The Pen

By

Morgan Cottle

Chapter 1

The Letter

My Dearest Grandson,

It is with the up most pleasure that I pass on to you one of my most treasured belongings. I see in you some of the traits of your mother, and that is both a gift and a curse. You have her gift of words, great words that evoke passion and promise. Words that convey strength and courage, or danger and daring. I know that might not make sense now, but be patient with me while I explain. I would not entrust you with this treasure if I did not see promise in you.

Accept this pen with a promise. Promise me you will continue to think. Promise me you will continue to put words to paper, and promise me to use your gift of words to encourage others. I received this pen when I was a young man and found it to be an excellent tool. For at one time, I too was full of passion, bravado and a desire to change the world. This pen allowed me to do such things. In fact, this is the pen that allowed me to change history. More of that another time.

Keep this pen safe, and use it for goodness.

Your adoring Grandfather Parker.

Great, as if I didn’t have enough pressure on me. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my Grampa. I loved him, and loved being named after him. I have great memories of sitting with him on the edge of his bed. The springs gently creaking as he told me stories of pirates and battles. Stories of giants and heroes. I would sit there for hours, glued to his every word. He would rant and stomp, throwing his arms in great circles as he pitched his body back and forth across his bedroom, as the deck of his great ship tossed to and fro in the waves. He would demonstrate how to lunge and parry in great battles on castle grounds. This is now I remember my Grampa, through his stories. I had no idea who he really was, or what he did growing up. To me, he was just,, Grampa. He had passed away last month, and when all his stuff was sorted out, this letter and The Pen was given to me.

Now I have this letter, and his pen. This is not just any pen,, but his favorite pen. As Grampa would say, “Son, this is not just any pen, but a 1936 Waterman Bay Leaf design!!” Whatever, I had no idea what that means. To me, it was just a cool looking silver pen. Isn’t a pen just a pen? Now it was mine, and by accepting it, I had to agree to the promise that came with it. A promise to think.. I think I can keep that part of it. A promise to “ use my words to encourage others.” I don’t think that is me, but I will try. The hardest part of this promise though, using it to put words to paper. I like words, I like making up stories,, but I hate to write! By that I mean I hate the act of writing. I tell good stories, and I understand the need to write them down so you don’t forget them, but, I don’t like to write. It hurts. My hand cramps, my fingers go numb and my shoulder ends up getting sore. A pen. Why didn’t he give a trusty computer that I could just type with?

What did Grampa mean in his letter that “this is the pen that allowed me to change history?” I didn’t know that Grampa did anything other than be a Grampa. Now that he is gone, how I am going to find out who he really was and what he did in his life. It seems like maybe Mom is the best place to start.

My Mom is a busy woman. It seems that she has been busy my whole life. She volunteers at school, runs a web site out of our house, claims to be a chauffeur, maybe because she is always driving me all over town, and also runs our house. I don’t mean that Dad doesn’t pull his weight too. He is a librarian down at the local county library, and he is a great cook! Mom doesn’t seem to mind that we like his food better than hers. I think it is just one less thing for Mom to do.

“Mom,” I bellowed as a walked toward the basement stairs. I could hear a muffled “What!” from the laundry room in the back of the basement. I was hoping that this would be a good place to ask her about her Dad. She was busy sorting through the laundry. Did we really go through so many clothes each week? I could see the frustrated look on her face as she was yanking socks out of the bottom of my sister’s jeans, that were also half inside out.

“ I have ask your sister over and over again to please get her jeans the right side out.”

This was on ongoing problem for both of us. I was finally figuring out after 12 years that laundry just didn’t magically appear folded on my bed. I was figuring this out because I was having to take over the laundry duty now and then.

“Mom, what did Grampa Parker do?” Mom continued to wrestle with the laundry, and a confused look came over her face.

“What do you mean, do?”

“I mean, before he was a Grampa, what did he do for a living?”

“Oh, that” mom answered, “ he did lots of things. He was a lawyer, then a judge, and then a professor at a university.”

“What!!” I thought. “My Grampa! All of these things. How come I didn’t know this before? How come I never thought to ask these things before?”

“Why do you ask?” mom ask, pausing, arms buried in dirty denim.

“It’s Grampa’s letter,” I sighed. “ I am glad that he thought enough of me to write me and give me the pen…”

“ He loved you” interrupted Mom.

“.. I know that. But the letter mentions something that I don’t understand.” I added.

