The Transformation of Giving

The little black notebook rested under a layer of dust, on top of the bookshelf in the large estate, only inches from the ceiling. Although "rested" may be a poor choice of words because, over the interminable years of waiting, the notebook had remained steadfast in his purpose. He stayed proud and stoic in anticipation of what his master had foretold. "You are among the noblest of beings, notebook," he had said. "You gave everything you were created to be, with your pristine pages and unlimited potential, so that my thoughts and dreams could live on in your pages. You allowed yourself to be put to death and raised again, marked and marred, to be a perfect vessel for transporting the essence of who I am into a new destiny. You were once a gift apart from me, now your worn spine and my aged soul are as one. We have been transformed over time, you and I, by fate and by the power of my hands, to be an even greater gift to the one destined to find you, the one whose life will be forever transformed by you."

The notebook liked to think of himself as a vessel. Sometimes when he lay daydreaming, he imagined the elastic strap that held him closed was actually a belt that secured his passengers in the torrents of a storm-cast sea or the ravages of the wild jungle. He often mused about his future master, who he imagined must be a man of significance to be receiving such a gift that it could change his life.

The notebook had rested on the shelf for so long, even the dust that covered him had a story of its own. "Hey ombre!" the notebook would tease because the dust's layers, first dark with the soot of hearth and candle, lightened upward over time. This continued until the advent of electricity which left subsequent layers of light grey lint that barely resembled those first oily hues. Deep in thought, contemplating his own plight if the notebook were found, the dust rarely responded.

Outside the large estate where the notebook resided, generations of people had come and gone, were once celebrated and then forgotten. In fact, the empty estate where the notebook now lay, once bustled with family and guests, sojourners from foreign lands - a place where conversation and laughter had abound. It was during those times that the notebook held the most hope for discovery. Now in the silent rooms and echoing hallways, somehow, the notebook's faith still held firm. After all, it had been foretold by his master. Who was he to doubt? What the little black notebook didn't know was that his patience would soon be rewarded. The local townspeople were searching for just the right carpenter to begin the restoration of the old estate.

Down the road in a cluster of small cottages, a stark contrast to the immensity of the estate, Antonio stood in his worn work clothes, a small but fine cache of new carpentry tools by his side. As he often did, Antonio was waiting for his son, Carlo, to find his satchel. Carlo always carried his satchel with him. He was a bright and avid learner, with a mop of brown hair and big brown eyes that took in all the world around him. Antonio was often amazed by how smart his son was because, in the presence of his patient and loving father, Carlo felt free to talk about everything he learned while exploring the world. Carlo shared with his father every intricate drawing he made on little scraps of paper he had collected around the town. Antonio was both proud of his son's resourcefulness and ashamed that he couldn't even afford proper paper for his son's drawings.

A few years earlier, Carlo had begun to struggle after his mother had died. His halting speech, misuse of words, and inability to read, while others in his class mastered those skills quickly, left neighbors doubting Carlo's intelligence. The townspeople also considered Carlo odd because he often knelt to pick up scraps of paper from the ground and put them in his worn satchel. "Well, at least he will have skills as a trash collector!" they laughed, not caring if the man and his son overheard them.

All that changed, though. Now, when Antonio and Carlo walked down the cobblestone street, neighbors greeted them with a friendly wave or ran out to share a pastry, still warm from the oven. As they walked to Antonio's new job site, Carlo noted the shiny double-paned window in each of the little cottages. He saw the puffs of smoke he knew came from their newly installed wood stoves that now gave warmth to their homes all under newly tiled roofs. What Carlo loved the most, however, was seeing the fresh, bright paint on every cottage door and shutter. The changes in the neighborhood, especially how the townspeople treated him were like miracles to Carlo, who had never given much thought to miracles before.

"Are you daydreaming?" his father asked abruptly. "No," his son replied, "I'm watching Carlo movies in my head." Antonio couldn't help but smile at his son's answer. Carlo may not have understood every word, but he could express himself in the most wonderfully creative ways. The Carlo movie in the young boy's head this particular day was the story of the golden coins.

