A photo of me, at two years old, sitting at the desk that my dad had built for me. Note that there is a piece of chalk in both my hands. I remember sitting at that desk for hours upon hours, “writing” stories. To the adults, it may have looked like scribbles, to me it was a very real story.
My First Desk
By Richard Mabey Jr.
My early childhood was so dearly blessed by having two wonderful, endearing and loving parents. I have not doubt in my mind, I could not have developed skills in writing without that kind, understanding, loving support that I received from my dear mom and dad in the days of my very early childhood.
When I was so very, very young, my mom would read a bedtime story each and every night before I fell asleep. Mom and Dad bought me a considerably large collection of “Little Golden Books.” They were insightful and educational children’s books. Each one had a little lesson to it, a moral, a shining guiding light.
Mom’s calm and gentle voice would touch my heart, when I listened to her read my bedtime story when I was two years old. I remember very distinctly that I would concentrate on the words of the story that went along with the picture on each page. The next day, I would “read” that very “Little Golden Book” to my teddy bear.
When I was two years old, my dear father made a desk for me. It was made up of boarding that was for the most part, two inches by two inches in size. It was a wonderful little desk for a little boy.
Dad’s desk that he made for me, folded up nicely and could fit between the tall kitchen cabinet and the stove. It consisted of two blackboards. One of the blackboards was the flat table section that I would write on. The other blackboard was much smaller and was straight up and down, on a right angle from the flat table section.
They say that you don’t remember things from when you were two years old, but I remember that desk very well. I would sit for hours upon hours and “write” on the flat blackboard surface of this wonderful little desk. I had big, thick round pieces of chalk that would last for days.
I remember very distinctly, this sense of purpose when I would sit down to write at my little desk when I was two years old. To an adult, my writing would look like a bunch of scribbles; to me it had meaning and purpose.
I remember this so very well. I would try to write about the story that Mom had read to me the night before. If the story was about the little bunny rabbit who got lost from his mom and siblings in the forest; I would try to expand upon that plot and put a new ending to the story.
My very early childhood was blessed beyond my wildest imagination. My dear mom showed me great patience, endearing kindness and unconditional love in the days of my very early childhood. Mom nurtured me to grow in my thinking. She taught me have a sensitivity for caring for other people.
My dear dad was a man of practicality and great inner and outer strength. In those very early days of my childhood, Dad taught me discipline. Even at the very early age of two, I knew that when Dad said “no,” not to do something, that he meant it. Dad was a hard working man. In the days of my very early childhood, my dear father worked two jobs. One as a Truck Driver and the second job as a Dispatcher. Dad had boundless energy, a good heart, and a strong sense of right and wrong. Dad loved people and genuinely cared about doing his best to help a relative or friend in need. Dad went Home to be with the Lord in May of 2006. I still miss him dearly.
I know this for certain; without the endearing, loving support of my mom and dad, I would be nothing.
Peace and harmony,