Packed away carefully in refurbished World War II ammo crates, a... testament to his service, the books slowly revealed themselves and Moe silently thanked his forefather for what he thought was his final gift to him. At the bottom of the last crate Moe found a small leather ledger. Seated on the floor of his small office, a half empty bottle of bourbon on the table and volume after volume of Paw-paw’s books, now his. Sitting inside a semicircle of old books on the floor, Moe slowly opened the small book.
As he read through his dark and twisted account of war he was struck by the matter-of-factness of it, the clinical way in which the details were recorded. And then Moe was surprised by something else. The dates extended well beyond the war and, though less in volume, the killings were recorded up to a few years ago. Moe placed the old ledger down, took a large swallow of bourbon, and then sat there in silence for quite some time. Many of Paw-paw’s killings were cold cases he recognized from news reports. Moe got up and placed the ledger in his safe next to his own clandestine little ledger. Because it was nice to know that Moe wasn’t an anomaly in his family. It was nice to know that Paw-paw saw enough of himself in Moe to give him that final wonderful gift.