This must be the place: ‘Cloud hang on the mountain, they make me lonesome inside’
The Old City in Knoxville. Garret K. Woodward photo
With a cool breeze rolling through the Old City district of downtown Knoxville last Thursday evening, I clung tighter to my jacket, pulled the brim of my hat lower and meandered across the railroad tracks towards Boyd’s Jig & Reel.
Noted as harboring one of the largest collections of whiskey on the planet, Boyd’s is arguably the heartbeat of the Old City. This bastion of wild-n-out characters, hearty conversation and strong drink, all of which are carefully nurtured by an old wood interior, an exterior of bricks laid down long ago.
If anything, Boyd’s sits, literally and figuratively, at a crossroads of people and things streaming by in real time. The city of Knoxville in constant motion of places to be, faces to see and the notion that time doesn’t slow down for anyone or anything in this universe.
Stepping into the establishment, a flood of memories cascaded down upon me from high above in the ether. For over a decade, I’ve wandered in there, usually with a slew of cronies, all riled up and ready for the adventures of an unknown night of jovial mischief, the quest for irresponsible enlightenment always within sight.
And yet, this particular night, I was flying solo. I was in Knoxville for an assignment interviewing a musician at the nearby Mill & Mine concert hall. My girlfriend couldn’t make the trip from Waynesville. She was still at work when I hopped in the old truck and motored over the Great Smoky Mountains into East Tennessee.
Belly up to the bar counter and scan the room. Faces staring at the glowing box in the corner with whatever college basketball game was current in progress. Faces headlong in conversation, catching up with old friends. Faces eager to peruse the whiskey menu, the sign above the bar stating: “1,047 whiskies in stock.”
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This must be the place: ‘And faintly bouncing ‘round the room, the echo of whomever spoke’
Order a domestic beer and the steak special. One eight-ounce sirloin with potatoes and green beans. Sip the beer and scan the room once more. Faces sauntering in with instruments in-hand for the weekly Celtic jam sessions. Faces grinning while rehashing old times, the two dudes immediately to my right swapping tall tales of high school and their respective military careers.
I could see my reflection in the large mirror behind the whiskey bottles. More grey hairs than black ones these days. Green eyes staring back at me in acknowledgment of the long, winding road to the here and now. A slight nod to the face in the mirror. He nods back in solidarity of waking up each day and walking out the front door — in search of nothing and everything all at once.
If memory serves correct, it was somewhere around the spring of 2013 when I first came to Boyd’s. My best friend, who I met in Waynesville when I moved to Western North Carolina in 2012, was from Knoxville. And we’d head this way seemingly every weekend. He had his whole friend group from college still in town. Endless opportunities in pursuit of another chaotic Saturday night.
I was in my late 20s then. Nobody was married yet. Long before any of them had children, careers or owned homes. Rental apartments and pre-game drinks or beer pong before hitting the Old City or Market Square. We were so young then, but you never really realize that until you’re older and look back in awe of those fleeting moments of friendship and interaction all swirling together.
And Boyd’s was always the anchor point of any night of chance and happenstance, either before we wandered around the rest of Knoxville or after. It didn’t matter. Either you’re “here” or you’ll “be there soon.” Dusty memories and ghosts of the past remain at the corner of South Central Street and East Jackson Avenue.
Skip ahead to last Thursday evening. I’m 39 now, once again pondering the great mysteries of existence. This consistent thought bordering on an existential crisis of self. Not so much in panic mode, but more so immersive feelings and sentiments about why things are the way they are, why people do what they do, how to best spend your time on this earth and what it means to pursue a life spent in the creative realm of the written word.
Just another curious, vibrating soul sitting alone at the bar counter. Another bag of bones, of blood, tissue and consciousness aiming to push further on down the line of one’s intent. The outer, protective shell of salt and pepper hair, green eyes and tan lines from a recent, yet all too brief, trip to the Florida coast.
The mind wanders and I think of the iconic monologue by the character Sam the Lion in one of my favorite books, James McMurtry’s “The Last Picture Show”: “ You wouldn’t believe how this country’s changed. First time I seen it, there wasn’t a mesquite tree on it; or a prickly pear, neither. I used to own this land, you know. First time I watered a horse at this tank was more than forty years ago. I reckon the reason why I always drag you out here is probably I’m just as sentimental as the next feller when it comes to old times. ”
This bastion of wild-n-out characters, hearty conversation and strong drink, all of which carefully nurtured by an old wood interior, an exterior of bricks laid down long ago. A slight nod to the face in the mirror. He nods back in solidarity of waking up each day and walking out the front door — in search of nothing and everything all at once.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
