Tucked in the corner booth at a dive bar in Maggie Valley on Monday afternoon, I slid across the vinyl seating across from the young couple. They’d already ordered a couple drinks, mozzarella sticks and some fried grouper bites. Some Lynyrd Skynyrd song was blasting from the front bar. 

Sitting down at the old wooden kitchen table in the kitchen of my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, all is quiet save for the sounds of the burping coffee pot on the counter and a few birds in the trees outside the nearby screen door.

With the Mason-Dixon Line in the rearview mirror, I pushed the accelerator down and proceeded to make my way up Interstate 81 North towards the Pennsylvania/New York border. 

I first got word about Steph Wilkins while sitting in the kitchen at an old flame’s parents’ house in the small, desolate Adirondack Mountain town of Tupper Lake, New York. 

When I travel and tell someone I’m from Waynesville, a small town nestled in the Smoky Mountains, the comment is always met with awe and excitement.

By Sabrina Matheny • Rumble Contributor | 

‘Tis the season is not only a motto for the Christmas holidays, but also an apt way to describe the craziness that is the month of May when you’re managing schedules, events, birthdays, celebrations, practices, banquets, end-of-year parties and final exams for five children. As school comes to a close and summer teases the horizon, life becomes a chaotic mixture of busyness, excitement and sentimental moments.

All of my childhood memories include my older sister, Savannah. She and I did some pretty weird and funny things when we were little girls, but because we were together, it all seemed like one big exciting shared adventure. 

My Aunt Lillie fed raccoons at her house as long as I can remember, generations of them. When I was at her house a couple of months ago to visit, my brother called and I had to step outside to get a better signal. As we were talking, three raccoons appeared from around the corner of the house no more than 10 feet away and walked upright into the garage as slowly and deliberately as plump, little senators reporting to congress. Lunch time. 

It was a matter of $50 when my father finally relented to his birthday celebration. In the depths of The Classic Wineseller in downtown Waynesville on Saturday evening, several friends and family came together to celebrate the old man — aka: “the curly wolf,” better known as Frank.