The Price of Corn

“They say the eggs is good here.” Wardell stood at the table’s end looking at the couple seated in a window booth, their menus temporarily forgotten in the heat of a muted argument. All around them Lorna’s Big L sang with the normal early morning clatter of dishes and the jangle of dropped silverware. The see-through window into the kitchen framed an overloaded waitress complaining about her order of biscuits and gravy being late, while the jukebox crooned on about a rhinestone cowboy.

“Are you our waiter?” Momentarily confused, the woman looked blankly at Wardell and picked up a menu.

Ignoring her question Wardell raised his eyes to the sight of cars and trucks passing on the big highway outside. “I reckon most of them folks are headed up to Wichita. Y’all just passing through? I live up here a ways at the Bannerman Home, but I come down here for breakfast two, three times a week. It’s my wife’s place. I can’t think of her name right now, but she can cook up a good plate of breakfast. You’d be right pleased with an order of them eggs and sausage.”

They sat frozen, looking up at Wardell, their mouths parked open and round like bottle tops, unsure whether to order eggs and sausage, ask for a few more minutes or get up and leave.

Lorna suddenly appeared at Wardell’s shoulder, took hold of her husband’s hand and smiled at the seated couple. “I hope Wardell hadn’t been frazzling you folks. Let me get you some coffee and one of the girls to get your order. Wardell, why don’t you come on over to the counter and sit by me.”

They left the man and woman, moving back to the counter where Wardell sat meekly on a stool by the register. “You didn’t eat much of that eggs and toast Betty Ann made for you, Wardell. You want a piece of pie?”

“No, I’m awright. Not too hungry I guess. I thought about when I was walking down here to have me a plate of fried chicken at the place on the way, but they wadn’t open. Then I saw Charlie and Rita sittin’ up there in the funeral home.”

“Now Wardell, you know Rita’s off to school in Tulsa and Charlie’s down at his mother’s house.”

“I thought I saw ’em sittin’ up there.”

“I called Mr Holden and he’s going to drive down here to pick you up and carry you back to Bannerman.”

“Awright, then.”

Wardell had been living at the Bannerman Home for two years. That happened about eighteen months after he suffered a stroke. The stroke hadn’t affected him severely in any physical way, apart from some slowness about his movements after he came out of the hospital. This was nothing to compare with the damage to his mind. His memory was now scattered and his actions had become unpredictable. It eventually reached a point where he disappeared from the house one day, Lorna looking everywhere before finding him sitting at Olney’s gas station four miles away drinking Dr Peppers and smoking cigarettes. He never in his life smoked before the stroke. The next time it happened she found him sitting by an irrigation canal shucking an armload of corn he had picked from the acres of cornfields stretched out behind him.

There came a time when his wife could no longer put off going back to work at the diner. It never had been the kind of place that could be left to a manager, and Lorna soon caught on to the problem of staying home to look after Wardell while the girls at the diner ran things. The business just wasn’t as good without her there.

Lorna and Wardell had grown children with lives of their own, all of them living off in other places. Just the two of them now, and they had to manage themselves. Lorna hired a lady to come stay with Wardell while she was at the diner, but that didn’t last long. Not long after Mrs Tarper came Wardell got out the house and jumped in Cedar Lake with all his clothes on. The woman had to wrestle him out of the lake, but not before he pulled her into the water with him. She couldn’t swim a stroke and quit that same day, figuring she’d better get out while she was still breathing.

It was then that Lorna began thinking about the Bannerman Home. Her Aunt Mitzi spent the last five years of her life there and seemed happy enough. Lorna visited many times and saw the place as clean, well looked after, and somehow or other not like a real nursing home. In his present state Wardell didn’t have any objections, maybe didn’t even realize a big difference.

Lorna was adding up a check when the telephone rang at the diner later. “Yeallo. Lorna’s Big L. This is Lorna.”

