This must be the place: ‘Cloud hang on the mountain, they make me lonesome inside’
With a cool breeze rolling through the Old City district of downtown Knoxville last Thursday evening, I clung tighter to my jacket, pulled the brim of my hat lower and meandered across the railroad tracks towards Boyd’s Jig & Reel.
This must be the place: ‘Beg, steal or borrow two nickels or a dime to call me on the phone’
Hello from Room 623 at the Hampton Inn & Suites in Owensboro, Kentucky. Just about six and a half hours from my humble abode in Waynesville. Russ Avenue to U.S. 276 to Interstate 40 and backroads through Southern Appalachia to get here.
Built to last: A conversation with Randall Bramblett
At 76, singer-songwriter/keyboardist Randall Bramblett has been a musical artist most of his life. In recent years, a new outlook on not only what he does for a living, but also what it means to be human amid a life immersed in creativity and connectivity, has emerged.
This must be the place: Ode to the written word, ode to putting the paper to bed
It’s a lot quieter this week at The Smoky Mountain News. Not just because of the unusually warm weather this past weekend sparking folks to frolic and head for the hills.
Keep telling the story
When I first arrived in Western North Carolina just after New Year’s Day, 2014, I wasn’t planning to stay.
This must be the place: ‘I don’t want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together’
I’m a minimalist. I don’t want much, nor do I care to ever have much. As long as I’m surrounded by shelves of books and stacks of vinyl records, a comfy recliner and some cold suds in the fridge in my humble abode of a one-bedroom Waynesville apartment (that also has a porch with mountain views, thankfully), I’m good to go.
This must be the place: ‘To laugh at the impossibilities which are here always after we are not’
Saturday. Late morning. The Waynesville apartment was quiet save the occasional motorcycle roaring along nearby Russ Avenue. My girlfriend had already gotten up and was at work by 10 a.m. I slept in a little bit, though my restless soul wouldn’t let the day fade.
This must be the place: ‘I cherish my intercontinental friendships, we talk it over continental breakfast’
The smart phone dinged incessantly early this morning ‘round 8 a.m. at my small Waynesville apartment. Social media notifications and text messages. Then came the phone calls from my mother and father way up in the North Country. It’s my 39th birthday.
This must be the place: ‘If there’s a goal that everyone remembers, it was back in ol’ 72’
The title of this column is the opening line of the song “Fireworks” by The Tragically Hip. A cherished Canadian rock act, the melody itself an ode to the legend and lore that is hockey and coming of age as a kid — a love of hockey transitioning to a love of women.
This must be the place: Ode to Wild Kathy, ode to never slowing down, never growing old
My best girl (aka: my mother Kathy) turns 75 years young today (Jan. 21). Currently, it’s a cold, frigid Sunday here in the mountains of Western North Carolina, same goes for my hometown of Plattsburgh, New York.
