"Find the Little Black Book"

The letter was hard to read. Handwriting that suffered an arthritis of not just age but of a hand that had spent much time with a pen in its grasp. Still, the message was clear. She was needed. So here she was. Here they were.

She wished she’d known her. She had heard stories larger than life. Now, parents gone. No siblings, aunts or uncles.

She sat on the bed and her grandmother’s eye’s opened. Tired, green eyes rimmed with red. The green she saw when she looked in the mirror. Her parents had told her she has her grandmother’s eyes. One set of green eyes stared into an almost identical pair. They would have been identical if seventy years didn’t separate them.

She didn't know what to say so she didn't. “You’re here and you’ll find the little black book,” the frail woman in the bed said with delight. “Go outside and meet Bea and Avery.” “When you come back in make sure you wash your hands.” She couldn’t help but smile. Her mother had been meticulous about hand washing. The older green eyes closed.

Bea, round, pink and covered in mud snorted and pawed the ground as she approached. Avery whinnied, tossed his mane and trotted over. She watched her new friends for a while. It was a beautiful day of mystery and excitement.

Back inside she washed her hands then looked around the little house. An old piano, an old loom. A large old desk with a worn chair. A closet full of beautiful old dresses with sequins and shoes to match. An empty fish tank. An easel by a window. In the kitchen, a big old mixer. Everything looked old.

She peaked into her grandmother’s room to find her alert. “You must find the little black book,” her grandmother said with urgency. She hadn't seen any bookshelves or books. “Of course, grandmother,” she said. “Call me Mim,” her grandmother said green eyes twinkling, “Grandmother makes me feel old.” “Mim,” she began, “where might I find this little black book?” “In the attic,” Mim replied. “Find the little black book.” Her eyes closed.

She climbed the stairs to find shelves packed with little black books. Which little black book could Mim want? She pulled one from a shelf and began to read.

It is downright ridiculous the contest requires your pig be pink. My pig, Eleanor, has bright eyes, healthy skin and hair. Solid, wide toes pointed in the same direction as her stout legs. Her joints move fluidly. Shoulder height equal to that of her hip. I’ve used the money I earned mucking out stalls to give her the highest quality feed. I never heard of such a thing as requiring your pig be pink! Eleanor is a blue ribbon pig! I’ve decided what I’m going to do...paint Eleanor pink!

She laughed out loud at the thought of Mim painting her pig pink.

Well, I did it, I painted Eleanor pink. We won by a landslide. That was, until rain washed away the paint revealing Eleanor’s dark spots. They took our blue ribbon away! This will be the last pig show I do around here, that is for certain!

She thought about Bea, the pink pig outside.

The sun was setting but there was enough light to pull another little black book from a shelf.

If I never see another sequin again, it’ll be too soon. “It's not the dress, it’s the girl,” Ma says. With all our rehearsing I’d like to think no one will even notice the dress. Still, I want to look good when I, I mean we, win. It took convincing (and maybe blackmail) to persuade Roger to be my partner for the dance competition. It’s a week away!

The closet full of dresses came to mind.

I will never talk to Roger again! I don't want to be unsympathetic to stage fright but we rehearsed so much! I won't tell anyone I saw him eating his boogers though. I danced, sequins sparkling, by myself! The judges didn't like that but I was told I looked lovely. Obviously, I didn't win.

Too dark to read she put the little black book back on the shelf.

She turned in when she found Mim sleeping.

She woke with a chill. “Did you find the little black book?” Before she could answer Mim said, “I see a shiver, grab a poncho from my dresser.” She put one on and the chill was gone. “You must find the little black book,” Mim demanded.

Back in the attic she pulled another little black book and read.

I wanted to play percussion. Nana had a piano so I learned. That’s the way life is. Scales, chords, melodies then Prelude in C Major by Bach. Practice, practice, practice, countless hours then Chopin’s Étude Op. 10 No. 4. Well, last night I played at the Lincoln Center for over a thousand. I felt like a magician casting spells. It seems the audience enjoyed it as much as I did for I was showered with compliments. The spells worked. Music is so powerful. I am proud of the time I’ve spent over the keys. They say piano is easy to learn but difficult to master. I’ll play until I can’t.

Everything she’d read had been written with passion but the fondness in the account of the performance moved her. Could this be the little black book she must find? With hope, she brought it to Mim who didn't even open it before shaking her head, “find the little black book.” Mim’s eyes closed before questions could be asked.

She went back to the attic.

We won another dance competition. My partner is good and I appreciate his rhythm and commitment. We seamlessly perform the Foxtrot, Waltz, Rumba, Cha Cha, and Swing. We’ve won prize money! I’ve become a skillful seamstress!

