By Marsha Crites • Guest Columnist

It occurred to me as I was hiking up my mountain today that one of the reasons Obama’s “Yes, We Can” slogan may have resonated with so many is that it sounds a bit like the message from our childhood book The Little Engine That Could. In that timeless story, the engine, who had been ridiculed by the newer shinier trains, keeps repeating the mantra, “I think I can, I think I can, I think I can,” until he crests the hill and sings, “ I thought I could, I thought I could, I thought I could.”

The hill we are climbing as a nation right now is incredibly steep. Suffering is all around and seems to spare few businesses or individuals. The morass we have created (yes, most of us have contributed in some small way to the financial mess) is thick. Even the smartest among our leaders will struggle to make the right decisions about what will get us to the top of the hill fastest. I wonder sometimes whether those solutions that are the quick fixes will really be the long-term solutions we need. Indeed, the Little Engine in the story traveled slowly, slowly and precariously, using mainly will power to make it to the top.

If we were really lucky we had parents who could read us that story, who could encourage us when the challenges of childhood seemed insurmountable, who modeled determination and optimism in their own life struggles. But many of us did not have such models. Those who were raised in homes where addiction, abuse, neglect, mental illness, and racism played a large role are likely to suffer more now, as the tools of resilience and perseverance were not available to them in those critical developmental years.

Yet, most of us know at least one person who by force of sheer determination overcame great obstacles to enjoy a better life. I am not necessarily talking about financial obstacles or success here. We all know someone who suffered great losses, unbelievable physical or mental illness, the collapse of all they held dear, and went on, like the phoenix rising from the ashes, to re-create themselves in a powerful and fulfilling way.

I am fortunate in many ways to have worked though Haywood Community College this winter to help provide skills and encouragement to the unemployed, including those incarcerated in prison. Imagine, if you will, preparing to leave prison in this economy. Where will they find shelter, a job, food, and the encouragement they will need to start over, when even those without a record are struggling?

Yet, I seriously believe that those leaving prison have something many of us don’t. Many prisoners have faced their own “bottom,” as they say in the world of recovery from addictions (and the state we keep hoping for in the stock market). They have lost everything and must begin again with a rusty engine and determination to build a whole new life. These folks have a powerful incentive to get it right this time.

But we, as a community, must be willing to offer them the chance, to support their struggles to build stronger families, to learn new skills, to get a job, to be more effective parents and choose new ways of coping with the challenges we all face. It is tempting to judge these folks as people who don’t deserve a second chance. But who among us will cast the first stone?

Look around you in Western North Carolina and you will see lots of miracles taking place. In both Haywood and Jackson counties, in the last two or three months, social service agencies, churches, and other volunteers have opened shelters for the homeless within weeks of determining the need. Folks who have never planted gardens are ordering seeds and waiting eagerly for enough warmth to turn over the earth. People who have never checked on their neighbors are offering a hand with cutting wood, or sharing food.

Without this financial mess, we, as a nation, did not have the fortitude to take on the greed and corruption rife in many of our industries and governmental bodies. We, too, now have the opportunity, like those getting out of prison, to begin again with a new set of ethics. We can hold accountable those institutions that serve us and for whom we work, accountable to the standards of honesty and transparency, servant leadership, justice and accountability. We an insist that as individuals and organizations we stop the thoughtless dependence on fossil fuels. We cab begin to green up our own lives. And we can insist that our food sources be really safe and sustainable.

It will be easy once we are on the down side of the financial mountain to return to our passive neglect of our responsibilities as citizens, just as it will be easy for those leaving prison to return to the addictions and habits that got them into trouble in the first place.

But I, too, have a dream. I dream of a day in the not too distant future, when we can all find honest work for safe and thoughtful companies whose real values play out in more than a slogan on the wall. When all our children have someone to read them The Little Engine That Could. When we have conquered the scourge of addiction and mental illness, problems that cause far more suffering than cancer or heart disease. When we have access to clean fuel and healthy food sources. When businesses understand like our animal brethren, that fowling our nest just doesn’t pay.

