The Heir's Dilemma

The Executor had sent me the plane ticket that brought me to New York City. I’d never been to The Big Apple but felt sufficiently-familiar with the city, from videos and virtual reality walking tours, that I carried myself with a ‘been-there-done-that attitude’, without ever having been there or having done that.

The cab dropped me off in the Upper West Side and it took me walking down and then slowly back up the brownstone and oak tree lined street until I finally saw 369 where the Executor wrote we would be meeting. I hadn’t gotten a hand-written letter in what seemed like years. Then, the envelope arrived with its crimson wax seal and colorful Statue of Liberty stamp which someone had licked and placed carefully square with the corner of what I learned later was a stationery parchment of the highest linen content and replete with curious watermark symbols. I didn’t even own a letter opener.

I think back now on how I was then. When a memory of my past self arises from those days and the moment is pivotal, I sometimes find myself shouting things to the seemingly living image of that memory. I believe we can sometimes hear our future selves, especially if our future self is shouting at us loud enough. A part of me believes I have to do this or my past self will never be awakened from the stupor in which I was submerged—the pernicious nature of which I was unknowingly on my way to discovering. The penalty for not connecting with my past self would be that I would lose my present state of freedom. I would awaken in a parallel universe with a life based upon all of the profound ignorance with which I walked into 369, that day.

369 was home to my grandfather, George—a grandfather whom I learned only recently had been writing to me all my life letters and postcards with stamps on them. Letters which were all returned to sender and I would soon find sitting unopened in a big oaken box on the Executor’s desk. Who could have done this dastardly deed, you might ask? My answer is that it was done by people who meant well, people who wanted to protect me from ideas that came from paper books and were drawn letter-by-letter by hand and ink onto paper, then folded and slid into envelopes with licked stamps upon them—all by his hands, his spittle and no one listening in digitally or recording & storing that which is intimate and should not be in the possession of the Peeping Toms of the Cloud. I know now that paper is about privacy. Paper is about intimacy. Paper is about humanity. Paper is where you can overcome fear. Paper is where you can discover love. On paper, you say the words you have to say, all the while knowing no one can listen. Words said in this way exist on a higher plain—have a much different order of being than words conceived in a digital test tube and rendered in non-committal digital lettering that gets digested and decomposed in the service of the Digital Matrix. You render them on the page. They land in the soul. You’re alone with them and they with you. Then, you give them wings, with an envelope and a stamp, to fly to the only one you would ever want to have them.

Of course, I was clueless about all of this, the day I walked into brownstone 369. As you would expect, there was a big brass knocker on the door and, not surprisingly, the brass medallion molded into the knocker matched the water marked symbols on the linen parchment. There was no butler—just a distinguished sounding voice from a back room down a dim but warmly-lit hallway somewhat hazy with pipe tobacco smoke. “This way, Michael! Welcome, welcome! Third entrance on the right!” Quite unexpectedly, the atmosphere down the hall toward the voice felt cheerful, as there were original oil paintings and odd statuettes and curiosities all the way down the hardwood hallway with its runner of deep-red oriental carpeting.

The room I turned into on my right was much larger than I pictured or really could have expected. It was the library. And, yes, it had those ladders on wheels that allow you to reach the upper shelves for just the tome you felt was sorely needed in whatever embattled moment it was you found yourself. I’ve since learned that most of these volumes were written to me, in a very real way—written by grandfathers and grandmothers not related by blood but who were there conceiving the very origins of my mind and soul and who suffered often terribly to bring forth the work that conveyed the best part of themselves to me and other progeny and dispelled the places of darkness that would otherwise have been in our hearts and souls. Again, I was protected from these other grandparents by those same well-meaning types who are offended if they can’t control how you use the space on your own page of paper, so to speak, or shield you from the risks of the realm of intimacy where only words of a certain provenance can travel between persons with properly initiated and receptive sensibilities.

William Bradford, Esquire was seated in a high-back chair behind what seemed to be a double-sized broad oaken desk. “Michael, come closer so I can see you clearly.” Everything was heavy oaken wood pieces that seemed so established in their sense of belonging right where they stood, it was as if they were all trees grown into the shapes of desks and bookshelves. Oddly, there was no heaviness to the atmosphere. It all seemed filled with life and I could feel the library existed like an unbroken circuit of energy that animated a carousel of possibilities in all 360 degrees around me—all of which was heightened by the sounds of exotic birds in their cages both in the main library room and around the corner in adjacent rooms that I later learned were the solarium and the parlor.

I was so taken with the forest of books in which I was standing, he patiently repeated, “Welcome to my neck of the woods, Michael”. That was the first time Bradford said something that playfully suggested he had read my mind but he said it in a way that left just enough doubt I was always able to maintain my sense of having privacy with my own thoughts. “Hi, Bill”, I said, immediately feeling the wrongness of the name “Bill” now floating uncomfortably in the air like a musty flatus. My friends call me “Mr. Bradford, Michael”, he said, with a good-natured sense of irony that was as oddly reassuring as was his barely visible smirk. You’re welcome to take a look around. I have a couple of things I’m finishing up here.

