Smart Cookie

My whole life, there were certain things that remained unchanged about my Grandfather. He was one of my very best friends, true blue. He always whistled, never sang or hummed. He always smelled of Old Spice aftershave, probably from the lifetime stockpile he'd received for almost every occasion throughout the 70's. And my Grandfather always had his Black Book.

Not a little black phone book type of book, but it looked more like small Bible with no markings on the cover. It was forever held closed with elastics, it was beaten and worn. I asked once when I was a kid what it was and he told me it held the answers, the secrets to his successes, and his guidance in his failures. His Mother had given it to him when he had joined the army at 17 and was being deployed to join his countrymen on the front lines of WW2. I assumed it was some sort of journal.

And as the years passed I would see him looking in it, always tucking it away whenever anyone entered the room or his proximity. Whether it was times of joy or stress, it was never far from him. When my Grandmother passed away, he would sit on his deck for hours and pull out The Book. At my wedding, I found him standing off on his own grinning from ear to ear, almost meditating on what was in The Book. When he lost his home and was moved to a Senior community, when he met his second love there, when I had my own Grandchild, and when his second love passed, are all just a fraction of the moments The Book was his companion. Every up and down in life, it was there for him.

In my own life, there were many trauma filled points, whether self made or brought on by outside forces, I would wish that I had a black book filled with wisdom. A guide to dealing with life.

My Grandfather always gave me good advice, but on the occasion that I asked what The Book had to say, his response would consistently be to ask me what I thought the book said.

When younger, I would find it infuriating. As I matured and would dare to consider the question, he'd nod and wink at what my response was then say, "You're a smart cookie." If I started to doubt my spin on what the book had to say, he'd remind me that you don't second guess The Book.

My Grandfather passed away, in his sleep, at the age of 94. The day before he died was one of the times in my life I had been hit with upheaval. I felt in complete and total hostile and unfamiliar territory. The next morning I got the call that he was gone. My sounding board, my best friend, and the Man with all the Answers, was gone. It wasn't wholly unexpected as he was 94, but then it completely was.

A couple days after the funeral, I was having a particularly hard day. I barricaded myself in my room and mourned. Mourned his loss, mourned that my life was taking a downswing, mourned that all this was happening. The phone had rang a couple times, which I ignored. There were a couple knocks on my door in the afternoon, which I also ignored. The third time someone knocked, however, suddenly made me furious and I launched myself off of the tissue covered bed and marched down the hall. I had thought I was thinking NOW WHAT and too late realized that I was actually yelling it. When I flung the door open, there was a complete stranger looking very uncomfortable.

She actually took a small step back, shocked at the force with which I opened the door or my outburst just prior, I'm not sure.

She started talking, explaining who she was and it just wasn't registering until I heard the word "Grandfather". The words started connecting and it was then I noticed what she was holding. A manila file folder, a small white envelope, and my Grandfathers Black Book.

Once she had come in, discussed legalities, and signatures were obtained, she was gone. Just myself, the white envelope, and The Book remained at the table.

It was a surreal feeling.

Was he still around, trying to share the wisdom he'd gained and held? Or had he felt out of everyone in the family, I was the one most in need of guidance and help navigating my life? This day was feeling that the latter was the most likely answer. I reached for The Book, but found myself grabbing the white envelope first. Inside there was a letter he had written me, and a cheque for $20 000.

There were many personal and lovely thing shared with me in that letter. He also explained that when he'd lost his home, he's sold almost all the contents inside it as well. Including an original painting by a fairly renowned artist, which is where the money had come from.

There was also one single sentence at the end about The Book, which simply said 'Always trust what's in that Book'. Putting down the letter, I slowly pulled The Book to me. Taking the elastics from it, but keeping it flat on the table, I opened it. On the inside cover was old, faded handwriting. It said, "Always trust what's in this book", and was signed by my Great Grandmother. It brought on a sad smile.

I turned to the first page, nothing. I turned to the second page, nothing. I went a few pages ahead, still nothing. Confusion was rising, as well as almost a mild panicky anger. Did the Senior's community mess up and hand over the wrong book in his possessions? No, this was the right book, as my Great Grandmothers writing confirmed. I picked up the bulk of the pages in my hand, to do a quick flip through, and stopped. Something was preventing the pages from bending. I put the paper in my hand back down, turned to the centre of my Grandfathers black book, and looking up at me was me.

There was nothing in The Book but a small, 3 inch, square mirror, securely taped to the page.

As I stand here today, I know that the two most valuable things that my Grandfather taught me, he did so after he died. The man who's advice I never questioned trusted the decisions I made when I considered the question and thought things through.

And that I need to also.