After having their Haywood County home destroyed by three separate floods, Michelle Lee, her husband Roger and their son Cheyenne have found new digs on higher ground. 

The land they had lived on was in the Lee family for generations. Roger’s 71 years have played out on the wooded patch near a normally calm creek that slipped its banks and wreaked havoc on the property three times — in 2004 when Hurricanes Frances and Ivan arrived; in 2021, Fred; and in 2024, Helene. 

At 9 a.m. Wednesday, the alarm went off from the smart phone on my nightstand. Reaching for the contraption and reading the morning text messages, it appeared our weekly editorial meeting set for 10 a.m. would shift to Friday. And yet, before I could roll back over to sleep a little more, another message pinged on the phone. 

It was 40 years ago this month that I first heard the name of the small creek in Jackson County that would eventually become our home, Moses Creek. Becky and I had been renting a house in Cullowhee in 1984 from a landlady who kept threatening to up the rent on us, even though we’d told her at the get-go that we, newlyweds from eastern North Carolina, had no more ”up” to give. But a year in, after still another monthly phone call from her, I turned to Becky and said, “Let’s see if there’s something we can afford to buy.” 

It’s Thursday. Early afternoon. In the original plan for this week, I would, in my mind’s eye, be cruising along right now somewhere in southcentral Upstate New York, probably just east of Binghamton on Interstate 88, onward to I-87 North to my parents’ farmhouse on the outskirts of Plattsburgh. 

The word home evokes images that go deeper than its definition “the place where one lives.” 

Home means more than a house or domicile. It speaks of a place you live, and also a place that lives within you. It can mean where you come from, a place you aspire to go or return to, and it can mean emotional connection to a living space, or land that you are connected to emotionally.

Count me among those who are proud that Jackson County has two fully accessible certified forest therapy trails, two of only 21 worldwide with that particular certification. 

One is a mile-long paved track along the Tuckasegee River near Webster and Cullowhee. The other is the unpaved lower portion of the Pinnacle Park.

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.   

Search online, or in a library or bookshop, and you’ll find how-to books about parenting. Recent popular titles include “Simplicity Parenting,” “The Five Principles of Parenting” and “How to Talk So Kids Will Listen & Listen So Kids Will Talk.” There are even books about how not to parent, like Leonard Sax’s “The Collapse of Parenting.” 

On the morning of April 8, county employees removed commemorative plaques from the Confederate statue outside the Jackson County Library and placed them in the county’s storage facility. Few in the county, save the board of commissioners, knew the possibility of removal was even on the table. 

Recently I caught up with several good friends over lunch and, within 20 minutes, we divulged huge life news that was surprising to the rest of the group. As I sat there with these ladies who I know very well, I realized how strange it is that as a society we’ve come to know more about what’s going on across the world than across the street.