For Want of a Sharpie
In my adult life, I seldom find myself in need of a Sharpie. Writing with one is no pleasure—the fumes alone could make you forget what you were doing, and the ink bleeds through paper like sentiment through salmon. The tips are too broad for any serious work (I’ve always been partial to an extra-fine nib, when I can find one). I suppose Sharpies are useful for labeling moving boxes, though I haven’t moved in nearly six years, which is a streak I’m rather proud of.
This morning, however, I was seized by a strong impulse to label a brown paper lunch sack. Naturally, I went to the junk drawer—a repository that, as any Midwesterner with a teacher in the house will tell you, contains the full range of writing utensils. Or so I thought.
Alas, both Sharpies were as empty as my DMs on a Friday afternoon. I didn’t have to look far to know who the culprits were: my children, who had gone to work on the latest Christmas catalog with artistic fervor. That annual tome of temptation arrives each October, encouraging small citizens to circle, star, and underline every plastic wonder in sight—so that later their parents may play middleman to the grandparents’ generosity.
The evidence was overwhelming. I found every single page of every single store catalog festooned with black circles, arrows, and commentary. The Sharpies had been drained as dry as Gandhi’s flip-flop.
No matter. I was 95 percent certain there was still a Sharpie in the glove box of my car. I simply didn’t prefer to brave the chill of a Midwestern morning to confirm it. But the heart wants what it wants, so out I went.
Sure enough, there it was: a Sharpie marked with a large letter “G.” This was no ordinary Sharpie. It hailed from Lambeau Field, and, technically speaking, it wasn’t even mine. It was then that the memory came rushing back.
It was earlier this summer. The children and I were at a crowded park, hemmed in by graduation parties and rogue toddlers. After spending too much time playing the troll under the bridge, lying in wait to grab my children by the ankles as they crossed, I finally settled onto a shady bench. I noticed a woman making her way from group to group, asking something. Each time, she was rebuffed. I assumed she was peddling fundraisers or religion—possibly both—when at last she approached me.
“Do you, by chance, have a Sharpie?” she asked.
After I wiped my brow in relief, she went on to explain that someone had decorated the inside of the slide with language not fit for young readers, and she was determined to spare the children’s eyes.
I told her no at first—then remembered. Of course I did! A souvenir Sharpie from Lambeau Field, tucked away in the glove box. I fetched it and handed it over.
The woman thanked me gravely, then marched toward the playground slide and vanished inside it like a mom for liberty. Minutes passed. Then more minutes. I began to wonder if she’d been lost to the plastic labyrinth forever. Finally, as I was packing up the kids to leave, she reemerged—flushed, triumphant, and holding out my Sharpie like a fallen comrade. “There was so much more than I realized,” she said. “Your Sharpie didn’t make it. But thank you.”
I took it back. Instead of throwing it away, I put it back in the glove box for reasons I couldn’t quite explain, other than it had a G on it, it was from Lambeau Field, and it wasn’t mine.
This morning, I tried it again. Still dead. Faithful, but finished.
So I wrote on the lunch sack with a plain rollerball pen. The ink was too light against the dark paper, the tip too timid along the textured finish. I wanted it to be perfect, not some whimsy pen—but a proper Sharpie.
I doubt the recipient will even notice. Probably not. I only hope the contents are enjoyable. Perhaps, as they say, it’s the heart that counts.