Page 19 of Mountain Grump
His letter mentioned that he didn’t live here full-time but that he hoped I would. Saying I was young and tough enough to deal with the winters and to stock up the cupboards in case I got snowed in for a few days.
The notion of being stranded freaked me out when I read it. But being here now… I could see myself spending a few days curled up on the couch, enjoying the snow from the warmth of the indoors.
When I go to wrap the towel around my body, I sigh. “Uncle Jack, I love you. But what the heck?” The top corners of the towelbarely meet, and the bottom half… does not. “Did you steal this from a hotel?”
I let go with one hand, and I look for a tag.
It’s some brand I don’t know. Which, when I think about it, makes sense. I doubt hotels embroider their names on their millions of towels.
Seriously though, I’m pretty sure this is stolen property.
Vowing to find all my bath items before I shower again, I step out of the tub and hang the towel back on the bar.
Then I move from the white-themed bathroom to the blue-themed bedroom. And I’m grateful that the wood floors from the main living area carry into the bedroom because blue carpet would be too much.
I glance through the open door that leads into the living room and note all the brown.
Brown couch. Brown rugs. Brown natural wood cabinetry. Brown dead deer head, which is out of sight from this angle but never out of mind.
Blue, white, and brown. The three themes of the three rooms.
My rooms. Because this is my flipping house.
Uncle Jack was always nicely dressed, but not exactly what I would call fashionable. More comfortable. And I’m not sure if his need for neatness is of a diagnosable nature, but the careful way everything is put in place feels very much like him.
But since neatness is not one of my traits, I’ll be breaking up these color themes as soon as I get more of my stuff unpacked.
I need to be smart about my money, but I’ll be making a wish list of things to buy when I get a job. Like a large throw blanket or some sort of cover for that hideous couch.
Crossing the room, I go to the short dresser under the window and open the second drawer down.
I grab one of my pajama shirts, a light pink one with gray stitching, and pull it over my head. It’s baggy and stops at my upper thigh.
Then I open the top drawer and take out a pair of my hip-hugger undies.
Earlier, after the driver left—after I walked through the house, touching every piece of furniture; after I stood on the back deck, mouth open, staring at the view; after crying, for the hundredth time—I found the keys formy truckhanging on the fridge from a magnetic hook. Which prompted me to open the fridge.
Completely empty.
Not even a condiment inside.
Same with the freezer.
I opened the cupboards.
Dishes in perfect, neat stacks but boasting a variety of mismatched vintage patterns.
A stack of glass Tupperware containers.
A cabinet full of mugs from different vacation destinations.
The tall door beside the fridge revealed the pantry cupboard with cans of soup, boxes of flavored rice, two jars of spaghetti sauce, and two boxes of noodles that are not spaghetti shaped. Plus, a blue tacklebox full of condiment packets, sorted by type and then by restaurant.
Uncle Jack was a strange mix of eccentric meets backwoods with a dose of military sparseness.
Knowing I’d end up hungry, like I am now, I grabbed the truck keys. Went to the garage. Climbed in the truck. Started the engine. Pulled the truck halfway out of the garage. Realized I was going to have to make a four-point turn to get aimed back down the driveway correctly. Had a slight panic attack. Put the truck in park, right where I was. Turned the engine off and walked back inside.
So instead of buying groceries, I unpacked my clothes. Most of them.
