Page 23 of Grumpy on the Mountain
The shed is a mess of half-finished projects that I've taken on from people around town. People who don't realize that "reclusive mountain man" usually translates to "leave me the hell alone."
Of course, Idohave to make ends meet like any normal person. That's why I have an old rocking chair sitting in the corner waiting for new spindles. I've yet to start on Frank Barrett's antique cash register that no one else would touch, and I've forever for piles of old chairs from Betty's café to return.
But I don't like go into town much.
I don't like the eyes, the whispers, theexpectationsof casual conversation and small talk.
I'd rather be up here, where the only judgment comes from the occasional hawk circling overhead, or the family of deer that sometimes wanders past my property line.
And even they're smart enough not to tread too closely.
Through the open shed door, I can see my cabin standing proud against the mountain backdrop. I built every inch of that sanctuary myself.
Measuring twice, cutting once, cursing a thousand times whenever I fucked it up and had to do it again.
During those first brutal months after my discharge, when I couldn't sleep without nightmares, each log I shaped, each nail I drove represented another day I survived.
Survived when I wasn't sure I even wanted to.
I was a raw nerve, flinching at car backfires and sleeping in two-hour stretches, a hard habit to break after living life in the firing line, splitting night watch with my comrades.
But something about this place—this steep, rocky plot on the mountainside where nobody bothered to build—called to me.
I paid cash. Lived in this quickly assembled woodshed while I constructed the foundation. I hauled every piece of timber myself, fit it in place perfectly, and installed every window with my bare hands.
The locals thought I was insane.
Or dangerous.
Maybe I was both.
Now the cabin stands as the only thing I've created that hasn't been broken or tainted. Two glorious stories of cedar and stone, with a wraparound deck that offers views all the way to the valley floor below. The massive windows I custom-ordered. The chimney built from river rocks I gathered myself.
This is my fortress against the world. My proof that I could still build something after seeing so much destruction.
I split another log with excessive force, sending fragments flying as I take a break and look out across the yard.
Molly's suitcase still sits in the back of my truck. I've told myself I'll return it when the roads clear, along with the keys that rest on my kitchen counter.
I separated them from my own things, almost like they might contaminate everything I own with the complications they represent.
I've nearly opened that suitcase at least five times. Just to check if there's anything she might need urgently. Not becauseI'm curious about what kind of clothes she packed to escape my brother.
Definitely not because I wonder what kind of underwear she wears. Definitely not.
"You're a perverted bastard, Callahan," I growl at myself, picking up and swinging the axe with renewed vigor.
I get back to the wood chopping, and by the time I've rebuilt my woodpile to a respectable height, my arms are burning. I swipe my forearm across my brow, place the axe back on its hook, grab my shirt and head inside.
My boots echo against the wide-plank pine floors as I enter through the back door. The cabin welcomes me with silence. It's nice to hear nothing after three days of howling wind rattling the windows.
Most people expect a ex-military man's place to be spartan. Utilitarian. But war taught me to appreciate beauty in unexpected moments, so I've surrounded myself with it.
The downstairs living room spans the entire main floor. Kitchen, dining, and living space blending together beneath twenty-foot ceilings supported by hand-hewn beams.
The kitchen island is a single slab of black walnut I salvaged from a fallen tree on the property the day I bought it. I've sanded it to an almost mirror-sleek finish and sealed it with oil I rubbed in by hand over countless nights when sleep wouldn't come.
The stone fireplace rises to the peak of the ceiling, still radiating heat from last night's fire. Built-in bookshelves flank either side, filled with volumes most wouldn't expect. Hemingway and Steinbeck, sure, but also Austen and poetry collections I'd never admit to reading.