“Miz Lorna, this is Bertie Holden at Bannerman. I’m sorry but I can’t drive down there to pick up your husband. Old Mrs Pickens is having a fit about being driven up to Emporia to see her daughter and can’t stand to wait another minute. You reckon he can get back here by himself?”

Lorna told him not to worry about it, go on and take Mrs Pickens, that Wardell could walk back to Bannerman. “That was Mr Holden, Wardell. He can’t get here to pick you up. You wanna just walk on back by yourself?”

“Awright.”

“You want something to eat ’fore you go? Kinda hot out there. I’m gonna give you a cup of Iced tea to take with you. Betty Ann’s making a pot roast today. I’ll bring you a plate for your dinner tonight.”

“Ask her to cook me up some corn.”

Lorna took her husband out to the sidewalk, gave him the iced tea and pointed him off in the direction of Bannerman. “You go straight on back now, Wardell. Don’t be stopping along the way.” She told herself she would call in half an hour to make sure he got there without turning off somewhere.

Two hours later the folks at Bannerman still hadn’t seen Wardell and Lorna was out driving around to see if she could find her husband. She went to the places familiar from his earlier wanderings, but was told at each one that Wardell had not been around. Little by little her worry started building up.

No one had seen him by six o’clock that evening. Police sent their only three patrol cars out onto the auxiliary farm roads running around and between the cornfields, but found nothing. Mr Holden, back from Emporia, drove up and down the streets of town, stopping at each corner to call out the lost man’s name. Neighbors, shop clerks, children—none of them had seen Wardell.

Lorna walked about the house, praying that Wardell was nearby, that he had made his way home looking for something or someone. She called Bannerman again. With no news, she rushed out to the car but turned back when she heard the telephone ring. Nothing. Betty Ann calling to say that he hadn’t shown up at the diner. Lorna threw down the telephone cursing Mrs Pickens.

It took a little time. They found Wardell two days later stretched out in the middle of a ten acre cornfield, lost, unable to find a way out, dead of dehydration.

Remembering Barry

For some time I’ve wanted to write something about recently deceased southern writer, Barry Hannah. Barry played some part in my childhood as our mothers were sisters, and he and I first cousins. There is a stash of old words and images, days, nights and childhood games that continue to occupy a corner of my memory and keep this cousin fresh in mind. To my regret, the last time I saw Barry was in 1972, shortly before his first novel was published by Viking Press. That novel was Geronimo Rex, which launched the writer, and was subsequently nominated for the National Book Award. Barry was in New York for a meeting with the publisher and we spent a few hours visiting and catching up. He died of a heart attack on March 1 of this year.

The strange thing is, as much as I liked Barry and respected his talent, I have never been a big fan of his books and stories. I’ve read enough of his writing to realize it’s not a matter of one novel or one story, but an impression that encompasses a good part of his work. On occasion I have stumbled upon this or that story in some anthology that truly grabbed me, shook me and wrung me out, but these times have been fewer than I would wish.

This morning I pulled down for the second time a collection of stories by southern writers, one which includes a story written by Barry sometime around 2000, and first published in the magazine, Le Monde. The collection is titled, The Cry of an Occasion: Fiction from the Fellowship of Southern Writers, and was published in 2001. The book features nineteen stories by as many writers, and includes the above mentioned Barry Hannah story, “Death and Joy.” This one story is by no means the centerpiece of the collection, but it is still one of those pieces by Barry that I found some connection with, and read through two times back to back.

Though I cannot say so with any assurance, I suspect the story grew out of an acquaintance, sort of friendship Barry had with a local character in Oxford, Mississippi, location of Ole Miss University, where he was writer-in-residence for something like twenty-eight years.

Elkin Dixon Willifox in “Death and Joy” is a character the writer likens to Tennessee Williams. From most perspectives the man is an almost pitiful caricature of an aging southern queen, a drunk who finds some vestige of comfort in his odd and often ridiculed existence. He is one who falls in love with any man who treats him however briefly with kindness. Hannah links his character to the famous playwright with reference to the well-known Blanche Dubois line from A Streetcar Named Desire, “I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.”