I did look around and—I’m ashamed to say—my first thought was “What a waste of space! Everything in those books could fit on a thumb drive.” When I remember the moment I had this ignorant & naïve thought, I start shouting at myself again: “Ever think how easy it would be to lose everything? Ever occur to you that someone else can upload it and then shut you off from it forever or, worse yet, change it because it’s so easy to change things digitally— and how can that well-meaning class of people ever resist making a few changes here and there to protect us? Don’t you know, you dunderhead, that from here forward, everything you say about all these books, all the thoughts you build upon this foundation of digital sand on your little thumb drive, lacks true intimacy with the soul—the force of words formed on paper and forged in the crucible of solitude, privacy or written in places of inspiration—the best of which are not near electrical outlets and connectivity with the net! Without privacy, there cannot be intimacy. The most effective way to destroy intimacy between persons in society is to destroy the idea of intimacy—to conduct all communication where there cannot be privacy ergo intimacy—the Digital Matrix.

The process of writing books is like grapes in a vineyard which pick up hints of the flavor of the soil, the gout de terroir—the poetics of space!” I’m shouting all of this at myself, now—and I somehow feel I’m changing myself in the past, as difficult as that may be to believe. Eliot said, in one of the books I discovered in the library, “Time Present is contained in time past.” Though, unlike Eliot, I believe all time is redeemable, if we shout the truth at our past selves loud enough, that is.

Mr. Bradford perked up from his work that had been absorbing him and said, “Much easier, if all the movers had to carry out of here was a thumb drive, don’t you think?” and he went back to his work. “Almost done”, he said, mostly to himself, “Al-most-done” and he punctuated the last page with that and looked up at me, expectantly.

He waited good-naturedly for some thought I might have to share about the library, before we transitioned to the business at hand. I felt empty. Empty of words. Empty of the kind of thought that engages us with another human being who’s physically present. Empty, despite all that I had been given the opportunity to see in that library. “Lots to take in”, he said nonchalantly—mercifully taking me off the hook. Looking back on how I felt in that moment and reflecting upon it since, I realize that I was like so many of my contemporaries who have lived with a handicap, you might call it. That is, any organic, non-digital setting is our kryptonite. We’re on a planet different from the physical and organic human world. Joke & Storytelling. Live Musical Performance & Entertainment. Ballroom Dancing. The Ceremonies of Hospitality. Making Eye Contact. Having Melodic Expressive Speaking Voices. Listening & Conversational Skills. The Physical World, generally. All of it is our kryptonite.

“Well, let’s get started. Please, have a seat”. He gestured with a calm magnanimity toward the brown leather Teddy Roosevelt chair to his right. I put my backpack down on the seat of the second Roosevelt chair which was to my right and slung my jacket over its back. These were obviously reading chairs moved over to the library table for our meeting. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion now. It was as if time itself was somehow used to slowing down to a stand-still and awaiting what would transpire in those reading chairs, in the mind of the reader—just as it had done so many times before. Waiting to know what direction it would take, after the Universe was changed by an authentic expression of Beauty.

“Michael, did you know that your family name is actually Adamovich—not Adams? It’s neither here nor there, as far as our proceedings today”, he hastened to add. “Over here behind me and just above my head is your family crest. It is quite striking and meaningful but not germane to our business today, as I said.” The venerable banner of midnight blue hung with a crescent moon embroidered in luminescent stitching; I could not tell if it was more gold than yellow or yellow than gold. It seemed to contain the light and the crescent moon’s curve faced upward and above it was the Star of David. I could not tell if the star was rising from the crescent moon or descending into it. The celestial elements of the crest existed in perfect tension like the orbit of planets. I don’t know if it was seeing the letters spelling what was my real family name for the first time and written as if they belonged in the same constellation with these mysterious symbols or that there was some other undiscovered impetus for my reverie. My mind went to Adams. Then, to the embroidered letters spelling A-d-a-m-o-v-i-c-h and the crescent moon with its star. Then, I thought about the brass knocker with its crescent moon and star and the watermarked stationery —the excellence of all of it, really—the emerging meaning which was adopting me with intimations I felt deeply but could not yet fully comprehend.

“Adamovich means ‘Son of Adam’, the first man”, Bradford went on. “Some say Adam and his sons built the pyramids where they hid and preserved the the light of knowledge with which Adam & Eve’s beings were suffused in the Garden of Eden but which was fast fading from the minds & hearts of Mankind. The moon reflects the greater light of the sun and holds that light like a chalice, guarding and preserving it. The Star of David in the lineage of the Messiah, the Light of the World, the Bright and Morning Star. Your middle name is David, isn’t it? “Yes”, I answered with the kind of distraction that is, at once, razor-focused elsewhere. “Any family crest, if it is worth its salt, portrays the essence of the family destiny”, Bradford went on. “Your family’s destiny is to be “The ones who remember”. You remember and you help others to remember. For you, life exists in The Eternal Present”. That was the first time I had heard the concept of an Eternal Present—an idea, a reality that has utterly transformed my life.

