….  A ghost?  A spirit? 

Sometimes these moments of cat make me happy-sad. 

Oh, but such good memories remain.  For all this, I really like cats. 

©  James F. O’Neil   2014

Reach Out and Touch

ADDENDUM: JULY 2017: REVISION: GRAYSON ZANE ADOPTED US IN JULY 2015.  HE WAS A STRAY, ROAMING ABOUT THE COTTAGE SITE, FOR TWO YEARS.  IT WAS OUR TIME TO BECOME RESCUED.  HE CHOSE US.  WE WERE ONCE AGAIN RESCUED, AND ARE A CAT FAMILY:

GRAYSON ZANE O'NEIL