This must be the place: ‘All the summer, all the fall, trying to find my all in all’
The backroads of Florida.
Garret K. Woodward photo
It’s a crazy world out there, folks. And yet, it’s always been kind of nuts, just more so under the current circumstances. But, I remain optimistic. Shit, what’s the alternative? Freak out and bail on the universe? Nah, not my cup o’tea.
As an older millennial, this is another bump in the road of life. All the wars, economic recessions, political chaos, cultural shifts and social unrest (and also the pandemic), with most of it since I entered the workforce 19 years ago.
And through all of that, I’m still (happily and proudly) a writer and journalist.
I remember 2008 vividly. Fresh out of college, I got my first newspaper gig with the tiny Teton Valley News in Driggs, Idaho. Unrooted my entire life in Upstate New York and headed West. Whatever didn’t fit in the back of my 2001 GMC Sonoma didn’t come with me. The inventory was pretty much this: three garbage bags of clothes, two boxes of vinyl records, three boxes of books and miscellaneous items (cooking gear, lamp, stereo).
For the better part of 2008, I roamed around Eastern Idaho and Western Wyoming, tracking down and writing stories about cattle ranchers, pro skiers, brewers, dog sled champions, blacksmiths and so forth. Oh, and an infamous cover story about breakfast toast that caused a community uproar (still haven’t lived that one down).
I loved my job. I was living in my most favorite place in the entire world (Grand Teton Mountains) and scraping by as a writer. Just barely enough of a paycheck for rent, groceries, gas and a nightly bar tab at the nearby Knotty Pine Supper Club. By the end of the summer of 2008, my head was hitting the ceiling with the small newspaper. I wanted to venture out more, write bigger and more intricate features, and expand my knowledge of the cosmic magic that is everyday life in happenstance situations.
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So, right before Labor Day 2008, I put in my two-week notice and headed into Nevada’s Black Rock Desert to find myself at the annual Burning Man gathering. I ended up running around out there in the geographical and spiritual abyss for a week with the rest of my unused vacation days. I returned to Teton Valley, Idaho, from the desert with a whole new perspective on life. Out in the desolation of Nevada, I saw my future amid the dust storms and chaos of “The Burn:” I was not going to be a writer, I was a writer.
That light switch in my mind flicked on and I never looked back. I’m a writer and that is what I will do with my life, come hell or high water. Back in Idaho, it was just about mid-September 2008 and I packed up my things and said goodbye: to my apartment, my friends, my co-workers and to the Knotty Pine. With the truck aimed for Plattsburgh, New York, I headed east. That first night (Sept. 15, 2008), I made it as far as Miles City, Montana. I got a cheap hotel room and a six-pack of beer. I was 23 and anything was possible now.
Cracking that first Miller High Life, I turned on the TV. The news was on and it was frantic: Lehman Brothers had collapsed and Wall Street was in a freefall. The United States economy was headed towards a meltdown and there I was, day one into my “new life” with high hopes of another newspaper gig in New York. Suddenly, the whole world seems like it was cracking.
For the next three days, I drove across America. More radio reports of financial institutions collapsing. I even remember paying $4.47 a gallon for gas somewhere in rural Iowa. When I got back to the North Country, Wall Street was ablaze. The entire country had changed since I left Idaho. For the next four years, I struggled and fought to stay in the industry I adored: journalism.
Newspapers and magazines were also disappearing every single day. Those once promising job opportunities were vanishing. But, I didn’t care. I would figure it out, somehow. And I did. I slept in a guest room in my parent’s house, slept on couches, slept in the back of my truck, slept in rest areas and in truck stops, all while writing freelance articles for $40 apiece. I was even a substitute teacher for a period at my old high school to make ends meet.
It was terrible, but I never questioned that journalism was what I wanted to do with my time on this planet. I pushed ahead and just barely made enough to keep going. Then, in June 2012, I got a phone call from Scott McLeod, publisher of The Smoky Mountain News in Waynesville. He liked my work and offered me a dream gig: arts and entertainment editor.
I jumped on it. Packed up the truck with my garbage bags of clothes, vinyl records and books and drove 1,100 miles from my folks’ farmhouse in Plattsburgh, New York, to Haywood County. That first week on the job, I slept underneath my desk in the newsroom. I went broke moving to Carolina and had to wait for my first paycheck to use as a deposit for an apartment.
But, I didn’t care. I was living my truth and I wasn’t going to let anything get in the way. Thus, here we are, some 14 years later. Another possible economic recession, another war, more social unrest and political chaos spiraling out of control in seemingly every direction, but nowadays for an entirely different and surreal reasons (although sometimes it’s “same shit, different day”).
Yes, the newspaper, like any small, independent business, has had to make financial decisions over the decades to stay afloat and navigate correctly through uncertain times and choppy waters. But, I’m still here. We’re still here. And you’re still here. Everything remains in motion, too.
All those memories of struggle from 2008-2012 are never too far from my thoughts. I didn’t give up then, won’t give up now. Nor should any of you out there. Keep your head up. Appreciate the small, precious things in life. Remember what you’re made of, use that as fuel for inspiration and determination moving ahead. We’ll get through this. This ain’t our first rodeo.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