If you are among the down and out right now, I encourage you to practice what cultures in the Far East call mindfulness. Whether you are incarcerated, laid off, discouraged, or panicked about our current state of affairs, there are some simple tools that will see you through. In the face of an uncertain future, decide to be present now. Most of us don’t breathe deeply. It really works. Commit to reading to a child daily (start with The Little Engine That Could), make a list first thing in the morning or last at night of all the things you are personally grateful for, play your guitar or piano if you can, bring in daffodils to grace your table. Work at the homeless shelter, go to the library and read an inspiring book, walk or run outside every day, turn off the scary news, take out food from your freezer and cook a heart- and belly-warming soup. Share your wood, your food, your time, and your fledgling hope with those around you. Sing loudly in the shower even if you don’t feel like it.

I promise you that those of us who take this path will see an end to our personal recession sooner than those who sit in front of the TV regretting our pasts and fearing our futures.

A caveat here. If the dark night of the soul you are experiencing is real clinical depression, no amount of music, daffodils, or helping your neighbors will be meaningful, because people who are clinically depressed cannot smell, feel, or hear that which is beautiful or inspirational. If you suffer from clinical depression this is a great time to get or stay on professionally prescribed medicines. If you lack access to medical care seek help for your depression through Smoky Mountain Center or the Good Samaritan Clinic.”

Meanwhile, remember The Little Engine That Could — I think I can, I think I can, I think I can .... I thought I could.

(Marsha S. Crites is owner of Harvest Moon Gardens in Jackson County. She is a part time faculty at HCC and also is a teacher/instructor with Moonshadow Learning Services. She can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

I love dogs. Except during that period in my life when I lived in a seemingly endless series of shoebox apartments that did not allow pets larger or furrier than goldfish, I have always had at least one dog, and usually two. I have seen a good many dogs come and go in my life, but I have never, ever actually bought a dog. With so many dogs in shelters, it is simply against my principles. All of my dogs have been either shelter dogs or strays I found out roaming around.

But I’ll tell you something I’ve learned: There are principles, and then there is marriage. If you are not married, then you may not know this — I didn’t — but marriage has its own principles that may not always snuggle up cozily to your own. If you do not grasp this basic truth, you will one day wind up in the doghouse with your shelter dog and your precious principles for company.

Now my wife is not an acquisitive person and not really an animal person either — let’s just say she is more tolerant of our pets than doting and leave it be — but for years, she has fancied dachshunds, especially miniature dachshunds. If we are driving down the street and she sees one in a neighbor’s yard or on a leash, she falls into paroxysms of pure schoolgirl joy, the way schoolgirls used to get over catching an unexpected glimpse at David Cassidy in Tiger Beat. If my wife were still a schoolgirl, I guess she would go crazy over the Jonas Brothers, but since she is married with kids, a job, a mortgage, and a minivan with a window that will roll down but not back up, her passions have shifted. Teen idols are out, miniature dachshunds are in.

So I did the right thing and got her a miniature dachshund calendar for Christmas. I thought it was the perfect compromise for someone who loved the breed, but already had one dog, one cat, two gerbils, two children, and one husband on her hands. She could look at dachshunds every day of the week, every month of the year, and never have to feed one, clean up after it, take it to the vet, or complain that it had been gnawing on her best work shoes. She would have her daily quota of dachshund cuteness, without any poop or barking. Pretty good deal, I thought.

But there are the things you think, and then there is marriage, and these things do not always sit comfortably together in the same carriage on the Ferris Wheel. In other words, she did like the calendar — it hangs in our kitchen now, where every single day one of 12 adorable dachshund puppies will supervise one of us making breakfast or washing the dishes until the year is up. If I thought this would cure her puppy fever, however, it didn’t take long to see that it had just the opposite effect. With a cute dachshund staring her in the face every day — Mr. February was especially adorable, I must admit — my wife suddenly could no longer contain herself.