“How did my name change to Adams?” Bradford was looking through the papers spread in front of him and didn’t look up but answered, “That’s a long story but the people who did it were all well-meaning, I’m sure,” he shrugged, preoccupied with his paperwork. I’ve since learned that these well-meaning types are very energetic. More energetic than starving termites. They let just enough remain of what they’ve taken, so that they can deny having stolen or destroyed anything. They have changed all kinds of words and names and erased many levels of meaning in language. Yes, Adams is somewhat close to Adamovich but, then again, the termites do make terribly certain that just the right amount of connection is severed from the letters which appear on the surface of the page to prevent one from divining the depths of meaning flowing from ancient root words fed by the aquafers of human connectedness.

“When the movers have done their work and taken all this away, we won’t have to worry about termites around here, anymore.” There, Bradford did it once more—seemingly reading yet maybe not reading my mind again! It was like he could overhear some of what was being said, in the house of my head, but could not look into the windows and see everything. “Dewey and his ilk were very well meaning”, Bradford said offhandedly, “but, after they did their work, you have to go back to the 1911 Encyclopedia Britannica to drink your mother’s milk again. Dewey started out by saying he just wanted to organize and catalogue human knowledge but—like the house maid whose familiarity breeds contempt for her benefactors— he came to feel there wasn’t enough room for all the ornaments to fit on his Christmas tree. So, he just buried the knowledge without a headstone. He and his minions forgot that burned and buried books will haunt us. They become the cold, dark and empty places in our minds where we feel lost—drifting without light or guidance.”

There was a long silence. I was looking over at the box of linen letters with their colorful stamps peeking at angles out from the pile. Bradford did not look up from his work, even after he had hung Dewey in the air of the library and burned him in effigy. Time appeared to have stopped and was waiting for my next thought, as I settled into that Roosevelt chair—it was like my private thoughts mattered to an unseen listener.

All of this put me in a state of reverie where I don’t know how many minutes passed. I was meditating very intensely on something that seemed to have absolutely pivotal importance in my life. As I got nearer to grasping the answer, I felt I was approaching a door into a parallel world –a world that seemed to be inviting me somehow from within my meditation, like music growing louder as I came closer to crossing over the threshold. My reverie was like a waking dream that was freeing me from something I could not name.

My grandfather George appeared vividly in my mind. I saw his head bowed earnestly toward the stationery and his brow crinkled in a way that showed he considered the letter he was writing to me to be of the utmost importance. I said his name to myself, “George”—and there was a tenderness that I felt entering my heart, in the place where his name rested, after I said it softly aloud. I sensed the hopes in his heart merging with mine, as I envisioned what might have been, had I not been prevented from knowing him. I pictured the letters being returned by the postman and George silently setting them in the brown box right there on the desk in front of me. Though letter after letter was returned, George continued writing with hope long lost, entirely animated by devotion.

It was all so vulnerable—so utterly vulnerable! Preserving all of it would require moving about in the world in a way that changed almost my entire state of being and manner of life. My world would need to become a place where the most vulnerable embodiments of humanity were safe. Even the gallantry of a kind of knighthood was perhaps required—one which was like a nurturing father or mother, rescuing and defending the vulnerable little ones upon whom I would one day learn everything in human civilization utterly depends—a fact about which society at large is mostly clueless. I am only now able to put these reveries into words, in a way that roughly approximates their transformative meaning which infused my heart and mind that day. It seemed like I had somehow broken through to a "new somewhere" and I was awaiting something I could not name.

“They’re all yours—the letters, whatever you decide today. So are his black notebooks but with conditions I will share with you in a moment.” Bradford pointed to a bookshelf that contained a variety of what I later learned are black Molskine books of the highest quality, some as large as sketch pads and others vest pocket-sized and smaller. They all gave me the somewhat odd impression they were like a casual gathering of interesting and oddly-appointed characters seated in a café and absorbed with whatever reveries captured and filled them. These were the black books with their ivory pages where Chatham had labored to prevent aboriginal song from disappearing utterly from the face of the earth and chronicled the tales of indigenous peoples you might only be able to hear deep in the jungle at night, when the tribal tales are told by the elders in the firelight or Baudelaire seated with his black French poet’s notebook at the pedicured and perfumed feet of Jeanne Duval—his muse with her golden ankle bracelets, contemplating her beauty and singing of its essence and rarity in the same ivory pages that do not forget.

