Frugal Findings

No one knew that my grandmother had any sort of money stashed away. She wasn’t one to exactly be ashamed of her frugalness, even knowing that some of the family members taunted her for it. Recounting and recording each expenditure made into the small black notebook she clutched at all times.

I recall much more of my grandmother than that though, which is perhaps why she left me her modest fortune, $20,000, and her notebook. It was a joke within my family that my grandmother would be buried with it. Its importance weighed much more heavily on me when I found out it would be relinquished into my care. I promised myself I wouldn’t waste the wealth she had so carefully built, and I had high hopes that the book would show me how to keep it intact.

Regrettably, when I opened the notebook, it was empty. I wondered if she wanted me to begin my own financial journey. Little had she known that I carried my own little black notebook around. Taking accurate measure of where every last cent went, just as she did. It was an evocative routine.

I am embarrassed as I write that it took me quite some time before I wrote in her book. The covers were wrinkled and worn from being carried about, but as I opened it, a flutter of her perfume hovered in the air. The memory of her, crossing the fields of my mind and the last of my resentment waned. She had not left me the secrets to sustaining her fortune, but she had, after all, left it to me, and that was more than enough.

I thought what I had purchased was minuscule. In truth, I had not written it down as faithfully as my grandmother would have. I only reached for it when I arrived home, but I still didn't know what hid beyond those worn covers. $5.88. I wrote with some tinge of repentance. I very well could have made my own coffee. The thought was carried away as the ink sprawled over the page. I leaned forward, dismayed that ink may have spilled from my pen. My hand blotted the pages swiftly, but the ink would not budge. Once I stopped, the notebook seemed to bid good riddance and continued about its staging.

A sketch of myself awoke across the page. Digging in one pocket for the exact tip, and in my other for the total of the coffee. However, it did not stop there as it exchanged hands. It was counted and for a while, it sat in darkness. I thought the show had been over until I saw a woman’s face looking down at me. And then darkness all over again. That darkness lasted even longer than the one prior to that. Fortunately, the page eventually began to fill with 0’s and 1’s before transforming into symbols that I could not read.

I was somewhere strange at first. Humid and warm. Sounds of unfamiliar fauna would echo in the pages of a strangely dressed room. It was long and narrow, and a mattress sat snugly against the concrete floor in one corner while a tiny kitchen rested on the other side. Bamboo blinds desperately held back large leaves from peeking inside.

The roof leaked in the few nights that unfurled before me, but by morning I would be watching the man who lived there prepare his own coffee before heading out. His hands fell into a rhythmic motion of opening the blinds and grinding up his grounds. I found myself envying his routine. He made it look as if hand cranking the grinder had always come so naturally to him. That there was never an ounce of fluster in him. I knew that this could not be true, but it was a natural thought. My interest peaked as he poured condensed milk into his glass and settled the metal drip on the rim.

The night he finally spent the money was one of the warmest I could remember. Not just because of the climate but because of the steady stream of steam coming from the street food, and the warmth that dawned on bodies as they drank just a little too much. The sounds had changed to laughter and jeering. It was so inviting it could trick anyone into thinking this was their own nostalgia. Or so I like to think because it wasn’t mine after all.

The money was then given to a waitress, and I was yet again invited into another home. It went on like this for a while. Some not as jovial, others were much more, and the more imprudent ones I hardly spent any time with at all.

I could hardly sleep after the first time I saw it. I peered inside to see if the notebook would continue where it left off, but alas there was only so much this book could contain. The number disappeared as did the tale. I didn’t need reminding of what I saw. It was just greed for the nostalgia that I had felt from the first man’s dinner. To feel that warmth once again.

I took many journeys with the notebook and money. Some more hazardous or sorrowful than others. I was becoming more careful as I spent and looked into the lives of others. I did not spend any less, but my choices changed in what I decided to buy. It was better to see the happiness when lights are being switched back on than the darkness of a sterile vault. I quickly learned to avoid that and in the end, it was what helped me sustain my own fortune.

As I grew older the notebook never left my side. On occasion when I left a coin or bill on the page it would show me a memory of my grandmother. It did this sparingly, but it was enough. I was driven to attempt to leave my own memories, never knowing whether if it was the notebook or the money that held the magic. I would scrawl down a moment, holding a coin while enjoying some time with my granddaughter. At least I hoped that is how it worked.

It wouldn’t matter whether it did or not. The book would be placed in her possession soon enough. I hope that she'll know the difference between being frugal for self-preservation and living simply. That the notebook has the same vice and virtue. After all, futures are built upon by the past so long as you never fear to look at it honestly in the present.