Onward to the Main Street Diner here in Waynesville. It was a casual, devil-may-care stroll from The Smoky Mountain News office on Montgomery Street, up the hill along Church Street to Main. Down the shaded sidewalk in the midday sunshine. Wander into the diner and take my usual seat at the counter, back to the wall like a poker player.  

Right before I arrived to consume my meal with gusto, I realized that I had left the new book I’d recently cracked open back at my apartment across town. No matter, there’s always a few dog-eared novels stashed away in my truck in the newspaper parking lot. Opening the center console, I came across a beat-up copy of Jack Kerouac’s seminal 1958 work “The Dharma Bums” — a literary pillar of my absolute being.  

I first bought the book during my junior year of college in Connecticut. It was the spring of 2006, and I’d just returned from semester abroad in Ireland the previous fall. That summer leading up to the European excursion, I’d discovered Kerouac’s 1957 opus “On the Road,” which sparked the fire within to someday becoming a writer.

Where “On the Road” encouraged me to seek adventure, “The Dharma Bums” provoked my heart and soul to dig below the surface of everyday life — to retain a deep sense of gratitude for all things in your existence, and to always remain curious and conscious of everything around you. If anything, “The Dharma Bums” became a sacred text to me. Still is.

So much so, I find constant enjoyment by just flipping to whatever chapter I want whenever I grab a seat at a diner and carry “The Dharma Bums” along with me. Pick a random page and see how whatever you scroll might serendipitously align with your current circumstance or situation or lack thereof in the midst of transition.  

Related Items

Latest

Root & Rise opens inclusive workspace

Waynesville’s newest co-working space is not a corner suite or a cubicle farm — Root &…

Opinion Latest

Food is the ultimate tie that binds

About a month ago, my neighbor sent a text asking if I wanted some of her fresh basil…

Letters to the Editor

Honor our heritage, protect our libraries

To the Editor: The decision facing Jackson County’s leaders is more than an…

Latest

Western Republicans buck national trend in Nov. 4 election

Overwhelmingly, municipal officials take pride in their nonpartisan service, but once…

“Let the mind beware, that though the flesh be bugged, the circumstances of existence are pretty glorious,” the sentence stated on the by-chance choice of pages during this sacred text session. The caffeine from the coffee now working its way through my veins, the smell of a hot breakfast soon appearing in front of my hungry eyes. Hold a fork full of food in one hand, “The Dharma Bums” in the other.  

Finish the last of the hashbrowns (with onions). Chug the last of the coffee. Pay your bill and leave a nice tip for the even nicer server. Grab your book and your wallet. A genuine smile to the staff on your way out the door. Stroll down the sidewalk of Main Street Waynesville at a leisurely pace, slowly making the return trek to the bustling newsroom and incessant deadlines.  

But, not before finding yourself standing at the street corner, waiting to cross the busy street. Not before noticing the Wyoming license plate that cruises by, visions of this fleeting summer and the sounds of Bob Wills & His Texas Playboys echoing out of the truck speakers as I rocketed through Buffalo, Sheridan, Pinedale and Laramie in July.

Not before seeing another car soon pass by, the license plate stating Oklahoma. A slew of mental images of that beautiful woman you met along the way while recently wandering the Rocky Mountains, how she’d get excited when telling you all about what it was like growing up on a ranch somewhere out there on the prairie of the Sooner State, and how sad you each were to say goodbye and head your separate ways — her trajectory heading to the West Coast, mine back to Carolina.

It’s now evening and the first sign of the impending fall is felt. The air is chilly, at least enough for a sweatshirt when walking outside to grab something from my truck. And yet, the mind continues to reflect, even when it’s a little past 2 a.m. and the urge to write poem on-the-fly hits me from seemingly out of nowhere. Words conjured wildly in the silence of a night, all while the rest of downtown Waynesville is asleep.

The poem emerges, as seen below:

“I’ve slept in the front seat
Of an old Dodge Ram
At a rest area in the Nevada desert
Right as the first light of the day awoke me
I’ve disappeared into the Montana backcountry
When a slight rain turned into afternoon sunshine
I’ve sat at the edge of the Atlantic Ocean
And wondered how many fish were nearby
I’ve walked down quiet streets in Charleston
Looking up at the old trees with ancient moss
I’ve let the waves of a lake in Kansas
Overtake my toes, happily, then my hands
When I reach down to check the water temperature
I’ve gazed across a river at the Statue of Liberty
And wondered where I might find dinner tonight
I’ve rolled the windows down in my trusty Tacoma
Right when the sunset overtook the Adirondacks
I’ve walked into a dive bar ‘round midnight
Only to walk out at closing time with new friends
I’ve watched a sandstorm overtake the landscape
Only to hunker down, a smile ear-to-ear on my face 
I’ve shook hands with leaders of our world
And also with people who have no home to call their own
I’ve watched the power of music happen in real time
Tears down my cheeks thinking of those I miss (in real time)
I’ve thought of my grandparents, now long gone and buried
While observing passerby couples during my second cup of coffee
I’ve grabbed a seat at a restaurant that was vibrant with chatter
Only to soon order the house special, the finest steak will do
I’ve thought of you and yours (and mine, too).
I continue this path, only with gratitude in my back pocket…”  

Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.