Problem Solved

Tim eased himself into the wicker chair and placed a black notebook on the matching table next to him. The porch looked out to the quiet late afternoon scene, idyllic and peaceful. The gentle symphony of insects humming danced in an out of the wind. The sun sank lower on the horizon and the breeze ruffled the pages of the open notebook resting in Tim’s left hand. The book was old, but still in good shape, and each page bore the evidence of a problem solved. Tim ran his fingers across the ivory-colored pages, the rounded corners curving inward after all the years together.

An accountant by trade, Tim was good with numbers. When he first started out in the business, all the junior accountants at the firm knew how to run the software in their sleep, but when they had a real problem, Tim would take out a notebook and get to work. If it was a really tough problem, he would twirl the bookmark ribbon in his fingers as he wrote out his thoughts. This evening Tim had the bookmark ribbon in his right hand, gently pulling and twisting it as he concentrated on the last page of the book.

The problem wasn’t dire, but it was the culmination of a family tradition: the legacy of the ‘charity book’. His grandfather and father before him kept a charity book, all the men in Tim’s family did. The tradition was that when you have made great success in life you pay it forward for someone else. Tim’s grandfather had kept his giving small but encouraged his son to give big before passing on. Tim’s father took that advice to heart, took a successful risk in stocks, and, with that success, opened a community center offering free classes in the arts and STEM, spurring Tim into his love affair with numbers at a young age. By the time Tim’s father had given him his own charity book, Tim was just six years away from making partner at his firm and was teaching ‘Numbers 101’ at his father’s community center on the weekends. It was time for him to pass the tradition on, but his passion for his career had left no room for other lifelong pursuits, so Tim had no children of his own.

He leaned back in the chair. Staring at the page in the notebook. It only had one number in the center and a question mark after: “2?”. As a man of numbers, Tim liked the idea of passing on the family charity book and doubling the first “gift”. His grandfather had given Tim’s father five thousand dollars tucked inside the notebook just before the “in case found” page, his father’s name, also Timothy, scrawled out in black ink by the fingers of an old man. Tim’s dad had given him ten thousand dollars with his black notebook. Tim Senior told his son it was “an upgrade from what your Papa gave me”. Wanting to carry on the tradition (and of course, one up his old man), Tim knew that he would be tucking twenty grand into a fresh charity book, but for who? That was the dilemma that made him twist the ribbon. “Maybe someone from work?” He thought to himself. No, that wouldn’t do. He rarely worked with any junior associates anymore, and it didn’t feel right to give it to someone in his peer group. He thought some more and then sat up suddenly! Putting pen to paper he wrote out a piece to the puzzle: Numbers 101. That was it! He loved the kids in his math class at the community center. Any teen that spends their weekend at the center with an old man like him could be trusted to carry on the charity book.

Tim began to tug at the bookmark ribbon as he ran through his students in his head. He let the ribbon drop to put his hand in his pocket and was surprised by a crinkling sound. He pulled out a little candy wrapper. Tim’s face lit up with a smile. Every student in his class at the center was a natural at math, except for Maya Jones. She was the sweetest girl Tim had ever met and she was always carrying two things: a bright big smile and pockets full of jolly ranchers for anyone who wanted one in class (they both liked the green ones, but she always saved them for Tim). She tried her best in his class, but Maya wasn’t much for numbers. Tim chuckled as he recalled working with her well after class was over, showing her the ins and outs of the Pythagorean theorem. He could tell the concept wasn’t clicking for her, but she never once complained or gave up. She would just smile and nod until Tim would say “how about we call it day for now?”.

Maya clearly wasn’t much for numbers, she was in Tim’s class because her grades in math were abysmally low, but Maya was gifted in two things: papier-mâché and making people feel special. She did ALL the decorations for the Halloween festival at the community center and she could turn a regular piece of paper into a captivating piece of art. There was many a time when Maya would sheepishly turn in a worksheet covered in dazzling repetitive patterns, some so enchanting that Tim had kept them to marvel at the intrinsic mathematical properties that Maya had unknowingly used to create her art. She was the best shoulder to cry on, Tim had witnessed how she cared for another student when his father lost his job, and how she brought cookies for Mrs. Beamer when her son passed away. She wasn’t anything like Tim, but he realized that if he had raised a daughter, he would’ve wanted her to be as kind as Maya. He knew that she was applying to the artist fellowship in town next year. The program wasn’t expensive, but it wasn’t free. The bookmark fell from Tim’s hand as he wrote out a name under the “2” in his notebook. Tim’s problem was solved just in time as the day began to wane.

He closed the book and picked it up by the bridge, the Italian leather catching the soft shine of the sun’s farewell kisses as Tim made his way inside, before the swarm of nighttime critters could pester him. Tim stopped and made one more note on the last page of the notebook: to buy- black notebook, green jolly ranchers.