All I’ve heard for two solid months is “dachshund this” and “dachshund that.” She manages to work dachshunds into every conversation, regardless of how ill fitting it may seem to anyone not quite so dachshund-centric. Yes, it is true that we may be able to get another 50,000 miles out of the minivan, but how many miles would we get out of a brand new miniature dachshund puppy? Sure, she has seen the brochures that came from Florida, and maybe we should go there for vacation this summer, but have I imagined how great it would be to see a dachshund puppy encountering the ocean for the first time?

After several weeks of this, I knew what had to be done, so on Monday, we just did it. We found an adorable miniature dachshund puppy for sale online, and made arrangements to meet the owners in Asheville to “look him over.”

“We can just look,” my wife said. “We don’t have to buy him.”

Well, there are the things you don’t have to do, and then there is marriage. Needless to say, these things don’t always drink out of the same water dish. I grabbed the checkbook and we were off.

We met the owners at Alan’s Pawn and Jewelry, and within two minutes after we pulled into the parking lot, my wife had the puppy in her hands. He was six weeks old, the runt of the litter. He was unbelievably tiny, a cigarette lighter with short legs and floppy ears, a Pez dispenser with puppy breath and needle teeth.

He also looked exactly like Mr. February.

You know how this story ends. It ends with a new puppy in your house, chewing on anything he can get his tiny mouth around. It ends with you out in the yard at 4 a.m., watching a shivering puppy do his business in the yard with the moon as the only witness. It ends with your children excited, even delirious, over the arrival of the new “mincer dot son,” as your son calls him.

It ends with your wife doting on the puppy, smiling and happy. When she’s not doting on him, she’s doting on YOU. And why shouldn’t she? You’re a genius. It only took you about three years to figure this out. You congratulate yourself and think about grabbing a quick nap.

You’d better hurry, before Mr. February wakes up from his.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

It’s a cultural tradition in nearly every society, the firm belief that people and institutions become stronger once they’ve been tested. Whether that test comes about due to one’s own shortcomings or to circumstances outside one’s control is important, but in the end it’s the outcome that we remember.

So it is with Haywood Regional Medical Center. When its Medicaid and Medicare status was lost just over a year ago and the hospital went into a financial freefall, people were angry, upset and felt betrayed. They were also very worried that the place they considered their number one healthcare option was in real jeopardy of closing down and that many friends and neighbors would lose their jobs.

In hindsight, that extreme emotional attachment to HRMC might have been its saving grace. County leaders, physicians, hospital staff, and a whole lot of concerned citizens stayed with HRMC when it might have been easier to let it sink. When the number of patients going to the hospital on a daily basis sank to single digits, inspectors still hadn’t given their final OK for re-certification, and the bank account was close to running dry, closing seemed imminent.

No one knows what corporate shape HRMC will finally take — affiliation with another hospital system and with WestCare seems certain, but the structure of that affiliation is still unknown — but now no one believes that Haywood County won’t have a hospital, which seemed a very real possibility in early March of 2008.

So what from this past year at HRMC should residents remember?

First and foremost is the responsibility that lies with the hospital’s board of trustees. These dedicated citizens who volunteer their time must be vigilant to strike a balance between the sometimes competing interests of hospital administrators and the medical staff. They must also be able to look beyond those personal and professional relationships to keep in mind the hospital’s value to the community. No person or group is more important than the institution. It’s a balancing act, but if trustees tip too far one way — as happened with the previous board’s almost blind allegiance to former CEO David Rice — bad things can happen.

Secondly, and probably just as important, is the wisdom and dedication of the long-time members of the medical community. When the medical staff asked some doctors to speak to the board of trustees at a December 2006 meeting, they pointed out very clearly that the relationship between the administration and the medical staff had become dysfunctional. The board, however, ignored those pleas.

Among those to speak at that meeting — where a well-liked ER group was about to be fired — were Dr. Henry Nathan, Dr. John Stringfield and Dr. Benny Sharpton, three of the county’s most respected physicians. HRMC’s medical community, by and large, are practicing medicine for the right reasons and need to be listened to.

