Stan's little black book of wisdom

As a young boy, growing up, I’d met some characters, but none quite like Stan, revered by everyone in the neighbourhood as a good man, a friendly man, a helpful man and above all a wise man. The strange thing was, Stan had not had an education and was very anti-education. He used to say, “A wise man can never be learned and a learned man can never be wise”. When I first met Stan, I was eleven years old and he was in his sixties, though he did look older. He really did look a wizened, wise old man. He was always dressed smart, not so smart that he stood out, just clean and tidy, his shoes were always polished, trousers pressed and he always wore a jacket and tie. The most curious thing, for me, about Stan, was that he always had a biro behind his right ear. He said it was in case he had any thoughts, and then he could jot them down in the little black book in his breast pocket. I’d heard about this little black book from the adults, the little black book of wisdom. He never went anywhere without it.
The way I understood it was, Stan didn’t have all the answers, but he always had a wise opinion on any subject and it was an opinion that the adults respected. So, if anybody wanted to know anything, Stan was their first port of call. Stan particularly liked to formulate his own opinions on subjects that science had no answers to.
One hot summer’s day, I’d been playing in the fields beyond my neighbourhood with friends. We’d thoroughly enjoyed ourselves racing around in the heat, playing “caught British bulldog” and kicking a ball about. After wearing ourselves out, my friends decided to go home for refreshments, I just sat on an old stone wall, to catch my breath and enjoy the view. It was at this point that I first met Stan. He came walking along, smiling cheerfully and stopped to bid me a good day. “This wall was built by Oliver Cromwell’s men”, he informed me, a fact that I never knew and found fascinating. He then went on to tell me all sorts of details about the area. He knew the Latin names of all the wild plants in the field. He knew which ones were poisonous, which were edible, which were used in herbal remedies and wine making. He could identify all the butterflies and knew which wild flowers they were drawn to and why. He knew the names of all the wildlife, the trees, the birds, which birds were nesting and where. He seemed to know everything.
At this point, I dared to ask him about the little black book of wisdom. I asked him what was in the book. Stan just smiled broadly and said. “I’ll do you a deal” he began, “don’t worry about what’s in the little black book for now. You just enjoy your childhood and then one day, when I think the time is right, I will give you this little black book” he said smiling and tapping his breast pocket with his hand. On the way home, I thought how wonderful that Stan suggested that he would give me his little black book. Over the next few years, Stan and I had become good friends. I would accompany him on woodland walks, identifying wild flowers, birds, picking mushrooms and distinguishing them from toadstools. We’d spend hours walking along the old, now disused, railway track and walks along the canal. I would go to his house for tea and toast. He used to tip some of his tea into his saucer, which he would later drink from the saucer. I never understood this ritual then and to this day I still don’t. He also, would dip his toast in his tea, something I tried, and can honestly say, I didn’t like. One of the things I liked most about going to Stan’s house was his collection of birds’ eggs. Even though this was back in the day when it wasn’t an offence to collect eggs and the bird population wasn’t in any particular danger, Stan still insisted that all his eggs were from abandoned nests and as a member of the R.S.P.B. it was something he believed in strongly.
As time went by and I grew, I took Stan’s advice and enjoyed my childhood and the time I spent with him became less and less, then during my teenage years, I almost forgot about Stan altogether, because of distractions such as girls and rock music and other teenage goings on. One day in my late teens I passed Stan’s house and was irked by the realisation that he was no longer there. I had no idea what had become of him and that upset me greatly, knowing I’d ignored this wonderful man who had helped and guided me in my younger years. All I could do was to regret my un-involvement with the wise old man and move on with my life. I thought Stan was gone from my life forever, then, during my early adult years, I bumped into a man in the street that seemed to know me even though I had no idea who he was. As it turned out, he was Stan’s grandson and he’d come specifically looking for me. Stan was in a home for the elderly and was unwell. In fact, he was seriously ill and the prognosis was grave. So he sent his grandson in search of me.
I accompanied James, Stan’s grandson to the home. As I entered the room, Stan smiled, a broad smile, the one I remembered so well. His eyes lit up with recognition and he was genuinely pleased to see me, although he didn’t look well, lying in bed in pyjamas. He called me over and told me to open his bedside cabinet drawer. In the drawer were a sealed brown envelope and a biro. He instructed me to take them, put them in my pocket and only view them when his time was done. I knew straight away what the envelope was as I folded it around itself to fit it in my pocket. It was the little black book of wisdom. I filled Stan in on my activities, at his request and then took a step back as his family talked and reminisced with him. I noticed a dark, wooden, gatefold photo frame. On one side was a picture of Stan from world war one in full army uniform and on the other side was a picture of him with his late wife. From the conversation with the family it was revealed that he met his wife during the war. He was driving army provisions around and she worked in a patisserie and of course, because it was war, everyone was strictly rationed so the patisserie sold the few essentials, but the war was crippling them financially. Stan saw this and so he illegally dropped the occasional box of powdered eggs, bag of flour, slab of butter and block of chocolate at the back door of the establishment. The army wasn’t quite as rationed as the general public it seems. They fell in love and Stan never looked at another woman from then on in.
As I stood, looking at the photographs of Stan in his younger days, I suddenly heard him exhale … and quite loudly exhale. Stan was gone forever, so suddenly it seemed, there one minute, gone the next. On my way home, I tried not to let the days event upset me, but it was no easy task. When I eventually got home I allowed myself to grieve. Later that evening I examined the biro. Could this have been the same biro that Stan had wedged behind his right ear? At long last, the time had come to read the book of wisdom for the first time. I took the book out of the envelope and opened the book expectantly. The paper was plain on the inside cover and blank. The next page was lined, but still blank, as was the next and the next and the next. I sat bolt upright, what was going on? As I skimmed through the book, it appeared to be completely blank. So this was Stan’s famous book of wisdom? I felt cheated and unimpressed; the book was empty, devoid of anything. As I turned the last page, I finally found something written in Stan’s hand … two simple words written in biro … “Be happy”

The End.