This must be the place: ‘Bourbon laughter, ghosts, history falls,to park ing lots and shopping malls’
The Waynesville Plaza Laundromat. Garret K. Woodward photo
Thursday morning. Although the sunshine and blue skies over Western North Carolina seemed rather inviting, it was false pretense as I stepped out onto the front porch and realized that flip-flops were not the ideal choice to battle a cold mid-fall breeze across naked toes.
With laundry basket, detergent and liquid Lysol in-hand, I headed for the tiny laundry room within the small apartment building that houses all of my worldly possessions and that of my girlfriend, too. I’d been under the impression that the washer had been fixed. Upon further inspection, this was not the case, with the water from the supposed final wash before it broke still sitting in the machine.
Shit. Pick up the laundry basket, detergent and liquid Lysol and pack up the backseat of my pickup truck. Onward to the neighborhood laundromat in the Walnut Village Plaza. Putting the vehicle into park, I emerged with my hands full as I approached the front door of the establishment. “Closed. No Water” the crudely-drawn sign stated.
Shit. Pick up the laundry basket, detergent and liquid Lysol and pack up the backseat of my pickup truck. Onward to the other neighborhood laundromat in the Waynesville Plaza. Putting the vehicle into park, I emerged with my hands full as I approached the front door of the establishment. The door opened. Thank the lord.
Mosey on over to an open washer. Drop the basket and such. Head to the change machine with the last of our crumpled-up dollar bills, found hastily in my haphazard writing desk. But, not before noticing a stack of the latest issue of The Smoky Mountain News on a small bench near the coin machine. An issue full of words, stories, emotions and actions that I’d edited just two days earlier before kicking it out the door to the printer for society to consume.
Folks sitting, waiting, wishing. Sitting alone, either on the bench inside or the driver’s seat of their Hyundai Elantra outside. Waiting for their loads of dirty clothes to come to completion, only to do it again the same time next week and the week after that. Wishing to be anywhere but here, maybe that beach they remember fondly from their youth, the one with no tourists and just memories.
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Instead of wasting away from boredom and the oscillation of the washing machines, they reach for a copy of this here publication. Open the newspaper and read about some scruffy writer’s adventures under the article banner “This Must Be the Place.” A photo of a young face with a black beard next to the headline.
The same face in the periodical now standing next to them, unbeknownst to the reader waiting for the second cycle of the dryer to finish. Though these days, the writer’s face sports a lot of white hair and well-earned wrinkles from endless wandering and pondering across this great land of America. That same writer using the change machine and also sitting, waiting, wishing.
Back and forth between the humble abode and the laundromat, seeing as I still need to pack for an impending road trip. This time up to rural Kentucky for a couple of assignments. One for our sister publication, Smoky Mountain Living magazine. The other for The Bluegrass Situation, a national music website based in Los Angeles, the payment of said assignment to pay my bills next month.
Finally, after an hour-and-a-half, I was able to retrieve the laundry. Warm-to-the-touch running clothes, socks, boxers, T-shirts and whatever else has been tossed in haste into the dirty laundry basket. At the apartment, pull the luggage bag out of the closet. Fold up the running clothes, socks, boxes, T-shirts and whatever else one needs for a weekend on the road, on assignment.
Grab the toothbrush and toothpaste. Dental floss and cotton swabs. Washcloth and bar of soap. Nail clippers and earplugs for whatever loud concert I may find myself attending, either on purpose or by happenstance. Don’t forget the new book I’ve recently cracked open (“The Silver Snarling Trumpet: The Birth of The Grateful Dead” by Robert Hunter) and the old-standby that remains by my side through every trial and tribulation of my life since I first purchased it in college and dove in mightily (“The Dharma Bums” by Jack Kerouac).
Throw it all somewhat neatly in the backseat of the pickup truck. Have to stop and fill up the gas tank before I leave town. Oh, and remember to snag the laptop charger and cell-phone charger. Sunglasses and road snacks. Bottles of water and pack of gum.
Clean laundry and perfectly arranged luggage. A full tank of gas and endless adventures, known and unknown, just beyond the horizon of my current position. Don’t forget to kiss the exquisite woman holding down the fort while I’m away. Make sure to assure her that you’ll drive safely and call her when you arrive at the hotel.
Be appreciative of the fleeting moment at hand. Remember how you felt and what you saw. Write it all down to capture it as quickly as it appears and disappears. The wild, wondrous sense of one’s reality on the cusp of the next unwritten chapter of existence.
Thanksgiving Day is nearly upon us. Thoughts of hot cocoa and snowflakes, ice skating and skiing, decorating a tree and maybe a trip to the Grove Park Inn for the annual gingerbread competition all provide a calming sense of self and of my surroundings, albeit for a brief window of time.
The world is uncertain right now. And will remain so for the foreseeable future. I remain an eternal optimist, one with hot cocoa in-hand and sugarplum dreams of a better tomorrow, together.
The holidays are a time to reflect on this past year, for good or ill. Do so in your own ways and means. Do so with grace and civility. Lend a hand. Give a hug. And don’t forget to water the tree.
Life is beautiful, grasp for it, y’all.