Mom had read the letter, cherished what her Dad had said to me, but allowed me to continue on my own.

“ He mentioned that he wrote a letter that helped to change history. What was that letter?”

Nothing.

Silence.

No sound except the rub of pants being folded to pants. What was wrong with her. I knew that look on her face. Lips tight together,, those little wrinkles above her eyes when she is trying hard to think of how to word something.

“ I don’t know what he was talking about,” she offered up matter of factly.

I didn’t believe her. I don’t think that mom was trying to lie to me, but she was definitely hiding something from me. All I could do was stare at her. I was boring holes in the side of her head. She couldn’t stand it any longer.

“What!!” she barked at me with a slight smile at the corner of her mouth.

“You know more than your telling me Mom. What was the letter?’

“Your Grandfather was a very strong and dignified man Parker. He did things that needed to be done, but often refused to take credit for his hard work. He believed in doing what’s right, because it was right and needed to be done, not for the glory. I made my own promises to him years ago, and I intend to keep them.” Tears filled my mother’s eyes. Tears of love, longing, sadness and pride. I had almost forgot, yes I had lost a Grampa, but mom had lost her Dad. His death was harder on her then I ever imagined.

Mom and Grampa had a special, close relationship. Often feisty, always playful and loving. When I was young, I thought that their “arguments” at the dinner table were a result of anger. But as I grew up and watched closer, they were a necessary part of how they communicated. Gramps would often take a side of an argument that he didn’t support, just to keep the discussion going! Dinner would be over, plates cleared, ice cream melting and they would still be going at it. Never, ever did it end in anger. Like a ping pong game, back and forth. Somehow they managed to “agree to disagree” without either giving up or becoming angry. I admired how they were able to do this. I hope that Mom and I can continue that as I grow up.

So, Mom had some sort of promise that she had made with Grampa. A secret promise. A promise not to reveal something about his past. But this was not a secret born of shame, but a secret born of honor and dignity.

Chapter 2

The Hunt

Most people think of librarians as quiet little women with their hair in a bun, shuffling about the library saying “SHHHHHHH!” I don’t know any librarian like that. My dad works with 3 other people, and no one looks or acts like that. Dad is a little under 6 foot tall, kind of skinny and for some reason, loves to run really long distances. I mean really long. Marathons,, they are a warm up. Last month he ran a 100 mile race through the hills above our town. He is not what most people think of when you mention librarian.

The other librarians are equally non-stereotype. Marcia likes to Salsa dance. Marty collects hot sauce and will challenge anyone to a pepper eating contest. Celeste recently returned from a 5 day kayak trip in the Sea of Cortez. Somehow I don’t think that they are a unique bunch. I think that librarians get a bad rap. Maybe it is because my dad is a librarian, but once I find a mystery, I can’t let it go until I have solved it. That is, after all, what librarians do. They solve mysteries. I have watched dad work with people who innocently ask him for help. Little do they know what they got themselves into! If you ask dad for help, then you better be prepared for a thorough and complete answer. Ask dad how a light bulb works, and you will get a complete history of Thomas Edison! Now that I had a mystery on my hands, and it was obvious that mom wasn’t going to help me, I knew that dad would welcome a new mystery.

It was a typical Southern Oregon June morning, early bright sun set against a cloudless sky. A perfect way to start off summer vacation. The library was just down the hill. Just, is the way to describe getting there, but UP was the only way to describe getting home. Getting anywhere from home was no problem. Walking or riding a bike, piece of cake. But getting home, torture. Dad has always made it clear that I can come by and visit him anytime.

I like our library, a great mixture of new and old. Part of the library is over 100 years old. It is a funky mix of creaks and warps. I have walked these boards my entire life. I know just which boards to step on to create the loudest “creeeeaaaaakkk.” That always gets me stares from Mrs. Bullwhip, she is the kind of old person that thinks that libraries should be absolutely quiet. I see dad back in the stacks, helping a college student find information on William Shakespeare. I like watching him when he doesn’t know it. He is what my mom calls “animated.” She says, “ If you tied your dad’s arms down, I don’t think he could talk at all!” There he was, one hand holding an ancient copy of Shakespeare, and the other hand waving to some imaginary sky. His eyes are alive as he calls out “ …Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,” That's my dad. He sends the student off with a "good hunting!" and spies me.

"Fabulous morning isn't it son." It didn't matter if it was sunny or cloudy, rain or snow, in fact I think that meteors could be crashing down around us and dad would still start out every morning with a similar greeting. Sometimes I thought that he was too perky, but seeing the alternative in some of my friends parents, too perky is just fine with me.

