Hello from Room 322 at the Fairfield Inn, located in Binghamton, New York. Exactly one year ago, I stayed in this same room. No joke, this is where I was placed. And, oh, how much has changed and, well, come to pass in this last calendar year since I laid down in this bed, since I opened up the drapes and looked out the same window onto the interstate traffic below. 

I only met Bob Weir once. It was backstage at the long gone Gathering of the Vibes music festival located on the shoreline of the Long Island Sound in Bridgeport, Connecticut. It was the summer of 2009 and I was 24 years old, myself an aspiring journalist for a now-defunct music magazine. 

It was 40 years ago this month that I first heard the name of the small creek in Jackson County that would eventually become our home, Moses Creek. Becky and I had been renting a house in Cullowhee in 1984 from a landlady who kept threatening to up the rent on us, even though we’d told her at the get-go that we, newlyweds from eastern North Carolina, had no more ”up” to give. But a year in, after still another monthly phone call from her, I turned to Becky and said, “Let’s see if there’s something we can afford to buy.” 

In the 1970s, Grand Funk Railroad was one of the bestselling American rock bands on the planet. To that, in 1971, the Flint, Michigan, trio broke the Beatles ticket sales record at New York’s Shea Stadium, a feat coinciding with GFR having six platinum albums and seven gold within the original lineup’s short tenure (1969-1976). Oh, and another thing — the songs still rock, too. 

Late Monday morning. While taking a sip of my coffee at the Main Street Diner in Waynesville, I scanned the room at the tables filled with faces enjoying warm meals and hearty conversation. It was at that very moment when I started thinking about this anonymous postcard I received several years ago. 

Hello from Room 1001 at the Cambria hotel in downtown Asheville. It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m currently sitting at this writing desk (pictured), I’m overlooking the intersection of Haywood Street and Page Avenue, the Harrah’s Cherokee Center and former George Vanderbilt Hotel within sight. 

Thanksgiving morning. I awoke to the sounds of my upstairs neighbor scurrying about, most likely getting things together for whatever he has planned for Turkey Day. Nearby Russ Avenue is oddly quiet. Nobody is heading to work. The incessant construction has ceased for the day, too. 

It was a Friday afternoon a few weeks ago, and I was chafing. Perhaps you saw me. I was that 65-ish guy with sunglasses and a ball cap standing outside the REACH second-hand store in downtown Hazelwood. My lovely wife, my beautiful daughter and my spectacular three-month-old grandson are inside, browsing.

In the midst of eating my third hard-boiled egg of the morning, I overheard the young couple at the next breakfast table mention to their server that they’d gotten married this past Saturday. 

Taking a sip of my second cup of coffee, my gaze went from the newlyweds to the nearby roaring fireplace, then out the big glass windows onto the picturesque pond on the side lawn of the majestic property. 

About a month ago, my neighbor sent a text asking if I wanted some of her fresh basil which was growing in abundance. Together, we clipped a bagful of the herb, then she loaned me her “Moosewood Cookbook” so I could use the basil to follow the book’s pesto recipe. That afternoon, I made the most delicious homemade pesto pasta that even the pickiest eater in the house loved.