Hello from Room 107 at the Skyline Lodge in Highlands. I’m here on assignment for the Bear Shadow Music Festival. But, my mind keeps drifting elsewhere. It wanders to the fact I’m not back home for the memorial service for the recent passing of my best friend. That, and the last time I stayed here was with the woman I thought that I’d spend the rest of my life with. 

Wednesday. Late morning. Waynesville. The rumble of an overzealous motorcycle on nearby Walnut Street wakes me up. Although I was up earlier for an editorial meeting via Zoom, I took a quick cat nap before diving into the matters of the day. Rubs my eyes. Stretch my legs. Stand up. Proceed. 

The other day, while scrolling through Instagram, I came across a post from an old college friend. Although we hadn’t seen each other since graduation some 19 years ago from Quinnipiac University in Connecticut, we’d still kept in touch via social media as most of us millennials tend to do. 

The post was about her nine-year-old son, Chase, and how he was being teased at school, and not really having any luck making friends in second grade.

Hello from the depths of Panacea Coffee Company in the Historic Frog Level District of Waynesville. At the moment, I’m sitting at the prized table. If you’ve ever been to Panacea, you know which one I’m talking about, the one on the second tier, next to the big window looking down upon Richland Creek.  

Hello from Room 323 at the Hyatt Place in downtown Athens, Georgia. A quiet Monday morning here in “Bulldog Country” with the hotel right on the edge of the campus of the University of Georgia. Lots of thoughts are ricocheting around my mind, especially with the Boston Marathon currently on the TV. 

It was watching my father putt on Hole #14 at the Maggie Valley Country Club last Monday afternoon when a vivid thought appeared across my field of vision — don’t forget this moment of spending quality time with the old man. 

A few feet from my 84-year-old father was my mother, age 77, and also one of my best friends, age 66.

Hello from “The Ice Chalet,” a hockey rink just west of downtown Knoxville, Tennessee, along Kingston Pike. It’s Thursday evening and I find myself one of only three spectators in the bleachers watching some of the finest amateur skaters in this city go at it mere hours after clocking out of their day job. 

Hello from Room 322 at the Fairfield Inn, located in Binghamton, New York. Exactly one year ago, I stayed in this same room. No joke, this is where I was placed. And, oh, how much has changed and, well, come to pass in this last calendar year since I laid down in this bed, since I opened up the drapes and looked out the same window onto the interstate traffic below. 

I only met Bob Weir once. It was backstage at the long gone Gathering of the Vibes music festival located on the shoreline of the Long Island Sound in Bridgeport, Connecticut. It was the summer of 2009 and I was 24 years old, myself an aspiring journalist for a now-defunct music magazine. 

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.”