Ricardo Fernandez is a renowned chef, master gardener and also a former national diving champion, but there’s one thing he can’t do.

“I’ve tried to get my hair to grow back, but it doesn’t work,” he laughed.

Heading west on Highway 76, the last of the warm sunshine falls behind the silent Blue Ridge Mountains. With the small town of Clayton, Georgia in the rearview mirror, your eyes aim ahead intently. At the last second, you see Persimmon Road on your right. Not enough time to place your blinker on, but just enough of a moment to tap your brakes and yank the wheel down the road, which shoots out for miles into the backwoods of Southern Appalachia.

There are singers, there are performers, and then there’s Laura Reed. 

Wandering the numerous floors and stages of New Mountain Asheville (a wild, freewheelin’ venue) last February, I eventually found myself downstairs in the main room, immersed in a sea of joyous faces, all eager to boogie down to legendary New Orleans funk-n-soul group Dumpstaphunk (featuring Ivan Neville).

Byron Ballard is one misunderstood witch.

“There is this whole cultural mythology that witches aren’t human. They’re seen as these otherworldly creatures,” she said. “Then, you have this Hollywood icon in films, and with things like ‘American Horror Story’ or ‘Sabrina The Teenage Witch,’ these beloved characters, but that’s not who we are or what we’re about.”

Thirty-eight is Noah McIntee’s favorite number these days. “For a lot of folks, we’re not the sleeper hit anymore,” he said. “We’ve surged fast and have gotten a great hold on the market share.”

Head brewer and general manager of Lazy Hiker Brewing in Franklin, McIntee is full steam ahead with the recent distribution deal the company signed. In their first seven months of operation, Lazy Hiker has become a mainstay in six Western North Carolina counties (Macon, Swain, Jackson, Clay, Cherokee and Graham). That number will increase to 38 counties as it join forces with Skyland Distributing in Asheville.

The alarm went off on my phone. Monday morning. 6:45 a.m.

Throwing my father’s old Dodge Dakota into park, I stepped out of the truck and felt the crunch of snow and ice beneath my feet.

It is quite the conundrum, ain’t it?

In an era where mainstream radio hits are shellacked in “sugar and spice and everything nice,” there is an underbelly of sorrow, redemption and flawed beauty (the only true kind of beauty) that is slowly emerging from the depths.

I cracked the foamy Sam Adams Boston Lager and relaxed into my seat. Christmas Eve. Red-eye flight. Charlotte to Burlington, Vermont. All in an effort to be in the living room of my parent’s farmhouse in the morning to watch my year-and-a-half old niece open her mountain of gifts.

With each impending New Year, we tend to take a look back and reflect on just what made the last 365 days unique to the folks of Western North Carolina. Just when you think you couldn’t top the past and its special moments, another year of unknown beauty and milestones is revealed.

And for 2015, it was another banner year in the world of arts and entertainment. From brewery expansions to national music awards, and everything in between, we all once again either witnessed or participated in the glorious essence of Southern Appalachia — a region as magical and mesmerizing as the people who inhabit it.

Cheers to 2015. Onward and upward in 2016.

Standing in the lobby of North Canton Elementary School last Friday morning, one could hear and witness the frenzied nature of students and faculty alike, all eager for the upcoming holidays. And though Christmas is just around the corner, one might think otherwise with the unusually green front lawn and warm sunshine cascading across the mountains of Western North Carolina.

SEE ALSO:
• The man behind the white beard
• The gift of reading

Passing by doorways full of smiling faces, the cinematic sounds of “The Polar Express” and Christmas music echo down the hallways. Turning into Mrs. Christina Roberts and Mrs. Carol Harkins kindergarten classroom, the teachers are wrangling all 15 of their students that day in preparation to get the space in order for their special guests.

She grabbed for my hand and held it up.

“No ring, huh? You should meet my daughter sometime. Single. Beautiful. I think y’all would get along pretty well.”

So, you’re from Canada? Not quite, but close. Growing up on the Canadian border, most folks there don’t really take notice of where they live, or how odd it perhaps may seem to reside so close to a foreign country because, well, it’s always been that way, you know?

It is the litmus test of a community.

