It is an anachronism. It belongs to the era before computers. It is a fountain pen made by Parker. The body is gray-green with a silver top and a clip in a faded gold tone. If you look on the base you can barely see the engraved name of "Jack Wilson." The pen is so old it doesn't take cartridges. You fill it from a bottle of ink. This pen is a part of history. It belonged to my Dad.

I don't know when Dad bought this pen but I suspect he acquired it during World War II. The ink on back of pictures from then looks like it was written by a fountain pen. It was early in Dad's enlistment in the war that he made an important contribution to the war effort. This is how he described it.

I got acquainted with a Master Sergeant named Guy Illian. Guy had been in the service since 1932 and was Senior NCO at the Radar School at Keesler. One day I caught him nursing a beer and looking puzzled. He told me that the school had been asked to develop an electronic device that would identify friendly aircraft when their blip showed up on the radar screen. They were looking for something that would give some kind of pulsed signal that could be uniquely keyed to identify friend from foe. For some reason I thought of the trouble we had had with the Zenith radios. When I explained this to Guy he grabbed my arm and yelled, “Come with me.” Even though Radar School was classified and off limits to uncleared personnel, some of the offices and labs were not. Going to one of these labs, Guy had me give a detailed description of what I had just told him while he started connecting electronic components and instruments together. Putting a blip on the screen by electronic simulation, he attached the output of his mock-up to the simulator, and we watched the blip flash in sync with the pulsing action. A few days later the School Commandant requested my presence at a demonstration to be given to some visiting “firemen” from Washington. In addition to the CO, Sgt. Illian and myself were a half-a-dozen other people only two of whom were in uniform. One was an Air Corp Major General, and the other was a Signal Corps Colonel. Guy explained to the group that since I had given them the idea, the CO and he felt I should be present. He then proceeded to demonstrate the device. Every one appeared satisfied, particularly one husky older individual that Guy told me afterwards was a Colonel Donovan.

It was at this time that my Mom and Dad met. It started off as a letter from Dad to my Mom asking for the address of a mutual friend. The pen was busy as my Dad courted my Mom. She was a naïve farm girl living at home with her parents and working at the soda fountain in the neighborhood drugstore. He had been on his own since his early teens and was at an Army camp getting ready to go to war. They corresponded by mail for a long time before they met. They eloped to St. Louis to get married right before he shipped out. She continued to live with her parents.

The pen would have crossed the Pacific to Tinian. It would have survived the typhoon of October 1945. It wrote constant letters to the new bride in the United States. It would have witnessed when Dad, who left the Army after the war at Mom's request, signed up on the G.I. Bill and went on to school at Wabash College in Crawfordsville, Indiana. My late brother Mike and I were born while Dad was getting the first of his degrees. Some of my earliest memories are of Dad writing with the pen.

The pen would have written numerous essays, reports, thesis, test answers, etc., as Dad majored in both math and physics. Dad had a mind that could not be reigned into one subject. Throughout his life he continued to study and learn. He wrote constantly. The pen recorded thoughts ranging from funny to profound. It wrote out his life story before Dad got his first computer.

Dad was always a teacher. When I was away from home at college and afterwards I received numerous letters from him. I could always tell when they were written with the pen. The difference between ballpoint pen writing and fountain pen writing is a matter of elegance. Dad had a unique and elegant handwriting. It is only fitting that it was written by an elegant pen. I learned from him. In fact he was the only person who really understood me and I was able to learn so much from him because he knew me so well.

It was from my Dad that I learned the most important things in life. Dad taught me that the words "all men are created equal" meant just that. He taught me the importance of never judging anyone by the color of their skin. When I was in second grade I attended a school in New Mexico that had a dance festival every year. There were more girls than boys in the school and I had a male partner. One of the girls in the class refused to dance with an African-American girl and wanted my partner instead. I couldn't understand why the teacher was hesitant to ask me. Of course I would switch partners and to this day I remember the embarrassment of being brought in front of the class and praised for something that to my mind wasn't a big deal. Dad had taught me not to be prejudiced. The pen had written essays on equality and I took them to heart.

