In late fall, after all the Halloween candy has been consumed and the fall décor removed from store clearance aisles, we step on a conveyor belt heading straight for Christmas. Even those hangers-on who kept their rotting pumpkins on their porches through Thanksgiving finally pull out the twinkle lights and decorate their trees. Christmas music blasts in every store. Eggnog and cookies are consumed at will. For many people, the span of weeks from Thanksgiving to Christmas is a blur of planning, partying and shopping. 

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. 

Last September, my family was gearing up for our first “leaf season” (and apple season, and hayride season, and football season) in Haywood County. As recent transplants from another state, we had heard about how beautiful the mountains are in early fall, and we were looking forward to experiencing it.

The Smoky Mountain Long Term Recovery Group will host a free “Day of Resilience” event on Saturday, Sept. 20, from noon to 5 p.m. at First United Methodist Church of Waynesville, 566 S. Haywood St.

On Monday, Aug. 11, J. Dan Pittillo died. The world has lost an amazing person, a gifted and kind educator, a dedicated father and husband, and one of the top botanists in the Southern Appalachian Mountains and the Southeastern United States. 

On the first Saturday of June, my friend John and I were just leaving McKay Used Books in Manassas, Virginia, when I spotted a woman young enough to be my granddaughter seated at a table topped by a couple of piles of books.

We hoped he’d die in his sleep, that we’d find him curled up in the bed in that old, familiar way, having slipped as comfortably and naturally from this dimension to the next as a river flows into the sea. 

Somewhere between development and unadulterated wilderness stands an almost prelapsarian swath of mountain ranges — the Tetons. Reflecting, I reminisce on my time west a few weeks ago, the Bob Ross images staring back with their towering jagged peaks framed with pine and spruce and yellow wild flowers. Lush patches of Birch and Aspen, wild bucking horses and rolling waters and the wonderment of those discovering its peaks and valleys for the first time.

It was at 7:27 a.m. Monday when the red ball of fire broke the horizon line at Wrightsville Beach.

Wed., Aug.14, marks the third anniversary of my mom’s passing. During those early weeks and months after she slipped into the great mystery, I wrote a lot about grief. This column and my blog became healing outlets. Kind, compassionate words from friends, readers and even complete strangers held me up during those early days following her death.