The Thirty Notes: What Paul Newman Hid in Robert Redford’s Porsche

Part 1: The Restoration

June 2010, Sundance, Utah. The morning air was crisp, sunlight filtering through the tall pines that lined the driveway of Marcus Chen’s classic car restoration shop. Inside, the scent of motor oil mixed with the faint aroma of coffee, and the sound of tools echoed off the concrete floor. Marcus had restored hundreds of vintage Porsches, but today’s job felt different.

Not because of the car’s value, though it was worth a small fortune. Not because of its rarity, though only 1580 had ever been made. This one was special because it belonged to Robert Redford. And because Redford himself was standing in the shop at 8 a.m., watching as Marcus’ team prepared to dismantle the dashboard of a slate gray 1973 Porsche 911 Carrera RS.

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” Marcus asked, his hands hovering over the dashboard. “Most owners can’t stand seeing their cars taken apart.”

Redford smiled, a little wistful. “I’ve had this car for 35 years. I want to see what’s inside it.”

The Porsche had been a gift. In 1975, Paul Newman had handed Redford the keys for his 39th birthday. They had just finished filming The Sting two years earlier—a massive success that catapulted both men into the highest ranks of Hollywood. Newman, who’d developed a serious obsession with cars and racing, decided that Redford needed a proper sports car. Not a new one—a classic. He found the Porsche at an estate sale in Connecticut.

Redford protested. “Paul, this is too much. This car is worth a fortune.”

Newman waved him off. “You’re my best friend. You deserve it. Besides, I already bought it. Can’t return it now.”

For 35 years, Redford drove the Porsche sparingly. It was too valuable for daily use, but on special occasions—road trips, quiet drives through the mountains around Sundance—the car was his companion. It was perfectly maintained, never in an accident, always garaged. Now, at 74, Redford wanted it restored to mint condition. He’d brought it to Marcus’ shop three weeks ago, and today was the day they would start with the dashboard.

Marcus’ lead technician, Sarah Kim, had been restoring Porsches for 20 years. She carefully removed the instrument panel, her hands steady and practiced. “Mr. Redford, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“This car has had unusual maintenance over the years.”

Redford looked surprised. “What do you mean?”

“I mean someone’s been inside this dashboard before, multiple times. See these screws? They’ve been removed and replaced carefully, professionally, but not factory work. Someone else has been in here.”

Redford frowned. “I’ve only had it serviced at authorized Porsche dealers. I’ve never had anyone else work on it.”

Sarah nodded. “That’s what’s strange. These modifications weren’t done by Porsche. They were done by someone who knew what they were doing, but they were hiding something.”

She pointed to a small panel behind the speedometer. “See that? That’s not original. That’s custom work. Very good custom work, but custom.” She carefully removed the panel. Behind it was a compartment, maybe six inches wide, four inches tall.

Inside that compartment was a stack of envelopes—thirty of them, each sealed, each with a date written on the front in handwriting Redford recognized immediately. Paul Newman’s handwriting.

Redford’s hand started shaking before he even touched the first envelope. “When?” His voice caught. “When were these put here?”

Sarah examined the compartment. “This was installed when the car was new or very close to new. This is decades-old work. Whoever did this, they did it a long time ago.”

Redford picked up the first envelope. The date on the front: October 18th, 1975. His 39th birthday. The day Newman had given him the car.

His hands were shaking so much he almost dropped it. Marcus stepped forward. “Mr. Redford, do you want some privacy?”

Redford nodded. Couldn’t speak. Just nodded. Marcus and Sarah left the shop, gave him space.

Redford sat down on a workbench, held the envelope. Thirty envelopes. Thirty years. 1975 to 2005, one for every year. Newman had died in 2008, which meant he’d stopped writing these notes three years before his death. Had he known? Had he planned to write more and never got the chance? Or had thirty years been the plan all along?

He opened the first envelope.

Inside was a single handwritten note on plain paper.

Bob, happy 39th birthday.
I’m writing this the night before I give you the car. You don’t know it yet, but there’s a compartment behind your speedometer, and I’m going to hide a note in there every year on your birthday.
You’ll probably never find them. That’s okay. I’m not writing them for you to find. I’m writing them because I want to remember to be grateful for you every single year.
This year, I’m grateful that you make me laugh, that you don’t take my too seriously, that you see through my and call me on it, that you’re my friend, not because of what I can do for you, but because you actually like me.
Thank you for that,
Paul

Redford didn’t expect that. He expected the notes to be about big moments—their films together, career milestones, grand gestures of friendship. But they weren’t. They were about small things, ordinary moments, the kind of things you don’t think to be grateful for because they seem too minor to matter.

He opened the second envelope, dated October 18th, 1976.

Bob, this year I’m grateful that you remembered Joanne’s birthday and sent her flowers. She mentioned it three times.
You didn’t have to do that. Most people wouldn’t have, but you did. That’s the kind of person you are.
You pay attention to the people around you, not just the people in front of you.
Thank you for seeing my wife, for making her feel valued. That matters to me more than you know.
Paul

Redford barely remembered that. Flowers for Joanne’s birthday. He’d done it without thinking. Certainly hadn’t expected Newman to even notice, let alone write about it 34 years later.