The story ends with regret that Willifox dies without ever receiving the respect due to him, either for his mere humanity, or for his talent as a near poet. Only after it is too late does the narrator lament that he didn't have the courage to take the old queen’s hand in that ‘good ole boy’ atmosphere of southern Mississippi at the time.

Most fans of Barry Hannah’s books would call this a minor work, but however you classify it, there is evidence enough in its ten or so pages to show why one critic described the writer as, “One of those young writers who is brilliantly drunk with words and could at gunpoint write the life story of a telephone pole.”

Mabie Todd Swan

Still caught up in the tray of fifteen fountain pens which I am looking over (cleaning and polishing) for a friend. Yesterday’s focus was on the Montblanc Marcel Proust from Germany, and today the spotlight moves to a vintage pen manufactured in England sometime in the 1950s, a green marble Mabie Todd Swan Leverless with gold clip and trim.

Production of Swan fountain pens began around 1890 in the US. Manufacture continued here until the late 1930s, with the quality and production volume declining sharply towards the end of the decade. Meanwhile, the British Mabie Todd firm was enjoying great success, and the Swan model was widely advertised as “the pen of the British Empire.” The company’s factory and pen works were destroyed during the blitz of World War II, but they rebuilt and initially prospered during the immediate postwar period. However, production ceased altogether before the end of the 1950s—casualty of a new era of ballpoint pens.

Swan Leverless pens were offered in a wide range of colorful celluloid alongside the similar Swan lever-fillers, which were less expensive. By the early 1950s the Swan was being offered in twist-filling versions.

The pen in my friend’s collection is in good, though nowhere near mint condition. The green marble celluloid barrel and cap are in excellent shape, testimony to the durability of the celluloid. The gold plated clip with its engraved swan emblem is slightly out of line, but hardly noticeable. The worst wear is seen in the three gold rings at the base of the cap, which show a good bit of brassing. You have to look closely, but the gold swan emblem set into the top of the pen’s cap has suffered some corrosion, though not so much to the swan as the raised lip surrounding it. Hardly anything that stands out, and without any effect upon performance, but a tiny detraction.

It’s in the nib that the Mabie Todd Swan shows its flare. This one has a No. 4 Eternal 14k M nib, one that still moves across the page laying down ink like creamery butter. I gave the nib a thorough cleaning in my Citizen ultrasonic cleaner, and later while wiping it and examining it under a magnifying glass, got to wondering about the origin of the heart-shaped ink intake hole. I was unable to find any information on that design, but it certainly does catch the eye.

One aspect of the leverless twist-fill valve on this fountain pen still puzzles me. Normally we expect the twist-fill motion on the valve to have at least five or six turns, a number that encourages the thought that the pen is getting a good fill. Contrary to expectation, the Swan mechanism is a short screw stem and allows no more than two to three turns, leaving you to wonder if the reservoir has been adequately filled with ink. I haven’t had occasion to write with the pen long enough to determine how much ink is going into the barrel or reservoir, but the first impression is that it isn't a lot of ink. After a single page, I sense that the line is getting dryer and the pen close to empty. Could that be right? Perhaps there is something I don’t understand about filling the pen.

Nonetheless, I like a vintage pen and am willing to accept some points or attributes (or deterioration) along with the good. There is no question that the No. 4 Eternal M nib writes in precisely the manner I most prefer in a fountain pen. I have even begun to wonder if the same nib would fit in any of my own fountain pens. It leaves me with something to look into.

Meanwhile, I would give the Mabie Todd Swan an excellent report card.

Remembering Marcel Proust

In 1999 Montblanc released a new addition to its famous writers series, an elegant octagonal fountain pen named the Marcel Proust. The number of pens produced was 17,000, each of which bears an individual serial number.

