Mother's who worked in the home are now referred to as "homemakers" with no pejorative connotation meant. The word homemaker might have come in handy when I was called for Federal Grand Jury in Brooklyn years ago. In Federal court, the judge apparently does the voi dire, the questioning of potential jurors. From this, the juror is marked for possible empanelment, or waived through a limited number of pre-emptory challenges the lawyers have.
Questions from the judge are simple, biographical stuff. Occupation of wife, if there is one, is asked. I replied "housewife, she doesn't work." It was 1988, and this was a politically correct reply. Or so I thought.
Judge Ira Glasser didn't think it was a politically correct good reply, and somewhat admonished me that my wife does "work." Well, shit yeah, I know that, but "she doesn't bring home a paycheck" so saying she "doesn't work" seemed highly accurate to me.
The judge went on a bit, having some fun until I got impatient and asked him "if I was going to need a lawyer?" For other reasons, I wasn't selected.
Tanya Roberts, one of the so-called "Bond girls," who once was also cast in 'Charlie's Angels' and other roles that required a sexy female character, passed away recently at 65. You might say she passed away twice, because it was mistakenly reported she had passed away, then after a few more days the news was accurate, and it was reported that yes, she had passed away.
I don't know what it is, but I always find it a bit surprising when a noted subject passes away and they came from one of New York's "outer boroughs," the land masses connected by so many bridges and tunnels to Manhattan the NYT so identifies that the rest of us might call the Bronx, Queens, Brooklyn, or Staten Island.
Regardless, Ms. Roberts was from the Bronx, born Victoria Leigh Blum. in 1955. There is no description, not even homemaker, for the mother, Dorothy Leigh (Smith) Blum. The father, Maximillian Blum, was a fountain pen salesman. Certainly nothing wrong with that. People of all walks of life have children who get written about in the NYT when they pass away, but "fountain pen salesman" evokes an ancient era.
The Jewish name Blum and the Bronx origins ring so New York City authentic, and they go with someone who is making a living in what I'm sure was some sort of stationery store, or working for a pen company that sold merchandise to stationery stores. Stationery stores were once dominant in New York before the arrival of Staples, to the point that if for some reason you were in need of a fistful of No. 10 envelopes and it was Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashanah, Jewish high holy days, you were absolutely shit out of luck because all the stationery stores were closed. No envelopes for you.
If you think hard enough, parents are full of misguided theories about what's good for you growing up. My grandmother, with whom I lived for a portion of my life, was usually telling be to eat celery, "It's a gooda for your teeth."
I had already been exposed to toothpaste and a toothbrush, so I could never fathom what eating celery was going to do for my teeth and gums, but I listened. I was respectful. I always liked celery, still do, but never think of skipping a brushing because I've just chomped down on some stalks.
My grandmother had rotten teeth, as did my father, who I suspect was brought up on the belief that celery was just as good as brushing your teeth, because I never knew him to set foot in a dentist's office. I never saw him chomp on celery either. So much for dental hygiene theories.
Another one of those parental theories on upbringing was that if I used a fountain pen in high school I would have good penmanship. No, you were going to have good penmanship only if you were schooled by nuns in grammar school and learned to write holding an orange in your hand. The Palmer method? Good luck with that.
My father had atrocious handwriting. Since he and I went to the same high school that was built in 1904, we both sat at varnished wooden desks that had a cutout in the upper right corner where the ink well once was placed. Because when he went to school, the devil of the ball point pen wasn't around and they used fountain pens. The difference was that 30+ years later, there was nothing in the ink well—no bottle of ink.
I can still find samples of my high school handwriting, etched out with a fountain pen. It was atrocious and barely legible. As a young adult I noticed that I adopted a style of handwriting that was to use all caps, or small caps in an effort to promote a degree of legibility. When I need to write something these days I still use all caps. I do not write in script.
And I've also noticed that my print handwriting resembles my father's print handwriting, to the point that certain letters are formed the same way. My Rs for example. I once noticed that in a friend's handwriting when it was compared to his son that there was an incredible similarity. I have no idea if there is a scientific paper on this. I'll ask.
But, even in the '60s, fountain pens were not extinct. I have memories of frequently going to a pen store in the Empire State building and buying fountain pen cartridges, or fountain pens themselves. I always seemed to break them.
There are pretty much no more stationery stores left in NYC. I know of perhaps two, one on 31st Street east of 7th Avenue, and one possibly still around downtown near or on Nassau Street.
There used to be dedicated pen stores. Art Brown, Arts and Letters, and Joon. Gone. Art Brown was my go-to store, just west of 5th Avenue in the mid-40s. For years and years they were in a huge store with a mezzanine with art supplies, then another single level store nearby, having shed the art supplies. They weren't in this second store long before they just disappeared.
The one store left that specializes in pens is appropriately named The Fountain Pen Hospital on Warren Street, not far from City Hall. They produce an extensive catalog and of course take pens in for repair. I usually get my roller, felt tip refills from there, pre-Covid. I've bought several Aurora roller ball pens there.
One time not long ago I saw a woman who I recognized from Art Brown at the Fountain Pen Hospital working there. I never knew her name, or her relationship with Art Brown, but she was usually behind the counter.
Turns out she is the Brown in Art Brown, and she's in her 80s, looking like she's 65. I don't know her first name, and I didn't see her the last time I was at the Fountain Pen Hospital, but when I did see her she looked to be in robust health.
She might just be part of NYC's fountain pen founding families, the link to the era when bottles of ink were just as important as milk.
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