This must be the place: High above the chimney top, that’s where you’ll find me

On Aug. 11, my late grandfather, Frank Kavanaugh, would have turned 100 years old. But, alas, it’s been some 13 years since Fred left this world (June 9, 2007). I tend to think of him quite often, especially as I’ve gotten older and continued to wander the backroads and highways of the rollicking, undulating landscape that is the United States. 

This must be the place: Wake now, discover that you are the song that the morning brings

On Aug. 9, 1995, I was 10 years old and living in an old farmhouse on the Canadian Border of Upstate New York. 

With my entry into fifth grade just around the corner, I was starting to wind down another curious and carefree North Country summer of swimming, bike riding and backyard shenanigans.

This must be the place: Your neighbor isn’t out to get you, nor is your local newspaper

Stepping out of my pickup truck this past Saturday afternoon, I stood in the parking lot of the Maggie Valley Town Hall. 

In the front entrance of the building were an array of local law enforcement agencies from around Haywood County. Underneath the big trees in the front yard were Black Lives Matter protesters. On the lawn next door, with eyes aimed at those under the big trees, were the counter protesters. 

This must be the place: Cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it

It was odd and surreal feeling to be watching live music this past weekend. As you probably read on the opposite page in this newspaper, I was on assignment for the #SaveOurStages initiative and how it being (or not being) passed in Congress will greatly affect the music industry moving forward. 

This must be the place: Not where but what you think that really matters

Stepping out of the pickup truck in my little sister’s driveway last Saturday, I was immediately greeted with the sounds of children laughing and splashing around in the backyard. It was my niece’s sixth birthday party in my hometown of Rouses Point, New York, a tiny village on the Canadian and Vermont borders. 

This must be the place: Staring out at nothing, listening to an old dog bark

I’m currently sitting at the old kitchen table in my parents’ 1840 farmhouse in Upstate New York. Our family dog, Madison, is lying down a few feet away, always within a short distance of me whenever I’m walking around the house or wandering the backyard. The coffee in hand is fresh and strong. There’s a lot on my mind, too. 

This must be the place: Ain’t it funny how you feel, when you’re findin’ out it’s real?

Much like New Year’s Eve, the Fourth of July is one of those holidays that everyone you know will definitely be doing something of some sort. But, for some damn reason, nobody ever seems to decide what that something is until the last minute. 

This must be the place: ‘Don’t let ‘em pick guitars and drive them old trucks’

Sitting in the back den of my parents’ Upstate New York farmhouse last week, I could hear the familiar sounds of the big brown UPS truck and its squeaky brakes slowing down to full stop in front of the driveway. 

This must be the place: Acadian driftwood gypsy tailwind, they call my home the land of snow

It’s been a wild and wondrous thing to be able to wander around my native North Country right now: to see old friends and family, and actually be able to sit and make time with them. 

Usually, I only find myself back home in Upstate New York when it’s 20 below zero and there are presents under the brightly-lit tree in my parents’ farmhouse. But, with the current pandemic and shutdown, I was able to (safely) head home and be with family over the last few weeks. 

This must be the place: Like the morning sun you come and like the wind you go

Somewhere between finishing my column last Tuesday morning and lunchtime, it was decided by my mother that she and I would head to the coast of Maine for a few days.

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