This must be the place: Ten years later and all I got was this crappy T-shirt
This past Saturday morning, I awoke in the top bunk of an RV in downtown Sylva. I got up and looked around the space. My friends were still asleep in the other beds. Time to head back to my humble abode in Waynesville.
This must be the place: Ode to Jeff Austin, ode to the power of music
The hardest part of being a journalist, and especially one whose core focus is music, is seeing those you were lucky enough to meet, interview and write about, pass away.
This must be the place: Scribbled notebooks and wild typewritten pages for your own joy
Sliding into the booth at Waffle House, I cracked open Larry McMurtry’s novel All My Friends Are Going to Be Strangers. Taking a sip of my coffee, I dove into the world of Danny Deck and his life in Houston, Texas, and greater America in the early 1970s.
This must be the place: In a minute I’ll be free and we’ll be splashing in the sea
On Monday morning, as I woke up, packed and said goodbye to Bonnaroo for this year, I can say — in all honesty — that I’ve never had more gratitude in my life than at that moment in time.
This must be the place: No fear or shame in the dignity of your experience, language and knowledge
The first week I lived and worked in Western North Carolina, I slept underneath my desk in the old newsroom of The Smoky Mountain News on Church Street in downtown Waynesville.
This must be the place: Ode to my grandfather, ode to soldiers past and present
The first time I was aware that my grandfather, Frank Kavanaugh, served in the military was being nine years old in 1994 and watching him talk on the local North Country TV channel, Home Town Cable.
This must be the place: Out here in the fields, I fight for my meals
Sitting high up in the Bridgestone Arena in downtown Nashville last Thursday night, I couldn’t help but wonder what my Uncle Scott would think about all of this.
This must be the place: You’ve got to trust your instinct and let go of regret
With the wind howling in my face, the Polaris ATV rounded the third curve of the Rockingham Speedway. The odometer read 60 mph. It was midnight. Sunday into Monday. And all I could think of was the absurdity of this serendipitous moment.
This must be the place: Welcome home, Riley. Our American hero.
There has been a lot of deep thoughts and emotions running through my mind this past week. And I don’t think I’m alone in that sentiment, either in Waynesville or Haywood County, or across the globe for that matter.
This must be the place: Home is where we wanna grow
Crossing the threshold of Rocky’s Hot Chicken Shack in West Asheville recently, I scanned the space looking for my old friend, Heather. And there she was, sitting on the patio, sipping a beer and looking over the menu deciding how hot she was willing to order her chicken tenders.
