Watermarks The Red Notebook by Justin Singleton

Walking back into my grandparent's kitchen after being gone for so many years and under the present circumstances caused a flood of bittersweet emotions that seemed to steal the very breath from my body. As my eyes combed the room, I noticed people, some I knew, some I didn't, standing in small groups of two or three, all of them wearing black and all of them trying to maintain a solemn composure by laughing at jokes that weren't funny or by remembering a past best left unremembered. The funeral had been over for hours, but like the small sucker fish that symbiotically clings to the underside of the great white shark in hopes of feeding on the shark's leftovers, everyone at the wake seemed to want to hang on, as if they too were waiting for their own great white shark to cling on to.

A feeling of remembrance, longing, and anger, all wrapped up in a neat, stinging package, seemed to grip me as I made my way to his place at the table. The sound of the shuffling of my own feet against the worn brown and black linoleum floor pounded in my ears as I ventured to the one place that, until this very day, had been off limits to all of Lee Singleton's children. The battered gray file cabinet that sat beside by grandfather's wooden Captain's chair had a double set of drawers and a heavy, somber-looking padlock. As I moved closer to his seat at the kitchen table, the cabinet cried out to me, gestured to me, as if begging me to view the contents within. Like a child attempting to shoplift his first gumball from the local general store, I nervously fumbled with the huge ring of assorted keys, hands shaking, palms sweating, until finally I found the right key and opened the padlock that protected my grandfather's surplus of financial ledgers and documents. The way in which I viewed the world and the manner in which I interacted with every person in my life was a result of what rested in the top drawer of this cabinet. And the man who, until yesterday, held the key that controlled its belongings, used the contents of this treasure chest not only as a teaching tool, but as a foundation with which to base the rearing of his children and grandchildren. Simply put, my grandfather taught all of his kids the meaning of life and how to be successful in this world by applying the various apparatuses whose home was the very place that I now had the key to open.

No amount of experience or knowledge could prepare me for what I found in my grandfather's metal cabinet. As I began to sift through the assorted findings, I noticed that the longer I explored the contents of the cabinet, the further into my grandfather's life I ventured. Lee Singleton had always wanted to be in financial management, and oftentimes he would remind his family of how, as a young man, he had dreams of managing his own bank. Among the many checkbooks, ledgers, bank statements, pencils, pens, note pads, rubber bands, paper clips, and countless other pecuniary paraphernalia, I found an old photograph of a young man, clad in a black coat and top hat, smiling and possessing that same look of adventure and hunger for success that my grandfather often spoke of when discussing his boyhood dreams. His posture was proud-looking, and his deeply tanned face with its deepset, piercing blue eyes seemed to glow and almost burn into the portrait, as if he were yearning to conquer his destiny and achieve his lifelong dream of being a financier.

Lester Lee Singleton was born on March 20, 1923, and spent the majority of his childhood supporting his ailing mother and younger brothers due to the sudden death of his father when my grandfather was just twelve years of age. He grew up during the Depression, and would tell us stories of working in the coal mines for a nickel a day, and how the boss would let him load up a feed sack with coal from the floor of the mine so that my grandfather could heat his house. A veteran of World War II and the father of five children, he raised his family and ran the household as he had his own when he was forced to support his mother and siblings, with firmness, fairness, and a meticulous, managerial style that seemed to personify his dreams of financing. But long after his children were grown, he received an unexpected surprise that all of the planning in the world could not have prepared him for. My brother and I were abandoned by our mother, and my father sent us to live with our grandparents because he himself could not take care of us. Even at a young age I remembered how surprised and bewildered my grandfather was at the prospect of raising two young boys. So he did so the only way he knew how, by reaching into his infamous gray file cabinet and drawing life's lessons from the many papers and books that lay within.

As I began to make my way through the mounds of financial material in the cabinet, I found, if my memory serves me correctly, the first item my grandfather ever introduced me to among the many items I came to know and recognize within the cabinet. A simple red notebook, held shut with a thick yellow rubber band, felt very heavy in my hands as I released it from its hiding place deep within the many crevices of documents and notes. I held in my hands my grandfather's monetary bible, the very one he used to document every aspect of his life with regards to his financial dealings. But more importantly, I held the very tool he used to mold his offspring and his offspring's offspring into the model citizens they are today. Every lesson, every challenge, every moral, could be traced back to the writings and tables within this small faded notebook.

The first of such lessons was annotated and thoroughly documented on page nineteen of a section labeled "Josh and Justin's School." He was always so proud of his two adopted sons and made every attempt to ensure that we received lunch and book rental money. But when I was twelve years old and my brother and I began to work fairly consistently for a farmer who owned a tobacco farm down the road from us, my grandfather sat us down and officially introduced us to the red notebook.

He said, "Boys, since your grandma and I aren't working anymore, and I can't seem to get your Dad to help out, I won't be able to provide you and your brother with lunch and book money. I looked into it and found out that given the circumstances, you can receive free lunches and a waiver on your books."

