The Collection: Staffer Has a Penchant for Pens

By Karen Clos,
Director of Communications –

A&M–Central Texas staffer, Barbara Peek, 53, remembers how it all began. Not her employment with the university, though she will gladly outline that, too. Military service. Motherhood. Marriage. And, eventually, a master’s degree. Relocation and retirement with her husband, George, brought her to the university where she has amassed a slew of colleagues and friends over the years.

Her office is a testament to that. Certificates of Appreciation for Five Years of Service. Then Ten Years of Service. Framed pictures of her daughters, a formal event with her husband, her beloved cats. And one more thing: an impressive collection of novelty pens.

“Twenty years ago, our family was leaving Fort Benning, Georgia and going to Joint Base Lewis McCord in Washington state,” she said. “That is how it began. One pen back then is now 150 pens today. All because of that one trip.”

That One Trip

If it sounds idyllic, it isn’t meant to. Peek – and any military family who has ever made a multi-day, multi-state, multi-child, multi-pet, cross country, military relocation trip – will quickly disabuse the absurdly romantic notion that there is any measure of tranquility or relaxation to be had when picking up everything and moving it almost 3,000 miles away.

Unable to afford the cost of shipping one vehicle, they did the only logical thing, dividing their two kids, two hamsters, and one cat, and drove. And drove. And then drove some more. Without GPS. Georgia. Alabama. Louisiana. Texas. More Texas. Still More Texas. Until eventually, Colorado, Utah, Oregon, and finally Washington.

Days upon end, she says. And while it may not be yesterday, there’s a very good chance she remembers the exhaustion. She in her white Nissan Pathfinder and her husband in his white Lincoln Towncar ahead of her. That is an important detail, she says, her obsidian eyes barreling into the conversation as if something is coming.

“Lemme tell you,” she added whispering, “I can do stress as well or better than most people, but the stress from that trip accumulated way faster than the mileage. I’m pretty sure that if I could have turned around, I would have.”

The only thing interrupting the monotony was food and potty breaks, occasional stops to visit family when their paper maps, respective family trees, mileage, and levels of general fatigue overcame the desire to keep going and just get there already.

“About halfway through the trip, we were someplace in Louisiana,” she remembered. “I was past the point of exasperation from being behind my husband’s car, and I had to stay in sight of him because he was the only one who knew the way.”

The Needs of the One

In that place and at that time, Peek had one need: a clean(ish) restroom and a place to refuel. So, when her husband signaled a turn, she sighed with relief. Had she known then that one stop – that one random pullover in some town she still can’t name – offered a completely unexpected delight. But it would. And it did.

Right there on a remote Louisiana highway, Peek and her husband pulled into a relic of a gas station. He busied himself with refueling both vehicles slurping gas from a pair of 1940s gas pumps that ticked away the gallons and the price not on any modern digital gray numerals but click by click in ancient one inch metal plates dropping methodically into position with each drop.

This was no Buc-ee’s. But it didn’t need to be. All she wanted was a reasonably clean restroom and something for her and the kids to eat. Once inside, unexpectedly, there, in mid-thought, something unusual caught her eye.

It could have been easily overlooked, nestled randomly on the dusty counter alongside a 15-gallon tank of minnows, moon pies wrapped in cellophane, spark plugs in a large glass cookie jar, boiled peanuts in a dented metal pot, and pickled eggs the owner swore were ‘fresh enough.’ She reached out her hand and held it between two fingers: a jovial Mardi Gras jester, masked and festooned in regal purple, lush green, and festive gold.

She can’t remember what she paid for it that day. Maybe a dollar. Clearly, not enough for instant unexpected fascination. To her, it was worth whatever she paid and then some because just looking at it erased the tension in her neck and made her smile before she realized she was doing it.

The One Became Many

Today, on the credenza behind her desk, her pen collection stands at attention, arranged in straight rows like a veritable army of friendly allies. A crocodile pen, wine bottle pen, palm tree pen, french fry pen, chopsticks pen, giant red lips pen, Etch A Sketch pen, seahorse pen, pliers pen, basketball hoop pen, penguin pen, Kylo Ren pen, fish pen, flamingo pen, and perhaps provocatively, a presumably contraband reefer pen, right there next to a Big Mac pen, and this pièce de résistance, specifically for those who ever played the board game, Operation. Yes, boys and girls. There is a nostalgic Cavity Sam pen. And his nose turns red. Of course, she beams, they all work.

For those who wonder what to make of this pen pulchritude, Peek doesn’t feel the need to justify her collection or over explain its significance. For the last two plus decades, it is always growing. Sometimes by her hand, and sometimes nourished by friends, family, and co-workers who appreciate the simple joy it provides.

To her, it is an arsenal of appreciation for the small things that sometimes too easily go unnoticed in the rough and tumble of life. Just wait, she winks. Wait until you see the pen that farts.

Not everything has to represent something to have value, she says in her characteristic stoic fashion. Sometimes, it is enough just to make time to be happy. Even if happy is something, like Peek, that gets wedged in between meetings and other obligations.

One of a Kind

She doesn’t resent those things that make up her job. In fact, she is one of those people that every office should have to be considered lucky. She is resolutely unflappable. Moving from one task to another as she ensures that the university’s provost’s office runs as smoothly as possible.

People around campus don’t just know of her, they admire her. An indefatigable work ethic, seldom a moment idle, and purposefully friendly despite a rigorous work routine and multiple demands on her time. Pssst, they ask each other, “Have you seen Barbara’s pen collection?”

If not, they add, it is worth it. Indeed. Sometimes all anyone needs is a small reverie of intrigue followed by a, “Hang on. Is that what I think it is?’ conversation to spark up a bond of belonging between colleagues and co-workers.

In the end, Peek is fully aware that her pens are, strictly speaking, novelties. It’s just that that’s not all they are. And anyone who’s ever stood in her doorway would — and has — emphatically agreed.

They’re proof that whether it is our longest roads or our longest workdays that bring us together, the smallest things can still make it happen. And if that moment of connection comes courtesy of a fiery pink flamingo or a farting pen? Well, she thinks, that’s just another bit of happen‑chance — the same kind that found her on a forgotten stretch of Louisiana highway all those years ago.