This must be the place: 'And night comes so quiet, it's close on the heels of the day'
Gratitude for the backcountry of Montana. Garret K. Woodward photo
Thanksgiving morning. The streets of downtown Waynesville are quiet save for a slight, crisp breeze whirling through from the mountain ridges cradling the community. Emerge from bed and peer out the window blinds onto the cloudy sky holiday unfolding in real time.
Lace up the running shoes and head out the front door. A three-mile jog meandering down to Frog Level, along Sulphur Springs Road and back to my humble abode. Three miles of much-needed exercise to justify the massive plate of turkey, mashed potatoes and gravy to be consumed in the coming hours. Not to mention cold beer and football on TV.
Trot steadily through neighborhoods and duck down side streets. Pass by old abandoned buildings and newly constructed lots. Aged brick and fresh timber side-by-side, for now at least. Soon enough something else will take over the space of the place and usher in the next chapter of whatever and whoever will inhabit the property. “Progress with a vision” as our town motto states.
Similar sentiments ricocheting throughout the hallways of my mind about people either thousands of miles away or six feet under. Beloved faces and moments shared. I haven’t forgotten them, nor the junctures and crossroads of our respective lives, either on purpose or by happenstance. Cherished bygone days, now dusty and somewhat fuzzy on the edges.
Thanksgiving Day. What’s always so wild, to me at least, is that during the rest of the year, this day and the days thereafter onward to New Year’s seem so far away — so distant on the horizon — especially when you’re hiking a mountain on the first warm day of March, being happily lazy on a riverbank in mid-July or admiring the foliage in early October. Time doesn’t wait for anybody.
Then, when the holidays arrive, the festive season just seems to fly by like some freight train to destinations unknown, yourself simply standing there trying to grasp onto the fleeting moments and memories of friends and family. Take mental notes of what you saw, felt or smelled, what you overheard and who you interacted with. Never forget who was there and why they mean so damn much to you. These are the only intrinsic things worth holding onto.
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When this day of days rolls around, I tend to also think of those dearly missed who are long gone from this earth. Grandparents and great aunts and uncles, the jovial elders who held court at the head of the dinner table, usually the ones to say grace before the big Turkey Day feast.
I think of home, back up in the North Country. Those Thanksgivings of frigid Upstate New York temperatures and fresh snow. Football on the TV and hearty conversation perpetually echoing out from the kitchen, the smells of incredibly delicious dishes wafting into the living room, my mother saying “dinner will be ready soon.” I still crave her signature sausage stuffing.
As a kid, I had two duties on Thanksgiving. One was helping elderly relatives out of their cars and across the icy driveway of our farmhouse. The other was to take the heavy winter coats from each guest and place them neatly on my parents’ bed upstairs. Oh, the other thing was to also make sure to help my dad with firewood when need be, the large metal stove in the living room crackling all evening, my father sipping a glass of wine after a long day.
Thanksgiving throughout my college years and young adulthood hovered around the long trek back to the North Country from my school, some 300 miles from home in Hamden, Connecticut. Rocket towards the farmhouse via Interstate 91 North through Hartford, Connecticut, onto I-90 West in Western Massachusetts, hook into I-87 North in Albany, New York, onward to Clinton County and finally pulling into the farmhouse driveway. Home again.
Those holidays were raucous occasions with old cronies, many now not seen in years. But, back then, it was Thanksgiving Eve shenanigans in local dive bars in our hometown (Rouses Point). Belly up to the counter at age 21 and order a cold Labatt Blue beer. Get some quarters to play some pool or darts. Dollar bills to select The Tragically Hip on the jukebox. Catch up with those you left behind following high school graduation. Solidarity once again achieved.
Skip ahead to 2012. I was 27 years old and a fresh face to not only The Smoky Mountain News, but greater Western North Carolina, too. That first Thanksgiving here was spent alone. Chowing down on a foot-long ham sandwich from Subway, only to wash it down with a six-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon tallboys. Look out the window onto a silent town, wondering if this latest life move was the right one. Finish the meal and think about tomorrow.
Other Thanksgivings spent with one of closest friends and his family at their home in Knoxville, Tennessee. Watching the annual Detroit Lions holiday game on TV. Stuffed to the gills with a homemade meal much-needed by a scruffy writer like myself, one who’s constantly on the road and on assignment. Which reminds me, I need to call them and wish their family well this season.
Last Thanksgiving, my girlfriend, Sarah, and I found ourselves at her father’s cabin in the tiny unincorporated community of Grantham, North Carolina. The log cabin is surrounded by vast tobacco fields and pig farms, military planes zooming by overhead periodically from nearby Seymour Johnson Air Force Base. Less than a month later, her father would succumb to his battle with cancer, making that holiday together that much more special in our hearts.
With this being my 12th year living and working in Western North Carolina, similar encounters throughout the holiday season happily occur in my wanderings and ponderings throughout this region. This go-round, it was my sixth Thanksgiving with my best buddy’s family here in Haywood County, where all of us landed at the Lake Logan Retreat Center this year for a feast of food and fellowship.
Sitting in the lodge, eating and partaking in hearty conversation, I looked over at Sarah and smiled. Our second holiday season together. Another moment chiseled into my memory. Like most things in life, you just have to look and be aware of those moments. And I’m thankful for that.
The gratitude remains. Another Thanksgiving holiday where I find myself surrounded by genuine love and support from those who truly care for me and my well-being. And the feeling is mutual. So is the gratitude for traveling and the written word, by which I’ve been able to survive and thrive altogether.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
