Dad's Desk

A Tribute to My Father

It was not beautiful nor tidy, but there was always room for a little boy or girl to accompany Dad at his desk while he studied his archaeological and theological texts in preparation for his Sunday School class or went over the family's financial records. The desk was a topography of books, papers, forms, and correspondence with the Snoopy calendar as the centerpiece with all the important dates: family birthdays, anniversaries, paydays, and Dad's unnecessary biweekly haircut at Hon's barber shop -- a tradition left over from his stint in the Navy during the Second World War.

There at his desk he would sit, my father, and behind him drawing pictures of scenes that I had encountered while stealing glimpses of his National Geographic, I would stand with thick pencil in hand creating a masterpiece on his white T-shirt. When I had finished, the game of guessing would begin as he would cease from his labors to guess what I had drawn. (The rule was three guesses.) Then he would pull off the shirt so he could admire the work. And with mouth wide open and eyes winced, he would laugh with joy. Then with his right index finger, he would trace the figures and question me on the design or the story that went with the illustration. On occasions when I had gone beyond my natural ability, he would call Mom so she could join in the fun. Then back to work he would go. It was not neat, it was not pretty, but at that plywood desk, memories of love, acceptance and understanding were scribbled on my heart.