He opened the red notebook to page nineteen and continued, "But I also know that you two have been working a lot after school and on the weekends at the Cannon's farm and are making decent money. So I'm going to leave the choice to you. You can get the free lunches or buy them yourselves. I figure you're too honest and hard-working to take a handout, but nevertheless, the decision is yours. And if you're short one week, I can loan you the money until payday, and annotate it in this book. Talk about it and let me know."

The look of pride and satisfaction on my grandfather's face as we told him our decision to buy our own books and lunches made me think that he had always known what our answer was going to be, that since we were a part of him, a product of his system of raising children, we would work for what we got, and never take for free what we could earn.

As I continued to thumb through the book, I found a section that I knew must be about my brother and me, because such a lesson was unheard of when my father and his siblings were growing up. The title of the section was "Cigs," and as my eyes scanned the page, my initial thoughts were justified, for I noticed that every entry had either my or my brother's name next to it. As we matured into teenagers, my brother and I both took up the habit of smoking. Until I was seventeen years old, my grandfather refused to allow us to smoke in his presence and usually chastised us for doing so in private. As time progressed, however, and he realized that his antismoking crusade was hopeless, my grandfather sat us down at the table and gave us yet another lesson in life by using a monetary implication.

He said, "Boys, I know that you're going to smoke. There's nothing I can do about it. And I also know that legally, you can't get them at most of the stores in town. But you're both working and paying your own way, so as far as I'm concerned, you're grown enough to make your own choices. As a manner of convenience, I will buy a carton and keep them in my cabinet, and if you need some and can't get to the store, come see me and you can buy them from me at two dollars a pack."

He opened his notebook to a page near the middle that was blank except for the title, which he had aptly named "Cigs." He continued, "If you don't have the money, just let me know and I'll write it down in here and you can pay me when you get paid."

At the time, I couldn't help but feel that, in my grandfather's eyes, I was no longer a little boy but a man. But in hindsight, I realized that the man was an entrepreneur, and on that day had taught us the important lesson of supply and demand. A carton of cigarettes in 1994 cost about thirteen dollars, but by making them easily accessible to us, my grandfather found a way to make himself seven dollars a carton, as well as offer us one of his many lessons of money management and business opportunity. This important example that he taught me and my brother by using his red notebook and his financial mindfulness, at least to me, was well worth the sixty or seventy cents that he made each time we shopped at his mini-store.

His teachings once again filled my thoughts as I continued reading in the notebook and stumbled upon two very important sections of his book. At about three-quarters of the way through the ledger there was a section that I clearly remembered because of the heavy amount of writing my grandfather did in it the older I got and the more money I thought I had to have. The section was entitled, "Loans and Debts," and as my fingers ran over the deep creases left behind by my grandfather's elegant writing, I realized that there was one more lesson that my grandfather had intended on teaching me.

On each of the pages within the section were the names of all of my grandfather's children and grandchildren who had borrowed money from him up until the time he passed away. I recalled fond memories of my past as my grandfather's notes on the page labeled "Justin" listed the many loans that I had taken out over the years: "Field Trip 1/26/92--$5.00, Football Game 7/12/93--$15.00, Tuxedo Rental 5/24/95--$85.00." But of all the many transactions with my grandfather, the last note of my personal loan page contained the most important lesson of all. The last entry that my grandfather made on my loans page was the date that I left for the Marine Corps. I will never forget his strong, methodical handshake or the words of encouragement that he gave me as I boarded the bus for Parris Island, South Carolina.

As he slipped a twenty dollar bill into my shirt pocket with one hand, he grabbed my hand with the other and said, "Justin, you should get a phone call when you get there. Let us know that you made it there in one piece. Use this to get you something to eat on the way. It's a long bus ride and I know you'll get hungry. Also, don't forget to write your grandmother. She's real proud of you. We're all proud of you. Good luck, son."

I honestly expected an annotation highlighting the money that my grandfather had given me on the day that I left for boot camp. But instead, at the very bottom of the page, in the "Totals" portion of the ledger, he had put a red "X" through the substantially large amount that had accrued over the last few years. In the same red ink that was purposely used to contrast the black calligraphy ink that he normally used, my grandfather had written a simple note to himself: "Left for the Marines, all debts paid in full upon enlistment."

I couldn't help but cry as I read his notes, for I knew that I had never settled my debt with my grandfather, at least not monetarily. As I closed the book, I also knew that my grandfather had not made such a financial move because he felt that he would never get his money after I moved out of the house. Almost as if he knew that I would someday read his red notebook, my grandfather had kept his last transaction a secret in order to teach me his final lesson. His entire adult life had been spent dealing with finances and bookkeeping, and he had used his wealth of knowledge on the subject to teach his children not simply about money, but about life. This lesson, to give whatever possible, whenever possible, seemed to culminate the life that my grandfather led. And this last transaction made me realize that he never loaned, but gave, every time he wrote in his red notebook.