My father liked to read, but wasn't a writer, as far as I can tell. Other than a post card he sent back to his parents on a trip to the 1939 New York World's Fair, this school essay he wrote in 1931, at the age of twelve, is the only example of his writing I have. The first page is typed, with corrections from the teacher. The second page is handwritten, for reasons unknown to me. I believe I inherited from him a midwestern anabaptist tendency to self-deprecation. If you click on the pages below, they should enlarge for easier reading.