In July 1971, Dave Garroway was hosting a summer replacement series called The CBS Newcomers. In that role, he had two duties. One was to be the master of ceremonies, welcoming the audience and introducing the young performers before each segment. The other role was to be Dave Garroway. Over the years Dave had been known for his observations on life – many offbeat, some profound, some worth a chuckle, but all were a vital part of the style that made Dave a favorite with so many.
On one episode of Newcomers, Dave began talking about how Americans lived in a disposable society. “We drink coffee from disposable cups,” he said, “and wipe our faces with disposable napkins. The airlines serve cocktails in disposable glasses.” At that point, Dave reached for his pocket and pulled out an object, holding it up for the cameras. “It saddens me to think there are those watching this show who have never owned one of these. It’s called a fountain pen. It didn’t write under water, and it didn’t write upside down, but it wrote beautifully. And then – get this now! – when it ran dry, you didn’t throw it away. You filled it again – and again – and soon it fit your hand. It got to be your pen.” It was a moment that was pure Garroway. And, in my case, it still packed a punch nearly 50 years later.
The other week, as I was transcribing all these notes, I came to this moment where Dave talked about fountain pens. Like most of you, I’m accustomed to writing with whatever ball-point pen is handy at the moment.1 At the office, I’m fond of those ball-point gel pens with the replaceable cartridges. But something about that passage knocked loose a memory in my mind, and I did something about it.
When I was in high school, I was at a drug store browsing around. In the school supplies aisle, I saw a fountain pen. It was a Parker Vector in a blister pack, the entry-level pen. It cost more than other pens in the aisle, but I got entranced by the idea of writing with something different and bought it. That pen was my best friend the rest of my days in high school. I still have pages and pages of notes written in that flowing, slightly translucent blue ink I fed it through cartridges. That poor pen went through so much – I forget how many times I bent the nib – but it worked like a champ, and it was my pen, my faithful companion. I still have it – somewhere.
And that’s what I started thinking about the other week. Where was my friend, my pen? I searched everywhere, but couldn’t find it. After a while, I still couldn’t find it. No fear; I just ordered a newer pen that came highly recommended, and then a neat clone of a classic pen. Both of them are in the bag I carry to work every day.2 But that wasn’t enough. About that time, a check arrived with some royalties for the book that was published last year.3 And I thought it would be nifty to commemorate that book with a little present to myself. Something that would last. Something I could use. Why not a pen? And not just any pen, but a pen that had fascinated me for a long time?4 So now, a few dollars later, this little beauty is in my collection, a little prize to myself for getting a neat book published after so many years. And it is my pen, and I hope it will be to the last of my days. I love this beauty, this reminder of another time. It feels solid and balanced in my hand. It writes wonderfully. I look forward to a long, happy friendship.
And it’s all because a little aside on a short-lived, little-remembered television show 49 summers ago knocked loose a recollection. There’s still power in Dave’s words. Not a bad legacy to leave.
:: No, we haven’t gone anywhere. We have just been overwhelmed of late by no end of things: a crush of demands at work, a few more demands involving outside work (some of it paying work, too, and we seldom refuse that kind of deal), as well as the overwhelming sense of unease and anxiety in the run up to (and playing out of) Election 2020. With all of that going on, I haven’t been able to spend the time I’ve wanted in Dave’s realm.
I can, however, report that all those pages of notes are steadily being woven into a coherent manuscript – as of right now, I’m up to Dave working as an NBC guide, his eye on taking an announcers’ class. So even though I’m not saying much, this thing is still happening. I do have a contractual deadline, after all, and I keep those kinds of deadlines, no matter how much oil gets burned in the wee hours of the morning to do so.5 Stay tuned, y’all.
- Honesty compels me to admit I have a thing for promotional-handout pens. I also have a habit of liberating pens from hotel rooms. I have three that are on long-term loan from the Waldorf-Astoria in New York. No, you can’t have one, not for what I paid to stay there those nights. I earned those pens.
- For some reason my go-to pen is the Hero 616, maybe because of the blue ink I’ve loaded it with. It’s a much better pen than you would expect. That Pilot Metropolitan is a magnificent pen, but I don’t use it a lot, and I feel badly about that. It’s loaded with black ink, and I don’t use black ink a lot. Oh, well.
- Lest you think it was a huge amount…it wasn’t. You generally don’t get rich with books published through university presses, and particularly when they’re biographies of people who aren’t as remembered these days.
- Mainly because of the ad campaign that showed a famous person – Carl Sandburg, William Holden, etc. – contemplating the pen filling itself? While not mentioning the name of the person watching the pen fill itself?
- Making matters much happier: not only is the election over, but because our semester was compressed and all breaks eliminated to keep the students close to campus, we are pretty much done with everything by the end of November. This is going to get done.