Dad taught me that it was all right to dream. I was one of the people who always dreamed big dreams. I dreamed of exploring space and Dad and I were the ones wiping away tears when Armstrong stepped foot on the moon. Dad and I shared books on astronomy and talked about it frequently. The pen had noted down the equations used in studying space during Dad's physics classes.

Dad and I shared a love of parapsychology. We loved ghost stories. We read books on the Bermuda triangle and everything else we could find on similar subjects. I was taught to never be totally satisfied and that I should always look and explore with an open mind. I frequently got letters from Dad asking if I had read certain books. It was funny the number of same books we had in common.

Dad was a scientist but he was also a religious man. He saw no reason that he couldn't acknowledge both. He studied all religions although he considered himself to be a Christian. He wrote extensively on religion. Again I was taught to allow everyone their own beliefs whether they were religious or atheist or agnostic. The key word according to my Dad was "respect." He didn't push his views onto others and respected people's right to their own views. He expected the same in return.

It was Dad who taught me activism. Because of his security clearance and working for the government he had to be careful but that didn't stop him from quietly urging me on in my activism. I remember the year we had tried to get a gun control law passed in California in spite of the well funded campaign against us headed by Charlton Heston. Dad's only concern was that I be careful.

When I was cleaning out my parent's house after my brother Mike died I found the pen. Dad died in 1999 of a sudden heart attack. I hadn't seen the pen in years. It was one of the things that came home with me. I had bought my own fountain pen because of Dad's love for his pen and I actually had a bottle of ink that I could fill his pen from. Although most of my writing is by computer these days because of the severe arthritis in my hands if I need to write something on paper I use Dad's pen. When I am using this pen I can feel Dad with me. I can hear the many conversations we had. I remember the life lessons he taught me. I feel his strength in me.

It was Dad who enabled me to be a caregiver. He taught me how to deal with Mom. He had acted as a buffer between us for so many years because he knew Mom didn't understand me. He allowed me to be the geek I was meant to be. Eventually Mom did discover my worth as a person. He taught me the ability to keep calm. He was a first aid instructor and carried a professional medical kit in his car. He had certificates from the California Highway Patrol from when he came across serious auto accidents and was able to save lives while waiting for ambulances. It was because of him that I was able to realize that something was seriously wrong with my brother Reid and was able to deal with a 30 blood sugar level, grand mal seizures, while listening for the paramedics, and following the instruction from 911 all the time feeding Reid Kayro syrup and saving his life. I was the one who thought of the Kayro syrup to get the blood sugar up fast. Dad had faith in me that I could handle anything and because of that faith I have handled hell and defeated it.

One of the letters I received from my Dad was after I had sent him a poem I wrote. He told me that the poem meant a lot to him. He told me that the poem was him.

Castles Made of Sand

I don't know where I'm going,
And I don't know where I am.
I've been following this dream so long
That I can barely stand.
I don't know what tomorrow brings
Or what the fates have planned,
I can only wait and see
If my castles are made of sand.

Dreams are made of clouds
And waves with silvery crests.
Dreams are made of star dust
And touch with a warm caress.
Dreams are made of love
And hopes you can't forget.
Dreams can keep you going
When there is nothing left.

My dreams have kept me going
Through long and lonely years.
Dreams have kept my faith alive
And dried my many tears.
But dreams are gone by morning
And daylight brings new fears,
That my castle walls will crumble
And leave me standing here.

My castles may be made of sand
And won't stand the test of time.
At least I dared to dream
And the memories are all mine.
For if you can not dream,
If you dare not cross the line
Into hopes and promises
Both subtle and sublime;
Your life will be as empty
As that lonely stretch of land,
Without even the beauty
Of a castle made of sand.

Castles Made of Sand

Me (Michele) with my Dad Jack L. Wilson

The pen.