That’s what was texted to me a couple weeks ago. It was my co-worker at the newspaper, stuck in mud somewhere in the backwoods of Maggie Valley. Normally, I would finally get to sleep in on a Saturday morning, but not this time. I pulled myself out of bed, cranked my pickup truck and headed out of Waynesville.
Kacey Musgraves makes me feel like a teenager. Shouts of joy escape my lungs when I find out she’s performing nearby. All my friends grow weary over my constant babbling about her. If there were a life-size poster available, I’d probably buy one — her music is just that good.
I like to get lost.
Though my sense of direction is as strong as a dog’s sense of smell, I purposely wander into destinations unknown. If there’s two ways to a location, I’ll take the one I have yet to traverse. I want to cross paths with people, places and things either unnoticed by a rushed society or forgotten by the sands of time. Plenty of these things are old, some new, with many hovering somewhere in between.
It’s the sound of the ancient mountains, the unique people and rich culture of Southern Appalachia. It’s the sound of Soldier’s Heart.
I know a lot about nothing.
As far back as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated with everything. How many dimples are there on a golf ball? — Ranging from 330-500, depending on model. What’s the deepest point in the Pacific Ocean? — Mariana Trench at 35,797 feet.
Even before the lights went down and the curtain went up, one thing was already clear: this wasn’t going to be easy.
A daunting job had been laid in the laps of the audience at the annual Haywood’s Got Talent competition last Saturday night in Waynesville. The audience — collectively — held the swing vote in which of the dozen performers would take home the gold.
I had never heard anything like that before.
Sitting on the porch of my grandfather’s camp on Lake Champlain, a voice echoed from the small portable tape player covered with paint specks and years of winter storage dust.
Waynesville officials will hold a public hearing next week on an ordinance that would pave the way for street performers, known colloquially as “buskers,” to play in the town’s public spaces in hopes of making a buck or two from passersby.
This might get loud.
I tend to say that to anyone who finds themselves in the passenger’s seat of my rusty pickup truck. I live and die for rock-n-roll.
Don’t go in there.
As long as I can remember, I’ve been told this. From my parents, teachers, friends or just strangers in general. It’s a phrase that can refer to a dangerous spot in the woods, front yards with vicious canines, disgusting restaurants or mismanaged places of business. But, mostly, it’s been applied to certain bars.