The pencil

Jack Deatherage

(2/2022) Half way through the longest month of the year- Farch -I'm mostly recovered from my late November bout of COVID. Hoping to never share that virus's latest mutations with anyone else, I have gone back to masking when around others and generally avoiding everyone I can. The self-imposed isolation, the winter chill and the garden on hold until sometime in April have combined to send me searching for some new interest to get into. An online ad for a pencil caught my flitting attention. Fascinating tool, a pencil. Not too heavy, or unwieldy. Easy to misplace if needs be.

In the hands of a street artist (somewhere in France), the image of my someday mom- from a photo my someday dad carried in his wallet in 1950 -was recreated using a pencil. So the story was told to me when I first saw the sketch in the early 1960s. (My stick figures from that time, which no one saved, were also drawn with a pencil. Which is a shame, as I'd like to compare them to the stick figures I draw now.)

In the hands of an author; a pencil can create fantastic worlds, attempt to explain the human condition, entertain, or inform millions of people over centuries. In my hands? The point breaks off within a bare two inches of scribbling. Not that anything I might scratch on paper with a pencil would last any longer than my stick figure drawings from the early 1960s- with the exception of some preliminary architectural designs I left in Mister Massett's Industrial Arts class at the end of the eleventh grade. For some reason he hung on to those penciled sketches. Probably as a "what the hell was this kid thinking" kind of thing?

I suppose I could get busy rearranging the dust, cat and dog hair that mostly hasn't been disturbed during the last ten, maybe fifteen years? Maybe I should sort through the stuff we brought home from the DW's mom's house so we can get to the crap we previously brought in from my mom's apartment? Then I could at least see some of the piles of boxes containing leather working tools from the factory, jewelry making tools, spools of rattail satin, patterns, fishing tackle, books, pamphlets and newsletters stacked haphazardly in any room there's space enough to cram them. Or maybe I could start in the dog room-com-garden room- if I can get around the 100-gallon stock tank with last summer's goldfish in it? But honestly, I'd rather contemplate the pencil.

As with many things in my life I have a love/hate relationship with the pencil. I recall doodling with a first grader's fat red pencil when Sister Rosemary whacked me across the fingers with a metal edged wooden ruler to refocus my wandering attention onto whatever boring topic she was blathering on about. Odd how I don't recall the topic, but still remember the boredom, the ruler, the pain and the embarrassment. Sister wasn't fond of my inability to perfectly copy the letters of the alphabet according to the examples in my writing lessons either. I was never able to develop a comfortable grasp of the pencil, or later a pen. The gods may know why, but I haven't a clue.

By the time I reached poor Mrs. Wenschoff's senior year English class I'd given up on ever writing legibly. She once remarked I had the second worst penmanship she'd seen from a student. I assume she meant in that particular class, though I'd have tried harder for "the worst" if she'd meant in the entire student body.

Sadly, escaping school didn't get me out of having to use pencils and pens. Job applications in those days weren't done online. So my printing hand had to remain legible until most everything switched over to online forms. Gods, was that a relief! Or it was until I decided to record my bread recipes.

I started out with a pen, but quickly realized I needed the ability to erase my scribbles, or learn to decipher the few useful scratchings among all the strike-outs. Back to the pencil boy! Back to the frustration of breaking the points!

Eventually I realized the pencils I used in I.A. class seldom broke on me. So I tooken to root among the odds and ends tucked away on the bookshelves and found some higher quality pencils- drafting pencils I forgot I had. It doesn't take me long to realize the pencil sharpener I'm using easily breaks the graphite if I push too hard in my hurry to shave a point. I force myself to slow down.

A friend once told me about therapeutic practices he engaged in while recovering his sanity, sort of, in a couple of mental institutions. Simple, repetitive tasks that required mental focus until the body's muscles were able to do the job with only minimal supervision from the mind. A form of regenerative meditation? Cool! I'm healing my COVID fogged mind, sort of.

Two things immediately enter my head; the fragrance of freshly shaved graphite and wood- which brings memories of grade school, and the concept of mastery. I focus on mastery as there's nothing I can do about school. Any fool can master sharpening a pencil! Indeed, I occasionally have. However, that's not the mastering I'm interested in. Mastering myself is the goal. I spend half a pencil trying to shave the prefect point that doesn't snap off within two inches of my scribbling.

Soon needing more pencils, I go online. I'm not surprised to find a treasure trove of pencil related articles. I am startled by the number and styles of sharpeners though! But more interesting, and likely to part me from some money, are the sites that sell pencils. Gods! The offerings and pitches for such an apparently simple object! My adult attention deficit disorder is sidelined for hours as I study the various tools for communicating my thoughts to my future self, once I learn to write legibly. But more importantly, I could sit and sharpen pencils all day as I seek the perfect point! And so many pencils to choose from!

Glory to the gods what led me to the Musgrave Pencil Company's "Tennessee Red" (trademarked) pencil! Not only is it superior to the cheaper No. 2s I have, but it's built from Eastern Red Cedar so it's fragrance won't trigger unpleasant memories of school. $13 a dozen, plus shipping.

While I'm showing the pencil sites to the DW she mutters "Gods! Why can't you just stay focused on building the garden?"

"Oh look!" I point to a new website. "Fountain pens! I could learn to write in cursive!"

Did I hear a sob?

"Have you looked up sites that sell straitjackets?" The DW grumbles.

That question confuses me. The DW has seldom shown interest in straitjackets, but I suppose she could be suffering with COVID brain fog as well? Or maybe women wearing straitjackets is a current fad? And if it isn't, maybe it should be?

"Yeesh! Dial back the Balor evil eye woman! We'll be needing another gallon of skin care lotion if you scorch me again!"