Garret K. Woodward
Somewhere around Schroon Lake, New York, just following a quick hike in the Adirondack Mountains, it was decided to head further down Interstate 87 to I-78, onward through Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, to get to Raleigh, North Carolina, for the International Bluegrass Music Association award show last Thursday.
It’s never easy to go home. And I think it only seems to get harder, perhaps more abstract and blurry, as one gets older — further and farther between from the starting line, literally and figuratively. Case-in-point, I recently returned home to my native North Country.
It’s 9:54 a.m. Tuesday. I’m sitting at the old wooden kitchen table at my parents’ farmhouse in rural Upstate New York, within close range of the Canadian border, just a few farm fields away from the mighty, ancient Lake Champlain.
It’s 11 a.m. Monday. Currently sitting in the rec room of my aunt’s high-end apartment complex on the outskirts of Charlotte.
In the winter of 1978, Terryll Evans was a ninth grader in Orlando, Florida. But, by March, she and her family would pack up everything and move hundreds of miles away to the mountains of Haywood County — an unknown landscape for the teenager.
The alarm on my smart phone echoed throughout the small cabin. It was 7:30 a.m. Saturday and I had to be somewhere in an hour — hopping onto a saddle for an early morning horse ride.
Emerging from the rental car, a slight drizzle from an early evening storm rolled across the high-desert landscape of Morrison, Colorado. The Western skies overhead turned dark and ominous, only to quickly retreat and head for the skyline of nearby Denver.
Covered in sweat, I was about three miles into a Friday afternoon run around Lake Johnson on the outskirts of Raleigh.
It didn’t matter that Pisgah High School defeated neighboring Brevard 24-10 last Friday night. What mattered most were the kids on the field dressed in red and black, the same colors all across the packed-out stadium bleachers filled with Canton’s finest.
Last Tuesday morning, Doug Gray was standing outside his hotel room in Jackson, Wyoming.
This must be the place: ‘Scarecrow and a yellow moon and pretty soon a carnival on the edge of town’
Mailbox 278 (pictured) along Route 581 in the unincorporated community of Nahunta, North Carolina. In the rural depths of Wayne County on the outskirts of the small city of Goldsboro.
Exiting the elevator of the Cambria Hotel in downtown Asheville on Monday morning, I noticed the “Sunset Time” scribbled on the lobby sign said 8:29 p.m. Four minutes shorter than what I first saw when checking into the Cambria last Thursday evening.
Parking the truck at the intersection of the Appalachian Trail and the Nolichucky River on the outskirts of the small town of Erwin, Tennessee, early Monday afternoon, a hot sun kissed my forehead emerging from the vehicle all while lacing up the ole trail running shoes.
On Oct. 20, 1977, a plane carrying southern rock band Lynyrd Skynyrd crashed into the woods near Gillsburg, Mississippi.
This must be the place: ‘I’m wondering where you are tonight and I’m wondering if you are all right’
Hello from Room 209 at the Super 8 on the outskirts of Rawlins, Wyoming. Late morning and taking my time to get my bags packed and tossed into the back of the rental car.
Hello from Room 312 at the Apres hotel in Whitefish, Montana. Late Sunday morning. High of 91 degrees with low humidity and hot sun high above the desolate Rocky Mountains in this remote part of the lower 48 states.
With a hot sun slowly fading behind the Great Balsam Mountains cradling Waynesville, Outlaw Whiskey hopped onto the stage for a recent performance at Furman’s Burger Bar on the west side of town.
Hello from 36,000 feet above the Midwest on this otherwise quiet Monday afternoon.
On his latest album, “Love is Enough,” Asheville indie-rocker Andrew Scotchie comes full circle with a bevy of things in his existence — a heavy past of sadness and grief, present moments of genuine gratitude and positive change, endless possibilities of a promising future within reach.
Since its inception in 2000, Greensky Bluegrass has grown from a scrappy string ensemble to one of the premier live stage acts currently touring the country.
At 6 p.m. this past Friday, I was supposed to be walking into my 20th high school reunion at the Latitude 45 bar in the small Canadian Border town of Rouses Point, New York (population: 2,225).
Whether it’s Sunday evening, Monday afternoon or Tuesday morning, I’m usually trying to sit down and write this here column. Most likely, it’s Tuesday morning. Words, thoughts and sentiments spilling out of my fingertips in a haste to make the late Tuesday morning deadline to ensure I make the print copy before it gets kicked out the door, onward to the printer as we finally “put the paper to bed.”
Nothing says summer more than the Fourth of July, and in Western North Carolina, we celebrate Independence Day with gusto. Between majestic fireworks, sizzling hot dogs and hamburgers, cotton candy, games, live music and craft demonstrations, there’s a little bit of everything for any and all. So, grab your lawn chair, sunglasses and adventurous spirit, and enjoy this special weekend.
Pulling off Interstate 240 in downtown Asheville last Friday evening, I stopped my truck at the intersection of Hill Street and Riverside Drive. The parking lot at the Salvage Station across the street was already full, so were other nearby lots. What to do, eh?
Pulling up to the entrance of an old logging road in the depths of Balsam Gap between Sylva and Waynesville, a hot sun hovered. Lace up the running shoes and duck under a shady tree canopy along the isolated dirt road of solitude.
