The Tools That Taught Me to Write

 

I am a writer. I like to write. I love the written word in all its forms — crossword puzzles, word searches, the satisfying rhythm of a sentence that finally lands just right. Words have always felt like companions to me, steady and familiar, waiting to be arranged into something meaningful.

And I love pens. I’ve gathered a small but meaningful collection over the years: the wood‑grain pens that feel like little sculptures in my hand, the “stars & stripes” pen emblazoned with "God Bless America" on its barrel. It came from a dear friend for my 60th birthday; the sleek “bullet” pen, and a handful of others that each carry their own small story. My newest addition came from Winslow, Arizona — a wood‑grain pen stamped with “Standin’ on the Corner Winslow Arizona”, complete with a little guitar leaning against a streetlight on one side and the Route 66 shield on the other. It’s the kind of pen that isn’t just a writing tool but a souvenir of a moment, a place, a lyric brought to life.

Three of my more unique pens, From left: Standin' on the Corner," "God Bless America" stars & stripes, and my bullet pen.

And the neat thing about pens is having to figure them out. Every new pen is a tiny mystery. Will this one twist to reveal its writing tip — and if so, does it twist at the top or the bottom? Or will it click at the top with that satisfying little snap? Or, like my “bullet” pen from Shipshewana, will it have that clever sliding mechanism — the little metal slide you pull down to lock it in place, the tip emerging from the bullet end like a secret being revealed? What will they think of next?

And what ever happened to blue ink? Somewhere along the way, without really noticing it, I evolved from blue to exclusively black ink. Every pen I reach for now writes in black. There’s the occasional red pen, of course — reserved for those special bits of correspondence or documents that need a little “red flag” emphasis. But blue? It quietly slipped out of my life.

That is, until we updated our legal documents recently and were told we had to sign in blue ink — to prove the signatures were originals and not photocopies. Touché. After years of abandoning blue, there it was again, stepping back into the spotlight for one last official duty.

And the irony of all this — pens, ink, handwriting — isn’t lost on me. The handwritten letter has almost vanished these days. Once upon a time, a letter felt like a small treasure, something you held, unfolded, reread. Now the U.S. Postal Service seems in no particular hurry to deliver anything; letters wander the country like lost tourists before finally reaching their destination. Meanwhile, the typewriter — less personal, maybe even a bit cold — allows thoughts to spill out immediately, without waiting for my fingers to catch up with my brain. It’s a tradeoff, really: the personality of handwriting versus the rush of thoughts that demand expression now. One offers warmth; the other offers speed. And somehow, both still matter.

Of course, pens were only part of my education. The real foundation came from typewriters. I’ve written before about my affection for those clunky, glorious machines, but it bears repeating: typewriters are awesome. I earned a living off the skills I learned in Mr. Bjerke’s typing class — those old Royal typewriters with the green, blank keys that forced you to learn touch‑typing or perish.

They sat in perfect rows, those Royals, like soldiers ready for battle — except the battle was with us. They looked like metal monsters, too, the kind of machines that could survive a boulder dropped on them without so much as a dent. Heavy, loud, unforgiving, and absolutely magnificent.

Over the years I’ve owned a few old typewriters myself, including an Underwood like the one Dad used when he was Alexandria’s city auditor. That machine looked like it had survived a century of hard work, and maybe it had. I don’t have room for a typewriter anymore, but the longing never quite goes away. Recently we wandered through an antique mall filled with old, beautiful typewriters — Royals, Underwoods, Smith‑Coronas, each one a little time capsule. If I had the space, I’d own them all. The stories that poured from those machines… I swear you can almost hear them humming under the dust.

It’s hard for me to pass them up. Those wonderful machines unlocked entire worlds for their owners. They were the gateway to letters, novels, newsrooms, love notes, term papers, and the first shaky attempts at poetry. Amazing. Even the IBM Selectrics — the sleek, modern upgrade from the clattering Royals — felt like a revelation. Being able to backspace and correct a typo instead of balling up a sheet of paper and starting over? That was an advancement for the ages.

And then, of course, came the computer. Suddenly we didn’t have to worry about typos at all. Spell‑correct and grammar‑check swooped in like benevolent editors, smoothing out our rough edges. The tools changed, but the thrill of writing — of watching words appear, one after another, forming something meaningful — never did.

