This must be the place: ‘Olden times and ancient rhymes, of love and dreams to share’
At 7:12 a.m. Friday, the sun broke the horizon atop the Atlantic Ocean, its undulating waves crashing upon Wrightsville Beach, North Carolina.
This must be the place: ‘Are you reelin’ in the years? Stowin’ away the time’
The cell phone erupted to life on the nightstand in the pitch-black bedroom. It was 9:30 a.m. in North Carolina. But, for my girlfriend, Sarah, and I, we were three hours behind in Las Vegas, Nevada.
This must be the place: ‘And when the world seems cold, you got to let your spirit take control’
Every-so-often, my girlfriend, Sarah, and I will find ourselves with an open Monday evening. A wild, rollickin’ weekend in the rearview mirror. The first day of the work week now completed. How ‘bout we motor over to Asheville for some fine Italian food at Vinnie’s on Merrimon Avenue, eh? Sold.
This must be the place: ‘Walkin’ in the starlight place in my mind, walkin’ on moonlight in the day’
Hello from Room 202 at the Holiday Inn Express on the outskirts of the small town of Lake Wales, Florida.
This must be the place: ‘It’s hard enough to gain any traction in the rain’
Hello from the nearly empty bar counter of the Vail House Oyster Bar & Grille on the outskirts of downtown Goldsboro, North Carolina — a city seemingly forgotten by the sands of time and 21st century progress elsewhere.
This must be the place: ‘Night after sleepless night, I walk the floor and I want to know’
And so, we enter the whirlwind holiday season once again. Honestly, it feels like I was just in Knoxville, Tennessee, leaning against the bar on the second floor of the Preservation Pub in Market Square on New Year’s Eve when the clock struck midnight.
This must be the place: ‘Stop the bus, turn the radio up high and grab the first guitar you see’
Hello from Room 1029 in the Blue Valley Cottage at the Old Edwards Inn, situated near the intersection of U.S. 64 and Main Street in downtown Highlands.
This must be the place: ‘Remember when we got drunk that time in Ontario, listening to Warren Zevon on the stereo’
Hello from Room 6102 at the Sonder motel on the edge of Old Town Scottsdale, Arizona. It’s 80 degrees outside in the late morning, with the dry heat of the Southwest steadily rising like the hot sun above the high desert prairie surrounding this vast, metropolitan area.
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This must be the place: Ode to Anna Marie, ode to the kids of Smith Street (and beyond)
Stepping outside the small log cabin, I took a moment to collect my thoughts. Vast farm fields and ancient dirt in the rural countryside outside of Goldsboro, the cool air of an impending fall was felt with a sense of relief in a place where heat and humidity reign supreme.