It wasn’t the daily sounds of passerby traffic on Russ Avenue in downtown Waynesville or the Tuesday morning garbage truck flipping up the dumpster to empty its contents from the pizza joint next door to my apartment that woke me up.
Sitting at a table on the front patio of the Highlander Mountain House, Jason Reeves looks up at the historic lodge with an expression of gratitude, only to then gaze back at the bordering Main Street of downtown Highlands.
It’s 11:57 a.m. Wednesday in downtown Canton. Daniel Gregg is standing on the Park Street bridge overlooking the Pigeon River. Leaning against the bridge, Gregg kept gazing up at the tall smoke stacks of the Pactiv Evergreen paper mill.
I awoke to the sounds of numerous police sirens. It was 6:30 a.m. Sunday. Looking out the eighth-floor window of the hotel onto downtown Indianapolis, Indiana, it was a police escort of numerous official looking vehicles en route to the nearby Indy 500. Within minutes, another police escort, then another.
It was just about 9 p.m. last Saturday (central standard time) when I found myself side stage at the legendary Ryman Auditorium — the “Mother Church” — in the heart of Nashville, Tennessee.
In its second year, the North Carolina Guitar Celebration in Brevard has much to celebrate — the sacred six-string instrument itself, a genuine moment of togetherness and the 100th birthday of the late Doc Watson.
Recently, I came across a real estate listing for a house while scrolling Facebook. It was located on the east side of Jackson, Wyoming. In the shadow of the Grand Teton Mountains, any and all homes and undeveloped land are a mad scramble to bid on and purchase.
Hello from Room 209 at the Home2 Suites by Hilton on the outskirts of downtown Decatur, Alabama. It’s Monday morning. Cloudy skies and temperatures pushing 80 degrees by mid-morning.
A former Baptist preacher and military veteran, Abe Partridge is now regarded as one of the most unique and captivating singer-songwriters currently emerging from the Southeast.
Hello from Room 5218 in the Falls Cottage King Suite at the Old Edwards Inn in downtown Highlands. It’s late Sunday morning with a slight drizzle and cool mountain air after two days of sunshine and mild temperatures.
Growing up in Detroit, Michigan, Greg Wasik saw firsthand that trademark sense of community at neighborhood taverns around the Motor City. And that genuine scene of friendship and fellowship is something still deeply cherished within him.
Last Friday afternoon marked the first “Downtown After 5” on Lexington Avenue in the heart of Asheville. The unofficial kickoff to the summer and all of its impending shenanigans in the name of irresponsible enlightenment. A hot sun hung high above the city as the multitudes rolled in from seemingly every direction.
Sitting backstage at the Asheville Music Hall, Neal Francis takes a moment to collect himself and think about where he stands right now — spiritually and artistically.
Dropping my girlfriend off at her house in West Asheville, it was a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon. She was headed to South Carolina to spend time with her best friend. I decided to track down a new trail to jog down.
Sliding into a booth at Meatballs Pizzeria in downtown Sylva, Crystal Pace and Santiago Guzzetti gaze out onto a bustling Main Street rushing by the front windows. It’s been a longtime dream of Pace’s to do just this — to simply sit down and eat pizza in Meatballs.
It was a spur of the moment decision. Cold suds and hearty banter at The Scotsman in Waynesville on an otherwise quiet Tuesday evening. Leaning back into the bar stool, I suggested to my girlfriend that she and I should go see a baseball game.
Last weekend, guitarist Seth Taylor and his band, longtime bluegrass staple Mountain Heart, once again took the stage under the bright lights at the legendary Ryman Auditorium in Nashville, Tennessee.
Hello from Room 519 at the Canvas Hotel in downtown Dallas, Texas. It’s almost 80 degrees. Monday morning. Bluebird skies with a welcomed breeze rolling through the vast landscape of the Lone Star State.
Showcased at the Chief Joyce Dugan Cultural Arts Center in Cherokee, the new exhibition, “Behind the Mask: Cherokee Mask Makers and their Legacy,” aims to reinforce the significance of Cherokee masks — their history and use, as well as their meaning and significance.
With its latest concept album, “iTopia,” Asheville-based indie-rockers The Get Right Band have offered up food for thought on where we currently stand as a society — this juxtaposition of humanity and technology in the emerging 21st century.
Hello from the backstage area at the Suwannee Spring Reunion music festival in Live Oak, Florida. It’s hot and humid. Mid-80s and blue skies. But a cool breeze greets me as I sit and type away underneath the Spanish moss hanging in the oak trees overhead.
In the sacred realm that is rock-n-roll music, the formation of the power trio remains iconic. On paper, it’s a straightforward setup of electric guitar, bass, and drums. But, in method, it conjures an immortal, melodic triangle of intricate sound and improvisation possibility.
Hello from Lemon Street on the outskirts of downtown St. Augustine, Florida. It’s about 62 degrees and sunny. Slight breeze. Blue skies. Early Monday afternoon and the only plan at the moment is to wander down to the beach on Anastasia Island within the hour.
The last time I saw my Uncle Bobby was about four years ago, high up on some floor in the VA Hospital in the depths of Albany, New York. I had just picked up a bag of cheese puffs and a cold bottle of Pepsi at the VA’s basement store/gift shop. Knowing those were my uncle’s favorite snacks, there was a smile ear-to-ear when I walked into his room and handed him the junk food.
