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Fear & Faith

The solution to conquering fear is increasing trust. There is a structural tension between the two.
Outfitted with the same equipment and halfway up a high cliff, the experienced rock climber is in as much danger of falling as one with a fear of heights. Theoretically, they should be equally afraid of falling. When we look down we all see from the same perspective. Yet the climber simply looks ahead for the next step higher while the acrophobe can’t shake the possibility of dying. The difference is their level of trust in the rope, the harness, the belay, and, most importantly, themselves.
I watch my daughter balance on the two inch wide arm of a chair. I watch her traverse a three inch wide retaining wall. All without assistance and perfect balance. Put her on a five inch wide balance beam at circus class and she hesitates and reaches out to the teacher for assistance. I ask her why this is and she says, “The other kids make it wobbly”. She trusts the equipment. She trusts the teachers. She trusts herself. She does not trust the other kids.
We all have obstacles we would like to overcome. To do so we must increase our trust. Focus not on fear but on faith.

The Perdice Bradford (An Ode)

Most people just don’t get it. What is the appeal of a nice pen? Why a fountain pen? I mean, let’s be straight here, there are a lot of reasons a cheap stick pen, mistakenly pocketed from from your local bank branch, would be considered superior over just about any fountain pen. You don’t have to fill them (which often gets ink on the hands thus staining them for a day or three). They write, reliably and with no bleed through, on just about any type of paper. You don’t have to worry about losing it or loaning it to one in need. If it runs out of ink or breaks, it is practically free to replace.
Yes, all of this is true. But, will that cheap pen ever become imbibed with your character? Will you form a bond with it that is unique to you? Will you know it’s quirks as well as it knows yours? Will it, because of these things, remain with you for a length of time and to the extent that if ever parted from your grasp it will feel as if losing a limb? Will the nib shape to your style? Will your grasp shape to the barrel? Will such a pen ever become a part of you?
These are the things that drive my passion for beautiful pens. Most specifically, fountain pens. The relationship between a writer, the tool, the ink, the page, and the words, demand intimacy. Connection. Extension. I need to know the nib, the ink, the paper and, perhaps more importantly, it needs to know me. It needs to know my hand such that it slowly becomes it. It needs to know my preferences such that it expects them. It needs to know my quirks such that it accommodates them. In my experience, The more care and quality that goes into the production of such an instrument, the more the pen will give to these things.
The Perdice Bradford is such a pen. It is a hand crafted limited edition and stems from a collaboration between the heads of the Pear Tree Pen Company and the Edison Pen Company.
Perdice Bradford Limited Edition Fountain Pen
The barrel is made from an extraordinarily scarce acrylic seen before only in the Sheaffer Balance II. The model provided to me for review is an intense and rich tortoise shell bursting with hints of sunlight gold. The nib, made of 18K Gold, is nothing short of a work of artistry. It is one of the smoothest I have ever experienced fresh out of the box. It can be ordered in a choice of fine, medium or broad-tip (I tried the fine, which was perfect lovely). In addition, custom ground extra fine or italic nibs can be special ordered for slightly more.
For my testing purposes, I used Pelikan 4001 black ink. Not the most interesting choice but one that I knew would provide me a consistent flow for ease of comparison to other pens I’ve tried or own. The pen certainly took well to it and laid down a consistent line that, due to a very slight flex in the nib, was not devoid of personality. Exactly what one would want from a pen of such quality and something that would grow with the writer over time.
Every single detail of this pen reveals the caliber of the craft, both that of the maker and that of the writer. The price, starting at $325.00, is reasonable considering this fact. This is a pen that, with the proper care, will outlast you and give your descendants, should they chose to use it, as many hours of writing pleasure as it provided you.
The only drawback in the experience is that I must send this one back. It is number seven out of a total of ten that will be made. My only hope is that it will be appreciated as much by the buyer as it has been by me during my time with it. Perhaps, that buyer will read this review one day and drop me a card written with this fine pen. Thus, binding us in greeting and familiarity as only a good pen can.