"Yep, great day," I offer up. "Dad, I have a question."

"Words that light up a librarians eyes!!" chortled dad. "Fire away!"

"How much do you know about Grampa Parker's life?" I inquired.

What was this,, my dad suddenly at a loss for words!!?? All he could do was stare at me with an odd mix of skepticism and amusement. "Why?" was all that would come out of his mouth.

"It's that letter that he sent me with the pen. I want to know what he wrote about that changed history. Mom wouldn't tell me anything."

"The promise," dad said with a whisper that belonged to a church. There it was again, the promise.

"Well,, I know that your Grampa was smart, stubborn, passionate about fairness, and determined to help those that were no treated well. He spent the better part of his life fighting for these ideals."

"Great!" I exclaimed, "Then what was the letter?"

"Can't tell you. I love you, but, promises are strong things. Your Mom had a promise with her Dad, and I respect your Mom's decision to keep that promise. While I may not agree with your Mom on everything, I will always support her."

I had never thought about Mom and Dad that way. In fact it was easy to forget they were husband and wife, because they were Mom and Dad. I know that sounds weird, but I always think of them as being my Mom and Dad, not married people.

"So," I ask carefully, "how can you help me without breaking your promise to mom?"

"Now you are thinking!" Dad was back to his gleaming self.

" Here is what I can do. You aren't the only one who got a letter from Grampa. In fact, I got an entire box of letters!"

This was news to me. I guess when they passed out all the stuff that Grampa had wanted to leave, dad got some kind of letters.

" What do they say?" I ask quickly.

"That is for you to figure out. Meet me in the basement after work and I will show you where they are. After that, it is up to you do your own research, and make your own conclusions."

Chapter 3

The Basement

Dad definitely had my attention now. I guess I should have figured that other members of the family would have received some of Grampa's things, but I hadn't thought to ask. I didn't want to go home and wait the rest of the day for dad to get home, so I figured I might as well head down to the skatepark and work on some of the new tricks I had been trying. I enjoyed that about our town. Instead railing against skaters, the city council had decided to build a skate park. I know that part of the reason was to get us off the streets and the side walks, but they had also listened to us in the design of the park. Our town was now the proud host of one of the best bowls in the state. It gets a little rough now and then, but for the most part the odd assortment of skaters, bladers and trick bikers got along well. We were mandated to wear our helmets which was great because now everyone looked equally goofy. Get caught with your helmet off, get a ticket and ask to leave.

I enjoyed being on my board. I could spend hours working on a trick, trying to figure out how to get just the right combination of power, finesse, speed and torque. it was funny though, through all of that concentration came a sense of peace. This allowed me to clear my head and think about things. Right now I wanted to sort through Grampa Parker. I had so many questions floating through my head. What had he done growing up? What kind of work did he do as a lawyer, judge and law professor? And the big question, what had he helped to create with, now my pen, that had helped to change the world? Okay, time to work on my vaiale, a flip of the board with a twist. Speed, momentum and torque. Settle in and think, what did I know about Grampa? Let’s see, I know that Mom was born her in Oregon, and Grampa and Gramma moved here from somewhere in Kansas in the early 1950s. I know that Grampa had been retired my entire life, and thanks to Dad, that he worked in the field of law when he worked. So, that’s about it, he was in the field of law and he was originally from Kansas. Nice landing. I had it now, Momentum, speed and torque. My head is clear, my trick is improving and time to get home and meet Dad.

Dad was already in the basement by the time I got home. Tossing my helmet and board into my bedroom, I trotted down the stairs to find him. If you have a basement, you probably know what ours looks like. But, if you don’t have one, let me describe it for you.

I find basements wondrous places. I strange mixture of mystery, excitement, fear and disgust. Mysterious because you never know what you are going to find. Dad, by nature, is a pack rat, everything gets saved, and saved to the basement. That’s a good thing. I found his collection of football, basketball and baseball cards from the late ‘60s down there. That was cool. Another time I found this old bright yellow plastic,, thing! It was about two feet in length and had two sets of black plastic buttons on each side. It was some sort of electronic game, because it had a power plug and another plug that went to a TV. When I ask Dad about it, he said that it was a game called Pong. We took it upstairs and plugged it into the old TV in the den. It still worked!! The game was pretty basic. You controlled a little white vertical line, referred to as a paddle. You moved the knobs up and down to get the paddle to move up and down the screen. The goal was to hit this little blip of white, the ball, across the screen so that your opponent could try and hit it back. You could change the speed of the ball, and the size of your paddle. Fun, but definitely a little different from my Xbox.