The pen is 5.25 inches (13.3 cm) long capped and 5.75 inches (14.5 cm) posted, and weighs in the neighborhood of 32-35 grams. The weight comes from the 925 sterling silver barrel and silver trim. It is definitely a heavy pen, and has a larger than usual white star Montblanc emblem on the cap. The eight-sided barrel is delicately engraved, and includes an engraved Marcel Proust signature. The cap and the top are jet black precious resin. The nib is Rhodium-plated 18 karat gold, and bears the engraving of an hourglass, which is said to be a tribute to Proust’s most popular work, Remembrance of Things Past.

The pen has what is to me (and my large hands) a good heft and feels comfortable in the hand. A beautiful fountain pen, no question about it, but the medium nib on the one I am testing is as hard and as stiff as a rock and moves across the paper—Clairefontaine brushed vellum 90g—with what feels like reluctance. Possible that the stiffness is due to a lack of use, that the pen has not been broken in, to use a term more common to shoes. I can’t help thinking what Nobuhiko Moriyama at Fullhalter in Tokyo could do with the nib, to grind some of the starch out of it. Mr Moriyama worked at Montblanc for years before leaving to open his own shop. I once took my stiff Montblanc 146 to him with the same complaint. He offered to adjust the nib, but told me I could probably improve the situation by using the pen more often. I followed that advice and he was right.

I have been cleaning and polishing this Marcel Proust pen for a friend, who by his own admission is more comfortable with a ballpoint. Too bad he didn’t choose to buy the ballpoint version of the Marcel Proust instead of the fountain pen. On the other hand, maybe he will grow to like the fountain pen.

MONTBLANC FAMOUS WRITERS SERIES

1992 - Ernest Hemingway

1993 - Agatha Christie

1994 - Oscar Wilde

1995 - Voltaire

1996 - Alexander Dumas

1997 - Dostoevsky

1998 - Edgar Allan Poe

1999 - Marcel Proust

2000 - Schiller

2001 - Charles Dickens

2002 - F. Scott Fitzgerald

2003 - Jules Verne

2004 - Franz Kafka

2005 - Cervantes

2006 - Virginia Woolf

2007 - William Faulkner

2008 - George Bernard Shaw

2009 - Thomas Mann

2010 - Mark Twain

Bounty of Pens

An interesting package came today. But it was one of those double-edge sword kind of things. I’ve had much of the afternoon to examine, clean and polish most of fifteen different fountain pens, a fun and also educational afternoon for me any way you look at it. The other side of it is, the pens are not mine and there is a measure of covetousness about handling so many classy fountain pens that have to go back to the owner in a week’s time.

This past Friday while in town for the day, a friend wondered if I would be willing to take a look at his collection of fountain pens and give him some idea of what he has. That might impress you as odd, someone with a fine collection of pens, but with little knowledge of exactly what it is he has lined up in a glass showcase. But this is someone who likes the look of fountain pens, finds the shape, the design and colors interesting, though isn’t driven to write with the pens, or to even ink them in some cases. At least five of the pens I looked at today have never been inked. Maybe his fascination with the pens is a little like my own interest in tobacco related objects. I don’t smoke, but am drawn to the paraphernalia of smoking.

Of the fifteen fountain pens (and one Montblanc ballpoint), so far I have only looked closely at ten of them, and have not written with any of them. For the moment, the ten are all newly cleaned and polished, but still without ink. Filling the pens and trying them out is something I will do over the next couple of days.

