The trifecta.

By this past Monday morning, I was running on fumes heading back to my humble abode in downtown Waynesville in preparation for the solar eclipse. Three nights. Three bands. Three genres of music — and also attitudes — that shaped who I ultimately am today.

“Darkness cannot drive out darkness, only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate, only love can do that.”

— Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

In the 1980 cult classic film “The Blues Brothers,” Jake and Elwood are stuck in traffic as a Nazi rally blocks the bridge they need to cross. When they ask a nearby police officer about what’s going on, the officer shrugs, “Ah, those bums won their court case, so they’re marching today.” Jake replies, “What bums?” The officer shoots back, “The f**ckin’ Nazi party.”

At 2:35 p.m. on Aug. 21, Western North Carolina residents and visitors will have the chance to watch as the moon moves fully in front of the sun for the first time in 26 years.

Ten years ago this week I left my native Upstate New York for my first journalism gig out of college in the tiny mountain town of Driggs, Idaho.

In the annals of bluegrass history, the chapter on multi-instrumentalist Tim O’Brien is not only long and bountiful, it’s also ongoing — a continual evolution of string music and melodic exploration. O’Brien hails from Wheeling, West Virginia, home of the WWVA Jamboree, which — since 1933 — is one of the most popular country and variety radio programs, second in longevity after the “Grand Ole Opry.”

As a teenager, O’Brien dropped out of college in 1973 and hit the road with dreams of becoming a professional musician. By the late 1970s, he ended up in Colorado, forming the groundbreaking newgrass act Hot Rize (which won the first International Bluegrass Music Association award for “Entertainer of the Year” in 1990).

It does mean something.

Sitting in the darkness of the Grail Moviehouse last Thursday, this overwhelming feeling of deep sadness and endless curiosity washed over me. It was as if everything I’ve ever known, ever thought about or questioned, meant nothing at all — a huge waste of time, a merciless vacuum of birth, death, and destruction.

It’s 12:15 p.m. Sunday.

On a normal weekend, Tipping Point Brewing in downtown Waynesville would have been open for 45 minutes, its craft beer being poured to numerous local residents and summer tourists. But, this past Sunday, the front doors were locked, with owner/brewmaster Jon Bowman sitting inside. He watched as, one-by-one, confused people try to open the door, looking at their watches, looking around for an answer — one that Bowman holds.

Happy birthday, Captain Trips.

On this day (Aug. 1) some 75 years ago, Jerome Garcia was born in San Francisco. You might not recognize the name Jerome, but a lightbulb may click on when you remember him by his nickname: Jerry.

This one? This one hurt.

When I heard Thursday afternoon about the tragic suicide of Chester Bennington, lead singer for Linkin Park, I was taken back, as if someone had punched me in the chest. Suddenly, dozens of memories started flooding my field-of-vision. I remember listening to their groundbreaking mix of hard rock and hip-hop in middle school, seeing them in Montreal in high school, and always blasting their melodies before track-and-field meets all throughout my adolescence and early adulthood.

I was about an hour late.

Rolling up to the Swain County Business Education & Training Center in Bryson City last Saturday morning, I slammed the brakes of the old truck into the parking space, grabbed my box of books and headed for the front entrance.

Heading up Hemphill Road, just outside of Maggie Valley, the lush fields and bungalow homes of Jonathan Creek fade into the rearview mirror. Pulling up to a large metal gate, it opens slowly and you soon find yourself meandering a dirt road, pushing ever so carefully toward the top of the 5,000-foot ridge.

Those who forget history, tend to...

Well, you know the rest. Nowadays, it seems each morning we awaken into another national and international crisis. Be afraid of the Russian influence on America. Be afraid of nuclear war. Be afraid of presidential and political scandals. Be afraid of the Middle East and terrorism. Be afraid of racial and social divides. Be afraid of economic depression and lack of employment.

I remembered those places, and those faces.

Scrolling through Facebook — through the “fun in the sun” Fourth of July photos — in my office on Monday morning, I couldn’t help but have this feeling of longing to see and interact with friends and family celebrating the holiday weekend back home in Upstate New York.

Sitting at a booth in the back of her store on recent morning, Allison Lee remembers the days long ago when her father ran a small-town business.

“My father was an independent store owner, a dime store, then later a hardware store,” she recalled. “I grew up on a Main Street in a small town, and when I was young I worked for my parents. I learned to count back change, ring things up on the old register. And it always meant a lot to my family about who the customers were, and how you serve the community. When he passed away some 17 years ago, some of the first people to land on my mother’s door were longtime customers.”

It’s the hardest part of this gig.

As a journalist for just about a decade, I’ve been lucky enough to interview and photograph hundreds of folks, from all walks of life, that, perhaps, I may have never had the chance to interact with had I pursued another career path.

It was weird.

Driving around downtown Canton this past weekend, it was weird to have a hard time finding a parking space. In most Western North Carolina communities during the busy summer tourist season, this is the norm. But, for the blue-collar paper mill town of Canton, finding a parking spot has never been an issue. 

I look forward to it these days.

