A small notebook that was my father’s came to me after his death. It measured three by five inches, was made of black leather, and had six tiny yet strong rings for holding the paper – the clasp that set and unset the rings was brass colored, and it must have been well made because it never failed through many openings and closings, and was already well used when it came to me. The little black book had lined paper, and there must be a number of refill packets already in our house, because I don’t recall buying new paper for it. When I first looked in the little black book for the first time I found no mysterious phone numbers of kept mistresses, no Swiss bank account passwords, no coded nuclear top secrets that had defined much of his military career. Continue Reading
