My first job out of college was at a newspaper in Logan, Utah. I arrived in a rattling moving truck with three days days left on the rental agreement. I needed to find a place to live, and I needed to do it fast. After two and a half days of fruitless searching, I came across a “For Rent” sign in front of a one-bedroom apartment in the second story of a 100-year-old house. It occupied a corner lot with a giant spruce tree, five blocks from my new workplace.
It was perfect. But a phone call revealed that the landlord did not live in town and was presently en route to show the apartment to four other prospective renters. I decided to sit tight and join the tour when it commenced.
The landlord arrived early to open up the place, and I introduced myself. He was not what I expected. He was about my age, which back then was 25. He had the appearance of a guy who’d just been hard-scrubbed with Ivory and dressed by J. Crew, yet his speech rhythm suggested heavy marijuana usage. I would soon discover that not only did he not smoke pot, he didn’t even drink caffeine.
This was Kreg.
Employing my fledgling reportage skills, I peppered Kreg with questions while we waited for the other would-be renters to arrive. I learned his family had just purchased the house as an investment. I learned he would be living in the downstairs apartment while he pursued a doctoral degree at Utah State University. I learned the house would be the first property he had ever managed. I learned he owned a golden retriever named Pote. I learned he had served an LDS mission in France, and that Pote was French for “buddy”.
A quiet doctoral student who’s best bud was a golden retriever? This was my kind of landlord. Unfortunately, the other candidates for the apartment seemed more like his kind of renters. All were well dressed, polite and seemingly fresh from that same Ivory scrubbing. Me, I was just an unshaven guy with a redneck drawl and no other options.
When the others finished their handshakes and got in their cars, I lingered and made a Hail Mary pitch. “Listen,” I told Kreg, “I don’t smoke, I don’t drink, I don’t listen to loud music, and if something breaks I don’t mind trying to fix it.” At least three of these things were actually true. “I work nights, so it will be like I’m not even here.”
Against what was surely his better judgment, Kreg took a chance on me. And since I knew no one else in town, he helped me move in furniture. A week later, when I asked to “borrow” his dog for companionship on a midday hike, Kreg said yes. Pote soon became my best buddy.
Turns out Kreg was a bit of a night owl. Quick hellos in the stairwell turned into long discussions about life. We talked about the import stuff: family, religion, girls. One evening I invited Kreg upstairs for pizza. He gave me a sideways glance when he saw a bottle Jack Daniel’s and cluster of cigars atop my fridge. I shrugged and handed him a Dr. Pepper.
In the age of Facebook, when friendships are “accepted” more often than forged, thinking about how a devout Mormon landlord and his backslid Southern Baptist tenant formed a brotherly bond on stairs, hiking trails and ski slopes makes me feel as warm and fuzzy as all the fleece I packed for this trip.
A lot has changed in the 12 years since I moved out of that upstairs apartment: Pote has passed away (Kreg called me the day he had to put him down); Kreg got married (he and Maryn have three ridiculously sweet redheaded girls); and he owns his own business (it’s a residential treatment center for troubled boys).
One thing, though, hasn’t changed: When I need a place to stay in Utah, I can count on Kreg to open his house to me and make me feel like family.
Kreg, Maryn and their three ridiculously sweet redheaded girls
—Scott