“You’re welcome to stay here a few days and read them and explore the library and the house, before we put it up for sale”, Bradford said. I was yanked out from my place of reverie at the words ‘put it up for sale’. “It is your right to dispose of them, once you’ve read them, but I would ask the personal favor that you allow me to keep them in my personal possession, as your grandfather was a friend of whom I was quite fond. These were his reading chairs”, Bradford motioned to my and the other Roosevelt. He would often read for hours and then carefully deposit the nectar of what he had distilled from his readings into his notebooks”. Bradford nodded toward the bookshelf of Moleskines in all their odd sizes. “What is the point of reading, if one cannot distill something worth preserving in a notebook—a notebook worthy of preserving the thought and not just a loose scrap of paper that one might use to wrap up a fish at the market? And, what good is any book if it is not of sufficient quality to instill in us the urge to capture some part of that waking-dream of letters making up the book, to conceive something new out of their intercourse with our soul, in a way that is worthy of all the potentials of a blank page of fine paper? From there, he would often come to this very table and write you a letter, Michael. A flock of letters written over the years which, as you can see, have migrated back safely home to their native habitat.”

The letters in the brown oaken box seemed alive now. My sense of this was enhanced by the twittering undercurrent of exotic & antiphonal bird sounds alternating with one bird seeming to punctuate the other’s occasional squawking declarations with a short but definitive squeak of acknowledgement—all seemingly apropos of nothing. It was a sensation that confirmed there is so much going on and being transmitted in the air around us—so much about which we are completely unaware. My reverie led me to reflect that silence—true & absolute silence—can only be created artificially but does not exist in nature. The addicted mind, in the grip of the Digital Matrix, requires more and more stimulation to stay awake and is conditioned so that virtually any amount of quietude will trigger sleepiness. How rare it is to be absolutely awake, to hear the many rivulets of sound and perceive the images emanating from the collective unconsciousness traveling incognito all around us. Those who are truly awake—who know how to listen wakefully—never hear silence—even in the most quiet places. I did not know all of this then but, as I sat there with Bradford swept up in another wave of reverie, I remember picturing my grandfather, George, reading in the very chair where I was sitting and carefully distilling his thoughts into the amiable blank ivory pages crafted by Italian artisans out of their long and storied traditions going back at least as far as DaVinci’s Notebooks.

Bradford straightened up in his chair, signaling the business at hand would now be addressed. “I know that all of what I am about to share from your grandfather’s Will may seem less than straightforward and will place you squarely in the horns of a dilemma. However, as the French say: ‘such is life’. With one of the choices you will be given, the way has been prepared for you by someone who truly loved you—albeit from afar, in distance and in time. Some might say that this is the most pure kind of love because it is given unconditionally and without possibility of any reward to the giver—except in knowing that someone they love has the benefit of the best they can offer. With the other option, you’re being offered the complete freedom of some not-insignificant resources—the only limitations placed upon you are by your own imagination & experience and the present state of refinement in your sensibilities or the lack thereof. Both choices give you complete freedom; however, one gives you the advantage of a select group of the finest Guides and Advocates for your journey and the other leaves you blissfully ignorant of any wisdom offered by Guides whatsoever.”

“Seems like you’re being a little inscrutable with that riddle you’re telling. Are you trying to bamboozle me, Mr. Bradford”, I said with a mock approximation of sophistication which I immediately regretted. I had gandered that one of the options was straight cash, from one part of his riddle, and I was feeling my oats a bit, at the point I spoke so flat-footedly. I have since learned that it’s best to keep silent and say nothing, when I have that ‘feeling my oats’ sensation in the lower regions of my nature.

Bradford paused briefly--I realize now--in order to allow me to follow up with some kind of statement that would ameliorate the crudeness & disrespect with which my statement was laced and now hanging in the air between us. I felt frozen by my own dull-wittedness. All I could say was, “I’m sorry. Please continue.” Bradford looked at me with a glint of wry humor and the graceful tolerance mercifully accorded to young men by their Mentors—a mercy upon which the continuation of that most human circle of Mentorship utterly depends. Mercy given as it was once received—the teacher amused to see the memory of himself reflected in the student’s ignorance and awkwardness.

As I shared earlier, your grandfather schooled and developed himself assiduously, over many years. The books you see in this library were indispensable to him in that crucible of refinement. The effect that all this had upon him was earthshaking, transformative. Through this library and the great fortune he had to be taught to read according to a certain now lost methodology that put him in intimate contact and dialogue with the minds of the greatest thinkers and souls to have walked the earth, he was gradually transformed into a man of luminous heart and mind.

His natural sensitivity and carefully-cultivated sensibilities allowed him to communicate through the ether between himself and his fellow human beings in a way that set him apart like a unicorn. His studies of characters revealed by the greatest novelists refined his ability to judge the character of people and predict the outcomes of key relationships. His eloquence which was without guile caused those around him to feel the dignity with which he regarded them and they opened their hearts to him.

The time he took in the library allowed him to rapidly assimilate an active awareness of all the mistakes and regrets most common to Man—and to avoid many more of them than the typical person. This meant, in practical terms, that he chose to live a life of compassionate and humble service to others—utterly without any desire or expectation of reward. Your grandfather’s many hours in the library thus saved him many years of wasted life. His purity of heart earned him the deepest loyalty from some of the most influential people in the world who coveted the privilege of having time in his company and, especially, receiving correspondence from him.