Lastly, and like it or not, the CEO of a small hospital carries a lot of power. That can be either beneficial or detrimental, depending on the circumstances. If one went to Raleigh or Charlotte, the CEO of a large metro hospital might get lost among the thousands of employees, hundreds of doctors, and dozens of administrators. Not so at a hospital like HRMC. Former CEO David Rice was very powerful and became very polarizing, yet his strength of personality blinded those who should have seen his shortcomings.

HRMC’s new CEO Michael Poore will also wield a lot of influence. He has become the new face of HRMC, an affable, intelligent guy that has best been described as a “breath of fresh air.” Most believe he will serve the hospital well, and already he is restoring credibility both internally and in the community.

HRMC has survived and, perhaps, become stronger because of this crisis. It might not be so lucky if an event of this magnitude ever occurs again, a truth that should serve as a cautionary reminder to those who might too quickly forget the events of the past year.

Deduction would tell us that in the information age libraries would be accorded great respect, but somehow that isn’t universally the case anymore. Given that truth, it’s encouraging to see what has happened over the last several years in Jackson County as support has gathered for a new library that, after much debate, will be attached to the strikingly beautiful historic courthouse.

After a decade-long community debate that raged with unusual fervor, county leaders decided in October 2007 to put the county’s new library atop courthouse hill. This wise decision did two things: ensured Jackson County residents their new, much-needed library would have wide community support; and it infused the project with a historic and cultural significance, providing a symbol of political and intellectual aspirations that will endure for generations.

There was a time when libraries were enshrined as the world’s primary learning centers. The administrators of the ancient library of Alexandria, Egypt, according to some historians, were charged with with no less a task than bringing together all the world’s collective knowledge. Stipends were paid to scholars and their families to come spend time there. Throughout the ancient world libraries were held in high regard as the keepers of culture and history, and typically they were among a city’s most splendid architectural masterpiece.

Today too many communities neglect these important institutions. As television and the Internet have grown in significance, and indeed put much of the world’s knowledge and literature at our fingertips, libraries could be written off as quaint relics.

But that’s just not the case. Places where people — children and adults — gather to read, write, research and discuss ideas will always be important. Amid the rush of today’s world, a place where adults work and read in a cocoon of silence and where children can discover the profound joys of the written word are indeed sacred.

Macon County has already done its community proud with its recently opened library, and citizens came together to support the furnishings of that facility with their donations. Now the same is being asked of Jackson County residents. Fund raising is currently under way, and almost $500,000 of the $1.6 million goal has already been pledged.

We believe this library is among the most worthy of community projects. It will become the epicenter of the intellectual and community life of Jackson County, and we encourage residents to support the fund-raising drive to the best of their abilities.

Irene is not just a good student. She is one of the very best at her school, near the top of her class and hard working as they come. Under ordinary circumstances, she would be filling out applications to the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, Duke, Wake Forest, and other top universities. She would be competing for prestigious scholarships.

She would be visiting these campuses and talking over her options with academic counselors, comparing programs and getting a feel for what her life might be like in these different settings. It would be one of the most exciting times of her life. Having put herself in the enviable position of being able to pick and choose among excellent universities as a result of her extraordinary work and commitment to her education and future, she would have the whole world at her doorstep.

There is never again a time in person’s life quite like being 17 or 18 years old, especially for someone like Irene, a student with the potential and drive to do or be almost anything she wants to be. If the election of Barack Obama meant anything, it meant that the American Dream really does exist.

Unlike our most recent president, Obama was not born with a silver spoon in his mouth, did not have every break and advantage handed to him along the way. He came from a very poor background, but he worked hard, never letting the challenges of his childhood or the negative stereotypes about his ethnic heritage prevent him from accomplishing his goals as a student. Not only did he attend Harvard Law School, he was the first black student to ever become president of the Harvard Law Review. Now he is President of the United States. His story is an affirmation of what is possible if a person is only determined enough to succeed.