Excitement and fear often go together. I guess that’s what makes carnival rides so much fun, excitement at the speed, and fear that any minute some bolt is going to come out and you will end up hurling through the air to your death! Not quite the same in basements. I feel excited in the basement because you never know what is lurking in the corners, what is hidden in tucked away boxes. One time I was helping Mom move boxes of books from one shelf to another. As I picked up a box, I felt a strange lump under my hand. As I shifted the box to take a peak, I realized that I had pinned a black widow spider flat against the box with the palm of my hand!! The box flew one way, as I screamed and did the heebe jeebie dance the other. My entire body squirmed and writhed. When I slowly approached the box, now empty with it’s contents scattered across the concrete floor, I realized that the spider was no longer there. It had crawled away to torment me another time.

Disgust comes in many forms in basements. I found a petrified mouse once. It had worked its way between the wall and a metal shelf. Looked just like a regular mouse, except flat as a pancake and stiff as a board. Another time I found a can of tomatoes that had split open and leaked all over the top shelf. Think about it, it must take a lot of force to rip open a metal can. Mom said that the tomatoes had gone bad, and the pressure from the rotting tomatoes had split the can wide open. I haven’t eaten tomatoes from a can since.

Dad was sitting on the old three legged stool in the opening under the stairs. He was surrounded by mounds of boxes. They were stacked higgledy piggledy around him, some at precarious angles, like cardboard mountain lions ready to pounce. I took a minute to just watch Dad. He was just sitting there wading through old pictures. He would stop, snicker, shake his head. Sometimes smiling, sometimes sad, often laughing out loud. I didn’t want him to think that I was spying on, so I backed up out of sight and called for him. “Dad,, you down here?”

“Back here Parker,” he yelled not realizing how close I was.

“What you got?” I ask squatting down next to him..

“Well,, got a little side tracked in another time and place,” he said in that strange mix of happy, sad, lonely and peace.

“Found the box from your Grampa Parker, but got lost in the old pictures of his youth. Look at this one.”

He handed me an old picture that had a light brown tint to it. It was a picture of Gramps, I could tell that even though the person in the picture was no more than 8 or 9 years old. The boy had my Grampa’s face, but it was on a little boy’s body. I don’t mean that it was a Grampa’s face, but that it looked like a little boy version of Grampa Parker. He was standing barefoot on a dusty driveway in a pair of bib overalls that were at least six inches to short for him. His hand was gently petting a bandana around the neck of a large dog. Behind him was a large pile of wood calling out to be stacked.

“This in your Grampa when he was a little boy in Kansas. He grew up on a farm out in the country. Pretty humble beginnings.” Dad had a look of pride on his face as he said this. Funny to think of sons being proud of Dads, I had heard Dad tell me that he was proud of us kids, but I guess it can work the other way also.

“What can you tell me about Grampa without breaking your promise to Mom?” I ask.

“I can tell you everything, but I think that I will only tell you little, the rest you are going to need to find out on your own.” He said, leaving no room for negotiation.

“ He was born and raised on a farm in rural Kansas. He was the youngest of two boys. The farm was not really theirs. He often said that his family were tenant farmers, kind of a fancy way of saying share croppers. They lived on someone else’s land, and what ever they grew, they had to share with the owner of the land. He went to a small high school, graduating class of 13. But, he was a very bright boy and worked hard. He loved his family, but knew that he didn’t want to work on a farm the rest of his life. He graduated top of his class and was accepted into college, where he continued to work hard. He met your Gramma there, received a degree in English, and then was accepted into law school.”

Dad recited this all with an air of calmness and admiration. This was all knew to me, but as Dad worked his way through the story, I could almost envision images of Grampa growing up. Dad was a very good story teller.

“Interesting story about why he decided to go to law school. He and some buddies were sitting in a diner one night having a late bite to eat. In through the door came a family of four. A dad, mom and two little kids. They appeared nervous and fearful. The father ask if they could get a bit to eat, and if there was a place to stay nearby, as their car had broken down a ways down the road. You would think that this would be a reasonable request, but these were often unreasonable times. You see Parker, this family was black, and times were different. The owner of the diner said no, that there was nothing to eat and nowhere to stay. When the father pointed out that he was just wanted some help, the owner called the sheriff. The sheriff was quick to arrive and convinced the family to just head on back to their car and figure out what to do from there.” Dad stopped here and clenched his jaw, his mind a thousand miles and many years away.

