Bo-Bo Knows Gratitude for: Low Tech, Too

Stacks of books, an old iron spoon my mom used to teach me how to cream butter for cookies, a cup of tea—no cream, no honey, just tea—old-fashioned twist can openers, slippers, the warmth of the voice that comes from a record, the smell of turkey roasting in the kitchen, the peace of the silence between my husband and me that's our tacit rejection of society's dictum that we should be talking or doing or striving at all times, purple tulips, singer-songwriters who aren't afraid to write songs that are just guitar and voice, tap water, and the carpet of leaves on lawns that belong to people who understand that rakes in the fall are like yuppie tyranny against nature. But above all else, my favorite low tech lovelies are pen and paper. Specifically, any pen with black ink and a hefty grip and simple paper (spiral-bound notebooks from CVS, composition books, legal pads—anything unassuming will do, though I much prefer college-ruled sheets). But the paper is really secondary to the pens.

Oh my pens.

There's nothing quite like the pleasure of long hand in a type, type, type world. Nothing like sprawling across the bed in my office-slash-guest room, staring at a blank page, pen poised to fill it. Nothing like the smooth, cool plastic of the barrel of a Pentel RSVP pen against the skin at the tips of my thumb and index finger. Nothing like the sound of the scratch of the fine point scribbling across the page. Nothing like the sour, nutty smell of black ink that grows stronger the longer I write, the smell wafting up like low tide for writers. Nothing like the bumpy Braille of the inked words beneath my fingertips as I brush my hand over a page full of fresh writing. Nothing like the way inked pages crinkle when I turn to the next, fresh page.