New wall art finally up in my home office…


My Mothers Pen…

My Mothers Pen



When I started to write this story down with my mother’s pen.

It took forever it seemed to even get this pen to write.

The pen being so old and having the ink that was inside dried up didn’t really help either. Okay, that said. It should be pointed out just what I’m talking about here.

It started out, oh say well over ten years ago.

My mom had been gone around six to seven years at that point.

My partner and I settling in the roll of taking care of my father.

My father had around this time settling in with the loss of his wife.

His health as of that time good. “Fair to middling.” As he would say.

He was going to work part time at the local State Liquor Store where my mom work years ago for the Salvation Army collecting money for charities.

For him, I think doing this job keeps her close at heart.

Now that he was there among her old co-workers.

It differently was good that he was active and it give him propose too.

That and he could use the little extra money, which turn helped him feel like he was adding to the house budget.

My partner was settling in to working first shift.

He had moved over from second shift and enjoying his career in electronics.

Me, still at the same job now for over ten years.

Looking back now, I can remember saying to those around me what a miracle that I still have a job.

But most importantly is the fact that I stayed where I was for over ten years.

Sure I moved up on the ladder. But I stay. That’s a miracle.

I was the type of guy that had ten jobs in one year while I was out there using.

Just another thing to be grateful for.

Anyway, around this time I was going back to school.

Showing up for life.

As our home life moved on, we started going through the many boxes in the cellar that was my mom’s old stuff.

Even ones that had her things in that was way before my dad and she were married.

Going through those old boxes and finding things like old shoes, old photos, and old cloths to even some old books.

One box had many small knickknacks along with some very old looking writing that were hers also when she was in ministry school.

To finding a award for writing way back in the fifties.

The things you never knew about someone ‘til there’re gone from us. – even when their your own family.

I should’ve known that I would end up liking to write now knowing that my mother used to do it.

I mean I know she wrote out sermons for Sunday service and know she did a lot of writings for social groups around the area.

But still, you just never know what you find.

As I started going through the small pile of short stories of my mom’s poems and poesies. I came upon a box that had one of her old jeweler boxes in it.

It was very old, very beaten up.

Upon opening this box I was thinking what kind of treasures lay in wait.

It was mostly empty.

Two receipts from departments stores no long around.

Two old earrings and a small brooch.

One necklace made out of paperclips, wrap up in faded pink paper. Very seventies.

I think my mom was one of the cool one back in the day.

Not much else other than an old pen.

One of those types that you had to add the ink in by yourself by squeezing the small rubber tube within the pen and ciphering ink out of a bottle.

Which I ended up doing shortly after helping out in the basement.

I had asked my dad if could have the pen and it was not long after that that I looked into finding ink and cleaning out the pens innards so it would work again.

What a pain that turned out to be.

Maybe that’s why it was in the box to begin with.

But I did end up getting it to work and then it took me even longer to learn how to write with the damn thing.

I would always end up with those giant ink spots or half the word not writing out. Thinking once again where I found this pen.

I never remembered seeing my mother using it even as a kid.

But obviously it had been around with her way before I was even born.

Which is a long time to some however you look at it?

So here I am trying in vain on using this pen, to finally giving up and placing it back into her old jeweler box with her paperclip necklace.

Which now is in our den – cleaned up and holding old photos of my family and on top a small picture of my mother and two young women getting what looks like the same award?

I really don’t know by who or what the names of any of the two women are but I’d say it’s somewhere in the fifties.

That and my mom are wearing a poodle skirt.

Guess she was very cool even in the fifties.

Who would’ve known as I look at her holding a small pad of paper in one hand and to my amazement her pen in the other?

All those little items we leave behind that only matter so much to us – well at least to me today.

I have many memories of my mom’s life along with now old books and knickknacks. Now as I look back as I write this short story out.

It’s those memories of her not the things that mean the most to me today.

As I finish writing this out and placing down My Mothers Pen…

fog weather rain

As a young man growing up both of my parents would help others out by either giving some extra food that we had to those in the neighborhood or just lend out a hand. “If you had it to give, you give.” They both used to say. My dad would often say, “Fate fortunes the faithful through fog weather rain.” Never really knowing what that meant ‘til I was older and living on my own and I’ve often heard people say too, “That fences make good neighbors.” Well I like to believe that good people make good neighbors and they were good folk.    ‘Taking it to The Filter’   -L.E.Hastings-

When I let it happen…

Well folks, in just a few hours I’ll be heading out to Portsmouth NH. to take part in the New England Authors Expo. Should be fun – and a lot of talented writers and illustrators’ too. See some new friends I’ve met and make some more. Feeling very blessed and would like to send out that blessing to one and all of you folks throughout the day. The two pictures I’ve post was one were my dad was alive and came to my very first book signing – who know that years latter I’d be standing at that same spot near the wall with my older brother for my third book signing. God has a way of mending all wounds – when I just let ‘It’ happen…