Hello from the second floor of an apartment building on Beach Boulevard in Jacksonville Beach, Florida. It’s mid-morning and the temperature is already over 80 degrees, the humidity quickly rising with the sun. Sipping the last of my iced coffee, I wonder what the impending day will bring.
It’s Tuesday. I’ve already helped edit and proof this week’s newspaper via email. Time to hit the road. The plan is to make my way to New Hampshire to attend the Northlands Music & Arts Festival this weekend. This will be my second time covering the event for Rolling Stone, and also my second time hosting artist panels with some of the headlining acts that’ll hit the stage.
But, for now, before this 1,200-mile trek up Interstate 95 and over the Mason-Dixon Line, it’s an iced coffee at a high-top desk and writing. That, and working on my schedule for the next week or so. Pound the keyboard and let the inner thoughts and emotions spill out before cranking the engine of the musty, rusty pickup truck and hitting the road for the next few weeks or so.
For the better part of the last week, my location has been Jax Beach, a community of people, places and things I didn’t know two years ago, but have become quite fond of throughout my repeat travels into the town, whether it be for live music, delicious tacos or simply to visit a cherished face that I’ve become quite fond of. She’s still asleep as I’m typing this at her high-top desk.
As stated in previous columns from earlier this spring, we met completely by chance outside of Widespread Panic concert on an otherwise quiet Sunday in Saint Augustine, Florida. As previously stated, we both went to the show alone, but ended up leaving together, our first 10 minutes of friendship leading to a random rickshaw ride back to her vehicle, an hour later we were sipping nightcaps at the Trade Winds Lounge. Car parked for the night, of course.
Skip ahead almost exactly three months. We’ve caught several shows together in her homebase of Florida and mine in Western North Carolina (moe., Willie Nelson, jazz nights, bluegrass jams, etc.), ate at numerous great restaurants either on purpose or purely by happenstance in strolling by and noticing how cool and cozy said culinary spots look from the sidewalk, and had too many heart-to-heart conversations to even keep track of. My kind of people, truly.
On this recent trek to The Sunshine State, we mutually decided that I should wander down to see her before I embark on this extended journey up to Maine to New York and to Montana and back to WNC and start my deep dive into work on this current bluegrass book project I’ve been chipping away for a while, since I was lucky enough to get a literary agent and land a book deal. It’s all a little surreal and overwhelming, but I’m ready and willing (and game) to finally enter this realm of possibility of self I’ve dreamt of for decades.
Over this last week, it’s been a kaleidoscope of wandering and pondering, and with her walking alongside me. Add in a couple trips to the beach to soak in the sun, go for a run and jump into the mighty Atlantic Ocean. Is there anything better than dripping hair, sandy toes and sitting on a beach towel exchanging tall tales of one’s past? Especially when a torrential rainstorm rolls in over the beach and we get caught in the rain, only to happily laugh while soaking wet, running back to the car? I think not, thankfully.
Onward to more tacos at some of her favorite local spots, beverages in dimly-lit spaces not far from her apartment, and that sheer sense of not wanting to be anywhere but there, and in that moment. That exact scene isn’t lost on me, not her, either. Late-night hanging out and rewatching reruns of “Modern Family” on Hulu, all while sketching out plans for where to go and what to do come morning, strong coffee and light banter to start the day.
And now, I find myself at a Fairfield Inn just outside of Wilson, North Carolina. Florida in the rearview mirror, at least for now. Cruising along I-95 North, the smart phone vibrates every so often with heartfelt messages from her, asking how the trip is going, but mostly just because. Just because there is a real, honest connection between two kindred spirits, both of us just trying to navigate the choppy, unknown waters of daily existence in the here and now.
The official start to summer is four days away. The mind runs wild thinking of all those adventures yet to immerse myself in, — incredible people yet to meet, miles yet to travel — in hopes of more fuel to toss onto the fire of my intent. The mind always runs wild when the open road is right outside my windshield, the unrelenting landscape of America flying by my truck windows, the cruise-control holding steady at 75 miles per hour. It sparks an immediate memory chiseled into my mind this evening, crossing over the state line back into North Carolina just as the sun was setting, that fireball in the sky fading below the horizon of farmfields and darkened treelines near Lumberton.
I don’t know what the future holds, but, as always, I’m here for it, and letting my intuition and curiosity guide me (always do so). There’s enough gas in the tank and a timeless song in my heart, which at the moment is “Typical Situation” from the seminal 1999 album “Live at Luther College” by Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds (give it a whirl): “Everybody’s happy, everybody’s free, we’ll keep the big door open, and everyone’ll come around.” Onward.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
In this haphazard economy (and mounting truck repair bills), if you’d like to throw a few pennies into my coffers to propel these adventures, feel free to make a donation via Venmo (@Garret-Woodward-3) or PayPal (@YoBroDobro). If you need the last four digits of my phone number, it’s 0-4-3-2. Much thanks and sincere appreciation in advance. Any amount offered will keep the truck on the road, gas in the tank, the words in these columns flowing freely, and my simple sanity intact for the time being.