The Future is Now! – A Backup Story

So, I was sitting around my local co-working space today, when someone asked me what I thought about offsite backup services and what I would recommend. Without missing a beat, I said, “The one I offer.” I then proceeded to give the elevator pitch and explained the benefits.

“Great!”, the other person exclaimed. Then, a few minutes later he stated his desire to sign up and asked when we could set up a time.

“You have your laptop sitting there so how about right now?”, I asked.

To his amazement, and appreciation, I took my wallet out of my pocket, removed the tiny USB 8GB drive I keep within. I plugged it in, launched the installer for the backup client software, entered the settings, and began the backup.

“So, how will I pay you? Do you need me to send you a check? PayPal?”, he asked.

“I can take a credit card right now, on the spot, if you prefer.”, which he agreed to.

I took out my Square reader, plugged it into my iPhone, swiped the card, charged it, and sent him the receipt via email. The entire process from decision to completion took about 5 minutes.

The future is now.

Everybody Knows

Here is another portion of, The Saga of The Rhone’s – A letter written by my Great Uncle to my Great Grandfather:

Our grandmother Hetty was later married and had seven children, Lizzie, Emma, Jim, Dave, Will, Erastus, and one more… I am sure you know all about Erastus so I say nothing about him.


What?!? Wait one minute here! All those names, normal for the time, and then… Erastus? I don’t care about the other kids half as much as I care about him just because of his name alone. You know he was the most interesting of all because, well, look at that last line. You know at one time Erastus must have been known all over the family as a real character. Good? Bad? Who cares? All I know is that, because my Great Grandfather and his Brother knew “all about Erastus”, we now don’t.
Some vague memories remain. My Mother faintly remembers an “Uncle Rasty” growing up when she would visit with her Father’s family. She does not remember much. Mainly that he lived in a shed in the back, not in the main house. That there may have been some sort of falling out with some of the other family members…
E-friggin-rastus!
This is an important lesson about the nature of storytelling and history. The stuff everyone knows is often the stuff forgotten with time. Nobody bothers to write it or repeat it because “everyone” knows it, at least at the time. The problem here should be obvious. As long as the knowledge is “known” and not captured and recorded, it will eventually be lost.
This is true of most of the things we keep in our heads really. No matter how good your memory, or deep your knowledge, all of it will go when you do. Write it down. Especially the stuff everybody knows.

Sweet teeth turn into butter with the soft crunch of the chocolate croissant ($2.95), and macaroons ($2.25 each) melt the taste buds of sweet seekers without the inclusion of refined sweeteners—whose costly education did not increase their manners.

This is actual copy in the Groupon email I received today. Reads more like the back of a Chinese bootleg DVD. Gosh, Groupon. With all of that cash, hire a copywriter. A native English speaker would be nice too.

My Mother (a very personal story)

The following was written by my Mom on Facebook as a followup to my “What’s in a name” post on patrickrhone.com. I am posting it here unedited and with her permission.

My Mother (a very personal story) by Tisch Jones on Sunday, April 3, 2011 at 12:22pm

(Inspired by Patrick’s Rhone Note, “What’s in a Name)       

My mother was something else. Most people will remember she was a professional and dignified academic and musician.  But one of the nicknames given to her by some of her students was “Mighty Mite”  For a little woman (5’2) she could pack quite a wollop.  Sometimes this wollop was physical but very often it was vocal.  The following is a true story and one that needs to be told because to this day I find it so unbelievable.  

On March 7 1967, I married a man that I shouldn’t have.  Married because of being pregnant which today I realize is not a reason to ever marry anyone.  I moved to New York with this new husband, Jamaica, Queens.  I was miserable.  I hated being in the marriage and could not see a future.  I stayed in bed most of the time and dreamed of ways to die.  To me death was the only way out of this situation.  I was trapped.    

One day as my husband was going out with friends to play a game of basketball he told me he wanted me to get out of the bed.   I refused to get up  I was too depressed.  So he decided if I wouldn’t get up, he would get me up.  Then he began pulling me out of the bed which resulted in punches and slaps against my face and body.  Keep in mind I was six and a half months pregnant.  I tried to get away from his hand and I tried to get out of the door.  Finally, I got out of the door barefooted  and penniless and ran down the street to a neighbors and asked if I could use their phone.  

