V. Father, Friend

James B. Burnham

The importance of writing in my father’s household was established, for me, at an early age. His desk and typewriter occupied a strategic location at the entrance to the living room in our narrow, railroad brownstone apartment above Lexington Avenue. One day, shortly after my younger brother, John, started learning to walk, my mother’s cry of anguish was heard as she passed into the living room. The typewriter had been upset and was lying, a bit worse for wear, on the floor. “There goes our bread-and-butter machine,” she groaned. Silence fell over the tinker- toy crew two rooms away, and we mentally joined the crowds of malnourished children pictured in Life magazine’s most recent photo essay on the turmoil in just-liberated Europe.

JB

About the Author

James Burnham

James B. Burnham

The importance of writing in my father’s household was established, for me, at an early age. His desk and typewriter occupied a strategic location at the entrance to the living room in our narrow, railroad brownstone apartment above Lexington Avenue. One day, shortly after my younger brother, John, started learning to walk, my mother’s cry of anguish was heard as she passed into the living room. The typewriter had been upset and was lying, a bit worse for wear, on the floor. “There goes our bread-and-butter machine,” she groaned. Silence fell over the tinker- toy crew two rooms away, and we mentally joined the crowds of malnourished children pictured in Life magazine’s most recent photo essay on the turmoil in just-liberated Europe.