The other day, I received a letter on my desk in the newsroom. Being the rambler that I am, I’m rarely in the office anymore, save coming in on Tuesdays to put this newspaper to bed and kick it off to the printer. The letter was the only new item on the desk, so I noticed it immediately. It was from one of you fine readers, a kind and thoughtful soul based over in Macon County.
I won’t go into great detail as to what the three-page letter (handwritten in cursive) said, and how serene and steadfast the sentiments within it — especially their captivating descriptions of a handful of breathtaking places they’ve visited and explored (and prayed at) in the Rocky Mountains and beyond — because that interaction is simply between me and the kindred spirit whose name is listed on the return address on the envelope.
However, I will say, what was written at the end of page three really touched my heart and soul: “When you write about the beauty of the land it causes the reader to be there also…When you write about home, then you shine…Do what God designed you to do and let people be included…Write a book about what moves people’s emotions and stays with them.”
I’d like to add that receiving letters from readers is one of the great joys of being a journalist. Sure, sometimes they’re a little fiery, and yes I’ve also had some that were quite cruel and mean. Whatever the case, it doesn’t bother me. I’ve been in this business for 20 years. You develop thick skin when you work in the media, especially in a small town. All I’ve ever wanted to do was meet interesting strangers and become fast friends, and tell their stories for the general public. Two decades later, that quest remains steadfast and true.
And thus, here I find myself, sitting at my writing desk in this tiny one-bedroom apartment in downtown Waynesville. Facing out the living room window, just beyond Walnut Street, I can see the fog of a chilly morning laying low in the mountains and cradling the community. The foliage is still vibrant and mesmerizing, especially early on a cool Sunday morning when most of the town is still asleep under warm bedsheets and recovering from midnight Halloween shenanigans around Main Street.
I sit here and think about that letter and what was said. It’s placed carefully on my desk as we speak. I think of the three photographs included in the envelope, which were taken by the reader some years ago, images of the exact spots they so poignantly mentioned. I think of this bluegrass book I’m currently working on with a New Year’s Day deadline, and the 20 years of covering the “high, lonesome sound” that are being squeezed within the pages.
But, more importantly, I think of the books I’ve yet to write. I think about that a lot, and have extensively since I had that epiphany to become a restless writer on the roam those many years ago at college in Connecticut. The end goal has always been to write books, and with the same passion and purpose as my heroes: Kerouac, McMurtry, Thompson, and even Stephen King where, even if I’m a nonfiction purist, I view his book “On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft” as a pillar of my existence, both personally and professionally.
And if you’ve been a somewhat regular reader of this column, my motto has always been “wandering and pondering.” It’s something I’ve definitely been doing a lot of this year. The open road and lost highways of this vast, luminous country is where I find true solace and make spiritual amends with the trials and tribulations of being a human being in this era of uncertainty and seemingly organized chaos.
To preface, I’m an eternal optimist. And my faith in the universe and what not has been brutally tested over this last calendar year. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, as they say. Ain’t that the damn truth, eh? I aim to hop into my rusty, musty Toyota Tacoma and aim the nose of the vehicle for the unknown horizon. Ever since I was a curious little kid running away from my mother at the mall, I’ve had this “thing” or “feeling” inside me that’s always wanted to know who that person is standing next to me, and what lies ahead.
And that letter I recently received. Traveling the roads of America is something I’ve kept closest to my heart ever since I first read Kerouac’s seminal 1957 novel “On the Road.” That was, and remains, the book that changed absolutely everything in my entire life. The large literary rock that he tossed into the pond of my life is forever ripping out into the ether of the waters of my intent. Getting into my truck and driving over the next mountain ridge is my zen zone, the place where I feel most like, well, me. I remain (so do you).
And though we’ve been so spoiled with absurdly warm weather this fall, the actual normal temperature of this season is finally coming home to roost. The air was chilly and damp when I opened my front door and went outside to make a decision whether to wear just a T-shirt or throw a hoodie on, whether to not reach for my summer sandals but instead grab my boots to keep my toes warm. Onward to Panacea Coffee for a cup o’joe and breakfast sandwich.
Like I would surmise for you reading this, it has been a long (long) year. And we still have just about two months left before that big, glowing ball in Times Square rings in 2027. Aside from the political and social climate of this great land of ours, I can’t help but wax poetically as to what this year has brought me, even if there was so much sadness and grief thrown my way. I remember those who have left me on this earth, their faces and moments shared forever intact in my memory, for safe keeping when the world feels a little too heavy.
Visions of trips taken this year, folks met in haste with hearty conversation and big bear hugs, of swimming in glacial lakes in Alberta, Canada, of sunset jogs on the beaches of Florida, of silent trail runs in the depths of the Great Smoky Mountains, of writing these columns and wanting to connect with you.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.