I tried to call my mother but there was no answer.  So, I called my aunt collect and told her that my husband had just beaten me.  In the background I could hear my uncle telling her to hang up the phone because “those children are just playing.”    I kept trying to convince my aunt and uncle that this was not play.  See, in my family men do not beat or hit their wives so my claim seemed unbelievable to them.  I kept asking my aunt how could I get in touch with my mother.  Finally my aunt had to hang up.  Thereafter,  I continued to call collect but my aunt wouldn’t accept the charges.    

Feeling devastated and helpless, I didn’t know what to do.  But one thing for sure I didn’t want to return my husband’s home.  Finally, I decided sleeping in a jail cell would be preferable to returning.    I finally found my way to the Queen’s police station. As I stood at the counter, I heard an officer of the law say, “What happened lady?,  Did your husband catch you sleeping with another man?”   Evidently, my face was quite bruised.    I told the officer  ”No, my husband had beat me and I don’t want to go back. May I please sleep in one of your jail cells tonight. The police told me that they couldn’t allow that but probably I should go to social services.  They then gave me coins for the subway.    

Being underground waiting for a subway by myself barefooted, pregnant was scary.  Every pay phone I saw, I would stop and call my aunt collect and tell her how afraid I was.  I felt so desperate to get out of my situation that throwing myself in front of a moving train would be preferred to returning to my husband. But, she would not  accept the charges.    I lost my way trying to find social services.  Before long, I was no longer in Queens, I was in Brooklyn and found my way to the Brooklyn social services.  

At the Brooklyn Social Service Agency, I was assigned a black male social worker.  I told him that i needed a place to stay for the night.  He wanted to know why.  I told him that my husband had just beaten me and I didn’t want to return to his home.

Thinking I would finally find safety, to this day I am still surprised at his response.  He said,  ”Husbands had to beat their wives to keep them in line.  In fact he had to beat his wife from time to time.”  I told him, “Men in my family don’t beat their wives.”  He said, ”  Yes they did, you just never saw it.”   Then he recommended I call my husband to come and get me.   Tired and distraught at this point, I called my husband as I was told.  

Because the agency was closing, I had to sit and wait for my husband at a restaurant next door.  When my husband arrived,  he fell on his knees and broke down in tears and a told me how sorry he was and that he loved me and he would never hit me again.

When we returned home, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and realized the left side of my face was black, blue and swollen.  At that point there was nothing more to do but hit the bed and sleep.  I was exhausted from all this emotional upheaval and running.  I also apologized for causing my husband to get so upset that he had to beat me. I told him that I finally understood that keeping wives in line was part of the husband’s role.  

I know that you are probably wondering at this point how this essay is about my mother.  Well, here it is.  I awoke the next morning and walked to the front door and looked out the screen.  And what to my wondering eyes should appear but a limousine parked in front of the house.    When the limousine door opened, out walked my mother.     She took one look at my face and said, “Patricia, what happened to your face”.   I replied, “I got out of line and Chuck had to beat me”.  Then my mother stepped in the house and told my husband to pack my bags.  She said, “I gave my daughter to you in marriage, bit not for you to beat her”. As ordered, my husband started packing my bags crying “Please don’t take my wife”.    Then she ordered him to help us get to Port Authority. My mother and I boarded a Greyhound to Ettrick, Virginia which is where my my mother;s baby sister lived.     

What is amazing is that once out of a situation you can see the solution better.  After two days in Virginia,  I came up  with a phenomenal solution,  I asked my mother “Is it ok if I get a divorce?”  She and my aunt both agreed that a divorce was possible.  Then, my mother and I boarded an airplane and headed for Shreveport, Louisiana, secured a lawyer and filed for divorce.   On October 1st, 1967, the day of the birth of my first son Patrick,  papers for divorce were filed.  

I still can’t believe that my mother Mighty Mite walked into the home of a married couple and told the grown 6 foot husband to pack his wife’s clothes.  Then she took the wife away.    Imagine her strength and lack of fear and her gutsiness.  Did I ever thank her?  I sure hope so.