Staring down at the old oak desk, I imagine how many times my papa sat down and wrote there. I imagine the care and time he put into writing each of his books. I imagine this timeless study in the basement of his home lined with books and model trains. I imagine the man I never knew.

     I turn to gaze out the window, which held in view the small town of Golden and the snow filled foothills of Colorado. One hill in particular had an M embossed across its surface, signaling where the Colorado School of Mines is located. I stare at it, wondering how many times papa had looked at this same view for inspiration and thought back to his college days at that very school.

     I turn once again to study the dusty desk more closely, noticing imperfections in the oak where a type writer had once sat.  I think of how it must have sounded the nights papa restlessly typed out paragraph after paragraph of the history of Colorado railroads, the keys making constant clanking sounds which echoed throughout his home. I think of his tireless passion to put words to paper, a passion so similar to my own.  

     Although I never knew papa, I feel at times a certain bond that stretches through generations. There is a certain undeniable trait we both share.  Papa passed down to me my one true passion, writing. I feel that if we would have met he might have shared with me the secret of writing and having my voice heard. But then again, maybe not. He might have left that part up to me, to find for myself my own way of sharing my passion with the world. We may never have met, but I have no doubt he would have been proud of my love of writing.