It's all you will ever need

Memories are to be cherished, is what she always said, and wow what memories there are! She, oh grandma that is, Ellie Melrose, fun, chic and practical too was how grandpa described her, but she was that and more. Ellie taught me so much about her philosophy that to fully enjoy life, you had to understand the importance of being kind, and that by doing one good deed a day, we can get so much more from life. She had given so much of herself: always generous with her time, her kindness to others, those she knew, and in equal measure, to those she did not know. As a novelist, Grandma wrote mystery books, and we would always have her read them to us. Ellie would entice us as kids to read, by, leaving clues for us around her shuttered yellow clapperboard house, hidden around her wildflower garden, little notes left for us, clues and riddles which in turn would lead us to discover treasures, easter eggs, birthday gifts. From my ninth birthday onwards my gifts would always involve a little black book, like the one’s she had in her car’s glove box, in her handbag, in her study, she said all you need in life is a little black book and a good sharp pencil, indeed, this was true, as a novelist she would suddenly reach for one of her books, to jot down a new idea, the next chapter, the resolution to writers' block, I loved to see her do this, I loved to read her books, always mysteries to be unraveled, her love of intrigue. Staying at their house we would watch episodes of Colombo and I would marvel that she always knew who the culprit was.

So, it was no surprise that from nine years onwards my birthday gift was always a beautifully wrapped black Moleskine notebook, and a good sharp pencil, write every-day, write what you see, write about what you’d love to see and do, write about your feelings’, good or bad, draw a picture, keep reminders’, this book and this pencil is all you need, she would tell me, and I did.

So now, here I am with my final package from her, I know what it’s going to be, her last gift, left at her Solicitors, who are handling her estate. Bunny, Bowson and Emmet, had methodically distributed her gifts: to my parents, her beautiful house, my brother, her car, and to me a little black book. The Solicitor handed it to me, with a handwritten note from her “thanks I said, she must have bought it ready for my birthday, it was a tradition, something we shared a deep love of, she always told me all you need is a little black book and a sharp pencil.” The Solicitor gave me a weak forced smile, he didn’t understand its’ value.

My darling girl, she wrote, use this book wisely, its’ contents may not at first seem obvious but given time, just like all good mysteries, it will become apparent, do what I did and keep it at hand.

So, I did. I placed it on my desk in my tiny sunlit study and left it open ready for my first inspired thought, my memory of her and the golden thread that she represented in the fabric of my life – and so at the weekend I returned to my little black book, picking up my pencil to write my feelings down, about how I would cherish our shared memories. As I looked at the sun-drenched blank page a memory of us as children having to heat up a white sheet of paper to discover the riddle written in invisible onion juice ink, came to mind. I went over her note in my mind, and “it will become apparent” resonated, what if, I wondered, what if she had one more mystery for me? I took the little black book and held the first page raised above the open flame of the stove top, and there it was, her final mystery, her final act of kindness.

My darling girl, I knew you would read this eventually, if you have done as I had hoped and recalled our cherished memories, the treasure hunts, the hidden messages, you will reveal my final gift, I have left you $20,000 in the following account, pursue your writing, spend it wisely, and always have a little black book at hand, with a sharp pencil, and you will have the best things in life, a record of memories, inspired ideas, captured moments, these are the gifts of life that are enveloped within these pages, and who knows maybe they will turn into treasures.

Now my memories are recorded, my pencil at hand here I am writing this down for you dear reader, her golden thread is still strong, still vibrant, still here, my writing’s continue. I used that money wisely and write my novels now, I keep my little black books peppered throughout my home, my car and suggest you do too. There is joy in writing, there is love in reliving a cherished moment, she was right it’s all you really need, a little black book and a sharp pencil.