I’m in a different world this week, a northern one filled with DeSoto County tags and Mississippians who earn their paychecks across the state line.

My culture shock, however, has more to do with a particular demographic – unmarried males under 25 – than geography.

Have you ever seen the inside of a single guy’s refrigerator?

There’s only one word to describe the fridge where I’m staying. Pitiful. Well, make that two. Downright pitiful. Its contents number in the singular digits – the low ones – and that’s including condiments.

The freezer is even worse. There’s ice, and there’s a half-open bag of grapes. My son has a new thing for frozen grapes.

“You do know you’re supposed to wash them?” I ask, seeing they’re still in one of those flimsy bags you tear off in the produce section.

He looks up from his single-guy couch, which I notice goes surprisingly well with a chair he culled from Grandma.

“Seriously?”

This comes from the same mouth that just said he never buys frozen meat or veggies. Ever. Only fresh.

I had forgotten the white walls and micro-mini blinds of apartment living, that space that actually echoes with lack of “stuff.” And I had definitely forgotten what it feels like to feel no pressure (or need) to furnish them.

My particular representative of the unmarried males under 25 demographic group, however, has that attitude down pat. He chooses to store his grill where a dining room table should be.

Why not?

There are other signs of singleness throughout the 750 square feet, but perhaps none so telling as the deer head placed prominently near the entry and the turkey mount, complete with an 11-inch beard, above his bar stools.

Ah, just further proof you can put a country boy in a gated community, but you can’t take the country out of him. That will require a wife.

But there are more important reasons for the visit than a mother’s need to count the cans of tuna stockpiled in her son’s cabinets. Important things like a cast and crutches. A boss who is ready for the injured to return to work.

Helping him unpack from his three-week resort stay (at our house), I ask about a missing shoe.

“Still in the box,” he answers, hobbling to the closet.

I keep forgetting he wears only one these days. I put it away, then move to place the box on one of the many shelves in his very spacious/empty closet.

“Garbage,” he pronounces with no hesitation. I pause to finger the sturdy cardboard, so intact. The lid, doubly thick. I can’t help but suggest its many possible uses.

“Garbage,” he repeats firmly, then with a bit of a smirk adds, “How else do you think I keep this place from getting junked up?”

So that’s it. Hmmmm. Must work with refrigerators, too.

 Wesson resident Kim Henderson is a freelance writer who writes for The Daily Leader