This must be the place: ‘It’s hard enough to gain any traction in the rain’
The hat/lapel pin from Brackish.
Garret K. Woodward photo
It’s Thursday. Early afternoon. In the original plan for this week, I would, in my mind’s eye, be cruising along right now somewhere in southcentral Upstate New York, probably just east of Binghamton on Interstate 88, onward to I-87 North to my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh.
And yet, here I sit at Panacea CoffeeHouse on Commerce Street in the Frog Level district of downtown Waynesville. The space is vibrant, as it should be on a chilly, drizzly day here in the mountains of Western North Carolina. I sip my delicious vanilla cappuccino, lean back in the sturdy wooden chair, and take inventory of this past year as it comes to a close once again. Such is life, eh?
Crank the tunes in my headphones and buckle down to stroll around the background of my mind and restless thoughts to then put in this column. Thoughts of missing another Christmas with my folks. Thoughts of the whirlwind that was 2025 (this goes for all of us). Thoughts of how much the repair bill will be next Tuesday when I bring my truck into the shop, which is why I’m kind of stuck in town and can’t return to the North Country.
To preface, this isn’t my New Year’s Eve column. That’ll be next week. Well, shit, I don’t know? Maybe it will be. I won’t know until I hit the ideal 1,100-word mark and review whatever dribble I’ve placed on this page before hitting submit to my publisher, only to then exit the coffee shop and return to my humble abode apartment and think about what to eat for dinner later.
Truth be told, I can’t really remember the last time I was home for Christmas. I think it was 2020, right in the midst of the shutdown? Who knows? I just miss being back at the old farmhouse, sitting next to the living room fireplace and catching up with my mother about nothing and everything over a glass of wine, or doing the same with my father over a cold beer in the back den.
There’s just something so magical, sacred and timeless about being in the North Country during the holidays. The fresh snow blanketing the landscape of the Champlain Valley and surrounding Adirondack Mountains. The sounds of snowmobiles occasionally zipping through the tree line in the distance. The crackling of the wood in the fireplace. The brightly-lit Christmas tree in the corner of the front room. A silent moon over the frozen ground of my youth.
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The last time I was home was this past February to celebrate my 40th birthday. I had recently gone through a devastating breakup over the previous holidays, and was still dealing with the extensive trauma of Hurricane Helene right before that. I escaped Southern Appalachia and jumped the Mason-Dixon Line, in search of not only myself and my sanity, but also the serene silence that can only be found in ancient mountains and old farmhouses of the North Country.
That entire week or so I spent in Plattsburgh was one of the coldest and snowiest periods in many years in Clinton County. Most days, the temperature never got above zero, with a constant stream of snowflakes morning, noon and night. Heck, the day before I left to motor back to Haywood County, the farmhouse received almost 18 inches of snow, of which I was asked several times throughout the day by my father to help him shovel the driveway.
Skip ahead to the here and now. It’s Dec. 18. Now 12:56 p.m. No plans to jet up to the North Country at the moment. Fingers crossed it’ll be soon. Maybe for New Year’s Eve? Maybe just postpone the whole damn trip until my 41st birthday (Feb. 5) and start making it some yearly tradition with my folks? I mean, early February is a pretty amazing time to be up there, seeing as the legendary Saranac Lake Winter Carnival (look it up) is that same week.
For someone like myself, who is a self-proclaimed “extroverted loner,” I sure am sentimental about the holidays. For someone like myself, who gets all warm and fuzzy inside when the Christmas lights are being put up and the Vince Guaraldi music starts to echo from the stereo, I sure always seem to end up somewhat alone during the holidays, with my usual course of action being that of awaiting a gracious invite to some friend’s holiday gathering.
Oh, and if you’re wondering what the column photo is all about, it’s a handcrafted hat/lapel pin by Brackish, a company based in Charleston, South Carolina. I received it in the mail yesterday. Initially, I didn’t know what the small package was. I hadn’t ordered anything. But, then I saw the feather pin and remembered when and where I was when I had it made.
It was the Highlands Food & Wine Festival last month. On assignment covering the glorious madness, culinary delights and live music on the Plateau in nearby Macon County. At one point, I ended up at some late-night champagne and caviar party at this large farmhouse tucked away in the dark, mysterious woods just outside of downtown Highlands. Splendor and shenanigans afoot.
While sipping high-end champagne and sampling pricey caviar, I was asked by a nearby artisan booth if I wanted a hat/lapel pin. So, I browsed through a few jars of sustainably-sourced exotic feathers and created the design pictured. They carefully taped the feathers together and enclosed them in an envelope, only to inform me that the finished product would be mailed to me in a month.
The point of mentioning the pin and the festival itself was to put into perspective the people, places, and things that encompass a year in the life of this scruffy journalist. The gratitude remains, and so do the adventures, the assignments and the deadlines, thankfully. Even when my home in the North Country seems so far away, both geographically and emotionally, I often take a moment to pause and be grateful for being able to wander and ponder.
As the year comes to its inevitable close like clockwork, and with the bright, glowing ball in Times Square eventually ringing in the New Year, I find myself in utter awe of the faces I’ve been able to encounter, new and old, and the endless miles atop the unforgiving highway of time and place. It’s all starting to get meticulously placed into a box for safe keeping in the closet of my mind, with certain moments now placed on the shelves of my memory.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
