It Leaks, It’s Analog, and I Love It

The letters arrived in my dorm mailbox every Thursday. I’d unlock the little door, fish out my mail, and thumb through the letters. Dad’s familiar, copperplate cursive always stood out. He penned each letter with his trusty Parker fountain pens. No one writes like Abraham Lincoln anymore. Each letter contained news from home, Wall Street Journal clippings, and forty bucks in cash. The money often found its way to beer pubs and pizza joints. But those letters, in my father’s old school hand, found their way into my heart. Each one reflected his thoughts, advice, news, and most of all, love. A thing of beauty My love affair with fountain pens traces back to evenings on my father’s knee. As a young boy, I liked watching my Dad write on…
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