I recently went to an estate sale. For those of you unfamiliar with the variance between an estate sale and a yard sale, the former is the sell-off of the personal effects of someone who has died. This, by its nature, implies they would have some good stuff to be had, things that they did not part with while still living.
The reality of estate sales is, for a large part, a testament to the hoarding ability of a person over a long span of time. To some degree, most of us are hoarders. We hold onto things that we are not sure what to do with, certain in the knowledge that a use will be found at some point. And so it finds a special place—a drawer behind the fridge in the garage, where it remains, never called upon again. Until you die.
George Carlin, the late comedian, had a wonderful piece about the ‘stuff’ we collect through our lives. It is an addiction, of sorts.
So at the estate sale, I see linens—more linens than one would use in a lifetime—all neatly ironed and folded. First clue that the deceased was female. There is a plethora of figurines, dishware, flatware, paintings, embroideries, plants, clothes, and shoes. I have no use for any of these things.
In another musty room, odd items are laid out: a typewriter, glasses that Liberace or Elton John would have liked, a letter opened, envelopes rubber-banded together and yellow with age. Receipts collected, marbles in a jar, scotch-tape rolls that have no stick. Pencils—lots of pencils of varying color, ball pens with ad endorsements. And there, off to one side, a small, dainty fountain pen. This is what I am looking for.
I pick it up, open the cap. It is quite old. The nib is in great shape with just some dried ink across it. It is a Parker 51. Vintage. My grandfather owned one that I have and use regularly. I unscrew the back and find one of the old squeeze fillers. It looks crusty—dried ink on the inside. But does it work? Gently I squeeze it to see the plasticity of the bulb. Seems okay. I test it again, placing the top of my hand by the nip to see if I can feel any airflow. I do. The pen is good.
I can soak it in warm water and allow the bulb to soften and eventually eject the dried ink. When I am done, it will be a great pen.
Now for the close. I weave my way to the estate handler in charge. “How much for this?” I ask. It has no label, considered a hard-to-move item. No one wants fountain pens anymore.
“Two bucks?” the handler asks.
I look at the pen and back at her, then nod and hand her the cash. I leave with my find. I can resell that pen for a nice sum of money. I know this. I also know that I will not sell it; I will instead add it to my ever-increasing collection of fountain pens. I hoard fountain pens. And I use them. Just not at once. I have favorites depending on my mood, depending on where I am going and what I am doing. Each has a place. When I know that I will not use them, I clean them well and put them away. One day I will sell some. Right now there are too many other things to do.
~William
PS: Have you read my short story collections? I have 2. One is Distant Rumors, which you can get FREE HERE by joining my mailing list, and the other is The Era of Synthetic Reality, a collection of science fiction stories.