This must be the place: ‘Remember when we got drunk that time in Ontario, listening to Warren Zevon on the stereo’
Hello from Room 6102 at the Sonder motel on the edge of Old Town Scottsdale, Arizona. It’s 80 degrees outside in the late morning, with the dry heat of the Southwest steadily rising like the hot sun above the high desert prairie surrounding this vast, metropolitan area.
This must be the place: ‘Goodnight stars, goodnight air, goodnight noises everywhere’
It was at 7:27 a.m. Monday when the red ball of fire broke the horizon line at Wrightsville Beach.
This must be the place: ‘And I thought that I’d found a light to guide me through’
A soothing mid-fall breeze floats across my front porch, through the screen door and into the apartment, ultimately swirling around the writing desk facing a bustling Russ Avenue within sight.
This must be the place: ‘The universe begins immediately to your left’
It was an otherwise quiet Tuesday evening when my girlfriend started in on me once again that it was high time to get rid of the old couch in our apartment in downtown Waynesville. By last count, it was probably the fifth or sixth time she’d said that this year.
This must be the place: Ode to Anna Marie, ode to the kids of Smith Street (and beyond)
Stepping outside the small log cabin, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Vast farm fields and ancient dirt in the rural countryside outside of Goldsboro, the cool air of an impending fall was felt with a sense of relief in a place where heat and humidity reign supreme.
This must be the place: ‘It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work’
Somewhere around Schroon Lake, New York, just following a quick hike in the Adirondack Mountains, it was decided to head further down Interstate 87 to I-78, onward through Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to get to Raleigh, North Carolina, for the International Bluegrass Music Association award show last Thursday.
This must be the place: ‘The questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see’
It’s never easy to go home. And I think it only seems to get harder, perhaps more abstract and blurry, as one gets older — further and farther between from the starting line, literally and figuratively. Case-in-point, I recently returned home to my native North Country.
This must be the place: ‘A sunbeam’s shining through his hair, fear not to have a care’
It’s 9:54 a.m. Tuesday. I’m sitting at the old wooden kitchen table at my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, within close range of the Canadian border, just a few farm fields away from the mighty, ancient Lake Champlain.
This must be the place: ‘I don’t know, don’t really care, let there be songs to fill the air’
It’s 11 a.m. Monday. Currently sitting in the rec room of my aunt’s high-end apartment complex on the outskirts of Charlotte.
This must be the place: ‘A horse is a horse, of course, of course’
The alarm on my smart phone echoed throughout the small cabin. It was 7:30 a.m. Saturday and I had to be somewhere in an hour — hopping onto a saddle for an early morning horse ride.
