It was 40 years ago this month that I first heard the name of the small creek in Jackson County that would eventually become our home, Moses Creek. Becky and I had been renting a house in Cullowhee in 1984 from a landlady who kept threatening to up the rent on us, even though we’d told her at the get-go that we, newlyweds from eastern North Carolina, had no more ”up” to give. But a year in, after still another monthly phone call from her, I turned to Becky and said, “Let’s see if there’s something we can afford to buy.” 

In the 1970s, Grand Funk Railroad was one of the bestselling American rock bands on the planet. To that, in 1971, the Flint, Michigan, trio broke the Beatles ticket sales record at New York’s Shea Stadium, a feat coinciding with GFR having six platinum albums and seven gold within the original lineup’s short tenure (1969-1976). Oh, and another thing — the songs still rock, too. 

Late Monday morning. While taking a sip of my coffee at the Main Street Diner in Waynesville, I scanned the room at the tables filled with faces enjoying warm meals and hearty conversation. It was at that very moment when I started thinking about this anonymous postcard I received several years ago. 

Hello from Room 1001 at the Cambria hotel in downtown Asheville. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m currently sitting at this writing desk (pictured), I’m overlooking the intersection of Haywood Street and Page Avenue, the Harrah’s Cherokee Center and former George Vanderbilt Hotel within sight. 

Thanksgiving morning. I awoke to the sounds of my upstairs neighbor scurrying about, most likely getting things together for whatever he has planned for Turkey Day. Nearby Russ Avenue is oddly quiet. Nobody is heading to work. The incessant construction has ceased for the day, too. 

It was a Friday afternoon a few weeks ago, and I was chafing. Perhaps you saw me. I was that 65-ish guy with sunglasses and a ball cap standing outside the REACH second-hand store in downtown Hazelwood. My lovely wife, my beautiful daughter and my spectacular three-month-old grandson are inside, browsing.

In the midst of eating my third hard-boiled egg of the morning, I overheard the young couple at the next breakfast table mention to their server that they’d gotten married this past Saturday. 

Taking a sip of my second cup of coffee, my gaze went from the newlyweds to the nearby roaring fireplace, then out the big glass windows onto the picturesque pond on the side lawn of the majestic property. 

About a month ago, my neighbor sent a text asking if I wanted some of her fresh basil which was growing in abundance. Together, we clipped a bagful of the herb, then she loaned me her “Moosewood Cookbook” so I could use the basil to follow the book’s pesto recipe. That afternoon, I made the most delicious homemade pesto pasta that even the pickiest eater in the house loved. 

I’ll never get that smell out of my memory. The stench of mud and rotting debris. Most of you reading this will immediately know what I’m referring to — the aftermath of Hurricane Helene in the fall of 2024. And yet, that stench was already in my stored subconscious, seeing as I first encountered it with the aftermath of Tropical Storm Fred in 2021. 

It was a time and a place, and now that place is gone.

Or is it?

I came across some version of that idiom about time and place a few months ago, just as we at The Smoky Mountain News were beginning to discuss how to cover the one-year anniversary of Helene’s historic and deadly impact on this place we call home.