Writing with my Grandad
“What are you doing, Grandad?” I asked.
“I’m writing a letter to my friend, Peter, in Germany,” he said.
My Grandad was a WW2 veteran and got to know Peter after the war. Peter was a German soldier; I never knew how their paths crossed in 1945, and even though they would be firing bullets at each other at one point, they stayed in touch and frequently wrote to each other with family updates and general life goings-on.
“Why are you writing? Why don’t you call him?” I asked.
“Well…. I enjoy writing, Ian.” He said.
And he did. I don’t think there was a time growing up when he wasn’t writing.
On his desk was a giant green blotting-pad. He had fountain pen after fountain pen carefully laid out with the ink well at arm’s length away for him to dip the nib into. Everything was set up for him to write under the yellowish glow of a dim-lit lamp that showered his desk.
He had this beautiful italic style, rotating his wrist to achieve a “lick” as the ink ran low. The way he “flicked” the pen. It was art like Dali signing his paintings. When I read his work, I could tell the times he had refilled his fountain pen because the sentences went from a strong black ink to dark grey as he wrote before returning to black again on a fresh sentence.
His entire life, he put pen to paper. He would write opinion pieces for the local newspaper. He would write to his MP. He wrote a book about his time in WW2. He would send letters to me in the mail even though we lived 2 miles away. I loved opening those neatly addressed letters to read what he had to say in his beautiful way. I still remember the salutation on the envelope, “Master Ian Curbishley,” followed by my address.
As I got older, he would sit with me to show me how to write with a fountain pen. How to fill the ink, blot the nib, and get the right angle to ensure the ink applies to the paper. He gave me a pen, too. Opening a fountain pen in class aged 8 when everyone was using a pencil was quite a moment.
He showed me that writing slowly ensures the ink stays consistent on the page with no scratching and focuses you on writing in straight lines (he never wrote on lined paper). He made writing important, like it was a classy and elegant pastime to enjoy and something that everyone should do. I emulated his style, and to this day, I write joined up in italic. I give little licks at the end of words, and give me any piece of paper without lines, and I will write as straight as an arrow. His influence has stayed with me, and without observing and practicing with him, my writing wouldn’t have had the boost at such a young age as it did.
As time passed and technology advanced, he relented and bought a word processor in the last year of his life. I don’t think he wanted to, but he got one anyway.
But when I entered his office after he died, the word processor was unplugged on one side of a shelf, discarded, almost. The only thing on his desk was his writing book in the centre of his blotting pad, ink well at arm’s length, and his fountain pens neatly arranged, ready to write… just like they always had been.
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