My first fountain pen

In about 1947 or even as late as 1950, I regularly visited my father at his law office. It was a neighbourhood office, and not too far from where we lived. My father always permissive allowed me full access to everything on and in the reception desk.

The desk was large, oak and doubled sided. In the middle of the desk's surface was a huge green blotter pad. I can't be certain but I think one of drawers had my Crayolas, the one with 72 colours. It also contained several pens and pencils.

I think one of the pens looked like this:

Before I left the house, my mother who had a penchant for dressing me up like the then popular Shirley Temple, sent me clean, tidy, yes, immaculate. Needless to say, the ink even with a blotter, and a white voile dress did not go together.

If I push and pull at my memories, I can just vaguely recall the white dress covered with blue-black ink, and my mother's intense displeasure at the now ruined outfit she had meticulusely ironed and probably starched to show off my blonde curls and blue green eyes.

Instead of feeling crestfallen at her displeasure I continued to go to my father's office, and fiddle with the ink and pens. If I fiddled too much, my father apparently wanting to avoid farther castigation from his wife, would bribe me with 25 cents and a trip to the ice cream parlour.

All these years later, I relish the idea of holding a fountain pen in my hand, and often find my most sought after comfort food is ice cream.