Ive been in Asheville 6 months and a handful of days. I haven't really scratched the surface of things to explore. There is so much to see, and even more to do. Now that the leaves are on the trees and the warm breezes blow, most of my exploration will be outdoors... hiking the mountains, looking at property and sipping something sweet at a sidewalk café. In the fall I'll tap into the museums and take in some of the many varied performances this city has to offer. I love my new home, but still, one must from time to time consider the open road, if even for a day, as a means to "blow out the carbon". Living here puts me within "road reach" of so much new territory, and some of which is familiar.
Last year at precisely this time, I was down this way (my human GPS still defaults to 42 latitude) as I looked for a new gig and digs. I entertained a couple of different life - locale scenarios and decided on Asheville. It was the right decision. I remember fondly however spending a week or so rolling across the southern tier of Georgia from Macon on down to Valdosta and back. I took the back roads. Peaches, pecans and peanuts in that order travelling north to south... and hotter than hades. Not your first guess as to where to find a New England Yankee in his spare time on an exploratory vacation, but a big part of me felt right at home. There is just a deep seated soul on the red earth where life is, and always has been close to the bone. The smiles were sweet, the hospitality even if at times hard earned, was genuine and heartfelt. I took my time. No false facebook reality, hipster kids who never washed a dish in their life or country club snobs. Most of the folks I met were poor, and after a brief period of suspicion as to what the heck on earth I wanted so far off the beaten track, all cautions were readily discarded and I was welcomed and inquisitively queried as to my wayward ways and means. I told tales of the skyscrapers in New York, the cold New England winters, the steel grey ocean.... and I heard tales of ancestry from Africa, and how exactly one gets a plant to grow in hard packed clay soil, which continues to amaze me. I sampled local cuisine and shared my cigarettes as I was smoking at the time. We drank Cherry Coke in the hot sun. At night we drank some sort of beer that only came in quarts. I was sent on my way with blessings of good will from folks who had nothing this modern world holds of value. I'll never forget the kindness. The name of the town was and is Moultrie. When my creative juices someday get back to adequate inspiration, I would like to write a short story titled, "Porchlight in Moultrie". We'll see.
As soon as the first peaches are ripe, I'll be taking Interstate 75 well south of Atlanta some weekend, windows open, sunroof wide, music blaring. Cutoff shorts and no shirt, no shoes. I'll stop in a greasy spoon and get some sort of food that would make a health nut commit suicide. I'll buy an ice cold coke, a sweet peach, stay in a no name blue light motel, take a few swigs off a bottle of bargain brand bourbon, grab one of those quarts of beer, sit in a dirty plastic chair and watch the moths flirt around the porch light. That’s it… simple, unfettered and free before driving back on a quiet Sunday morning. It is perhaps an acquired taste in recreation. Some people like to ride motorcycles, others make a pilgrimage to some ancient temple in a distant land, others still climb mountains. To each their own. This is what I do.
Here is Duane, Wilson, and The Memphis Horns at the same time:
As soon as the first peaches are ripe, I'll be taking Interstate 75 well south of Atlanta some weekend, windows open, sunroof wide, music blaring. Cutoff shorts and no shirt, no shoes. I'll stop in a greasy spoon and get some sort of food that would make a health nut commit suicide. I'll buy an ice cold coke, a sweet peach, stay in a no name blue light motel, take a few swigs off a bottle of bargain brand bourbon, grab one of those quarts of beer, sit in a dirty plastic chair and watch the moths flirt around the porch light. That’s it… simple, unfettered and free before driving back on a quiet Sunday morning. It is perhaps an acquired taste in recreation. Some people like to ride motorcycles, others make a pilgrimage to some ancient temple in a distant land, others still climb mountains. To each their own. This is what I do.
Here is Duane, Wilson, and The Memphis Horns at the same time:
