Almost blind for most of his life, my father loved maps. He spent most evenings sitting at his table, in our living room, a magnifying glass in his right hand, his left hand’s index finger pointing at a page of one of his atlas books.
Sometimes his finger would carefully follow some mountain railroad track he had been riding many years before. Other times his finger would “walk” around far away cities that he had never visited. He would then open one of his travel guides or magazines, and cross-reference the information written there with one of his maps.