Calling my dad at the end of the day. With my parents still living in my native Upstate New York, I find myself dialing the old man almost every night, just to shoot the bull. With our conversations normally hovering around the matters of the day — politically and socially — we then knock it down a notch, talking about sports, family, or simply telling one tall tale after another, usually with some hearty laughter echoing from the other end of the line.

If you want to understand the history of bluegrass music, you need to look at its entire spectrum — of sound, of intent — as one large tree. With the deep, sturdy roots that are Bill Monroe, Jimmy Martin, Dr. Ralph Stanley, and so on, the trunk is the culmination of those roots, with each growing branch another avenue of creative possibility and sonic exploration.

Three up. Three down.

It took over 30 years, but Harold Sims can now show the world.

“It’s been very rewarding,” he said. “I wanted to have a cat shelter, I made that come true. I wanted to have a cat museum, and I made that come true. It’s like the movie ‘Field of Dreams’ — ‘if you build it, they will come.’”

I’m exhausted.

I think y’all out there reading this can attest to the pure exhaustion — of body, mind and soul — these last couple of years. If the presidential election wasn’t physically and emotionally draining enough, it feels like every morning I get up, well, it’s another go-round on this rollercoaster of an administration, of a modern world struggling with its identity and priorities.

To say Doyle Lawson has had a full career would be an understatement.

Nowadays, Lawson is regarded as a pillar of the bluegrass world. But, at 73, he still feels as if he’s just getting started, where a never-ending reservoir of creativity and enthusiasm spills out onto the stage each night.

Editor’s Note: After heading to his native Upstate New York last week to give the eulogy at his aunt’s funeral, Garret was also asked to marry off his best friend, Andy, this past weekend in Knoxville, Tennessee. Andy and Garret crossed paths almost five years ago when both relocated to Waynesville for work at the same time. Being strangers in a new town (Andy moved from Knoxville), with no familiarity nearby, they became fast friends, ultimately best friends. About a year later, Andy met and began dating Ashley, the love of his life. He then relocated to Knoxville, with Garret visiting the couple often. When Andy proposed to Ashley, he decided, being an only child, to ask his father to be his best man. With that, Andy and Ashley then asked Garret to be the officiant, who would bring them together in holy matrimony in front of their closest friends and family members. Below is the speech Garret wrote and gave in front of the congregation before the rings were exchanged ...

The roaring of the plane engine shook me awake.

Coasting into the skies over Newark, New Jersey, the flight was headed to Knoxville, then it was another hour-and-a-half car ride back to Waynesville. It had been a long week, and an even longer year, as I sipped my screwdriver and got lost in my thoughts.

The key element of bluegrass music is the “unspoken” — in practice, in performance and in personality. 

Whether you’re 8 years old or 80, the foundation of bluegrass lies in its traditions, where knowledge and technique is passed down through the generations. That transition of wisdom is found while strumming in a field at a festival with strangers, chugging along onstage in the heat of a jam with your friends, or pickin’ and grinnin’ on a back porch with family members.

It came as a shock that has had a ripple effect within music circles around Western North Carolina and beyond.

I didn’t know what to say.

Standing in the doorway of the music venue, he said it so casually. 

It’s brutal honesty.

Within the wide-spectrum of creative mediums, standup comedy may just be the most vulnerable and jarring of the artisan crafts. Standing in front of a roomful of strangers, all staring at you, comedians peel back the layers of who we think they are, who they think they are, and who they actually are — warts and all.

So, you have the talent, imagination and output of an artist. But, do you also have the drive, business savvy and staying power?

“Tell your story, get involved in your community, and share your passion,” said Brad Dodson.

It was during the first sip of my second beer when it struck me.

“Let’s go see Dave Davies.”

It’s as timeless as the soundtrack of our lives, regardless of age.

When you listen to big band music, you either remember where you were when these melodies first hit the airwaves or you remember hearing them as a kid at your grandparents’ house. The sounds of a full orchestra — led by the likes of Glenn Miller, Duke Ellington, Tommy Dorsey or Benny Goodman — conjure immediate memories. It’s well-earned emotions of love, heartbreak, happiness and sadness, all wrapped together in the musical notes and songbird vocals of the singular force that is big band.

It was immediately familiar. 

Stepping into the Canton Middle School last Friday morning, the sights, sounds and smells of the building transported my mind back to when I was 13 years old some two decades ago. There was the sights of teachers and administrators meandering up and down long corridors, sounds of young teenage boys and girls playfully teasing and laughing with each other, smells of an old gymnasium and predictable cafeteria food.

I had just reached for the eggplant parmesan sandwich when it was asked.

“What do you think about God?”

It’s about finding your center. 

Though they’re hundreds of miles from the closest ocean, the members of Sylva-based Positive Mental Attitude (PMA) have concocted a formula of reggae soul unique to the mountains of Western North Carolina. It’s more about an uplifting and relaxed state of mind rather than actual sandy toes and salt water. 

I remembered immediately.

Scrolling through the Facebook stream on Monday afternoon, I came across a post from a dear high school friend who had some sad news to share. A mutual friend of ours, from way back up on the Canadian border, in my native North Country, had suddenly and tragically passed away the night before.