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.

What started as a backyard game one afternoon has turned into a passionate career for Nathan Lowe.

“I just got addicted to playing cornhole,” the 28-year-old chuckled.

Lowe was at his sister’s college graduation party at North Carolina State in Raleigh. He got teamed up with his father, Randy, to play in a casual cornhole tournament. Though the duo had never tossed previously, they ended up beating everyone that day.

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. 

By Colby Dunn • Correspondent

If someone asked you to describe the world of competitive, non-electronic gaming, your first thought might be poker, perhaps followed closely by chess. Dungeons and Dragons might get a mention in there somewhere, but cribbage probably wouldn’t be the first thing that popped into your mind. 

But this centuries-old game — which dates back to the 17th-century English balladeer Sir John Suckling — is still enjoyed by thousands around the country and the world, including Western North Carolina’s Reservation Peggers, or Res Peggers for short. With the distinction of being the only cribbage club on an Indian reservation, they are a group of anywhere from just a handful of committed players to 14, 15 or more who get together weekly to battle it out in this fast-paced card game. 

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.

Supposedly just 8 percent of Americans who make a New Year’s resolution keep it.

The obvious reason is human beings just aren’t very good at self improvement. But some resolutions are doomed from the start.

Like many of you, I’ve been amassing Christmas presents for months now — stocking up at consignment sales, cruising craigslist for good deals, and slipping irresistible stocking stuffers into the shopping basket when the kids aren’t looking. There’s something slightly exhilarating about shepherding bags of future presents into the house undetected and squirreling them way on the top shelves of cupboards and in corners of the basement.