“One more thing before we go,” Grandpa said, sliding his notebook back into his pocket and nodding toward the diner’s kitchen.
Hilda—my favorite waitress on account of her elaborate hairdos and equally compelling personality—was approaching the table carrying something in her left hand obscured by the plastic menu in her right. She swept the menu to the side, revealing a red-velvet cupcake with a single candle flickering at its center. A sporadic star of off-off-Broadway shows, Hilda commenced a dramatic rendition of “Happy Birthday.”
Grandpa’s smooth, deep baritone, which he reserved for special occasions, provided the coda. “And maaanny mooooorree.”
* * *
Celebratory breakfast complete, Grandpa and I sat side by side on the C train as it chugged lethargically toward the Upper West Side. Our binoculars hung around our necks and our leather notebooks rested on our laps.
In the three years since our cohabitation had begun, I’d developed an intense curiosity over the contents of Grandpa’s notebooks. Sometimes I’d find one unattended—usually splayed on the side table next to his armchair, leather cord lying tantalizingly undone—and fought the temptation to read it. What could be so important about life that it required such extensive documentation? A tenured biology professor at Columbia University, Grandpa had a passion for categorizing things. Since his study became my bedroom when I arrived to live with him, every inch of spare space in the apartment was now filled with his pedagogical paraphernalia. Crowded rows of jars containing natural specimens lined the bookshelves of our living room. And from the day I’d mastered the use of the label maker, Grandpa enlisted me to help classify the contents of any new jars he added to the collection. He’d slowly dictate the spellings of complicated scientific names while I diligently manipulated the dial back and forth, embossing each letter into eternity. (Ornithorhynchus was my most memorable label—although the tiny platypus fetus suspended in liquid admittedly wasn’t very cute.)
Getting off the C train at Eighty-First Street, we followed the path into Central Park down into the woodland below the castle. I’d never really found tales of princesses sitting around waiting for princes appealing, but I liked the idea of living in a castle with endless rooms and dungeons to be explored. Occasionally, I imagined a prince joining me on those expeditions, but I always led the way.
We wandered under the thick canopy of trees until Grandpa stopped at a lamppost.
“What do you notice about this lamppost?”
I examined it carefully, tracking my eyes up and down to take in every detail before I gave my final answer. The only thing that distinguished it from the average lamppost was a small numeric plaque midway down its trunk.
“The numbers?” I offered tentatively, searching for a tell in Grandpa’s expert poker face. His smile affirmed my guess, like a hidden door swinging open after the uttering of a secret password.
“Exactly.” He hitched up his pant legs and knelt on one knee so that he met my eye level. “If you ever find yourself lost in Central Park, these plaques will help you find your way.”
I frowned at the random number sequence. “How?”
“Look closely at the last two numbers,” he said, running his fingers over the embossed metal. “If they’re odd, that means you’re closer to the west side of the park. And if they’re even, you’re closer to the east.”
“But what about the first two numbers?”
“They represent the cross street we’re closest to.” He rested his elbow on the top of his knee. “So if it says ‘7751,’ what do you think the closest street is?”
I swung my arms from side to side as I thought. “West Seventy-Seventh?”
Grandpa winked. “Clever girl.”
As the fresh knowledge took root in my brain, I felt the satisfaction of having unlocked one more of the world’s infinite secrets. I skipped after Grandpa as he led me down the path to a small clearing near the lake with a stretch of benches at its perimeter.
He gestured to the end bench. “Let’s have a seat.”
My legs dangled beneath me as I ran my hand over the curve of the iron armrest.
“This is one of the very best spots for bird-watching,” he said, tapping his binoculars knowingly. “And if you point your binoculars at that cluster of trees over there, you’ll likely spot a family of ruby-throated hummingbirds.”
I positioned the rubber eyepieces snugly in front of my eyes.
“I don’t see anything,” I whined after only a few moments of scanning the treetops.
“Well, that’s because you’re missing the most important element of observation.”
I peered at him over the top of my binoculars. “What’s that?”
He wiggled his eyebrows. “Patience.”
Sighing, I refocused my lenses on the trees and waited, determined to show just how patient I could be. Three minutes ticked by before I spotted a flash of crimson moving among the foliage.
“I see one!” I whispered loudly, trying not to startle the creature. “I see its red throat.”
Grandpa leaned over and kept his voice low. “That means it’s a male. The females usually have white throats. What else can you notice about it?”
“It has a long, sharp beak. Longer than other birds. And it’s always moving, not sitting on a branch.”
“That’s because hummingbirds rarely stop moving. Their wings beat up to eighty times a second, which creates the humming sound that their name comes from.”
“Whoa, that’s fast.”
As the bird disappeared back into the trees, I rested the binoculars on my knees and looked at Grandpa, eager for our lesson to continue.
“The way we understand nature is to observe its patterns. With birds, we know they appear at a certain time of year, and that they prefer certain types of trees and certain types of foods.” He slung one long leg over the other, revealing a blue-and-green striped sock pulled above his ankle. “Or take the seasons, for example. How do you know that it’s fall?”
“Because the leaves change color and fall to the ground.”
“Exactly. That same thing happens every year. And when the leaves fall, it helps us know what kind of coat we need to wear or which vegetables to plant.”
“Or that it’s almost Halloween.”
“Right. So the best way to understand the world is to look for its patterns.” He patted his notebook. “And that’s what this is for. By noting down everything interesting you see, you’ll eventually find that things occur with regularity. And it will help you learn how they work. Shall we take some notes on what we’ve observed so far?”
“Yes!” I’d been desperate to write in my notebook all morning. I uncapped my fountain pen and began carefully describing the lamppost in my best handwriting.
“You know, it’s not just nature that shows us patterns.” Grandpa nodded toward the clearing where several groups of people were lounging. “You can also learn a lot about people just by watching them.”
I lifted my binoculars to zoom in on a trio of girls gathered on a picnic blanket. Grandpa placed his hand on the barrels and gently pushed them down. “Remember what I said: no spying.”
“The cav-e-at.” I said, proud that the word had stuck in my memory.
“Yes, exactly, the caveat. But we can observe from afar in public.” With his arm stretched along the back of the seat, he pointed subtly to a family sitting on one of the benches on the opposite side of the clearing. “Tell me what you see over there.”
I frowned. “A man and a woman with their two kids.” I was slightly insulted that he would ask me such an obvious question.
“But what can you tell me about what they’re doing?”
“He’s talking … but it doesn’t look like she’s really listening.”
“How do you know that?”
“Well, her body is turned away from him and she’s looking around at everything.”
Grandpa nodded. “And you see how his legs are turned toward her and he’s leaning into her space, but the more he leans in, the more she moves away?”