It was the North Texas Pen Collectors annual one day show of 2001. The crowd had been pretty good in the morning but now it was late afternoon and the rush was slowing down. I was sitting at my table half asleep paying no particular attention to anything. Suddenly I saw the eyes. There they were right in front of me, coal black, large, dreamy, and squarely affixed on my tray of Esterbrook fountain pens. I gazed upon this creature that seemed to appear out of nowhere. It was a young boy about 12 years of age.

Hello I say. Hello he says. You collect pens? He tells me that no he doesn’t but he’s thinking about a pen. I tell him that maybe his father will buy one for him and which one of these collectors is his father? He says he’s here by himself, that he lives about eight blocks away and rode over on his bike. Now I could tell that he had no knowledge of pens and just didn’t know where to start. Well these are fountain pens, have you ever used one? No, he’s never even seen a fountain pen before today but his grandmother told him how wonderful it is to write with one. Write with one! So I ask, “What is your reason for wanting a fountain pen, are you starting a collection or going into the repair business?” He says, “I’m a writer.” There commences a long silence while I let this soak in, this 12 year old boy professes to be a writer!

What’s your name son? Jose Aldo Martinez. Well Jose these…no it’s Aldo, call me Aldo. OK Aldo, I’m a writer too, what do you write? Poetry. Poetry! I sit there a long time thinking I’ve never met a 12 year old poet, the rest of the pen show fades into a distant blur. Finally he says, “Want to read some?” Sure. He pulls from his pocket a piece of folded notebook paper and hands it to me. I unfold it and sure enough it’s poetry. It’s also in Spanish. I notice that his poetry is written in pencil and that the paper has been erased so many times that it’s beginning to have holes in it. I tell him it’s a beautiful poem and he smiles ever so slightly. Aldo, these are Esterbrook pens, let me show you how they fill and work. Here, you write with one and see how you like it.

The late afternoon shadow that had settled in on my brain disappeared from the glow of Aldo’s smile. His eyes flashed like black ink sparkling in the sun. How much Aldo asks as he unfolds three crumpled up dollar bills. I hope nobody notices the tear rolling down my cheek. Aldo I say, the pen is not worth much, it’s the value of the words written with the pen that counts. I’ve read your poetry and as one writer to another I want you to have this pen and this bottle of ink in admiration of your work. That takes awhile to sink in. Then to my amazement Aldo reaches out to shake my hand as he says, “Thanks.” Aldo and his new pen disappear in the blink of an eye.

The snap of pen cases locking up jars me out of the dream and I decide it’s time to pack up and head home. Walking across the parking lot to my truck I see a smiling 12 year old boy sitting under a tree writing with an Esterbrook.