Legal Notepads: The Untold Story

Tonight, I realized something.

My whole life has been chronicled in legal notepads. You know the kind I’m talking about; the long, yellow pages that hold on to the top binding and always seem to rip when you’re trying to tear them off of the pad. My dad always had a ton lying around the house, the garage, or the office. These flimsy yellow pages are so ingrained into my memory that I can’t think of any way else to describe them besides “my dad’s notepads.” I don’t really know why he was so attached to the yellow color; possibly for the same reason he was (and still is) so attracted to that weird amber-tinting in aviator sunglasses. Its just what he liked.

I imagine that when planning his redesign of my nursery, my dad used the yellow pads to scribble down measurements, prices, and probably the amount of time it would take to run from his end of the house to mine (he loves numbers). He probably used those yellow pads to budget for baby expenses, and to remind himself not to forget my mom’s razor when she went to the hospital. When I got home, he probably used those notepads to track my weight and height (again with the numbers), or to count how many times per day I ate. Whether one or all of these are true, I know that even before my huge baby-self was introduced into the world, yellow legal notepads had already been part of my life.

I remember playing “connect the dots” on yellow sheets when I was old enough to hold a pen. I remember practicing my name when I thought I could write it. I remember drawing funny pictures with my dad after he got home from work (when the giant dinosaur coloring book wasn’t enough to occupy me). I can even vaguely remember my dad checking measurements on yellow pages when he built me my very own playhouse in our backyard. I am sad to say that I was not quite helpful (I was three) but did provide musical entertainment as he slaved away on my favorite present.

Later in life, I remember hours locked in the office with my dad as he tried to explain math equations written on the unfailing yellow papers. Page after page was flipped, ripped, or cried on as I struggled to understand long division, pre-algebra, and finally algebra. I usually spent more time in the office with my dad than I needed to; with our supply of cheerios (for correct answers) and iced tea, we were content to avoid the world for a little while.
When I entered high school, my interaction with the yellow legal pad dwindled. I studied on my own, and rarely had time to draw pictures or play connect the dots. Still, yellow legal pads lurked in my dad’s office, full of numbers, financial information, and snippets of work presentations. Every once in a while, I’d see him scribbling away in his tiny, compact handwriting, the yellow of the paper reflected in his face.

When I began the college hunt, the legal pads came out again. These were more for his benefit; he wrote down finances, tuition costs, and estimated costs of living and moving like an accountant on speed—or maybe just like an involved father. I myself even compared and contrasted my final two schools on yellow legal paper that my parents forced on me in order to get me to finally declare my undergraduate college in time for enrollment deadlines. My dad made note of what electrical supplies to bring to college, and what kind of computer and other electronics I needed on—you guessed it—his favorite yellow paper. I ended up as the resident handy-girl because of all the tools, electrical tape, and power strips I had available once I moved into my dorm. Not that I really was planning on using any of it; that is what dad’s visits were for.

When I decided to come to law school, my dad and I started looking at loans. We shut ourselves in the office again, sitting on the floor with my financial aid forms and a yellow notepad readily available. As it turns out, we didn’t end up filling out those forms because I switched schools—but that legal pad was there and waiting for me if I needed it.

Now that I am in law school, I go to class and see my Torts professor check off daily topics from those top-bound yellow pages. The legal pad crinkles in its familiar way, and the awkwardness required to turn from page to page continues. This professor, while slightly boring, is comforting—and I honestly think it is because of his witty one-liners (another worthy quality of my dad) and his use of that yellow pad of paper. It might sound far-fetched, but why else would I be slightly comfortable around a man who wears short purple running shorts?

So tonight when, in my last class of the evening, I saw a new friend writing on a legal memo, this revelation hit me. My life has been chronicled by yellow notepads. Someone has always had one nearby to teach or guide me into the next step. But now we ARE at the next step. We’re the ones writing on the legal notepads; we’re the ones awkwardly flipping the top-bound pages. Does this mean I’m a grown up? Does it mean that I’m an adult? I really don’t know. I think that’s what I’m about to figure out.

All I know is that there will always be new things to learn, there will always be people who love me and are willing to guide me, and there will always be yellow, legal-sized notepads.