More prized than the shelves crammed with statuary, photographs, dog-eared and new books that line the walls of my home office is my five-by-four foot mid-twentieth century used oak teacher’s desk. Outsized for the office space it occupies and roomy enough for several children to hide in its knee space—a cubbyhole in which I too could fit—its physical presence dominates the room, but that’s not the story.
My father had one in his office, or den as he liked to call it, and that’s likely why I have its exact likeness in my home office. He loved sitting at his. I do too, for which I’m grateful.
The desktop in my office, spacious like a mini version of the deck on an aircraft carrier, is covered with books and papers, writing tools of all shapes and colors (including fountain pens and my grandfather’s inkwell), a laptop and printer my father and grandfather never imagined, letter openers and Macallan Scotch coasters for a variety of libations, and Petra and Olaf—my much-treasured Norwegian trolls.
There are times when I push away the “important” clutter that surrounds the Asus laptop, place my palms flush against the well-oiled, grainy surface of the desk and wonder about its previous owners. At times, I can palpably feel or imagine feeling their stories seeping through the shiny veneer of the desktop, tales with similar roots to my own—memories of my father, grandfather, and the boy who came of age in their presence.
When my father’s father visited our home, in the years after the death of my grandmother, he slept on the single bed in the den. What I remember most about his presence in that room, the one where I’d later study during my high school years, were of the times I surreptitiously peeked around the doorjamb and saw him writing at my father’s oak desk. He loved writing, but especially writing letters to family and friends, richly detailed missals of travel, people and events, letters like the ones he sent me, aerograms he wrote when our family lived in Norway. He disdained using ballpoint pens and pencils wouldn’t do—his writing tool of choice and habit, was an Esterbrook fountain pen which he held with a firm grip between the middle and ring fingers of his right hand. It is with great fondness that I occasionally grip a fountain pen, pull an aerogram from the shoebox full of his letters to me, and enjoy his words and reflections on people and life events.
It is more than a piece of furniture.
When I was nine years old, several months before our family moved to Norway, I contracted the mumps and had to be quarantined in the den. I was forbidden from getting out of bed for any reason other than dire necessity—bathroom trips. The consequence if I did wander about, or so I was told, would be a massive swelling of my testicles and an inflammation of my brain, both of which would make me crazy. After an initial scare, I tempted fate and spent many adventure-filled hours secretly writing with my grandfather’s pen and reading Mark Twain and Raphael Sabatini while seated at my father’s desk—craziness has woven its way throughout my life’s journey, and though at times I might have wished otherwise, I don’t believe any of it is due to breaking the “mumps rule.”
It was during my sophomore year in high school that I had my heart broken for the first time—I was dumped for a poet. Debbie, a popular junior, and I had enjoyed six months of “going steady,” but my status as a popular, jock underclassman had little chance at enduring love when matched against Chris-the-poet’s endearing verses. I’d failed to heed her gentle warning signs until the fateful snowy evening when the truth could no longer be denied. I sat at my father’s desk, studying and intermittently looking out the window toward my rival’s house, the home he shared with his mother, my beloved second grade teacher. Though the winter evening was shrouded in darkness, a cone of light shone beneath the street lamp in front of his house. Just enough light for me to see him drive up, park his car, open the passenger side door, and take Debbie in his arms for a kiss that seemed to last forever, or at least until tears blurred my vision or the lovers disappeared into his darkened house.
It is more than a desk.
My father asked me to join him in the den the weekend I returned from college to attend my grandfather’s funeral. A tender, intimate moment occurred for the two of us while seated on the edge of the single bed, arms wrapped around each other, bereaved son and grandson sobbing over our shared loss while recalling memories of a beloved patriarch. He wiped the tears from my cheek, pointed to the desk and said, “Your grandfather loved to sit and write at that desk, and I do too.”
“Me too,” I replied through my tears.
The desk where I’m sitting as I type is the one whose pull-out writing surfaces I use to complete work-related documents, write thank you notes and letters, celebratory cards for birthdays and special occasions, and holiday greetings. It is a solid, sturdy pedestal desk, my own bulky used oak teacher’s desk, but it is also a magical, whimsical piece of furniture that elicits ephemeral musings and memories—ones that co-mingle with important and mundane matters and clutter, a wonderful mix for which I am thankful.
by 
Dear Roger, How sweet the treasured memories evoked by your desk, your muse. My desk is the very same one I received as a birthday gift when I was in second grade, where I spent many hours playing teacher. I wanted to become like my beloved second grade teacher, Miss Duffy, who rescued me from the perils of my earlier two years with the scary nuns at St. Matthews School. I cannot part with that desk which is now too small to serve my current needs for writing space, but nonetheless helps me to touch back to my own nostalgic memories. Your tender touching memories of your father and grandfather forecast and give fuel to the wonderful writer you have become, sharing your stories and inviting your readers into their own. I share your tale of first love and heartbreak in more ways than one. How fortunate we are to have lived this many years with the gifts of living and loving, and the capacity to bring back such sweet memories. Write on, mon ami.
