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July 29th, 1981
Entry #001 --- Testing the Journal Function
Here I am, sittin’ on a Greyhound bound for Oregon, tapping away on my own two hands’ work. If all goes well, this little lap computer oughta make for a fine journal, and, Lord willing, a good place to store my notes. Or a place to ramble, should the mood strike me—which, evidently, it has.
I suppose I oughta make a habit of this. A proper 'scientist' keeps records, after all, and I reckon I could do with the practice before I get to Gravity Falls. If this trip is even half as eventful as Ford made it sound, I'll need all the notes I can manage. Though, knowing him, he'll be losing his own left and right same as always. Man was always losing his notes back in college, scribbling on napkins, margins of textbooks, once even on his own arm when we ran out of paper at the library. Nearly gave himself ink poisoning. ‘Course, I’m sure he’s got himself more organized these days, what with that big ol’ thesis of his—but even the best minds get scattered. This thing's barely out of testing, and I'm already setting to build him one of his own. Maybe I'll surprise him! He was never much for surprises, but I think he'd like this one.
I even added a music player to this thing! Not only can I write, but I can listen while I do it! It's sorta like a walkman, but more useful! Got all my favorites loaded up already, and I reckon I’ll add Ford’s, too, once I figure out what he’s listenin’ to nowadays. Probably still that same pop station he had on in our dorm back in the 70s. Suppose I’ll have to be sneaky about it—make it a surprise too.
Lord, it’s been a long trip already. Left California just after dawn. It was a pretty sight, I suppose. Sun bouncin’ off the pavement, palm trees stretchin’ tall like they always do. Left a lot behind, but that’s life, ain’t it? Nothin’ stays still forever.
Still—can’t say I won’t miss home. Certain parts of it, anyhow.
But I will miss Tate. Didn’t hit me ’til the bus was past the city limits that I won’t get to hold him for a long while. The worst part is that he’s still too little to understand what it means when I say “Daddy’s gotta go somewhere for work.” He just looked up at me, and all I could think of was a baby deer, confused. I already miss him, and I can't think too hard about it or else I might start crying in a bus filled with strangers who are already looking at me like I skinned a cat in front of them. I’ll call home once I get settled, just so he can hear my voice. Emma-May’ll pick up, of course, and she’ll tell me all about what a darling little angel he’s been.
She always says things like that for some reason. Probably mimicking her mother like she always does, doesn't know how to be an adult
July 29th, 1981
Entry #002 --- My Boss!
I do believe this might be the most peculiar place I’ve ever set foot in.
I stepped off that Greyhound just past noon, and the first thing that hit me was the smell—pine, damp soil, the faintest trace of something sweet and fermenting in the air. It was a far cry from the salt and smog of California.
It reminded me of home.
For a moment, I just stood there, suitcase in hand, taking it in. The sky stretched out wide and blue overhead, but the forest that loomed at the edges of town seemed to swallow all that brightness whole, dense and dark as it was.
I had an address scrawled on a paper in my pocket, instructions from Stanford himself. Shouldn’t have been too hard to find a ride up there, or so I thought. But when I asked around, people got to looking at me like I had grown a second head!
Some just laughed, dismissing me. One man, must’ve been near my daddy’s age, leaned in close and said, "You best not go up there, son. Ain’t natural, what goes on in them woods."
Which was... odd.
Another told me flat-out there weren’t no road to where I was headed, which was a damn lie—I saw it on the map myself!
Of course, there were others who didn’t speak of him like some sort of ghost story. A couple younger men by the diner snickered about some loser hermit living out there, said he was probably working on building a robot wife since no woman in her right mind would have him. I had to bite my tongue not to snap at them. Ain’t right to speak on a man that way, least of all a man like Stanford Pines. And anyways, that ain't what he does. It's more something I'd help him with, if he was so inclined to want one.
In the end, I had no choice but to walk, seeing as no cab would take me and the only fella who offered a ride smelled so strongly of whiskey I feared for my life. The hike itself weren’t so bad, but I could feel something shifting in the air the closer I got to that cabin—maybe a wolf or bear. I chalked it up to my nerves, though, as I saw no signs of any wildlife.
Which was probably the reason I didn't like walking through there. It was real quiet. Maybe Ford don't like bugs anymore and had the area gassed or something.
People change.
The place itself was bigger than I expected, tucked away deep in the trees like it was hiding from the world. I remember getting photos sent to me when construction was underway! It looks real nice all done up like it is!
Though, for something brand new, the porch steps creaked under me something awful as I knocked on the door.
Stanford answered quick, toweling off his damp hair, and Lord Almighty. He was smiling at me, wide as could be, and before I could say a word, he pulled me into the tightest hug I’ve had in a long, long time. For a second, I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
His shirt was soft against my cheek, damp from a shower, and he smelled clean—like soap and old books and something just barely familiar underneath. My heart got to hammering something awful, and I felt a kind of dizziness that weren’t altogether natural.
I'm sure it was just relief though. Nothing more than the warmth of seeing an old friend.
Stanford pulled back, gripping my shoulders, eyes wet but shining.
“You’re really here,” he said, almost breathless. “I can’t believe it.”
And Lord help me, I smiled back. “Course I’m here, Stanford. Couldn’t let you get up to no good all on your own, now could I?”
The rest of the evening went easy enough, though my nerves still felt shot.
Ford had cleared out space for me in the attic, even got me a bed and a desk—said he wanted me to feel at home. He meant well, but I can’t say I like the way that little stained glass window sits over my bed, with its one unblinking eye staring down at me like Judgment itself. Might have to cover it up with a towel or something.
I put my clothes away, set up my desk best I could. Put up a picture of Emma-May and Tate first thing. They deserve to have their place here, even if I don’t know how long I’ll be staying. Just a few months before I have to see them again.
Took a shower next, let the steam clear my head some. Didn’t help much, though.
At dinner, Ford talked my ear off about this project of his. Said we’re on the brink of something big, something historic. I don’t know near enough about it yet to say what I think, but the way his eyes lit up as he spoke… well. It’s good to see him like this. Good to see him happy.
I just pray I don’t come to regret this.
Anyways, he's clearly changed as a person; seeing as he took a shower before receiving guests.
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