Several months before, Antonia had taken Carlo to a job site where he was repairing a fence. While he worked, Carlo dug in the dirt nearby. Suddenly with a flurry of arms and legs, Carlo ran towards Antonio. "H...h...honey!" Carlo stuttered, pointing back to where he had been digging. Honey was a coveted commodity in their little town, so Antonio immediately stopped what he was doing. "That's odd," Antonio thought to himself, "why would there be honey in the dirt?" However, being poor and with an image of a full jar of honey to last them through the coming months, Antonio ran to where his son was pointing. Scattered in the dirt where his son had been digging was a mass of golden coins! "H..h..oney!" Carlo stuttered again, a bright smile on his face. Antonio leaned down and hugged his son, "Yes, my boy! Sweet as honey, but the word for what you have found is 'money!'" Antonio couldn't believe their luck in finding such a large stash of coins. Antonio finished his work, then rolled the coins into his carpenter's apron. He and Carlo set out for the Rare Book and Coin Shoppe where Antonio sold the coins for $20,000.

News of his fortune spread quickly in the little town. People came to Antonio's door offering advice. "Do you know what you should do with all that money, Antonio? You should put that boy of yours in the nuthouse, so you can have a life of your own!" While another chimed in, "I know what you should do, Antonio!" You should hire someone to take that boy off your hands. He will be a burden to you the rest of your life!" Antonio didn't listen to their unsolicited advice, he knew exactly what he was going to do with the money.

The next morning when the neighbors came to call, Antonio and his son were nowhere to be found. "They've moved away!" was the town's consensus. Late in the evening, Antonio returned with a small cache of shiny new carpentry tools and a wagon full of supplies. Early the next day, he and Carlo began the arduous task of repairing all the cottages in town. Each cottage was given new insulation, a new wood stove for their hearth, new double-pane windows, new tiles on their roofs and, bright, fresh paint on the outside walls, doors, and shutters. While Antonia labored on their houses, each person in the town spent time with Carlo. They began to see his curious young spirit and intellect. "We have a genius in our midst!" they would say to one another. "Carlo is one remarkable boy!" they would proclaim, not caring if the man and his son overheard them.

When the time came to pick the carpenter to restore the old estate, Antonio was so revered, he was the townspeople's only choice. Antonio gathered his tools and equipment, waited for his son Carlo to find his satchel, and headed to the estate. Antonio had never been in the estate before with its lofted ceilings, beautiful hand-carved woodwork, and windows that overlooked the gardens. The estate took Antonio's breath away. Oh, how he would love to own the estate. What parties he would throw! "Stop having Antonio movies in your head and get to work," Antonio chuckled to himself. Antonio decided to start in the stately library because he was so drawn to the woodwork. As is routine when repairing a room of this size, the scaffolding went up first. Antonio instructed Carlo not to climb on the scaffolding, and Carlo obeyed him... for a time.

With all the commotion, you would have thought the little black notebook would have awakened. Still, he slept soundly under his blanket of dust, dreaming of gaining control of a runaway stagecoach while his strap kept his passengers secured. His dream continued until he felt something very familiar from long ago, the touch of a warm hand. Carlo had been on the top of the scaffolding running his hand along the dusty top of the bookshelf, when he felt something brush his hand. Much to his surprise, he pulled down a little black notebook. Since he wasn't supposed to be on the scaffolding, Carlo shoved the book into his satchel and scurried down to the floor before his father caught him. He didn’t feel safe to remove the book from his satchel until he was in the backseat of his father's wagon headed home.

Without Antonio seeing him, Carlo removed the book from his satchel and inspected it. There were golden letters on the front cover of the book that Carlo couldn't understand. "Dad, what does this spell?" he asked, then Carlo hesitantly began to read the letters. "L… E…. O… N…..." "That spells 'Leon’, son. Why do you ask?" "Oh, I found his book in the old house," Carlo replied. "Well, we'll have to try and return it to him," Antonio said while Carlo opened the book. The notebook's pages were filled with words, pictures of machines at work, and the most beautiful drawings he had ever seen. He couldn’t wait to return the book to where it belonged.

Carlo closed the book again and ran his fingers over the last few letters, "d.a.. V.i.n.c.i." When they returned home and Antonio saw the name, Leonardo da Vinci, in gold lettering on the cover of the little black book his shock and the celebration that followed lasted so long it could have been a story of its own.

The little black notebook took in everything that was going on around him with contentment. He could feel that Carlo was a kindred spirit of his old master and that Antonio was a man of significance in his own right. Those things brought him such joy. The book would not return to the young boy's satchel. It was meant to be shared with the world. Of course, the sharing could not begin until father and son took a momentous trip to the Rare Book and Coin Shoppe. With the money Antonio received from selling Leonardo da Vinci’s notebook, Antonio bought the estate where he throws lavish parties for all his friends from town. Carlo has all the art lessons, notebooks, and drawing to his heart's content. And, as for the dust, he was blown four ways to the wind to enjoy places in the world he never knew existed from the top of the bookshelf in the large estate, only inches from the ceiling.