The third envelope, October 18th, 1977.

Bob, this year I’m grateful that you called me when I didn’t get the Oscar for Cool Hand Luke.
You didn’t try to make me feel better with platitudes. You just said, “That sucks. Want to go get drunk?”
We did. We got very drunk and it helped. Not because of the alcohol. Because you showed up. Because you let me be pissed off instead of trying to fix it.
Thank you for that,
Paul

Redford opened envelope after envelope. Each one dated October 18th. Each one expressing gratitude for something small, something specific, something most people would never think to mention.

1978: Grateful you told me I was being an to that waiter. You were right. I was. And you cared enough to call me on it instead of letting me be unchallenged.

1979: Grateful you drove six hours to watch my daughter’s school play. You didn’t have to. Nobody expected you to, but you showed up. She still talks about it.

1980: Grateful you told me my new script idea was terrible. Everyone else was too polite to say it. You cared enough to be honest. Saved me from wasting a year on a bad movie.

1981: Grateful you sent me that article about racing. You remember things I’m interested in. You pay attention. That’s rare.

The notes weren’t long. Most were just a paragraph. Some were only a few sentences. But each one was specific. Each one was real. Each one showed that Newman had been paying attention, had been grateful, had been actively choosing year after year to notice and appreciate the small things about their friendship.

The Thirty Notes: What Paul Newman Hid in Robert Redford’s Porsche

Part 2: The Practice of Friendship

Redford kept reading, his hand still shaking, tears now running down his face as he moved through the years. 1985: “Grateful you sat with me in the hospital when my son was born. You didn’t say much, just sat there. Sometimes presence is better than words. You knew that.” 1987: “Grateful you still answer the phone when I call at 2 a.m. because I can’t sleep. You never make me feel like I’m bothering you. You just talk until I’m tired enough to sleep. Thank you for that.”

The notes continued, marking the passage of time not by movie premieres or red carpets, but by the small, invisible stitches that hold a friendship together. 1990: “Grateful you started Sundance. You could have kept it small, kept it exclusive. But you made it a place for artists who had no other place. You gave people chances. That’s who you are. Someone who opens doors instead of closing them.” 1993: “Grateful you came to Newman’s Own and helped us figure out our donation strategy. You didn’t have to. You’re busy, but you showed up and helped us give away money better. That’s friendship. Showing up for the unsexy parts.”

1998: “Grateful you told me to stop being precious about my image. To let people see me as human instead of as Paul Newman, the movie star. You were right. As usual, being real is better than being perfect.”

As Redford read, a realization dawned on him—one that stung as much as it inspired. Newman hadn’t written about the movies, the awards, or the fame. He wrote about the phone calls, the honest criticism, the times Redford showed up when no one else would. The things that seemed too small to matter, but somehow mattered most.

He kept reading, through heartbreaks and triumphs, through the years when life was heavy and the years when it was light. Each note was a record of gratitude, a testament to the discipline of noticing, of paying attention, of practicing friendship—not just feeling it.

The thirtieth note, dated October 18th, 2005, was longer than the rest. Redford’s hands trembled as he unfolded it.

Bob, this is note number 30. Three decades of being grateful for you. Three decades of trying to pay attention. Three decades of remembering that friendship is a practice, not a feeling. I’m 80 years old now. I don’t know how many more birthdays I’ll be around for. So, I’m telling you now what I should have told you clearly every year.
You’re one of the most important people in my life. Not because of Butch Cassidy or The Sting or any of the movies. Because of who you are when nobody’s watching. Because you show up. Because you pay attention. Because you’re real.
Thank you for 30 years of friendship. For letting me hide these notes. For being someone worth being grateful for. I love you, Bob. Not the Hollywood love we throw around casually. Actually love you the way you love someone who makes your life better just by being in it.
If you’re reading this, it means you finally found the compartment. Good. You were supposed to eventually.
Paul

Redford sat in the shop for two hours, reading and rereading the notes, understanding something he’d missed for 35 years. Newman hadn’t just been his friend. Newman had been practicing friendship—actively, intentionally, year after year, taking time to notice, to remember, to be grateful, to write it down. Not for Redford to find, but for Newman himself. As a practice. As a discipline. As a way of making sure he never took their friendship for granted.

Marcus returned around 10 a.m., finding Redford still sitting, the notes spread out on the workbench. “Mr. Redford, are you okay?”

Redford looked up, eyes red. “Did you know Paul Newman?”

“No, sir. Never met him.”

“He was my best friend for 40 years. I thought I knew what that meant. Thought I understood friendship. But I didn’t. Not really.” Redford held up the stack of notes. “He wrote these for 30 years. One every year on my birthday. Hid them in my car. I never knew, never suspected. And they’re not about big things. They’re about small things. Phone calls, showing up, being honest, paying attention. He was grateful for ordinary moments. And he practiced being grateful. Made it a discipline. Wrote it down every year so he wouldn’t forget.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s beautiful.”

