Wabanaki Blues by Melissa Tantaquidgeon Zobel

Grumps jingles his keys, searching for a particular one. He finds it and sticks it into the wall. I don’t see any door in front of him, never mind a keyhole. Yet, unbelievably, a full-sized door opens in the wall before him. I shake my hands dry and shuffle closer. Upon careful examination, I find the well-concealed keyhole. I caress the door’s knotty pine wood panels. They match those on the wall, making the door nearly invisible until opened. I wonder if this is Grumps’ fine carpentry work.
    Inside his secret door, Grumps moves a stack of yellowing art magazines to retrieve a faded rainbow tower of towels. I can’t understand why he bothers locking up these grungy things. He hands me a frayed pink one that looks like it used to be red. Moving to the other side of the room, he sticks another skeleton key into the wall and opens an even larger hidden door that leads outdoors. He points his flashlight at a generator and steps outside to fill it with gasoline. I fall to my knees over the sight of this lifesaving modern contraption. Maybe he’s not so old-fashioned after all.
    He chuckles over my worshipful stance. “Forget it, City Gal. I know what you’re thinking. This isn’t some luxury camping trip. The generator is only for things that matter, like refrigeration and tools. That’s it. There’ll be no electric lights, television, phone, or computers in this cabin. We don’t need hot water this time of year, either. You can wash up and do your laundry in Second Connecticut Lake, out back.”
    This remark about bathing and washing in a lake is clearly a joke. I open a window to check if there’s even a real lake outside. Regrettably, something glistens, like moonlit waters.
    I try to smoke Grumps out, “Why would a body of water be called ‘Second Connecticut Lake’ way up here in northern New Hampshire?”
    He twitches, appearing to have something annoying stuck in his eye. “They don’t teach much geography in Hartford, do they, City Gal? There are four Connecticut lakes in New Hampshire. Their water flows south into the Connecticut River that runs through your hometown of Hartford into The Great Salt Sea. ‘Connecticut’ is the Algonquian Indian word for long, tidal river. It was our east coast superhighway, back when we got around everywhere by canoe.”
    Lucky me. I get a geography lesson and a history lesson. Granted, I feel ignorant for not knowing all this—considering Mom teaches Native American history—but I hope these sorts of wise-old-man lessons won’t go on all summer. I read Heidi in the sixth grade. It’s a story about an abandoned Swiss girl from the city who goes to live with her grouchy know-it-all grandfather in the mountains. I hated that book.
    Grumps lights an oil lamp on the counter. He opens my guitar case and removes Rosalita. The hairs on my arm leap to attention. I rarely let anybody touch my axe. But I remind myself she was a gift from him and try to remain respectful.
    He strums a few bars from the 1970s tune, “Come and Get Your Love,” by the American Indian singer Redbone. The iridescent shell tones on the mother of pearl “R” reflect a rainbow of color in the lamplight. I wonder if this colorful “R” stands for Redbone. After all, I was the one who named the guitar Rosalita. I never asked my grandparents if the instrument had a former name. I would ask this question now if I didn’t have bigger concerns. What if I’m really spending my whole summer with no lights, no phone, no computer, no television, and no hot running water?
    I can’t live like that. A knife block glinting on the kitchen counter catches my eye. Grumps notices my interest in it. He unlocks another hidden door and stuffs the knife block inside, then relocks it protectively. I wonder how much Mom said about me telling her I considered jumping off the roof of City Place last year. I also