There comes a time when we realize that tomorrow is never promised.
Over the past few years, I have lost several friends in the pen community. Each loss has reminded me how quickly a familiar face can become a cherished memory. Since then, whenever someone comes to mind, I try to visit them. I want to sit down, listen to their stories, and spend time with them while I still can. I never know what tomorrow will bring, and I don’t want to miss the chance.
That thought led me to visit Ralph B. Stillwell.
I first met Ralph briefly at the Washington, D.C. Pen Show in 2016. He was surrounded by friends and on his way to dinner, so we didn’t have a chance to talk, nor did he remember who I was. A year later, I invited him to my daughter’s elementary school to present his Pens for Kids program. It was the first time I saw him doing what he loved most — not collecting pens but teaching with them. We have stayed in touch ever since.
Today, Ralph is eighty-six years old and continues to fight several forms of cancer. There were moments a few years ago when I wasn’t sure he would still be with us. That made this visit feel even more meaningful.
Walking into Ralph’s apartment was like stepping into the pages of a lifetime.
His walls were filled with photographs of family and friends. Bookshelves overflowed with books, pens, and one of the most fascinating inkwell collections I have ever seen. On one shelf sat a simple vase holding thirty-five small flags. Each flag represented a country from which one of his students had come during his more than twenty-five years as an educator, teaching English, German, and Spanish through ESL programs. Those little flags quietly told the story of a teacher whose classroom had reached far beyond his own community.
As we began talking, it became clear that Pens for Kids was never simply about fountain pens.
For years, Ralph watched cursive handwriting slowly disappear from classrooms. He saw children using pens without understanding the remarkable tools in their hands. Fewer students were writing letters, keeping journals, recording their thoughts, or simply enjoying the act of writing. Rather than accepting those changes, he decided to do something.
Using an early concept developed within the Pen Collectors of America (PCA), Ralph created an entirely new curriculum and transformed it into the Pens for Kids program. He traveled across the country — to schools, pen shows, libraries, and community events — often at his own expense. He never charged for the program and never expected to be paid. Wherever he went, he brought history, stories, fountain pens, dip pens, ink, and above all, curiosity.
His class often began with the earliest forms of writing, from marks on cave walls to the evolution of modern pens. Children learned how different filling systems worked, held fountain pens from different periods, dipped nibs into ink, and wrote in cursive. Every child left with a pen of their own — not as a collector’s item, but as an invitation to write.
The program depended almost entirely on generosity. Pen show vendors, local pen clubs, and members of the pen community donated used pens so Ralph could place one into the hands of every child. Some of those donated pens became teaching tools themselves, each with its own story about craftsmanship, materials, filling systems, and history.
I asked Ralph if there was one child or one family he would never forget.
He looked at me for a moment, almost puzzled by the question.
“No,” he finally said. “There are many… many.”
It was such a simple answer, yet it revealed something important. After meeting many children over the years, he couldn’t choose just one. Every classroom had left its own memories.
Then I asked him what children had taught him through the program.
His answer came without hesitation.
“We, as adults, are not listening enough. We don’t listen to their needs. We don’t listen to their desires. If you want to know about a child or about their childhood, get down on your knees next to them. Turn off the TV. Turn off your phone. Listen to them. Understand what they’re trying to say. Then you’ll find yourself a whole new friend… an innocent human being.”
For a moment, I forgot we were talking about fountain pens.
I was listening to a teacher.
A man who had spent decades helping children and students discover not only language, but confidence, curiosity, and connection.
Before I left, I asked Ralph what one message he would give to every child who ever received one of his pens.
He smiled.
“Use it. Use it. Use it… or lose it.”
At first, those words sounded like practical advice about handwriting.
But the longer I thought about them, the more I realized they spoke to something much larger.
Use your curiosity.
Use your ability to communicate.
Use your voice.
Write your thoughts.
Write your memories.
Write your life.
Years after the program, people still recognize Ralph and tell him they remember receiving a pen from him as children. Some still have that very pen. Teachers have thanked him for making a difference in their classrooms. Although he no longer has the energy to revive the program himself, its impact continues to live quietly in the people he inspired.
As I drove home, I wasn’t thinking about rare fountain pens or antique inkwells.
I was thinking about a teacher who believed that listening comes before teaching, and that sometimes the smallest gift — a single pen placed into the hands of a child — can leave a memory that lasts a lifetime.
I’m grateful I didn’t wait.
Some stories deserve to be heard while the storyteller is still here to tell them.
My sincere thanks to Ralph B. Stillwell for welcoming me into his home, sharing his memories, and reading this entry before publication.
If Ralph’s story touched you, I’d be honored if you’d shared it with others.
If you’d like to read more stories from the pen community, I invite you to visit my Journal or learn more about my journey on the About page.