Carol's Code

After my Grandma died, my grandfather used to tell me if he could depend on anyone it'd always be himself. He was a stoic old-man, and while he trusted his kids to make good decisions for their own lives, he couldn't imagine anyone making a better decision than he could- I admired him. His rugged attitude was only soothed by my grandmother's grace. She was magical, almost fairylike, and wherever she fluttered about there was a glimmer in my grandfather's eyes that said, "I love you", as he watched her.

Since her passing away, my grandfather spent most of his time scribbling in a little black book. I'd always wondered what he was writing, but he'd told me never to touch it, and he would keep it nestled between his recliner armrest while he'd sleep. I thought maybe he was writing letters to my grandmother.

My grandparents worked tirelessly to care for everyone in the family, especially during a financial hardship. When my grandfather had a sudden stroke, I was disheartened to learn that amidst caring for everyone else, my grandparents had not paid off the mortgage on their own home. I was only 9, but when my parents told me the remaining debt was $20,000, i was only certain of two things-that it sounded like a lot of money, and that I wanted to help. My nine-year-old imagination couldn't fathom how I'd make $20,000, but I'd figured I'd better start thinking as soon as that day.

I didn't know what had caused my grandfather's stroke, but my parents said he was now in a coma. I always thought those were the little curves in sentences that meant to stop reading for a second, so all of your words wouldn't run over one another, but apparently they could keep you from talking, walking, and opening your eyes too. I could tell my parents were worried about how they would pay off the debt and not lose the home-while I too-had not determined how I'd turn my few few piggy bank savings into $10,000. Nonetheless, I was dedicated to a resolution.

After a few days in the hospital, we visited my grandparents' home to arrange the house and clean up after my grandfather. We didn't know how long he'd be in a coma, but I was grateful to know that when he reawakened, and returned home, and everything was back to normal, the fresh aroma of a clean home would remind him again of my grandmother- her lavender perfume trailing behind the ease of her steps.

My grandfather's little black book sat still in his recliner. It appeared to miss him, and although he'd told me never touch it, the temptation of it's fine black cover and band was irresistible. It gleamed in the living room light, gesturing for me to discover what it held. A Moleskine wrapper sat undisturbed on the coffe table, next to a black pen my grandfather called a v5. I'd always thought that was a funny name for a pen. It sounded like an airplane, or like the vegetable juice he would drink for breakfast. As he claimed, those were the only two things a thinker ever needed-a Moleskine and a v5. In his honor, I'd determined I was going to write my ideas for making $10,000 in his book.

I sat down into his recliner and opened the little black book, searching for a blank page to begin the efforts of my genius, but to my surprise, there were none. Every page was filled with some kind of math gibberish-numbers, x's, y's, e's, and sometimes the phrase "the limit does not exist". The only comprehensible line I could find was in blue ink, which was strange because all of the other writing was in black. The line, squished between mathematical mumbo- jumbo above and below, said "Carol's Code" and had a series of numbers following. My grandmother's name was Carol; that was all I understood, but my intrigue insisted I find out its meaning. Excitingly, I took the little black book to my parents.

I still sit in my grandfather's recliner when I write. I'm a math professor now, and to this day his recliner inspires me to solve a problem. "Carol's Code", once an account for my grandfather's most lucrative investments, was valued at $20,000. Every night, I reminisce on how the loyalty and integrity of my grandfather's little black book made it possible- possible for my parents to pay for my grandparent's home, possible to pay for my grandfather's commemoration, and possible to illustrate how if my grandfather could depend on anyone, it'd always be himself.