Over time, these individuals learned of the life circumstances of your grandfather. For reasons unknown, his own family had disowned him—a reality which he endured with equanimity and utterly without resentment or self pity.” Bradford paused ever so slightly, as if feeling me wince. He continued, “These same persons learned about his devotion to you, Michael. They knew there was no way they could repay your grandfather for the wisdom and compassion he had so selflessly poured into their lives—nor would he accept any repayment. Over the years, many of these persons came in contact with each other and shared their mutual love for your grandfather. They determined that, as a group—one that was fairly large and far-reaching—they would commit themselves to welcome you into their lives, their enterprises, their beautiful and mostly hidden worlds. In short, you would be the recipient of all the gratitude your grandfather was due.

Bradford held up a black, pocket-sized notebook with its ivory pages and bookmark of ribbon, held closed by its sturdy elastic band. “This notebook contains all the names of these individuals and, in certain cases, code words you would use when contacting them. If you will look at the library for a moment and think of the all the reading & reflection flowing into this entire collection of black books over here”—he motioned to the bookshelf where the league of extraordinary black books were gathered—“the distillation of it all is in this one black book here in my hand. It represents the extraordinary relationships that stand testimony to what results when wisdom and compassion are absorbed into and expressed through the soul of one pure-hearted and refined gentleman. I cannot allow you to look at the contents but I am authorized to let you know, Michael, that I am one of the people in this book.”

Bradford put on his reading glasses and, with an air of formality perfectly called for by his professional role but without a hint of imperiousness, he went on to read from the Will: “The estate will bequeath to the heir a sum of $3,000,000 cash (“Cash Inheritance”) as the full amount of his inheritance. In the event the heir elects to be given possession of the Black Book, the heir will forfeit said Cash Inheritance.” Bradford allowed the perfect amount of silence to pass. I could hear the birds in their cages and smell the leather of my Roosevelt chair, as I shifted slightly in my seat. There was no clock to hear ticking, as you might expect, because my grandfather, as I later learned, removed all calendars and time keeping devices from the library and most other rooms of brownstone 369.

I started to have a pit in my stomach from disillusionment about this grandfather whom Bradford had just been lionizing as a paragon of compassion. Then, I thought back on everything that had transpired in the course of the last several hours and, looking at it through the lens of distrust, all of it could be viewed as an elaborate pretense of manipulation—some sort of game where the people in the Black Book were watching the whole thing through a proverbial peep hole and barely suppressing their laughter! Then, my mind went back to the $3,000,000. I knew that was real. If I just took the money, there was no game. I could walk away from the Black Book and make all my own choices and mistakes, just as Bradford said I was free to do.

“Lots to consider, Michael”, Bradford said in a voice that I would describe today as one of quiet and unobtrusive empathy. “Goodness! I must apologize. The house has been remiss in not yet properly offering you its hospitality. I did have high tea prepared for us by a wonderful caterer who was a dear friend of your grandfather. Why don’t we take a break from all of this and come back to it later. I’m sure things will look less like they would through a peephole—gain some perspective, I mean.” Had he read my odd thoughts about Black Book people looking through peep holes—thoughts I had ever so briefly entertained in a flash of paranoia that passed quickly through my mind and were summarily dismissed?

I had heard of high tea but never knew what it was. I thought it was some kind of high-brow English tea time where people extended pinkies and everyone had double chins. I was wrong. High tea comes with elaborately-prepared food items such as open-faced salmon sandwiches, delicate butterflied shrimp and a variety of finger sandwiches, along with posh quail’s eggs. After a palate cleanser of almonds, scones were served with clotted cream, jam and lemon curd. Then, there was the tea itself which was the rarest black tea from China steeped from within a silver heart-shaped diffuser spoon—all timed to perfection with a small hourglass that measured the exact number of minutes to black tea perfection. I started to wonder if I could even fit in with the people in the Black Book, even if I did the crazy thing and chose it over the three mil. I didn’t want to get into some elitist society or, worse yet, a weird secret society that traffics no less than in your soul.

“You can’t possibly know this now, Michael, but that Black Book is filled with people from all walks of life and all levels of society”, Bradford said as he passed me the quails eggs with oolong tea salt, artfully arranged on in ivory china serving plate. Had he read my mind again or had the flow of ideas among the objects that surrounded us made my thoughts more or less predictable. “Your grandfather used to say that his entire education stood or fell by how he treated each person no matter what their station in life –and they loved him for it. When you read these books, they are not just about kings and high society hijinks”, Bradford gestured to the library books on their sheves. “They are the best thoughts and insights into the humanity of people in all walks of life. That’s why your grandfather was able to put all of them at ease. He knew their fears and he was willing to put himself through sometimes considerable discomfort and disadvantage to dispel their sometimes petty fears. Meeting someone like your grandfather, for the first time, many people naturally felt he was too good to be true. They came to trust and understand him, over time and sometimes after many years of consistent acts of pure-hearted compassion on his part. His sensibilities were refined to such a point that the greatest reward he could experience in life was just being in the company of people and delighting in the utterly unique qualities of each individual”, Bradford said as he poured boiling water from a silver tea pot onto the heart-shaped diffuser in my teacup on its matching saucer and then turning the hour glass timer.

