Page 3 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

Doesn’t matter, though, because I keep dropping off baked goods and book quotes, and chopping his firewood, and I haven’t even gotten to take him out for a beer yet.

Remy watches me for another moment, and then he adjusts the glasses that had slipped down his nose.

“Well,” he says. He clears his throat and stands up, scooping up what appears to be a completely random stack of books on the desk beside him. “I should shelve these.”

I mirror his posture, straightening.

The goodbyes are awkward. I can never tell if I’ve overstayed my welcome, or if Remy really does have work to do. Which makes sense. He is at work. And I’m just the weirdo milling about between landscaping jobs.

When I’m safely behind the wheel of my truck, I let out a long slow breath. I slip out a simple black notebook from my glove box and turn to a fresh page.Pistachio macarons and Naomi Shihab Nye, I scribble and place a crisp check mark next to it. Now to plan for next Monday.

Chapter 2

Remy

There’s something aboutlantern light.

My cabin is off the grid, but it’s got solar panels and a small array of batteries that hold a decent charge. I could have electric lights if I wanted, but I’ve come to prefer the kerosene lanterns. Their soft light brings everything in closer, makes a space smaller and warmer. Cloistered, in a way. I regret a lot of my choices when it comes to the cabin, but not this one.

Not this.

In my old life, back in Ann Arbor, I needed space and sound and noise. It got me through my studies, eased my anxieties, and let me focus on something other than the constant, throbbing question:What am I going to do with the rest of my life?

Granite-Glacier is a way station. A temporary stop to stretch my legs. A memory in the making, something I’ll look back on in five years, and, smiling, say,Hey, remember when?

I think.

I think. Because: lantern light, the wind in the trees, and even the damn spring peepers.

It doesn’t hurt that Samuel Bark brings me a plate of baked goods and a hand-scrawled note every week. I am not immune to brown sugar or orange peel, chocolate or cardamom. Or scruffy men with an inexplicable affection for poets and French philosophers, it turns out.

I retrieve today’s note from the kitchen, sliding the cardstock from the envelope. I read it over again:The delicious ache of a last page.And then I carry it over to my bookshelf, carefully tearing off a piece of tape and sticking it to the wall, along with all the others. Months worth of quotes about books and libraries and writers. Brief meditations on the value of poetry, the written word. From sources as varied and ranging as Ursula K. Le Guin and Dr. Seuss. Once, only the words,Stop. Collaborate and listen.They are scribbled on pink cardstock, and decontextualized like that from the embarrassing song, those are the words that have formed the basis of my public service practice for years. To paraphrase Mr. Ice,Slow down. Be generous and receptive.

Soon, my wall will be entirely papered over in scraps of paper and Sam’s handwriting. If I stay long enough. If I make a home here. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

Outside, the peepers take that as their cue to start up their chorus again.

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