The ten I have chosen to showcase here are as follows, from left to right:

1. Lamy AL-Star with a fine nib

2. Montblanc Meisterstuck 146 / B nib

3. Montblanc Marcel Proust / M nib

4. Porsche P'3110 / M nib

5. Alfred Dunhill, model unknown / M nib

6. Visconti Voyager / B nib

7. Mabie Todd Swan Leverless / No. 4 Eternal nib

8. Louis Cartier, model unknown / M nib

9. Waterman Philéas / F nib

10. Visconti Van Gogh / M nib

I took photos of two pairs that I particularly like, though a writing test will come later. The first pair (second photo) is the Montblanc 146 and the Marcel Proust. I have a 146 of my own, but without the silver cap. The Marcel Proust is from the famous writers series and is very handsome.

The third photo shows the Swan Leverless, one I like because of its vintage look. It is paired with the Porsche P'3110, which has a very unusual barrel of woven gold and silver bands.

I will say more about these fountain pens after I’ve had a chance to try them out on paper with an assortment of inks. Stay tuned.

Color of Paradise

“I have come to the unalterable decision—

to go and live forever in Polynesia.

Then I can end my days in peace and freedom.

Without thoughts of to-morrow and this

eternal struggle against idiots.”

— Paul Gauguin, October 1894

So off he went. It was his first trip to Tahiti, lasting from 1891 to 1893. The paintings from Gauguin’s days in Polynesia are the ones that most of us immediately identify with his name. The work has a sense of serenity, and about them he wrote in his journal: ‘It is indeed life outdoors, but however in the forest, forgotten streams, women whispering in an immense palace decorated by nature itself, with all the wealth hidden in Tahiti. Hence all the fabulous colors, the blazing but filtered and silent atmosphere.’

Paul Gauguin died in the Marquesas Islands in 1903 in poverty. Though his paintings from the Polynesia years glow with the spirit of his genius, the last years were difficult ones. His health was poor and he found himself in trouble with the government for inciting the natives not to pay taxes, nor to send their children to schools that taught only evil.

Gauguin’s journal of Polynesia is a magnificent document, and thanks to John Miller and Chronicle Books we have access to that journal in a translation published in 1994. The illustrated journal is called Noa Noa, which in English means ‘fragrant, fragrant.’ This volume reunites the journals with the original etchings, as Gauguin intended. The final lines in Noa Noa are…

Ye gentle breezes of the south and east

That join in tender play above my head,

Hasten to the neighboring isle.

There you will find in the shadows of his favorite tree,

Him who has abandoned me.

Tell him that you have seen me weep.

Winter Park

A Saturday in town…

It was too late to drive back to the beach on Friday night, so I stayed in town and spent today with my sister. Maitland and Winter Park are interesting places to spend time, so finding things to do was no problem, and it provided the chance to knockabout with my sister, always a pleasure.

There was a farmer’s market in Winter Park, and a visit several years ago guaranteed there would be a lot to see. Even without the farmer’s market, Winter Park is a beautiful little ‘town’ to stroll through, window shop and maybe have a bite of lunch or a cool drink. No mistaking the fact that it is a posh area geared toward people who don’t mind spending a little money, but you don’t have to spend anything to enjoy an hour or two of walking around.

The farmer’s market is a dazzling array of fruit, vegetables, plants, flowers and herbs. There are places to have smoothies, coffee or tea, and a fairly wide selection of things like breads, bagels and other such, plus cheeses, honey, jams and jellies, and even a counter lined with exotic kinds of quiche. There was one vendor featuring homemade relishes and pickled vegetables that I couldn’t get past without sampling a bunch of different relishes. They were all knock out good and I ended up buying three jars—pickled red peppers, pickled corn relish and cabbage salad—all made with fresh ingredients, all pure, all chemical-free.

Later, at Barnes & Noble my sister bought the delightful book by Clyde Edgerton, Walking Across Egypt, and I got a copy of the just released Jonathan Frazen novel, Freedom.

Turning beachward in mid-afternoon, I filled up the gas tank, paying 21¢ a gallon LESS than what the same gas costs at the beach.

Back at the beach, I discovered it crawling-jumping-hopping with weekend visitors. And how I long for Tuesday, the return to a quiet beach empty of people.