Believe it or not, I
have a collection of The New Yorker
magazine dating back to the early 1970s.
An English teacher I had in high school, recommended that I read the
magazine to learn about all sorts of writing, and when I bought my first copy,
it had a story by John Updike. This worm
on a hook captured me, and I began my first “author obsession.” John Updike is gone, but I still read every
issue nearly cover to cover. When I
heard of a book by a copy editor at the magazine, I could not resist adding to
the lore of the fabled magazine now in its 92nd year.
But my favorite
chapter is “Ballad of a Pencil Junkie.”
I love writing with pencils much more than pens. Every room has a discarded mug filled with
pencils, which outnumber pens by at least 4-to-1. Norris writes, “In the old days, at The New Yorker, when your pencil point
got dull, you just tossed it aside and picked up a new one. There was an office boy who came around in
the morning with a tray of freshly sharpened wooden pencils. And they were nice long ones—no stubs. The boy held out his tray of pencils, and you
scooped up a quiver of them. It sounds
like something out of a dream! Even then
I think I knew that the office boy and his tray would go the way of the
ivory-billed woodpecker” (171). Oh how
warm and fuzzy it is to know there are others who share this innocuous
obsession.
Norris has a
preference for No. 1 pencils. I have
never used one—I prefer a sturdy German mechanical pencil for my pocket. No. 2s are for all other tasks. Norris writes, “Writing with a No. 2 pencil
made me feel as if I had a hangover. It
created a distance between my hand and my brain, put me at a remove from the
surface of the paper I was writing on. I
would throw it into a drawer” (172).
Mary also made an
excursion to The Paul A. Johnson Pencil Sharpener Museum in Ohio. The museum boasts 3,441 pencil
sharpeners. The rules for admission to
this august temple of pencildom were set down by the founder. “each pencil
sharpener had to be unique—no duplicates” however, “it could mean a sharpener
was the same shape but a different color, or highly polished instead of dull”
(180). After completing her visit, Mary
“went back to my car, found the pencil sharpener just where I had packed it, in
a pocket of the zippered compartment on my backpack, and photographed it on the
back of my car before shaking out all the shavings in the parking lot. I did not want the fact that my sharpener was
not a virgin to make it ineligible for display in the museum” (191).
Mary Norris’s
delightful story, Between You Me, is an antidote to all the other dark
things we read, hear on the news, or read in the papers, I am not a serious
punctuation freak—outside of an English Composition class—but I do enjoy
catching an errant apostrophe here and there.
5 No. 2 Pencils!
--Chiron, 5/29/17
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