This must be the place: ‘And if your cans are redhot and you can’t hold them in your hands, just use good old railroad gloves, that’s all’
Garret K. Woodward photo
Getting out of bed Sunday morning, I moseyed over to the kitchen and readied the things needed for a delicious breakfast on a lazy, hazy day of midsummer. Coffee (with whip cream). Eggs. Red peppers. Onions. Fresh loaf of bread. Cast iron skillet. Slice. Dice. Crack. Mix accordingly. Two plates for her (Sarah) and I. Eat with gusto.
And as I was slicing and dicing the peppers and onions, tossing the contents onto the hot skillet, soon to crack the eggs into the beautiful concoction, my mind started drifting to a clip I came across while scrolling through Instagram earlier.
It was before Sarah was awake. I was alone in the silence of a peaceful moment in our humble abode apartment in downtown Waynesville. Before the hustle and bustle of Russ Avenue in motion in real time. Before the rest of society awakens into another day.
It was comedian and existentialist philosopher Duncan Trussell, a voice of the modern era who intrigues me greatly and also puts my restless soul at ease with his purposely simple, yet effective words about the “here and now.”
In the clip, he goes, “You don’t need to evolve. Actually, the evolution is just realizing where you’re at right now is perfect. That’s the evolution. It’s letting go of the fantasy of some future, better version of you and loving yourself right now. Instead of crucifying yourself on what you should be or could be. This is perfect. Not just the nice parts of you — the whole spectrum is great.”
With all the running around that I’ve been doing this summer (and for years on end now), either on assignment or merely in search of what adventures lie just beyond the horizon, it’s nice to not be in a hurry today, to sit and enjoy this breakfast, this moment with Sarah. Plans are in the works to grill out and play cards later with some dear friends in town, folks I’ve missed a lot, especially when I’m out and about roaming this vast country of ours.
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While the ingredients simmered in the skillet and I took another sip of the coffee (with whip cream), I couldn’t help but think of this poem I wrote one quiet, lonely morning, in this same humble abode apartment in Waynesville, when I was yearning for the next step, perhaps subsequent chapter of my life to emerge and unfold. As I tracked down the poem, it dawned on me that I wrote it almost 10 years ago exactly, when I was envisioning what the future may be.
“Rolling over in the morning bed
You rub my aching back
Chatter over who will make the coffee
Who will let the Labradors out to pee?
I relent with a smile and get up
Stretching, I look out onto the field of dew
The hardwood floors are cool under warmed toes
Of simple dreams and minds finally at ease
They roam the backyard looking for the spot
I roam the kitchen looking for the pot
French roast in favorite chipped mugs
One labeled ‘Garrett’
Ah, Seattle, someday I will return
And look for the proper edition
One labeled ‘Garret’
Handing you the warm darkness
I relent with a smile and lie down
Where were you when I was in the cold
Motel room in Gallup
Cramped loveseat in Deadwood
Damp tent in Newport
Smelly backseat in Salt Lake City
Dusty sleeping bag in Reno
Hurried rest area in Worcester
Silent guest room in Chattanooga?
I relent with a smile and turn to you
Your eyes, I now call home.”
(GKW 10/21/2014)
I remember that person from 10 years ago. It’s still me, obviously. But, at the same time, I’ve grown and aged, whether physically or emotionally. Each year in passing is like getting an eye exam and receiving a new pair of lenses, where things come into focus more since the last exam, the last pair of glasses received.
And, like clockwork in this serendipitous universe of ours, I find my interactions and happenstance moments amid this Sunday morning all connected somehow, especially when I wander over to my bookshelf and browse the Jack Kerouac section. Eternally filling the top row of the shelf, my collection of his works are now mostly beat up copies of the classics — “On the Road,” “The Dharma Bums, “Big Sur” — and numerous other titles of his extensive writings.
All of those Kerouac books were new when I first purchased them many years ago, when I would take off on my next road trip to somewhere, anywhere, only to peel back the pages with each passing mile on the highways and backroads of America. Eventually returning home, the fresh book spine and white pages now cracked and yellowed with experience and passing time, the book owner (me) overflowing with gratitude.
Flipping through “The Dharma Bums,” the pages were crinkled and dog-eared. A book that’s been in my travel bags for countless wanderings and ponderings. Soon, I came across a forgotten poem of mine, which I wrote on the inside of the blank back cover of the book. It states I wrote the poem on Sept. 18, 2020, while sitting at The Copper Whiskey Bar & Grill in Bozeman, Montana. I was 35 at the time.
“I could throw a football from one side of this bar to the other
It would be a justified heave of athleticism and creative merit
Bozeman, Montana, and writing on the back page of this book
A wrinkled and yellow book I’ve owned since college
Where dreams were formed that I’m still chasing
At 35 (now) and at 21 (then) and counting
The stereo speakers over the bar blare music
By bands I’ve interviewed (some of which I now call friends)
22 years old and starting a newspaper gig as a rookie journalist
2008 and small paychecks, small apartments
And an old pickup to complete the job
35 years old and small apartments
And an old pickup to complete the job
But the paychecks are bigger (slightly)
Big enough to buy a dozen footballs to throw
Across this cowboy bourbon bar
To order the farm-to-table beef-n-bacon burger
And Angel’s Envy on the rocks (big ice ball)
Without a care in doing so
For the bill will be paid with the written word
Maybe someday these words, too.”
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
