Love My Desk

by Winona I. Hahn Laird

The year was 1944 and our country was in the middle of World War II.  I was eight years old and lived in Denver, Colorado with my mother, father, sister and two brothers.  I remember the day my father went in to sign up for the Army.  My mother cried all day until he got home and she found out he was 4F.  They wouldn’t take him into the service because he had a heart murmur.  In those days a heart murmur was very serious.  They really wanted him in the Army because he was a doctor.

Since, my father couldn’t serve his country in the Army, he bought a Doctor’s practice in Casper, Wyoming.  Many things had to be taken care of in preparation for the move.  To purchase gas there were gas stamps, so they had to save up enough gas stamps to make the trip.  The move could only take one day while pulling a trailer behind the car with all of our belongings.  Many household items had to be sold; and yes, my desk had to be sold.  I loved that desk and cried when someone came and took it away.  I told my mother I would never forgive her for selling my desk.

I remember that trip from Denver, Colorado to Casper, Wyoming, a 350 mile trip that took all day, from dawn to dark.  The speed limit was 35 miles per hour and pulling the trailer, filled with all our belongings, slowed us down of course.

Fast forward thirty years. I was now married, living in Kent, Washington with my husband and two daughters.  I received a phone call from the bus station saying they had a package for me from Watertown, South Dakota.  Well of course I was baffled trying to think who I knew in Watertown.  Then I remembered my mother, her mother and sister were on a trip to visit my uncle in South Dakota.  I called my mother and asked if she sent me something while on her trip.  She said yes, it was to be a surprise for me, but she would tell me what it was right then.  I said, ”No, I’ll wait until the package is picked up.”

Driving her small car, my daughter went to pick up the package from the bus station.  We had no idea the size of the package, just figured it would fit in her car.  Waiting was not easy.  Finally, here my daughter was, coming down the street with this big, and I mean big, box tied on the top of her car.  She pulled into the driveway and my husband and I went out and brought the package in the house.  I proceeded to open the huge box.  Once the box was open there it was--MY DESK.  I was crying and my husband and daughter couldn’t figure why I was crying over a desk, so I reminded them of the story.  I went to the phone and called my mother and when she answered, all I said was, “You’re forgiven and I love you."  It is now forty years after my mother sent me the desk; I still have it in my home.

Winona Ione Hahn Laird