Wednesday. Late morning. Waynesville. The rumble of an overzealous motorcycle on nearby Walnut Street wakes me up. Although I was up earlier for an editorial meeting via Zoom, I took a quick cat nap before diving into the matters of the day. Rubs my eyes. Stretch my legs. Stand up. Proceed.
Reach for my smart phone. Time reads 11:37 a.m. No missed phone calls. No text from that femme fatale, either, a face and voice I dearly miss, but it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, or whatever they say to soothe the wounds on the beating muscle in my chest. Toss on some sandals and grab the backpack. Pack in the laptop, work folder, pens and headphones.
Reach for and pack a copy of Joan Didion’s book “Slouching Towards Bethlehem.” Where has she been all my life? I find it so wild and surreal when a particular book or album finds its way into your life at just the perfect juncture. Currently, I’m rereading her essay “On Keeping a Notebook,” a collage of words, memories and sentiments near and dear to my own respective path.
“So the point of keeping a notebook has never been, nor is it now, to have an accurate factual record of what I have been doing or thinking,” Didion writes. “My approach to daily life ranges from the grossly negligent to the merely absent, and on a few occasions when I have tried to dutifully record a day’s events, boredom has so overcome me that the results are mysterious at best.”
Head out the front door and start the walk across town to Green’s Auto Repair on South Main Street. My rusty musty truck has been in and out of the shop for the last two weeks. Between Green’s and Waynesville Tire, I’ve racked up over $3,200 in repair bills. To note, both businesses are incredible, worth their weight in gold. Shoutout to Doyle and Jeff. Good folk. But, for me, in the here and now, all of my rainy day funds and work/road trip money just disappeared. The irony being, the truck is fixed, but I now have no money to go anywhere.
Oh, and if any of you fine readers are feeling generous, I’m taking donations via my Venmo (@Garret-Woodward-3) and PayPal (@YoBroDobro) to help cover the truck bills. 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.
With the truck in the shop (and again next week when that new sensor finally comes in after “five to seven business days”), my entire plan for the summer has been thrown into disarray. That trek up to the coast of Maine and over to the Rocky Mountains of Montana (for work and play, but mostly work) is now on the backburner until the truck is released from the grips of old age and high mileage. Nothing I can do about it. Don’t want any issues on the highways and backroads of America on this trip. Fix’er up and hand over the credit card.
Initially, I was supposed to head back to my native North Country of Upstate New York this week for a memorial service for my best friend from home. He tragically passed away at age 42. But, I’m stuck here, so the plan now is to remember him in my own way somehow this coming Sunday afternoon at the same time when the service is held in my hometown. This isn’t to sound sorrowful or garner sympathy. I’m just sad I can’t make it, but it is what it is. Anyways, my late brother from another would want me to do my own thing.
Thus, I step off the porch of my apartment building and walk up Walnut Street to Main. Uphill and by a row of beautiful old homes. In a perfect world, I’d be able to own one of them. Not the big ones, the picturesque one behind the church. You know the one. Turn onto Main. Mosey by Wells Funeral Home. It’s now midday and six cars are in the parking lot, the owners of said vehicles gathering in a circle near the front door of the business, the funeral car parked and ready to the right of the group of downtrodden faces there to pay respects.
I wonder who it is they’re there to honor and remember, and what that deceased person would think about the weather on the day of their funeral. Welcomed sunshine piercing through the cloud cover. A warm breeze on an otherwise quiet Wednesday afternoon. I wonder what that deceased person would think of who actually showed up for their funeral. Rest easy, regardless.
And yet, everything swirling around the funeral home is full of life. Birds chirping high above in the trees. Butterflies and bees in the nearby flowers. Big trucks and small cars zooming by. Others walk in a hurry down the sidewalk. The noise, all that noise, too. Loud mufflers and cranked radios. Cell-phone conversations and groups chatting in passing. It’s all like a scene out of Richard Scarry’s classic children’s book, “Busy, Busy Town.”
Pushing down the sidewalk, I’m walking at a slowed pace. No hurry to get to the repair shop. The truck ain’t going anywhere, nor is this latest bill. Stroll by the wide array of local businesses. Pizza. Coffee. Craft beer. Steakhouse. Hair salon. Asian cuisine. Ice cream. Art galleries. Banks. Bagels. Diner. More art galleries. Furniture. More furniture. Fly fishing. Lawyer office. Insurance office. Real estate. More real estate. And recently empty storefronts, once-beloved businesses now dormant.
Heading uphill towards Bogart’s, I notice the gorgeous stained glass at the First Baptist Church on the corner of Main and Academy. I also take note of the for sale sign in the front yard of the huge old house across the street. Keep trucking along by the Prospect Hill Bed and Breakfast, but not before reading the historical marker across the way, “Martin’s Surrender: Gen. James G. Martin surrendered District of Western North Carolina, the last Confederate forces in state. May 7, 1865, in Waynesville.”
Finally enter the doorway at Green’s. The sound of hand tools and the faint scent of motor oil and grease. Put down the deposit for the sensor so that they can order it directly from Toyota. Hand me back the keys and tell me they’ll call me as soon as the part arrives. I say thank you, in true gratitude in helping find the issues in the truck and remedying the situation. Hop into the truck. Start the engine. Head over to Panacea for coffee and to write this column.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.