I have a desk in my office that’s definitely seen better days. It’s scratched, has rings from coffee mugs, and plenty of old stains from who knows when. It’s just a basic wooden desk—simple square top, three drawers on the left, and a tall cabinet on the right. Moving it is a chore; it’s quite heavy.
This desk belonged to my grandfather.
He spent time here writing with a pen, but that’s about it. I’m not sure when he ever learned to type.
He used it when my dad was a kid, but after he passed, it basically sat untouched. I think my dad might have wanted to use it, but he was really close to his father, and sometimes those memories can be tough. But my grandson isn’t a son, so here I am using it now.
Every day, I plop down in front of this old desk, set my black coffee on the right, and open my laptop to get to work.
With the old ones
When things are organized, I’ve got a pad of paper and a pencil on the left, unopened mail teetering on the edge, a lamp in one corner, and an external hard drive on the other side. When I’m not feeling organized—cue the chaos—there’s still all that, but I also have an overflow of papers, tubes of chapstick, handkerchiefs, old coffee cups, half-drained sparkling water cans, and other odds and ends that really do nothing for my productivity.
I’ve been using my grandfather’s desk for around a decade now. In the beginning, I was working in music composition and production, and the surface was cluttered with a keyboard, a MIDI controller, a USB interface for recording, and big screens.
I remember those late nights in our spacious loft studio. Lights on, the city skyline outside the window, my wife sleeping in the corner that we’d turned into a mini bedroom, and Doe’s little colorful box with headphones set up for music gigs. The soft glow of blue and red lights from various gear lit up my workspace.
Now I find it fascinating how old this desk is while my gadgets are all cutting-edge. My grandfather wrote with a pen at this very desk, while my setup now represents a totally different world. His desk was a relic from a time before computers, yet here it is, still in use amid all this new tech. My work might look different, but at the core, we’re both just working.
Lost in space
Lately, the world feels pretty empty and lacking warmth. It’s not nature that’s the problem, nor is it family life, which is rich with love. No, it’s more about our surroundings—they seem like a blend of something out of Star Trek merged with a shopping mall.
This has a lot to do with technology. It’s about more than just buildings; it’s about the small things around us. Our phones, tablets, computers, TVs, smart home devices, and even video doorbells all have this slick, plastic feel.
Right now, I’m typing on my laptop. It’s silver, resembling a spaceship, with black keys that feel far from warm. Honestly, it feels quite mechanical and cold.
With grain
But that old desk? It’s different. It’s worn and weathered. It’s made of REAL wood! Remember when we used to make things from it? When I run my fingers over its surface, I can feel the deep grain. There are scars on the corners. It’s simple, human, and fundamentally genuine. This isn’t just because it was my grandfather’s; it’s a piece from a bygone era that brings that feeling along.
I often reflect on how Grandpa’s desk fits into my office and how it shapes my work. There’s something estranged about our modern technology. Surrounded by the coldness of electronics, this old wood offers a sense of stability—a warmth that’s hard to articulate. It connects me to a sense of humanity that my laptop just doesn’t touch.
Of course, the family history tied to this desk adds a layer of significance. Grandpa has been gone nearly 20 years, and using this desk feels like keeping his memory alive in a tangible way. Maybe that’s part of why we cherish old buildings and museums, even if we claim it’s primarily for research.
I think we all find comfort in gentle reminders of our past. They anchor us, showing where we came from, reinforcing who we are, keeping our memories vibrant, connecting us to a larger narrative, and helping us feel a little more human in an increasingly impersonal world.