Pens, typewriters, keyboards… they’re all just instruments. But they’re the instruments that shaped my life. They taught me discipline, patience, creativity, and the quiet joy of turning thoughts into something you can hold in your hands. And for a writer, that’s everything.

 

A Life of Service, Twice Blessed

Every now and then, something small will tug at an old thread in my memory — a sound, a sight, a familiar rhythm — and suddenly I’m back in uniform again. Last week, driving home from the Gulf Coast, Barbara and I passed a long line of military vehicles in Missouri. A field artillery unit, convoying to summer camp. Canvas flapping, antennas bouncing, soldiers leaning out the windows with that unmistakable “annual training” look. And just like that, I felt it: that old June instinct. Two weeks of AT. The rhythm of military life that never quite leaves you.

I’ll admit it — for a moment, I wished I were going with them.

Because what I miss most from my years in the service isn’t the schedule or the formations. It’s the people. The camaraderie. The friendships forged in early‑morning formations, long drives to training sites, and the shared understanding that only fellow soldiers truly grasp. It took me a long time to stop thinking “drill weekend is coming up,” but the truth is, part of me never stopped missing it.

One of those friendships still makes me smile. Greg — seven or eight years younger than me — turned out to be from Alexandria too. Our paths never crossed back then, but the Army has a way of connecting people who were always meant to meet. We became good friends, the kind who made drill weekends something to look forward to. We’d ride together on Saturday mornings, pop in a Roy D. Mercer CD, and laugh all the way to Sioux Falls. Nothing set the tone for drill quite like Mercer threatening to “open up a can of whup‑ass” over some ridiculous misunderstanding. By the time we reached the armory, we were already in good spirits.

Greg and I sitting in our office in Fort Carson CO.

And then there was Shoe — one of those rare friendships that crosses rank without ever crossing respect. I was an officer, he was an NCO, but none of that mattered. We clicked. We rode together across the Nebraska Sandhills on our way to deployment at Fort Carson, Colorado, watching the landscape roll by and turning the windmills into our own private running joke. How many were spinning? How many weren’t? How many looked like they’d given up sometime during the Eisenhower administration? Just a couple of weeks ago, as Barbara and I crossed western Kansas, I texted Shoe to tell him the Kansas windmills weren’t working very hard. A few minutes later he called and we had a good visit. Some jokes never get old — they just get more comfortable.

My good friend "Sho." at Fort Carson CO.

Shoe and I shared more than road miles. One Veterans Day — around 2004 — we climbed Pikes Peak together. Not drove. Climbed. Two soldiers, one mountain, and a memory that still glows. Every Veterans Day since, we text each other in honor of that hike. It’s our own little tradition, a reminder of a day when the air was thin, the climb was long, and the friendship was solid.

And walking into drill really did feel like old home week. I knew everyone — hundreds of Reservists over the years, plus dozens of active‑duty NCOs and officers who rotated through Sioux Falls on their tours. Every drill was a reunion of sorts, a gathering of people who had trained together, deployed together, and grown together. It was a second family, the kind you don’t choose but end up grateful for.

After selling my newspapers, I stepped into a role most Reservists only hear about: a military technician — the unit administrator, the continuity, the person who kept the heartbeat of the unit steady Monday through Friday. It was a unique kind of double life. During the week, I worked for the Army Reserve as a civilian. On drill weekends, I put the uniform back on and served the same soldiers I supported during the week. Drill weekend for me meant working twelve days in a row, but that never bothered me. I was part of something I believed in.

My career took me places I never expected to go. My earliest summer camps were with the Minnesota National Guard at Camp Ripley, where the mosquitoes were legendary and the tin huts echoed like a snare drum when rain hit the roof. We had jeeps back then, and we’d bounce across the vast training areas, covering units in every corner of the post.

After moving to the South Dakota National Guard, summer camp meant Camp Rapid and the Black Hills — beautiful country, though maneuvering military vehicles through tourist traffic was its own kind of training. The brick huts we stayed in had their own rustic charm, except for the long lines of toilets with zero privacy. Check your modesty at the door and hope the guy next to you didn’t want to chat.

My third and final Panama AT was with the 125th Public Affairs Detachment.. By then, the heat felt familiar, the humidity felt like an old friend, and the memories of my earlier deployments came rushing back.

After joining the Army Reserve in Sioux Falls, my ATs took on a different flavor. One year we went to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, where the red dirt clung to everything like a second skin. Another year we went to Pocatello, Idaho, where members of our unit taught classes to other Reservists. Different missions, different scenery, same camaraderie.

