My father had a little steel box filled with pens. I never knew why he kept those pens, because most of them did not have refills in them and could not be used. Also, even though we were not in the internet era and everyone used a pen or pencil to write, the number of pens in that box felt disproportionate to the needs of our family.
I must admit that the variety of pens made me go and open that box regularly. There were all kinds of pens, from ball pens to fountain pens that needed ink to be poured into them, and of all sizes. I think there was also a pen with refills of four colours that is still popular today. I found myself playing with them, examining them and finding new ways to entertain myself using them. I had many actual toys, unlike my older siblings when they were children, so I could not say I was short on playthings. However, I was so fascinated by these pens in a box that I invented a fun game to play with them.
I would go into the converted balcony room we had at home with the box. This room was adjacent to the living room and was now a closed space. A steel cupboard was here, and so was a door on which hung a leather blackboard. It was a supple kind of board that could be rolled away when unused.
I removed all the pens from the box, and they stepped out like students getting out of a school bus. The fountain pens looked solid and smart, and they had the allure of men wearing suits, so they became the boys in my class. The ball pens, when held backwards, looked like they had long, straight ponytails and, being smaller than the fountain pens, became the girls in my class.
I would position each student on a tile in the room. There was enough floor space to have one or two students on a tile. Once they all settled in, I became the teacher and spent the afternoon giving them lessons from my school books. Sometimes I even got my homework done while I played with the pens.
All the students in my class were happy and well behaved, and I noticed each one as I took attendance at the start of class. After class, they got back onto the school bus, eager to return the next day. Who would say they were empty and void of life or use?
I often wonder about what we can learn from what we collect and hoard? What do these things tell us about ourselves or what we lack? I think my father’s life, shaped by giving up his education at 14 to support his large family, made him cherish those pens.They were perhaps symbols of hope for him, maybe he planned to use them and give them purpose someday. Or perhaps they could represent him trying to fill himself up and pouring his all into everyone else’s pages of life. They could also simply be him saving every potentially useful object for a rainy day.
My father did not collect many kinds of things, but he did collect those empty pens. His dream for an ideal future using them and my use of them while dreaming about my future coexisted in that little steel box. Those were our pens of hope.
#hoarders #hoarding #uselessstuff #pencollection #
Like this story? You may like these from the earlier Chronicles
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