She wondered just how many dance competitions Mim had won as she flipped the pages.

I like knowing that my Nana sat at this loom knitting blankets but I’m sure I’m not interested in making blankets. I saw a mesmerizing gal WEARING a blanket. She called it a poncho. I’m going to knit a poncho! I wonder how old this loom is..? I know it’s been in the family forever!

She felt the warmth of Mim’s poncho around her and wondered if she should take a turn at the heirloom downstairs.

My first poncho- a success! Everyone is asking me to knit them one. I will….for a price! I must cover my expenses and, as they say, time is money! I’m getting savvy at the yarn shop. Wool- warm, durable. Cotton- soft, easy to work with. So much more to learn! I’ll spend time making blankets for the needy.

She noted minor changes in the handwriting of everything she had read, the vivacious voice consistent. Two weeks since her arrival. Countless stories from hundreds of little black books. In her head she heard, “find the little black book” and laughed as she pulled another from the shelf.

I see why people fear horses. Where I live horses are for plowing. If you’re fancy, jumping and dressage, but I want to be a cowgirl. Barrel racing is what I aim to do. Agility, power, speed and incredible connection between horse and rider! I don't have a horse but if I ever get one I’m going to barrel race.

She found it hard to imagine the woman in the bed downstairs controlling a horse.

Roger, yes, I’m talking to him again, found barrels for me but I still don't have a horse. Roger said, “what about fish?” Fish?!? Roger has a fish tank. I saw it and I was in love. Roger has an extra fish tank he’ll give me.

She wondered if it was the very tank that sat empty downstairs.

I ask for a horse every birthday. So far, no horse. This year I got an easel, canvas, paints and was told I could paint horses. It’s not a horse but it’s beautiful! The blank canvas won't stay that way long.

The easel by the window downstairs didn’t hold a canvas. There was no art in the house.

I paint with passion. That’s the way life is. I go to bed with paint on my hands (Ma doesn't like that). My favorite, watercolor- the most forgiving. Roger gave me the tank AND filled it with colorful fish- such lovely subjects! I’m told a good paintbrush should last ten years but I doubt mine will. I obsess over mixing colors - the possibilities endless. I study strokes - Flat Wash, Hatching, Cross Hatching, Drybrush, Brush Ruling, Organic Lines, Scumbling, Stippling… I’m taking commissions. I cover not only the cost of my supplies but I’m making money! I stretch my own canvases and give free lessons to neighborhood kids. My music teacher isn’t thrilled. He thinks I should only use my hands for “tickling the ivories.”

She went downstairs. Mim was awake! An electric kettle sat by the big, old mixer. “I’d love to see some of your art,” she said, placing a mug of tea on Mim’s bedside table. “the only thing you should worry about is finding the little black book.”

She wondered if this goose chase might be fueled by dementia. If so, she didn't mind. She was learning so much. She was feeling inspired. Though she hadn't, so far, found THE little black book the contents of all the others were invaluable. “I’m going to find the little black book.” She headed back to the attic.

I’ve been told I should learn to cook but I find it such a bore. I’ll bake! Baking is a science and an art! Each ingredient has a purpose. I like to experiment. After all, making mistakes is the best way to learn. I knit and paint and play but, ‘idle hands are the devil’s playground,’ as they say. I mix by hand but one day I’ll have a big, fancy mixer. Roger is happy to be my guinea pig. I blushed when he said one day I’d own a successful bakery.

She wondered if Roger was her grandfather.

Flour gives structure, baking soda makes things rise, eggs bind. Fats can make things more or less chewy. As it turns out, sugar isn't just for sweetening- it affects moisture as well! Temperature is a huge factor (and difficult for me to control in our old oven). I will continue to document my findings- chemistry! Cookies, cakes, scones, muffins, bread- It’s a delicious world! People call me for birthday cakes!

Mim had moxie. She was beautiful. She was courageous. She filled her life. She realized reading these pages had made her hungry so she headed downstairs.

She went to Mim’s room to see if she could fix her something as well. She giggled in anticipation of hearing, “you must find the little black book.”

At the threshold she noticed the air had changed. Mim’s body lay in the bed but the spirit was gone. Everything was very still. There was no panic. There was only peace. She wished she had known her sooner. She opened the window a crack, not that Mim’s soul could ever be restrained

Alone in the little house. She went outside to Bea and Avery. Their energies were subdued. They sensed the loss. She went back inside and washed her hands.

She climbed the stairs to the attic and from the shelves pulled a little black book. She paused before she opened it. By this time she had handled dozens of the little black books. This one felt different. She opened it to find blank pages. Blank pages and crisp bills. Twenty thousand dollars. An amount of money that would change her life but not as much as the treasures contained within the other little black books.