The 50434d USAR School pictured at annual training in Fort Sill OK.

And then life handed me a second chapter I never saw coming.

After retiring from the Army Reserve, I spent nearly six years working for the Department of the Navy. One day I was in an orderly room; the next I was crawling around inside ships, learning the difference between “fore” and “aft,” “bow” and “stern,” and discovering that steel decks have a way of leaving their mark on your knees. As a public affairs specialist, I photographed dozens of ship christenings — moments filled with ceremony, pride, and the unmistakable energy of a ship coming to life. I stood close enough to feel the champagne spray and hear the crowd’s gasp as a new vessel met the water for the first time.

The USNS Maury was christened by sliding into the water on March 27, 2013 at Moss Point MS.

And the people I met along the way — admirals, generals, members of Congress — weren’t just names in the news. They were part of the world I worked in, the world I helped document. I didn’t chase prestige; my work simply placed me in the room. I was the storyteller, the witness, the one who captured the moment so others could see it.

Every so often, even now, I’ll have a dream that I’m still in the Army Reserve. Sometimes I’m in uniform, sometimes I’m back in the Reserve Center as a unit administrator, juggling paperwork and readiness reports like it’s 1998 again. And in those dreams, I often feel like I’m getting ready to put in my retirement paperwork — as if the decision is still ahead of me, not something I made years ago.

It’s funny how the mind works. I retired from the military in 2011, thanks to mandatory retirement. I retired from federal service in 2018. By all logic, those chapters are long closed. But clearly, they affected me more deeply than I realized at the time. They were part of my identity for so long — the rhythm of drill weekends, the camaraderie, the responsibility of being the one who kept the unit running — that some part of me still lives there.

And maybe that’s not surprising. When you spend decades in a world where purpose, structure, and belonging are built into the air you breathe, it doesn’t just fade away. It settles in. It becomes part of the foundation. So if my dreams want to take me back to the armory now and then, I don’t mind. It’s a reminder of a life I was fortunate to live.

Looking back, I realize how extraordinary it all was. I got to do more in my career than many people experience in a lifetime. I served my country in uniform and out of it. I found purpose in two branches of the military. I met remarkable people, traveled to remarkable places, and collected stories that still make me smile.

But through all of it — the Guard years, the technician days, the Navy adventures — one thing remained constant: gratitude. I never took any of it for granted. I knew I was blessed while I was living it.

And now, in the quiet of retirement, I carry those memories like old challenge coins — not something I hold every day, but something I know is always there. A reminder of the people I served with, the places I stood, and the life of service I was fortunate enough to live.

 

A 4,362‑Mile Detour Through Life

Barbara and I just returned from the longest trip — in both miles and days — that we’ve ever taken together. We didn’t set out to break any records. In fact, we thought we were taking a simple road trip to Arizona for a family wedding. But as often happens, life had other plans. What began as a straightforward drive south and west turned into a wide, looping journey across 10 states (not counting Nebraska), covering 4,362 miles over 15 days.

Day 1 — Aurora to Cawker City: Twine and Wide-Open Roads

We pulled out of Aurora on May 19, pointing the RAV4 toward Cawker City, Kansas, home of the world’s largest ball of sisal twine. It’s the kind of Americana oddity that makes you grin and shake your head — a monument to persistence, community pride, and maybe a little boredom. And we did our part by tying a 3-foot length of sisal twine to the monument! After admiring the twine (and taking the obligatory photos), we continued west to Colby, Kansas, where we spent our first night.

Barbara and the world's largest ball of sisal twine in Cawker City KS.

Prairie History and a Chilly Van Gogh

Colby surprised us with the Prairie Museum of Art and History, a rich collection of pioneer artifacts, prairie life exhibits, and stories of the people who carved out a living on the plains. The next morning we drove to Goodland, where a giant reproduction of van Gogh’s Sunflowers sits atop what’s billed as the world’s largest easel. It was very cold — the kind of cold that makes you question why you’re standing outside staring at a painting on a 50-foot easel — but we laughed our way through it. And I was wearing shorts!

This 80-foot easel pictures a 24x32-foot replica of Vincent van Gogh's "Sunflowers."

