I'll Know It When I See It

“I’ll know it when I see it.”

I look up and over my shoulder, and realize with a start that it was only a memory of my grandfather’s voice. I am browsing a rummage sale, my hand lightly grazing the tops of old books, but I’m not really looking at anything. I remember these sales, a Sunday tradition of my grandfather’s. It feels like I am ten years old again.

“Grandpa, what are you looking for? How do you know which one is the right one?” I said to him. “I’ll know it when I see it,” he replied, “All stories are special to someone, sometimes they just need a second home.”

I loved going with my grandfather on his Sunday trips to hunt for old stories. He collected journals and diaries that he would find in old book stores, garage and rummage sales and flea markets. Often they were stuffed in the bottom of boxes, but he always seemed to know exactly what to look for.

The written word, people’s true accounts of their lives and dreams, he believed was something to be cherished. I believed it, as I had seen the results of his work first-hand. My grandfather didn’t just collect these old journals, sometimes he would return them.

I need the distraction of my happy memories. It had been years since I had been on a Sunday book hunt. My grandfather passed away when I was eighteen but I continued the tradition as a way to feel close to him. I stopped altogether ten years ago. My husband, now my ex-husband, mocked me mercilessly for “wasting time on old garbage”. Strange, as he used to come with me every Sunday in the early years, then less and less, before stopping altogether and choosing to berate me for wasting time, instead. Wasted time, indeed. Ten years of my life that I can’t get back.

My grandfather’s collection would ebb and flow. I remember a diary of a teenage girl that he found at a flea market. Months later he told me that the diary helped solve a murder case that was two decades old. The girl had been frightened of her friend’s father and wrote about it in her diary. She was scared to bring it up to her family. They had moved away and the diary lost. The murder happened two years after the move. This man wasn’t considered a suspect until my grandfather presented his case to the retired lead detective. The suspicion was enough to get a warrant that ultimately led to physical and damning evidence.

“I’ll know it when I see it,” this time I whisper it quietly to myself, lost in my memories. The murder case was notable, but my grandfather touched so many lives. He would return journals to those who had lost their loved ones, I remember seeing people cry as they read stories of their mothers, fathers, grandparents or others who were missed. I remember the museum curator’s eyes light up as she realized she held the authentic diary of a Titanic survivor. The diary held dreams of salt water and darkness, and all the memories of that day.

“The words are written for your own purpose today, whether in joy or sadness, but you leave a piece of yourself in them for your loved ones to find when you’re gone,” my grandfather explained to me. He always smelt like old books, and being around them again after all this time brought these memories forward. I remember the last book hunt I’d been on, my daughter was just six years old and I was telling her stories about my grandfather.

My thoughts stray to my daughter, and suddenly I feel twice my age. My happiest memories from the last decade were because of her. She is a gifted dancer, I know that the divorce hasn’t been easy for her and she has thrown herself into dance. She’s been given an opportunity to dance for a prestigious school upstate, one that her mentor attended and could give her the start she needs to turn her passion into a career. The tuition is proving problematic. I can’t afford it alone, her father needs to contribute but he used that same sneer I grew so used to seeing, saying that he won’t waste his money on a hobby.

I came to book hunt today to put off this inevitability. I have only a few days to make the initial payment and I have exhausted all avenues. I can take her father to court, but that is more time and more money that I don’t have. My eyes cloud with tears as I try to push the thoughts away and focus again on the boxes of books in front of me. “I’ll know it when I see it,” I whisper again to myself.

Then I saw it. I stopped, in front of me was a small, black, leather bound journal, wedged between an old encyclopedia and a stack of medical periodicals. In my gut, in my heart, I knew that this was the one I was looking for. Gingerly I reached out and opened the book to the first page.

It’s a letter, dated over 80 years ago. “My darling daughter, I hope this finds you well.” I flip through the pages, the hand-writing changes but the letters continue and progress through time. “Dearest Son”, “My love”, and “To my youngest grandchild,” I read with growing fascination. Each letter omits all names, using only the vaguest of details. I flip to the last entry and notice that it was written the same year I graduated from high school.

“My darling granddaughter,” I read, “I’m sorry that I cannot be with you during these difficult times. I wish that I could have seen your daughter dance,” at that I stop and my eyes tear up. “I have more to tell you. There is a bank across the road from the house your mother grew up in. Tell them your name and ask for your safety deposit box. Don’t lose faith in the story. I love you.”

In a daze, I hand over a dollar for the journal and make my way across town. I have convinced myself over and over again that this can’t be real, that I am giving in to a ridiculous fantasy and simply wasting my time. And yet. I read the words again and dream that my grandfather penned them.

I arrive at the bank, present my identification and am seated quickly in a small room with the safety deposit box I never knew that I had. I sit and stare at the box in quiet disbelief for what feels like an eternity. I open the box to see two envelopes and another journal. The small envelope contains a letter:

Dearest heart,

My apologies for the cryptic note in the black notebook. The dreams are always like that. For them to work, it must be written so that only the one who it is for will recognize it. If you’re here now, then it has worked for you.

There is magic in the stories that we write, whether we are writing them for ourselves as catharsis or records, or for others to delight or instruct, the words have power and impact. I know that you feel it, as I have. If you are looking, stories that need to find their homes will come to you. It won’t always be easy, but I promise you that it will be worth it.

These past few months I have been dreaming of you. I see that you are in pain, but it is far in the future and I am so sorry that I am not there for you. I dream of your daughter dancing on stage under bright lights. The other envelope is my gift to you and her. I hope with all my heart that it will allow you both to live the lives you deserve.

One day, you may have a dream like this. It is a glimpse of the future that you can help bring into reality. When you’re ready, use the old black notebook. It has a way of ending up where it is needed. Until then, watch for the stories. You’ll know it when you see it.

All my love,

Grandpa

My hands are shaking uncontrollably, tears now streaming freely down my face, as I reach for the other envelope. Inside is $20,000 in crisp, clean bills. It is everything I need for my daughter’s tuition and her future.

I open the journal, it is unused save for an inscription:

For your own stories.