The arts. If you want to know how well a society functions, where its heart lies, then look no further than the strength and vitality of its creative minds and the art councils that support and showcase their work.

America, I’m tired. I’m tired of the violence, the bloodshed, the yelling, the anger, the hate, the misinformation, the way we mistreat others, the way we lie to each other and to ourselves, about what it is we see outside our windows and in our bathroom mirrors.

Twenty-seven years is a long time for anything.

“It amazing to me that it’s still going on,” Warren Haynes said. “It’s getting bigger and better every year, and I don’t think we would have predicted that when we started it years ago.”

SEE ALSO: Haywood Habitat looks to 2016

It’s awfully quiet in here. As the rest of the newspaper heads out the door for home (or somewhere they used to call “home”), I sit at my desk. Relaxing back into my chair and staring out of the window, I’m not looking at anything in particular, with thoughts drifting into that bluebird sky outside.

It’s been a dream come true for Kelsie Baker.

“This first year has really been a whirlwind of learning and getting our feet under us,” she said. “The public reception has been beyond what we could have hoped for, and we want to do everything we can to keep people excited and proud to have us here.”

It’s a feeling that Chris Bates can’t shake. “Being outside, in the winter, on the mountain — there’s nothing like it,” he said. “There’s a sense of exhilaration when you’re on a pair of skis. It’s a rush I’ve never gotten enough of.”

Bates, who has been the general manager at Cataloochee Ski Area for 17 years, is sitting inside the main lodge high above Maggie Valley this past Monday morning. Gazing out the windows onto the snowy slopes, the troves of eager skiers and snowboarders already cruising down the mountain, Bates can’t help to be excited that the 54th season at “Cat” got underway this week.

What happened, America? Since when are we such a disheartened country? Sure, you might not want the Syrian refugees here. And yes, you have a right to, and should, be worried at the atrocities committed abroad (Paris, Beirut, Africa, etcetera). Of course, we have our own problems at home, lots of problems — childhood poverty, homeless veterans, outdated infrastructure, a lacking educational system, haphazard health care, just to name a few. But, I urge all of you, to stop the hate, stop pointing fingers and yelling as loud as you can.

Catch him if you can. For the better part of the last 25 years, Scott Weiland has been a moving target within the music industry. Lightning struck twice for the singer, as a front man for both Stone Temple Pilots and Velvet Revolver, two of the most successful rock acts in the modern era. And yet, with success, comes a price.

“David Holt’s State of Music — Live” will take to the stage from 3 to 5:30 p.m. Sunday, Nov. 22, in the John W. Bardo Fine and Performing Arts Center at Western Carolina University.

Acts scheduled to join Holt, an icon of traditional music and storytelling, are international sensation Rhiannon Giddens of the Carolina Chocolate Drops, award-winning bluegrass favorites Balsam Range, emerging ballad singer Josh Goforth, and the African-American gospel duo of Wilbur Tharpe and Lena Mae Perry, performing as The Branchettes.

It’s the most important job outside of the home. Teachers. Those folks in front of the classroom trying to make sense of the world around you, trying to push you into new realms of your thought process, all while balancing common sense, critical thinking and camaraderie with your peers.

“Some may never live, but the crazy never die.” It’s a quote by Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, a writer whose influence on my life and ultimate career path can never be understated.

One gets hungry strolling downtown Sylva these days. For a town of around 2,600 residents, there sure are a lot of savory scents wafting from restaurants and cafes in seemingly every direction.

I got it. Growing up outside of Burlington, Vermont, I came out of the womb with a Phish album in-hand. Founded in The Queen City, the jam act was the soundtrack we blasted in our cars and the melodies we danced to frantically at shows — the group we pledged our allegiance to.

It’s my favorite time of the year. There is nothing like fall. To me, this season isn’t about pumpkin lattes, pumpkin ice cream, pumpkin beer, and all along down the line of things pumpkin. It isn’t about an excuse to wear new boots, scarves or leggings. It isn’t even about screaming at the top of your lungs at a football game.

About halfway between Bryson City and the Nantahala Outdoor Center, a small, unassuming building sits alongside the road. The structure is only a stone’s throw from the bustling intersection of U.S. 64 and N.C. 28, and inside Elise Willa Pincu Delfield is at her potter’s wheel, silently spinning magic.