Bradford set the teapot down and stopped or, rather, he paused. This was the first time I saw his raw emotion get past his demeanor of decorum. Bradford started deliberately recovering his composure and continued, now firmly back in control of himself, “As much as your grandfather loved you, he also loved the people in the Black Book. When he got to know them, he started by knowing nothing about them, in almost every instance. He knew no more about them than you know right now—except for their names—and he built something extraordinary, something beautiful with them. Your grandfather wisely understood from sad experience that money does corrupt. He wants you to have the money and enjoy your life, because he loves you. However, if you are going to enter the world he so carefully built with all his education and a heart of loving devotion, he wants you to demonstrate the ability to choose relationships over money. You need to prove yourself ready for the Black Book. You must show yourself worthy of the devotion you will be shown by each human being your grandfather held precious and named in its ivory pages.” I too had to stop. I had to put a stop to all my interloping thoughts that had been distorting my thinking. I had been wrong in so many—no, all—of the assumptions I had been making, up to this point.

“I don’t know how to roll with the high-brows, Mr. Bradford”. It was the first time I let myself express any weakness at all. It was probably the first time I had said anything that day not laced somehow with the arsenic of pride. “You don’t have to, Michael”, Bradford said with a gentle and reassuring certainty, motioning for me to take a couple more of the finger sandwiches I had not yet tried. You don’t have to have a lot of money to live every lesson of importance that your grandfather lived in his own life. You don’t have to serve high tea but you can know something about it and maybe serve it on a special occasion for someone you hold dear. You don’t need fancy furniture, plates and glasses. It’s all about the graciousness, respect and care that you put into your hospitality. Your grandfather learned this from an Appalachian family that found him collapsed on a hiking trail near death and took him in many months, devotedly nursing him back to health—and these were people who had next to nothing. He told me later that it was such a beautiful time in his life with these folks that he didn’t want to leave but he did keep up faithful correspondence with them and generously worked to better their material circumstances. However, if you never learn how to understand people, how to relate on a human level, hearts do not open to you—and hearts may never choose to open to you all of your life. It is the portal of the open heart that leads to life’s greatest adventures and that which is most worthy of our time. Loving devotion is the most powerful force in the universe and your grandfather knew this as well, I reckon, as any person ever has. This was the key to his power in life—his power not to lord it over others but to do the kind of good that matters. As much as the people in the Black Book are prepared to love you just as you are, your grandfather wanted them to know that you gave up $3,000,000 just to be with them, to know them. In a sense, this was his way of giving them a sign that you are his grandson not just by blood but that you carry his heart within you.”

“So, besides you, Mr. Bradford, there really are other names in the Black Book? “Yes, Michael. The book is full, just like his life was full. What I wouldn’t give to have…” Bradford stopped himself—almost like he had tipped his hand somehow. “I can assure you it will be a great adventure, Michael… This Black Book is filled with good will. And, in the end, all you can build in this life is good will. Whatever can be bought and paid for is not real, in a human sense.” I’m thinking back to this moment because it’s the moment I decided for the Black Book. It’s the moment I gave up $3,000,000. It’s the moment I made the best decision of my life. I’m yelling to myself again—more like cheering. It’s like I’m seeing myself rounding third and stretching a triple into a homerun at the World Series. I’m diving headfirst for home plate. I’m safe!

“I’ll take the Black Book, Mr. Bradford, but how does this work?” Bradford said, “Let me discharge my professional duties first but then I want to celebrate your decision with you appropriately—with a fine whiskey.” The first thing we need is your signature where you sign away your rights to the $3,000,000 in cash.” He pushed two copies of the document toward me where a green signing tab pointed to the spots where I was to sign, at the same time handing me a blue pen. “Opposite colored ink for originals”, he said with an appropriately-restrained buoyancy, taking back the documents, after a polite pause, just after I’d signed them. “You will have your own original copy. Then, we need you to sign here”, and he pushed the other two copies of the document toward me, smoothly but in a calm, unhurried fashion. This states you are taking possession of the Black Book, that you were not promised any merchantable value would accrue from the Black Book and that you are releasing all further claims you may have in relation to the estate.” I paused just a moment with a note of panic starting up its chatter in my left brain but I quickly pushed that aside and philosophized that this was an act that had intrinsic value, because of what it represented: relationships over money or satisfaction of great curiosity, if nothing else—but I hoped my motives were at least a little more pure than simple curiosity. We finished all the rest of the paperwork.

