You can’t help but smile.

Watching old clips of “On The Road” with Charles Kuralt, you find yourself in a headspace of familiarity. Not so much nostalgia as it is a trip down memory lane, when folks actually looked forward to watching the news, or at least those “CBS News Sunday Morning” episodes where Kuralt was as much a part of an enjoyable breakfast as bacon, eggs and a strong cup of coffee.

It was the shortest funeral service I’ll likely ever attend. And though there were tears and somber conversations, there were also a lot of happy, smiling people. And for good reason.

Joyce Jones — Aunt Joyce to me — passed away March 22 at 91 years old. Her husband, Uncle Robert, also 91, had died on March 4. Took her 18 days to be reunited with her man, the guy she had been married to for 74 years. A perfectly fitting end to one hell of a life together. What’s not to like about that?

In conversation, Art Garfunkel is as poignant and whimsical as his music. The strong, heartfelt emotion behind his thoughts and words swirl around both sides of the conversation. At 76, he’s still that kid wanting you to play in the sandbox with him. 

Sure, he was one half of Simon & Garfunkel, a cornerstone of American music, whose folk melodies will forever be played so long as raindrops fall outside your window or you’re in need of a backroad cruise on a lazy afternoon to clear your mind, ready to open yourself up to the possibilities of a new tomorrow. But, like his timeless music, the depths of Garfunkel have no accurate measure. 

Somewhere around central South Carolina my mind began to drift. 

Cape Cod.

Well, to be more specific, the small seaside town of Chatham, Massachusetts, on the southeastern coast of Cape Cod. April 20, 1999. My family and I emerged from our old Nissan Quest minivan to check into our bed and breakfast for spring break. 

My life is starting to even out. And while I’m happy about this, a peaceful, comfortable life doesn’t offer as much column fodder as a melancholy, tragic one. 

Five years ago, my mom found out she had breast cancer. Then a year after that, when she was in remission, she was diagnosed with multiple myeloma, a rare blood cancer. It was complications from multiple myeloma that ultimately took her life. 

Hola.

I’ve been saying that an awful lot while currently down here in Cancun, Mexico. Ten days of feet-in-the-sand with a cold-drink-in-my-hand. Isn’t that the words to a county song or something? If not, should be, eh?

So, what do you make of it all?

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.

The crunching kept catching my attention.

After finding a scarce parking space, it was a short, careful stroll from the Montford neighborhood of downtown Asheville to the U.S. Cellular Center for the 29th annual Christmas Jam last Saturday evening.