“This incident greatly affected your Grampa. He felt that the entire event was unfair, unjust, immoral and shouldn’t be tolerated. He decided right then and there, things needed to change, and that change needed to happen from within the system. And what better place for change than from the laws themselves. That is when he decided to go to law school. For years he wondered what happened to that family.”

I felt numb. Did things like this really happen in our country back then? Did they still happen today? I felt completely disoriented. How would I have reacted if I had been Grampa? How would I have reacted if I were the father of that family?! All he wanted was food and shelter for his family that was in trouble.

“Dad??” I had to reach out and touch his arm to bring him back me. “Are you okay?” I said as gently as I could.

“Yeah, yeah,, I’m fine. It’s good to remember that story now and then,” he said with a grin and a sigh.

“Okay,” he said with enthusiasm and a clap of his hands,” now it is your turn. Somewhere in these boxes are the answers to your questions,,,, have fun.”

He was up and off the stool headed for the stairs.

“That’s it!” I said incredulously. “ No more help?!”

“Nope, remember, it’s the journey not the destination, “ and he was up the stairs two at a time.

Chapter 4

The Box

Good thing that it was summer, that gave me time. Good thing that we have a shady spot out under the English Walnut trees, because I did not plan on sitting in the basement while I searched. Good thing that I really wanted to find out the answer to this puzzle, because it became obvious pretty quick that there was a lot to sort through and that I was on my own.

This is one of my favorite spots. Down past the driveway is a long section of grass. In that grassy area are four old walnut trees. I have seen pictures of this area before our house was built. It was covered in trees. Neat rows of walnut, pear and apple trees covered the acres where the house and yard now stand. Some of the pear and apple trees still remain down on the slope. During the summer it is fun to forage in and around the trees finding just the right piece of fruit. Somehow an apple taste better when it is fresh from the branch and still warm from the sun.

I am not the only one that loves the fruit. Bear scat abounds. Not that I have ever seen the bear itself, but boy, there are times when you have to watch where you step. Piles of bear poop everywhere! But today, it is under the shade of the third walnut that I prepare my search. Stool, three boxes of Grampa’s letters, jug of lemon aide, and a bag of fig newtons, that should be a good start.

Have you ever noticed the smell of old boxes. Mom says that it is the smell of mildew. Maybe, but I think that it is the smell of memories. The more memories that are contained, the mustier the smell. The first box I opened was organized with large manilla envelopes with Grampa’s neat handwriting across the front. They were carefully closed, not glued shut, but closed with those little metal tabs that keep the flap down. The notes on the front included the following: “Letters Home,” ” Love Letters to Libby,” ”Letters from college home to Mom,” and “Law School letters.” Where to start?

About that time Mom came out and joined me in the shade. It was interesting that Dad was leading through this search, yet it was Mom’s Dad that I was researching. Mom sat down next to me and started thumbing through the envelopes.

“Anything catch your eye yet?” she asked.

“Not yet” I mumbled. “still trying to get a feel for what is in here.”

“It’s strange” she began, “but I haven’t even looked through this box yet myself. It has been to soon and I miss him too much.” Maybe that was the reason that Dad was leading through this. Maybe it was all just to painful for her.

“After you get done, maybe you can share with me what you have found?” Mom asked.

“You bet.”

This was a strange Freaky Friday kind of role reversal feeling. Having Mom ask for my guidance and assistance. Mom patted me on the leg, picked up a Fig Newton, and with a “Have fun!” was headed back to the house.

Okay,, sorry to say,, but I have run out of time. If you want to know how this story continues, and ends, come back and see me next year......

I can tell you where the story is headed. Parker will discover that his Grampa was involved with writing the briefs for Thurgood Marshall and the Supreme Court case of Brown vs. Board of Education, the landmark civil rights/education case. This is the case that challenged the notion of separate but equal education wa not really equal at all. It also led the way for school de-segregation. Parker will find copies of Grampa’s law school letters to Mr. Marshall, and will lead Parker to conducting his own research into the case.

The conclusion of the story will have Parker using his pen to write letters to the editor, and to the city council regarding the lack of support for a city run skate park. He will be asked to speak to the city council and present his case. The city council will authorize funds for the skate park, and Parker will be involved in the design.