This afternoon, when I walked into my publisher’s office here in Waynesville, I sat down to catch up with him about nothing and everything, the holidays and how things are on the home-front of our respective lives. After some friendly banter, he handed me a small envelope. It was a handwritten note from his 90-year-old father-in-law, Bill, who lives on the other side of the state. 

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. 

While I’m sitting and looking out the window of the local laundromat here in West Waynesville, I notice how dirty my rusty, musty, trusty pickup truck has become since I last washed it, which, I think, may have been last winter or so. One year’s worth of dirt along endless miles of unforgiving roads, both geographically and spiritually. 

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. 

By the time this newspaper hits the streets on Nov. 12, it will have been 70 years to the day since Marty McFly was accidentally sent back to the future (1955) in a time machine created by Doctor Emmitt Brown in Hill Valley, California. The film was “Back to the Future,” which just celebrated its 40th anniversary. 

Today was pretty surreal. I spoke to students for “High School Media Day” at the University of North Carolina at Asheville. Folks from around the region. Mine was simply titled: “Music Journalism, Garret Woodward, Rolling Stone & Magazine Writer.” 

With the late afternoon sunshine piercing through the tree canopy above the road leading into the Tsali Recreation Area on the Graham/Swain County line, the sounds of “One Alone Together” by F.J. McMahon echoed out of the truck speakers, windows rolled down with a cool fall breeze swirling around me.  

The title of this week’s column is a lyric from a song by rising singer-songwriter Angela Autumn. The melody, “Electric Lizard,” is an incredibly haunting number, especially the solo rendition (just her and guitar) on the EP under the verbiage “Live from NYC.”  

It’s Wednesday, Oct. 1. Midday. I was awakened, once again, by the incessant construction just outside my window on nearby Walnut Street in downtown Waynesville. But, thankfully, the abrupt disruption of my slumber was calmed by the early fall sunshine cascading into my bedroom window.  

Hello from Room 304 at the Delta Hotel in Bristol, Virginia. Sitting here at the desk, I can hear the hustle and bustle of nearby Interstate 81. Right outside my window, the howling of tractor-trailers zooming by into the unknown night, either heading south over border into Tennessee or the depths of the Shenandoah Valley going north.