There at that typewriter sat a lonely man with a jug of wine and an ashtray full of butts. His expression would change as often as he changed to a fresh sheet of paper.

Endlessly he would sit there and abuse the keys of that old typewriter. It was as if he had something to say but no one to say it to--at least no one who could appreciate it for what it was or what it meant.

As I got older I realized that a passion for writing was what drove the man to do as he did. I recall a time in 1978 when we were in California when the 'quake of 1978 hit. It was about dusk October 16 when strong aftershocks struck, after a 6.3 magnitude earthquake had shattered the Imperial Valley shortly after 4:00 p.m. that afternoon. Pictures jarred off the walls and dishes flew from the shelves. The entire structure, newly built, creaked and groaned.

That lonely man sat at his typewriter putting it all down. Everybody else ran out of the apartment house, but he sat there fearlessly; it was in his blood and it was an excuse to write, and that was all he needed. He sat there on into the night as aftershocks came and went, while the rest of us slept out in campers and open lots.

It blows me away today when I think back on it. The man I'm talking about is, I'm proud to say, my father, Jim Chandler. This little ditty is for those of you who enjoy my father's work.