This must be the place: ‘It’s hard enough to gain any traction in the rain’
Hello from the nearly empty bar counter of the Vail House Oyster Bar & Grille on the outskirts of downtown Goldsboro, North Carolina — a city seemingly forgotten by the sands of time and 21st century progress elsewhere.
This must be the place: ‘Night after sleepless night, I walk the floor and I want to know’
And so, we enter the whirlwind holiday season once again. Honestly, it feels like I was just in Knoxville, Tennessee, leaning against the bar on the second floor of the Preservation Pub in Market Square on New Year’s Eve when the clock struck midnight.
This must be the place: ‘Stop the bus, turn the radio up high and grab the first guitar you see’
Hello from Room 1029 in the Blue Valley Cottage at the Old Edwards Inn, situated near the intersection of U.S. 64 and Main Street in downtown Highlands.
This must be the place: ‘Remember when we got drunk that time in Ontario, listening to Warren Zevon on the stereo’
Hello from Room 6102 at the Sonder motel on the edge of Old Town Scottsdale, Arizona. It’s 80 degrees outside in the late morning, with the dry heat of the Southwest steadily rising like the hot sun above the high desert prairie surrounding this vast, metropolitan area.
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This must be the place: Ode to Anna Marie, ode to the kids of Smith Street (and beyond)
Stepping outside the small log cabin, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Vast farm fields and ancient dirt in the rural countryside outside of Goldsboro, the cool air of an impending fall was felt with a sense of relief in a place where heat and humidity reign supreme.
The beauty of simple, unadorned travel
The old man, hell he was probably my age, flagged me down after I passed his home and garden.
“Buen Camino,” he called, waving me back.
This must be the place: ‘The questions of a thousand dreams, what you do and what you see’
It’s never easy to go home. And I think it only seems to get harder, perhaps more abstract and blurry, as one gets older — further and farther between from the starting line, literally and figuratively. Case-in-point, I recently returned home to my native North Country.
This must be the place: ‘A sunbeam’s shining through his hair, fear not to have a care’
It’s 9:54 a.m. Tuesday. I’m sitting at the old wooden kitchen table at my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, within close range of the Canadian border, just a few farm fields away from the mighty, ancient Lake Champlain.
Fishing Heaven
Something we have done quite a bit of this year is gone fishing.