“Michael, Michael, Michael… You don’t understand what you’ve done—how wonderful a decision you’ve made.” “Tell me”, I said, “because, all I know at this point is that I just signed away $3,000,000.” “Well, yes and no, Michael. Yes and no. You signed away $3,000,000 in cash but the brownstone now is yours and property taxes are paid in perpetuity for you and all your heirs, because of a monumental favor your grandfather once did for the Governor and People of New York State, although your grandfather chose to keep his role in the matter private. Now, we won’t have to liquidate the brownstone to pay the $3,000,000 and everything in this house is yours—and you have not even begun to know the wonders to be discovered here. I will stay on as your Mentor, if you will have me. I won’t be your butler but you can think of me as a Guide facilitating your educational process and navigating you through the Black Book. Oh, and there’s a small trust of $6,000,000 or so that your grandfather’s friends built up for you over the years which pays out enough to cover reasonable expenses—yours and mine, as well as travel and other things related to this unfolding adventure. You see, your father’s friends will soon learn of the choice you have made and, while they accept the honor you have shown to them by giving up the $3,000,000, they do not want you to feel in the least that they cost you money to get to meet and know them. It started out as a college fund but, then, people started donating disproportionately out of gratitude for things your grandfather did for them and for which he refused any compensation. The agreement they all had was that your grandfather would have to accept whatever they decided to freely give to you.”

I didn’t know what to do. Should I keep sitting in the chair? Walk around the brownstone that was now mine? “The best place I can take you, Michael, is the Listening Room, after we visit your grandfather’s speakeasy in the next room and have a drink to celebrate.” We stood up and looked each other square in the eye. I knew my affect had a tinge of bewilderment but also a gladness that comes from the wonderment of birth into a new world. Bradford’s finger pointed conspiratorially to his left and we repaired to granddad’s private speakeasy.

If you set out on the journey to build a fine whiskey collection with the very best and give it all the accoutrements and arrangement of the most classic setting conceivable, then you’d barely imagine what I found there. Collectors select items of great rarity and, thereby, teach us how impoverished our minds’ stock of images really are. My grandfather’s collection of rarities displayed tastefully in just the right spots throughout the speakeasy made this point abundantly clear. Of course, the family crest was to be found tastefully stamped, etched or embossed here and there. “Your grandfather loved meteors”, Bradford said offhandedly. “The idea of holding in his hand something that had traveled from so far away and was seen in the sky—by children and lovers—as a falling star captured his imagination. Over the years, he collected enough ore to smelt into this sword you see here on the wall. The kings of old held in wonderment swords smelted from the falling stars.”

Bradford started my first fine whiskey tasting experience by ushering me over to a four-inch thick 150-year old black maple table, hard as rock and painstakingly hewed, highly-polished and then protected with a urethane finish. Tree ring ripples showing more than 150 years of life frozen in time, like the text of an ancient scroll of history, faced up at us to be read. “It took sixty hours for your grandfather to finish this table top”, Bradford said. He added, “Your grandfather was adamant that one cannot set a properly poured glass filled with the finest whiskey on anything less honoring of the moment.”

Our two pristinely-glistening LaLique short-stemmed whiskey glasses, I later learned, give one the option of adding body warmth to particular drams or keeping the pour at room temperature, for others that do not benefit from being warmed. Bradford brought out a mahogany wood box with ornate & artfully-stamped copper engravings on it. Upon opening the box I noticed the rare and captivating beauty of the dram with its airtight crimson waxed cork. Bradford showed me the tasting notes printed in gold leaf like an unrolled scroll on the facing lid, declaring the fruit of centuries of accomplishment. Bradford poured the dram into the LaLiques and gestured that we should wait. For the next forty minutes, he regaled me with discussion about the mahogany box, the copper engravings and what they meant, the subtle shades of color in the drink, the geographic region where the distillery was located, the colorful history going back centuries and highly-illuminating insights into the often agonizing process of striving for perfection. “You’ve just turned forty, haven’t you, Michael?” I nodded yes. “As a general rule of thumb”, Bradford went on, “with a forty-year-old whiskey, it is said you should wait forty minutes, so that it can open up as far as possible in the glass. During the opening up process, it’s expected that you would slowly swirl the glass and savor the aroma that arises, as an aged whiskey will open up in many subtle and noteworthy ways. Now, on to the tasting. Knowing that we’re drinking a forty-year whiskey, it should be quietly and gently agitated in your mouth, so your pallet is thoroughly coated—give it one second per year in your mouth, before swallowing.

“What are the notes of flavor you taste, Michael?” My ability to fully experience and appreciate the masterfully-woven and complex wavelengths of flavor in whiskey was not at all well-attuned but I knew it would be, one day. It didn’t bother me that I knew next to nothing that day, sitting there with Bradford and a whiskey way beyond my ken. Bradford was genuinely interested in my opinion, because all of this occasioned the beginning of a real and life-long friendship. “Well, I did taste vanilla”, I said. “Vanilla ice cream?” Bradford asked. “Yes, I guess it really could be better described as vanilla ice cream.” I remember that drink like it was yesterday: a vanilla ice cream bomb that transitioned into an explosion of fresh fruits which diminished all aspects of any cask-strength alcohol imbalances, allowing a very long final soft, mature and subtle smoked peat phase to resonate with traces of the original aged sherry cask in which it matured, delivering the kind of long and satisfying finish that only the finest whiskey can achieve.

