My Father's Desk

I use the desk my father used. I use it in the same room my father used it. It is a beat ex-US government issue desk some federal bureaucrat slaved over (Ha ha) back in the 1940s and maybe the 1950s. My dad bought it at one of the many auctions he often attended inside the federal triangle when we lived in the DC area in the early 1960s. I think he paid $5 for it.

It started out life a wonderfully cheerful Olive color. You know, that color the the government likes to use to gussy up their equipment. My father painted it a sort of baby shit reddish brown in an attempt I guess to make this steel monstrosity blend in better in the paneled room he called and now I call "the office". This desk has been moved around in this small room, but has not left it in 43 years since it moved in. It is actually too big for the room it sits in. The broad plain of it's massive top takes up roughly 20% of the available floor space in this room. With the wings extended, it makes an even larger dent. Throw in some file cabinets, a couple of book cases, some ancient stereo equipment and an old school wooden desk chair on wheels and the word "clutter" doesn't even begin to cover it. I call it cozy. My wife has other less kind words for it.

I have not bothered removing many of the things my father had stashed inside its guts. In the top drawer, his trusty slide rule, triangular scale rulers, fountain pens and ink sit dustyalongside the many magnifying glasses  he used on a more regular basis once his eyes began to fail.Also inside, his cherished set of US Navy charting compasses he would handle with care and only let me use under the strictest eye he could muster.All kinds of cool old desk stuff sits waiting for me to rediscover it.  The desk is a time capsule.  I will often rifle through it looking for something  And come up with some gizmo I ofen saw my father use when he was in his mad scientist mode.

I could say I have kept it as it was because of some strong sense of honor for my father's memory. That would be Bullshit. I have left them there because I figure to use them once in awhile. Why rock the boat? I know where to go if I need a magnifying glass. When drawing up plans with circles and doing them to scale, I know where the tools are that will help me in this endeavor.



Maybe my use of the tools he left me is the greatest honor I can give him or them. Placing them in some box in the attic or selling them out on the driveway on a sunny Sunday afternoon does nothing to honor their intent or their history. Tools are meant to be used. Somewhere I know the stern eye of my ole man is watching and waiting for me to not use them right. Knowing this makes me fondle them with care.

Keep it 'tween the ditches......................

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