“It’s more than beautiful. It’s challenging. Because I didn’t do this. Never thought to. I loved Paul, but I didn’t practice loving him. Didn’t actively choose gratitude every year. Didn’t pay attention to small moments the way he did. And now he’s gone. And I can’t tell him. Can’t thank him. Can’t start my own practice of writing notes about what I’m grateful for. It’s too late.”

Redford looked at the notes again. Thirty years of discipline, of choosing to notice, of practicing friendship like it’s a skill that requires maintenance. “That’s what these notes are. They’re proof that love isn’t just a feeling. It’s a practice. And Paul practiced it better than anyone I’ve ever known.”

Marcus hesitated, then said, “Mr. Redford, if I may—it’s not too late to practice. You can’t write notes to Paul, but you have other people in your life. Other friendships. Other relationships. You could start now. Write your own notes. Practice your own gratitude. Paul’s not here to receive it, but other people are.”

Redford looked at him. Really looked at him. “You’re absolutely right.”

That night, Redford went home, opened his journal, and started writing notes to his children about small things he was grateful for, notes to friends about ordinary moments, notes to colleagues about things they’d done that he’d never thanked them for. He didn’t hide the notes. Didn’t wait 30 years. Just gave them. Told people while they could still hear it. Practiced gratitude the way Newman had taught him—not as a one-time gesture, but as an ongoing discipline.

A year later, Redford gave an interview about Newman. The interviewer asked what he missed most. Redford thought about the standard answer. The movies, the racing, the phone calls. But he told the truth instead.

“I miss knowing someone was actively choosing to be grateful for me. Paul hid notes in my car for 30 years. Thirty notes about small things he appreciated. I found them after he died. And I realized something. I’d been a passive friend. I loved him, but I didn’t practice loving him. Didn’t actively choose gratitude. Didn’t make friendship a discipline. Paul did. And that’s what I miss. Knowing that someone was practicing friendship with me, making it a priority, choosing to notice and appreciate the small things.”

“So what did you do with that knowledge?” the interviewer asked.

“I started practicing. Writing my own notes. Not hiding them—giving them, telling people while they’re alive what I appreciate about them. Making gratitude a discipline instead of an occasional feeling. That’s what Paul’s notes taught me. That friendship is a practice. And if you want to be good at it, you have to practice every day, every year, for as long as you have.”

The Porsche was fully restored six months later. Redford kept it, drives it occasionally, but he had Marcus reinstall the compartment. Leave it there, empty now, but present—a reminder that somewhere in that car is a space that once held 30 years of practiced gratitude. And every time Redford sees that speedometer, he remembers. Remembers to practice, to choose gratitude, to pay attention to small moments, to make friendship a discipline, not just a feeling.

Epilogue: The Lesson of the Hidden Compartment

Here’s what I learned from those 30 hidden notes, from Newman’s secret practice, from Redford’s shaking hands: We think love is a feeling, something that happens to us, something we experience. But the truth is different. Love is a practice—something we do, something we choose, something we maintain through discipline and attention.

Newman didn’t write those notes because he felt grateful in those moments. He wrote them because he’d made it a practice, a yearly ritual, a discipline. And that discipline kept his gratitude alive, kept his friendship active, kept him from taking Redford for granted.

I share stories like this because I believe the people we love deserve more than our feelings. They deserve our practice, our active choice, our disciplined attention. Newman practiced friendship for 30 years, wrote notes, hid them, maintained a discipline of gratitude—not for Redford to find, but for himself, to keep himself grateful, to keep himself from taking friendship for granted.

That’s what made their friendship extraordinary. Not the movies. Not the fame. The practice.

The question this story asks is uncomfortable: Who are you practicing friendship with? Who are you actively choosing to be grateful for? Not just feeling grateful—practicing gratitude. Writing it down. Saying it clearly. Making it a discipline. Because feeling grateful and practicing gratitude are different things. Feelings come and go. Practices persist.

Newman practiced gratitude for 30 years. And when Redford finally found those notes years after Newman’s death, they changed him. Not because of what they said, but because of what they represented—a friendship practiced, a love disciplined, a gratitude maintained through deliberate choice, year after year after year.

Who deserves your practice? Who should you be writing notes about—not hiding them for 30 years, but giving them now, while people can still read them, while your gratitude can still change how they see themselves?

That’s the lesson of the hidden compartment. That’s what those 30 notes teach us. That friendship isn’t maintained by grand gestures; it’s maintained by small practices, by paying attention, by choosing gratitude, by writing it down, by making love a discipline instead of just a feeling.

Share this story with someone you’ve been feeling grateful for, but haven’t practiced gratitude toward. Someone you love but haven’t told lately. Someone who shows up for you but you’ve never thanked properly. Don’t wait 30 years. Don’t hide it in a compartment. Tell them now. Practice now. Choose gratitude now.

Because that’s what Newman’s notes taught Redford: that later isn’t promised. That people need to hear gratitude while they’re alive. That friendship is a practice. And if you want to be good at it, you have to practice—starting now, starting today, starting with the people who deserve to know that you’re choosing to be grateful for them.