Colette,
Miss Duffy saved you from the perilous and scary behaviors of St. Matthew’s nuns–great for both of you, and hold onto that desk, a priceless memento of her heroism and the beginnings of your lifelong commitment to educating others. Amazing what a desk can do!
Thank you,
Roger
Hey Roger,
I had a similar such desk some years ago. When I was teaching on Long Island the school custodian and I struck up a friendship.Our conversations were very engaging, and as Italians we easily related to the many customs and practices of our culture. One day he offered me this solid and large oak desk that had been deposited into the school’s basement years ago. I took it home and refinished it. It was used for many years until we had a Vermont garage sale, where it was sold for a handsome amount of money. Its size not only overwhelmed the third floor but it was no longer used. Thanks for bringing up this memory.
Tom,
Thank you for reading and commenting on this piece. I smiled as I read your response. First because I could picture the conversation, the refinishing, and eventual sale, and secondly because I too need regular “refinishing,” especially when I most resist it!
Roger
This post brought tears to my eyes, my memories stirred by yours, and the comfort of mutual sorrow was palpable–honoring memories by collecting symbolic, tangible objects that give life to [our] memories touches anyone who can’t part with a letter, a paperweight, or a loved one’s favorite book.
Thank you for responding, and I agree with you that many of us hold on to items, perhaps mundane in their day or even castaways, that become rich in value with the passage of time as they remind us of people and events that shaped and informed us.
Roger
Hi Roger, This lovely piece has me reminiscing about various desks that have been part of my life. One that comes to mind was a huge synthetic made to look like walnut contemporary desk scheduled to be picked up the Salvation Army, but free to anyone who would take it away. At the time I made its acquaintance, I was a wife and mother of three children in a small house trying to get through graduate school without inconveniencing anyone, hoping they wouldn’t notice. That desk- just what I needed to organize a dissertation! Suzanne had a boy friend with a truck who was enlisted to pick it up. It was a project getting it through three doors and into the den, much too small a room for its size. It was a wonderful work space and in time the dissertation was completed. Also, my plan was to climb into the knee space during an earthquake. Years later, I wasn’t thinking of earthquakes the day I gave it to the gardener and felt relief it’s disposal had been accomplished. I have never come up with a new earthquake plan. As I write this at my dining table covered with books, magazines, papers, lap top, etc. I do miss that desk and those times.
Dona,
Your story, and I love the wishful thought that a mother in grad school doing a dissertation can go [unmissed] without creating inconvenience, makes me wonder if our iconic, inorganic items and furnishings have experiences of their surroundings–your desk prior to the Salvation Army, then finding a home, to be followed by another, and who knows what came next. If only our desks could communicate…although, that said, perhaps we need to listen differently!
Thank you for this–a story of you the persevering mother and graduate student, and a desk with many “lives.”
Roger
Roger, There is more to the story. The gardener to whom I gave the desk told me once that he came from Mexico in the trunk of a 1970 Impala. At the time he took on the desk, he had a daughter at Stanford (and another daughter who had graduated from UCLA). The desk was for his high school age son who has since graduated from UCSD. There is another daughter still at home who is reportedly “the smartest one of them all.” I believe the desk is still doing good work.
Dona,
Thank you for adding this chapter to his family’s story, and the desk’s journey. There are those who think building a wall is the path to achievement, but what of building upon a desk–hours spent building for a future through inspired and tedious study–wonders do occur, miracles as well, and sometimes find their beginnings in the trunk of a car then come to fruition on the surface of a synthetic made-to-look-like-walnut desk. Quite a confluence of chance and design for that piece of furniture and all of you who sat in its presence. I’ll say it on April 1, 2018–Easter Morning, and what wonderful “fools” we are to believe in and make the impossible possible!
Thank you,
Roger
Beautiful story. It was especially touching reading about you and your dad’s tearful moment recalling memories about your grandfather after he passed away and how your dad remarked about his father’s desk and how he loved to sit there and write. I felt a twinge of regret remembering I gave away the desk my father built. My sisters didn’t want it, so I kept it for many years until I down scaled, moving into a very small apartment with no room nor children to pass it on to. I suppose we need to let go of some things and hold on to others.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for reading and commenting. Letting go and holding on, two actions that have their rightful place, but when to make the choice and which one to choose can be gut-wrenching. Practicality may be the deciding factor. I recently gave away a pair of sealskin slippers that belonged to my father who died twenty-eight years ago. Parting with them was made easier because the new owner is a friend who will find them warm and functional during cold days and nights in his mountain cabin. My heart still skipped a beat when I dropped them off.
Roger