The finest whiskey loosens the tongue but does not dull the mind—when taken in moderation, that is. There comes to be a symbiotic mirroring relationship between the higher-order of subtleties in great whiskey and the challenge & guidance this gives the mind to rise to a corresponding level of subtlety in its thoughts and use of words or other expressive artistic mediums and human activities. “Important to leave while you’re having fun, Michael”, Bradford said calmly, bringing me gently back from my reverie. This speakeasy is set up for long conversations over drinks but that’s not the order of the day. You’ve had quite an afternoon. Let me show you one of the many wonders in this place—one of my favorites. It’s the listening room. Shall we refresh our glasses and bring them with us?”

We had to go up a floor to enter the listening room. I was in an almost perfect state of what I can only describe as a peaceful euphoria— with a warm body core, not hungry but not over-full either and a wakefully clear mind. The room was not actually as large as the library but it seemed as large, because it was empty, except for the ivory colored acoustic panels you generally see only in concert halls and the Magnepan speakers, standing like heralds of a major event about to happen on stage and tilted to triangulate to a perfect listening position where the exotic animal skin listening chair was situated.

Bradford took me over to the stereo unit itself. “The sound is optimally filtered to remove any elements that would not be found in a live performance. In essence, your listening event today will be as close to a live performance as you can possibly find anywhere.”

Bradford began, “The reproduction of sound is an art, in itself—all starting from the listening gear set-up. Most people only see a vinyl record being set upon the turn-table and the needle descending down to the spinning grooves. They don’t realize that creating the proper sound reproduction experience requires an investment of some seriousness, guided by real knowledge of the dynamics of sound. And thus, there are various components essential to the reproduction of sound with high-end fidelity. It all must take into consideration the configuration of the room and many other factors that are too involved to mention, right now. Preferring timeless McIntosh gear, your grandfather—being old school—used this highly-respected turn-table, tube amplifier and beautiful analog pre-amp receiver. All your sound sources flow to the pre-amp for the sound balancing, distortion elimination and many more sound quality enhancements and then it’s distributed out to the speakers.”

Of course, granddad was a vinyl man and also had a sizeable collection of 78 rpm records to go with his vintage Victrola Phonograph Player which was—as you would expect—in pristine condition. He also had a reel-to-reel tape player on which he played only JS Bach performances off their original live analog recording studio tapes and filtered through elaborately-engineered headphones. Bradford said grandfather did this to embed and impress the heavenly order of Bachs music—The Cathedral of the Mind—into and onto his mind and to attune his being to the music of the spheres.

Bradford motioned for me to sit down in the listening chair. He pulled up a director’s chair alongside me with the name Adamovich monogramed on the canvass back. Bradford said a friend had given it to granddad for helping with an independent film project. Granddad had laughed good-naturedly and did show his sincere appreciation for the thought behind the gift but kept it in the broom closet for occasional use. There was only one piece of furniture allowed in the listening room.

There were two reasons why granddad did not want any more than one chair in the listening room. “Why then not two, or five or ten chairs? What next—amphitheater seating?” granddad once asked rhetorically with his occasionally feisty aire of irascibility. Of course, any extra furniture would absorb the sensitively-balanced sound but grandfather’s real reason is that one who truly listens to music must be alone. “Truly listening to music”, grandfather once said, “is so transformative one must be alone with God and themselves. Who knows the expression that will be on your face? The shedding of tears. The unveiling of your soul that only God deserves to see. It would be indecent to listen to music with others, if one is truly listening.”

The other somewhat mystical reason my grandfather once expressed, according to Bradford, is that one needs to be a good listener, even if one is listening only to a recording. There comes to be something that happens in the Eternal Present with Art. When it is intense enough, one is connected to the original creative act through the Eternal Present, one is connected to the artist and the artist—even if it was long ago—feels you. Walt Whitman expressed this in his poems. He could see us. It’s the same when there is love-making so intense that one can see future generations from the mountaintop of ecstasy and the two lovers embrace all the joy and pain of what that means.

Bradford sat down beside me to my right, in the director’s chair, just as the music was about to start. We set down our now-fully-opened pours on the mahogany drum table between us –with its rosewood banding and ebony stringing inlay on a turned pedestal with three splayed legs and brass claw casters. The moment arrived like Florence Nightingale. It was Pachelbel’s Canon, like I had never heard it before. I could feel the floor disappear under my feet and I seemed to be floating. Each beat, Bradford touched unobtrusively as he followed its rhythm in the air with his open hand swaying almost imperceptibly. He said to me, “Michael, do you know where you are?” I felt the immense kindness of an invitation implied somewhere in his question and a sense of vulnerable inadequacy that any uncomprehending response I might make would cause the invitation to be withdrawn and a door to close, “My grandfather’s listening room?” “No, Michael.” Bradford had his eyes closed but he was still gently touching the notes in the air, as they came to him, “You’re walking though Paradise.”