This must be the place: 'Down here in the Bardo's light, in the cycles, days and years'

A&E Columns

This must be the place: 'Down here in the Bardo's light, in the cycles, days and years'

Porch pickin’ in Waynesville. Garret K. Woodward photo

Tuesday afternoon. The clouds are hanging low over the mountains surrounding downtown Waynesville, covering up the actual height and grandeur of these peaks. The urge to walk out of the newsroom, get into my truck and head for the hills to trail run is deep and real.

For now? Put out the newspaper and kick it out the door to the printer. The words, ideas, sentiments and actions of a modern society in motion. Angry political articles. Feel good features. Numbers and statistics. Letters to the editor. Outdoor stories. News about the arts. All wrapped up nicely in this here publication for your consumption.

Memorial Day Weekend already in the rearview mirror. It’s now June. Good lord, how did we get here so fast? It feels like I just took down the Christmas lights and put away my winter clothes. Now its swimming trunks and old coolers dusted off for the shenanigans of an impending summer. Spring flew by, onward down the calendar.

I didn’t end up doing much for the “unofficial kickoff” to summer. It was a rather quiet and solemn Memorial Day Weekend for yours truly. I had high hopes that someone, somewhere would have a barbecue and/or a boat to cruise some body of water with, and would be oh so kind to invite me to partake in the usual traditions of this time of year. But, my cell phone remained silent. Just crickets.

No matter. I found ways to occupy my time. I mean, the news never stops, anyhow, either does the incessant typing of my fingertips across this laptop keyboard. Tap, tap, tap. Put whatever is ricocheting around my mind onto the blank page. Endless words, sentences and paragraphs, all in an effort to make a connection with you dear reader. The intent in doing so remains genuine and true.

I spent the weekend doing a bevy of things that I usually don’t have time to do or I’m out of town so often I just don’t get around to it. It’s crazy how you stand there in your living room and realize how long it has been since you’ve taken inventory of your life at home and what you’ve placed in it. The allure of the open road will do that to you.

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Cleaning my humble abode apartment. Rearranging my bookshelf. Playing some vinyl on the record player. Pickin’ my guitar on the front porch. Going for a leisurely four-mile jog around Lake Junaluska. Cruising Main Street with nowhere to be, at my own pace. Enjoying a steak and glass of wine at Singletree Heritage Kitchen.

I even sat down and wrote some poetry. Back in the day, before newspaper deadlines and endless assignments, I’d sit in diners in my native North Country and write poetry alongside journal entries about nothing and everything. Below was a poem I felt inspired to construct the other day while eating breakfast at Waffle House.

The teenage couple bounced
Through the door of Waffle House
They quickly were standing next to me
As I sat at the counter next to the register
“Let me order for you. I know what you want.”
The young boy asserted through a smile
“Nooooo.”
The young girl whined playfully
“She’ll have a Texas bacon, egg and cheese melt,
hashbrowns smothered.
I’ll have a sausage hashbrown bowl.
And can we have this to go?”
The overworked server smiled
Quickly rushing away to put out other fires
On both sides of the counter
The couple went outside and waited on the curb
I remember the days of young love
Of thinking you had it
All figured out
All nailed down
All planned out
Only to let life itself make itself known
The ticking clock of people, places and things
I remember her, too
She’s somewhere with three kids
And a happy marriage, nice big house
I remember when we’d get breakfast
Some café in the Adirondack Mountains
Teenage love that felt unbreakable
Shit, that was 24 years ago
I don’t even have to think of the math
I see the crow’s feet and grey hair in the mirror
“This is torture.”
The cook jokes from the stove
“Ah, you only have eight hours left.”
The other cook responds in jest
I remember when I worked fast food
Breakfast and lunch at McDonald’s
Along the bustling I-87 corridor
Along the Canadian Border
The only place a kid could work
In a place with few other options
Besides the marina in the summer
Or the local pizza shop year-round
I remember making Egg McMuffins
And endless Big Macs
Alongside my old school bus driver
Who worked there in the summer
All my measly paycheck went to was
Gas, grass or concert tickets
All of which connected, all sought after
Finish up my Waffle House dish
Finish up the last of the watered-down coffee
Finish the last page of this chapter
In this book about Texas, written in 1970
The main character is in Amarillo
I’ve only been there once myself
It was September 2009
En route from Burning Man to New York
Side trips and quests took forever
Driving I-40 across the Panhandle
The middle of the night, only stars high above
A blanket of darkness across the flat prairie
I awoke on a couch in a living-room
Home of the sister of a girl I was once fond of awhile back
Who was now somewhere back there in Phoenix
My mind at that moment thinking of the impending future
This girl waiting back for me in the North Country
This girl I’d figure I’d probably marry someday
I was pretty darn sure that’d be the case
But, she got to me and broke my heart
Before I could afford to purchase the ring
No matter, I was still pretty young, age 24
Sixteen years ago
“You load sixteen tons, what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt.”
As Tennessee Ernie Ford once sang
It’s Memorial Day, a day of freedom
Especially for teenage couples
With nothing but time on their side
Whereas I’m wishing the
Bank was open to cash a check
Post office was open to mail something
Mechanic shop was open for an oil change
Finish the Amarillo chapter of the Western book
Slide the coffee cup towards the counter edge
To signify the completion of my culinary experience
Pay the bill, head out the door
Put the truck into drive, tap the gas pedal
Those Blue Ridge Mountains cradling us
Are ancient, beautiful and haunting
As are the memories within