Across the Plains to Route 66

From Goodland we headed south across western Kansas, a landscape so flat and open it feels like the sky is doing most of the work. We clipped the Oklahoma panhandle, touched the northwest corner of Texas, and rolled into Tucumcari, New Mexico, a town that still wears its Route 66 heritage proudly. Neon signs, vintage motels, and old storefronts made for great photos and a fun evening walk.

"We got our kicks on Route 66."

Show Low, the Wigwam Motel, and “Take It Easy”

The next day took us to Show Low, Arizona, and then on to two of the most memorable Route 66 stops of the entire trip.

Our first was the Wigwam Motel in Holbrook, one of the few remaining “sleep in a teepee” motels from the heyday of American road travel. Even just stopping for photos felt like stepping back into the 1950s — concrete wigwams, vintage cars, and that unmistakable Route 66 charm.

From there we continued west to Winslow, Arizona, for our long‑anticipated pilgrimage to the famous “Take It Easy” corner. And what a scene it was. A crowd of bikers and fellow Baby Boomers were gathered around the corner made legendary by The Eagles. Everyone was smiling, taking photos, and soaking in the nostalgia.

We joined right in — posing with the wayward traveler statue, the Glenn Frey statue, and the mural featuring “the girl in the flatbed Ford” reflected in the window. Behind it all, the iconic “WINSLOW ARIZONA” lettering stretched across the brick wall. "Route 66" is painted at diagonally on the corner of North Kinsley Avenue and East 2nd Street (old Route 66). It was pure Americana and absolutely one of the highlights of our trip.

"Well we were standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona..."

The famous corner of North Kinsley Avenue and East 2nd Street in Winslow.

Scottsdale and the Wedding in Florence

After Winslow, we drove south and got our first glimpses of saguaro cactus that dotted the desert as we neared Scottsdale. The next morning we wandered through the arts district — galleries, sculptures, and shops that always seem to have something new to discover.

From there it was on to Florence, Arizona, for the outdoor wedding of Barbara’s nephew, Ian Bauer, and Jacqueline Gilbert. It was a beautiful ceremony under the Arizona sky, full of family, laughter, and the kind of joy that makes a long trip worthwhile.

A Sudden Turn East

While we were in Scottsdale, I learned through Facebook that a dear friend of ours in Gautier, Mississippi, had passed away. Our original plan was to head north after the wedding and visit the Grand Canyon. But some decisions make themselves. We turned the car east and began a long cross‑country drive across New Mexico and Texas so we could attend the funeral. The most poignant moment in our long journey came as I was sitting in the Holiday Inn Express lobby in Las Cruces NM on our trip across the state. A young girl about 8 or 10 years old, came up to me as I was sitting with my coffee and gave me a hug. No explanation, no other contact. Just up and hugged me as I sat there, and then went on her way. Not sure if she thought I needed a hug, or if she needed a hug. I think I said, "Thank you, honey." It was a memorable moment.

We saw a lot of Saguaro Cactus crossing Arizona.

                                    This cactus specimen was just outside our Airbnb cottage.

Two Nights in Texas and a Return to the Gulf Coast

Texas always feels wider than the map suggests, and we spent two nights crossing it. Eventually we reached Ocean Springs, Mississippi, two days before the funeral. Being back on the Gulf Coast felt familiar and comforting. We visited several of the local businesses we knew from our years of traveling there between 2012 and 2018 — places that still feel like part of our story. And viewing the peaceful Gulf of America (formerly Gulf of Mexico) never gets old.

Lynn, Barbara and Jean visiting at The Cornerstone in Gautier.

May 30 — Remembering a Friend

The funeral in Gautier brought together many of the friends we made during our Mississippi years. It was a sad occasion, but also a warm one — full of stories, hugs, and reconnections. It reminded us how deeply those friendships run, even after time and distance.

The Long Road Home

We left Mississippi on Sunday, May 31, stopping in Millington, Tennessee, to visit friends for the night. From there we made our final push north, rolling back into Aurora around 1:30 p.m. on Tuesday, June 2 — tired, grateful, and carrying the kind of memories that only a long road can give you.

A selfie with our friends Ron and Teresa in Millington TN.

Looking Back

We didn’t plan a 4,362‑mile journey. We didn’t plan to cross 10 states, attend a wedding, mourn a friend, or reconnect with people who shaped an earlier chapter of our lives. But that’s the beauty of the road. Sometimes it takes you exactly where you meant to go. Other times it takes you where you’re needed. And every now and then, it gives you both.