It’s about chipping away. When you come into this world, you’re a block of unknown potential. Untouched and ready to be molded into whatever shape and size your ultimate destiny takes. And those lines and curves of your being come from experience, from wandering and discovering, on your own, just what you’re made of.

Heading north on State Road 135, just outside the small town of Nashville, Indiana, the stretch of pavement curves along a mountain ridge, as if you’re rolling along the spine of a snake. Though the last rays of summer are still holding strong back in Western North Carolina, fall colors had spilled onto the endless landscape of multi-colored trees and sheered cornfields in the heartland of America.

SEE ALSO: Stand tall or don’t stand at all A conversation with Raymond Fairchild

With Nashville in the rearview mirror, you roll up and down the foothills of rural Brown County. Soon, a large bright yellow sign appears to your right. You almost have to slam your brakes when it makes itself known at the last second. In big letters it states, “Bill Monroe’s Memorial Music Park & Campground — Home of the Brown County Jamboree.”

He sat two seats up from me. In seventh grade advanced algebra class, Tom Pearo was your typical late-1990s kid. A bowl cut atop his head, with Airwalk everything for attire, I first noticed him when he turned around to talk to Susan Seymour.

It was another banner year for Western North Carolina bluegrass acts at the International Bluegrass Music Association awards in Raleigh last Thursday evening. 

Despite torrential downpours, and the possible threat of Hurricane Joaquin making landfall, the industry showcase once again brought together musicians, promoters and bluegrass fans alike for a week of memorable moments, onstage and off.

So, you’re Canadian?

Not quite, y’all. During my three years living here in Western North Carolina, I’ve lost count of the amount of times folks have asked me that question. They want to know where I’m from, how did I end up in Waynesville, and since when did I pick up a southern twang in my speech?

Variety is the spice of life. Within the realm of music, those spices can range from the hot heat of New Orleans funk and the Chicago blues to the sweet taste of California sunshine soul and Nashville front porch singer-songwriters. 

And yet, where does the largest spice rack of sound reside? Well, in Southern Appalachia of course. Right in our own backyard you have the crossroads — literally and figuratively — of bluegrass, country, rock-n-roll, jazz, blues and folk tones. This melting pot of melodies flows down these steep mountains, from the deep hollers, backwoods coves, dark basements, old garages and rickety barns of Western North Carolina.

Standing in her Dillsboro studio, potter Zan Barnes can’t help but smile. “If you told me in high school that this is what I’d be doing, I’d have laughed in your face — absolutely not,” the 32-year-old said.

A second-generation potter, Barnes is tucked away in her own little Zen den. Next to her at all times is Zelda, a rescued Great Dane as gentle as she is large. The wooden structure is long and winding, with a low-hanging roof, where blocks of clay, buckets of water, countless shelves and finished items reside — all under a grove of trees, a stone’s thrown from the main house of the Riverwood Shops along the Tuckasegee River.

The blazing Knoxville sun was quickly falling to the west, heading further down the road to Memphis and points beyond. Rocketing down Interstate 40, I shot into The Marble City, merging onto Neyland Drive.

I just wanted to break 18 minutes. Taking a seat in Ms. Trudeau’s second period social studies class, all I had on my mind was the impending cross-country race that afternoon. I was in 11th grade, captain of the high school team, and poised to set another personal record on our home course once the dismissal bell rang. But, for now, it was cracking open our books and learning about American history in some sort of structured fashion.

Standing behind the counter of High Country Tire, Summer McMahan is a long way from the bright lights of New York City.

Outside the shop and convenience store, cars zip and zoom by nonstop down U.S. 441, either coming from Dillsboro to the north or Franklin to the south. And though the 22-year-old is busy ringing up purchases or talking up the locals who make a stop to High Country as part of their daily routine, McMahan thoughts keep drifting back to the Big Apple, back to Radio City Music Hall where she recently took the stage to perform on the NBC hit show “America’s Got Talent.”

It’s funny, isn’t it? When you cross paths with folks you haven’t seen in years, and yet you are all still on the same page, where it feels no time has past since your last rendezvous.