And you know the sun’s settin’ fast,

And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts.

Well, go on now, and kiss it goodbye,

... Go on and say goodbye to our town, to our town,

Can’t you see the sun’s settin’ down on our town, on our town,

Goodnight.

—“Our Town,” Iris Dement

I’ve been trying to remember when was the last time I enjoyed going to town. I’m talking about when I actually looked forward to driving through Sylva, or parking and loafing up and down Main Street. I believe it would be about 10 years now — back before “progress” speeded up and traffic slowed down to a funeral pace on Highway 107 — when the air was still reasonably clean and didn’t smell of fast-food, charred meat, dust and motor oil.

If that sounds like the lament of a Luddite, I’m sorry; however, I came by it naturally. My grandfather felt that the most offensive sounds in his life were traffic: stripped gears, bleating horns and the whine of tires on pavement. When those same offensive noises threatened to invade the little road into Rhodes Cove, he began to talk of moving to a remote wilderness Eden in Macon County, “so far back that the only sounds I’ll ever hear is wind and rain and running water.” He never moved, of course, and he is buried in Love’s Field near 107 where streams of traffic converge on Ingles and Wal-Mart and Southwestern Community College.

Recently, an alarmed friend took me for a drive up 107 while he pointed out the consequence of the impending Millennial Initiative — a concept that has a striking resemblance to the 19th century concept of Manifest Destiny.

“Look at that!” he said, pointing at the corpses of big oaks and the astonishing vistas of skinned earth, construction and destruction. The landscape was actually morphing before our eyes from bucolic fields, trees and grass into pavement, apartments and anonymous buildings. It is obvious that the Millennial Initiative is a done deal.

Is there anyone in Jackson County that is opposed to WCU Chancellor John Bardo’s utopian dream which is designed to enrich the lives of mountain folk? Oh, yes. There are hundreds and, I suspect, thousands who sense that this massive undertaking will have untold consequences. Life in the valley of the Tuckasegee has been altered and much of it will be erased.

I also suspect that very few of our native residents will say anything. All of the pomp and thunder attending the launching of the Millennial Initiative has intimidated most of us. Who are we to question the judgment of such venerable authorities — academics, technicians, marketing specialists and investment gurus? (I did note that some “poets” were involved, a resource that tweaks my curiosity.)

Who are we to question such venerable advocates of progress for the mountains? Surely, they know better than we. Much of Bardo’s effusions sound religious — he is a missionary come to lift up the benighted mountain folks. Does that sound familiar to anyone? Have the missionaries been here before? Bardo offers education, employment and the stuff that enriches the quality of our lives (jobs). In return, we only need to sacrifice a few intangibles: the tranquil peace of woodland and streams, a few thousand trees, and a few flocks of disenfranchised wild turkeys out in Love’s Field.

When it is all over, we will have changed. We will be less provincial and more sophisticated. We will be more anonymous, too. We will be more comfortable, more materialistic and less likely to ponder the natural world. (You are less likely to ponder it if it isn’t there.)

For a while, it appeared that Jackson County would be able to retain its unique character. While other sections of this region threw in the towel and embraced progress, Jackson County was still a land of tranquil peace where it was possible to hear mourning doves in the evening, smell honeysuckle and pine and watch the seasons change in the woods. Well, as I watch the Millennial Initiative progress, I sense that much is endangered here, and when it is gone, we can’t put it back.

Now, I sit on the porch and watch the lightning bugs fly.

But I can’t see too good, I got tears in my eyes.

...But I can see the sun settin’ fast,

Go on, now, say goodbye to our town, to our town

And just like they say, nothing good ever lasts.

Well, go on, I gotta kiss you goodbye.

Goodnight.

(Gary Carden is a writer and storyteller who lives in Sylva. He can be reached at gcarden498@aol.com.)