I’m pleased to reblog my mother’s fifth blog post. Please follow her blog to receive notifications of new posts.
This mimeograph machine is similar to the one my father used for years.
No matter what house we lived in, my father always had his study. As much as the rest of the house was under my mother’s watchful eye, the study was my father’s domain. When the door was closed, we knew he was working on his Sunday sermon or the Sunday bulletin. It was a room of worship, quiet contemplation, and even as a child, I felt the peace and calm that prevailed there.
My father was a collector. The corners of his study were crowded with boxes of books, knick knacks, or whatever treasures he might have come across in his travels. The walls were lined with bookcases, most of which my father had made himself and stained with whatever wood stain he had available and there was always a wooden step stool within reach, also made by my father, to allow access to the tallest shelves. The bookcases were crammed full of…
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