This must be the place: ‘Little red wagon, little red bike, I ain’t no monkey, but I know what I like’
A leftover quote from a recent interview.
Garret K. Woodward photo
The absurdity of life, eh?
I’m just sitting here right now at the local laundromat in West Waynesville. Simply observing and reflecting on gratitude, for nothing and everything, and everything in-between. Families sit quietly around me awaiting the wash cycle to end. It’s Sunday morning. Back to work by this time tomorrow. Spend your free time cleaning your clothes.
And I’m in the same boat, too. But, I like to multitask and do some writing, soon parking myself at the seating counter in front of the big window overlooking the large grocery store parking lot (and store itself). I ran out of laundry detergent and had to walk over to the store, amid grabbing a couple of other items.
The clouds hang low over the ancient Blue Ridge Mountains cradling all of us in this moment. The crisp air signals an early fall is a-comin’. Summer is quickly fading into the rearview mirror. Although there are traces of it still left in my rusty, musty pickup truck. Dust from dirt roads traversed in July in South Dakota, Wyoming, Montana and Colorado. A bear spray container (thankfully unused) that kept me company on all those trail runs in the Rocky Mountains.
I walk across the parking lot to the grocery store and notice a homeless man standing next to the trash can at the front entrance. Somebody hands him a dollar and he immediately walks inside. As I’m grabbing my items, I can overhear the man. He’s slightly confused trying to stick the dollar into the self-checkout. “Sir, you need a debit/credit card to use this line,” the store employee politely tells him. He stares at her blankly, then meanders over to the regular line and goes on his way.
Wandering down the aisles, I grabbed the prized sriracha I’ve been wanting. Give me all that spicy and garlic taste for bacon and eggs in the morning, leftover pizza whenever. I also pick up some kinetic tape for my ankles for running, of which I’ve been able to properly mitigate pain in my heels. I then make a quick stop at the in-store Starbucks for a breakfast sandwich and vanilla cappuccino.
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Exiting the store, I notice the homeless man is back outside and once again standing next to the trashcan. Heading back to the laundromat, an older man in an electric wheelchair is coming down the side-street headed for the store, a little dog atop his lap, just cruising along. There are several bags from other stores nearby hanging off the back of the chair. He’s well on his way to finishing his shopping list for the day.
I stop at my old pickup truck and pop down the tailgate, soon enjoying my breakfast sandwich (with sriracha) and vanilla cappuccino. I think to myself, “This ole truck ain’t so bad, nor is the tiny apartment I’ve called home for many years.” I chew on the sandwich and ponder, and with gusto for the former and the latter of the unfolding moment.
The rent for my humble abode is very agreeable, especially in a red hot regional real estate market. Lord knows if I could afford to live here much longer if I didn’t have my spot. I’m a journalist, not a millionaire. Sure, the tub faucet leaks and the water heater is on the fritz, but at least I can take a hot shower whenever I need to.
The truck itself can get me to and from anywhere I need to be, bringing me all across this great big country of ours, adventures awaiting around every corner. Rocketing down the highways and interstates of America, always in search of people, places and things that catch my eye — “all things beautiful and true,” as I say. That ethos is steadfast and intact.
And there’s enough funds in my quaint bank account to buy as many breakfast sandwiches and vanilla cappuccinos as I damn well please. I gaze down at my other purchases and see the kinetic tape. I thank my lucky stars to be able to continue to be physically fit enough to climb mountains and run along backcountry roads to my heart’s desire. I’d go absolutely crazy if I couldn’t disappear into the woods in a joyous jog, the eternal quest for a gloriously sweaty trot amid Mother Nature never ends — it only gets more and more vital and important with age.
I think of the homeless man and the man in the wheelchair. I think of being in the presence of Hollywood A-list celebrities and Grammy winners yesterday at a big-name bluegrass festival right over the mountains from Waynesville. And now? I’m happily in the presence of good, hardworking blue-collar folk come mornin’. They work hard. They have hopes and fears. They love and they hurt. And they stand tall. All of which I find genuine solidarity with, for I am also strolling that same path towards true appreciation for everything life has to offer.
And then there was that meaningful conversation I had last night with two longtime dear friends over a nightcap at The Scotsman Public House before we parted ways and headed back to our respective homes. We talked about the past year, what we’ve seen, heard, felt and also been through. Again, solidarity. Again, true appreciation. Hearty laughter throughout. Big bear hugs upon our departure.
I love any and all people and situations I may find myself in. It’s one of the key pillars of why I continue down this road of life as a writer and journalist. I think of time and place, and also perspective. It’s not lost on me, never has been. I thank my parents for that. They instilled in me a deep, honest curiosity for fellow man and whatever you encounter.
And I’ve also been on a big Bob Dylan “Blood on the Tracks” kick lately, with “Buckets of Rain” really getting the repeat button pushed by yours truly: “Life is sad/Life is a bust/All ya can do is do what you must/You do what you must do and ya do it well.”
The gratitude remains, as it always should in the here and now of existence. For don’tcha know it’s all a dream we dream?
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
