I ski in jeans. There, I said it. And I’ve been doing it for years — as far back as I can remember. Ever since I was a child, when the snowflakes started to drift down from the heavens, I hit the slopes. And this past week, the pickins’ were ripe in Western North Carolina.

My first time was in a navy blue 1991 Toyota Camry.

My first time hearing The Beatles, that is. Like the first time you kissed a loved one, that initial introduction to the Fab Four stopped you in your tracks, where time itself seemed to slow down, and all was clear and right in the world, at least for that moment in your existence.

What does the “K” stand for?

“It stands for Kavanagh,” I told the lady behind the counter. “My mother’s maiden name, now my middle name.”

The end is near.

On Feb. 5, I’ll turn 29 years old — the last official birthday of my young adulthood. I’ve always subscribed to the adage “you’re only as old as you feel,” and though I’ve never been one to really care about age, this damn number seems to stick out to me like some neon sign on the horizon. 

If Keith Richards had been born below the Mason-Dixon Line, his name might have been Mike Cooley.

Hailing from the Green Mountains of Burlington, Vt., The DuPont Brothers have emerged as a breath of fresh air in an often stifling, suffocating music industry. 

The train came to a halt. Looking out the foggy window, a cold, snowy landscape awaited me. 

“The current temperature is 10 below zero. Make sure you all bundle up. It’s like Siberia out there,” the conductor said over the loudspeaker. 

Every Jan. 1, a clean slate arrives. It’s a chance to start over, to push into exciting pursuits where curiosity roams free. The past year is already in the history books. Everyone has returned to square one — a level playing field where the possibilities are endless.

Who in the hell is that?

Standing on the porch at Camp Hope in Bethel, I found myself in amazement of the sound echoing from the nearby pavilion. It was the inaugural Shining Rock Riverfest this past September. The voice was that of Indigo Blue Desouza.

Next week will mark my second Christmas in Western North Carolina. And, like last year, I won’t be making it back home to Upstate New York for the festivities. This has also been the case for Thanksgiving and New Year’s Eve.