All of this stands as an inspiration then, for Irene? Well, no. In fact, it is a pill perhaps even more bitter to swallow. The one thing Irene cannot do, regardless of how hard she works or what she accomplishes in high school, regardless of how highly her teachers think of her or how bejeweled her academic record may be, is to make herself an American citizen. She cannot change the circumstances of her birth, or account for the decisions her parents made.

And what decisions are these, exactly? To come to America to find a better life? To work hard and earn a place of respect in the community? To open a restaurant and feed people? To send their children to a better school?

The issue of illegal immigration has been hotly debated, and people of good will can certainly disagree about it. Unfortunately, the debate has not always been waged by people of good will; we have all seen depressing examples of how quickly bigotry can be introduced into the equation. “Those people” are coming here to take our jobs, spreading their diseases and lowering the quality of life wherever “they” go. Yes, depressing, the ignorance and the hatred that so often goes with it.

Still, the issue remains, and it is a serious issue that must be addressed by serious people, not the louts who typically dominate public discourse with their shrill voices, sharpened to a point by the whetstone of talk radio. That’s all well and good. In the meantime, what I want to know is this: What about Irene?

Irene should be filling out applications to the best universities in the state, but she isn’t. She cannot, because while she has a grade point average that very few students can match, she does not have what even the laziest, least ambitious students all have: a social security number. Without one, she has no realistic shot at getting into any of those schools. The very best she can hope for is to get in, and then have to pay out-of-state tuition, which so far exceeds in-state tuition rates as to make it impossible to even consider, especially since she cannot compete for any scholarships.

Under ordinary circumstances, her achievements in high school would have brought her to the beginning of something bigger, perhaps much bigger. That would be up to her, because in America, as Barack Obama has proven, you can be anything if you work hard enough and believe strongly enough in yourself and your future.

But these circumstances are not ordinary, even if they are not unique. Irene may not be the only child of illegal immigrants to excel in high school, and not the only one with the potential to achieve wondrous things at our finest universities. And yet, there she is, at the door, which, for her, is locked.

Whether we agree or disagree about illegal immigration, there are fundamental questions that go much deeper than the issue itself, especially in the abstract. If an illegal immigrant appears at the hospital so badly in need of treatment that death is a real possibility, would we choose to ignore it and let him die? If a student does everything in her power to achieve the American dream, are we going to deny her the chance that any of our sons and daughters would have? Remember, even if you have little sympathy for what her parents chose to do, Irene did not make that choice.

Adversity teaches us things about ourselves, sometimes things we might just as soon not learn. In these bad economic times, when so many are suffering, it is all the more likely that anger toward illegal immigrants will be ginned up. The question is, even in tough times like these, do we really want to live in a country callous enough to say “No, you can’t” to Irene?

President Obama’s mantra before the election was “Yes, we can.” I sincerely hope Irene is part of “we” and not just another one of “those people.”

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

By Marth Teater • Guest Columnist

The Good Samaritan Clinic of Haywood County has served the medical needs of our community since 1999. In 2007 the clinic started a mental health program funded by two multi-year grants. Funding for the program ended in 2008, and the clinic has been utilizing funds from individuals in the community to sustain the program until funds become available.

We have applied for funding from three major grantors, but even if we get those grants, funds will not be available until the summer. Without immediate funding the clinic will be hard pressed to find money to continue the program.

In 2008 the Good Samaritan Clinic provided over 1,400 therapy visits at no cost to the patients. Currently the clinic has two mental health counselors on staff. Both have master’s degrees and several years of experience. The clinic also utilizes volunteer counselors and student interns.

Clinic patients may receive up to eight individual counseling visits with one of the clinic counselors to help improve their mental and physical well-being.

We anticipate serving more than 1,680 patients in 2009. At about $100 per visit, we are providing $168,000 worth of visits per year for $50,400 since our counselors work for a much reduced rate. The savings to our community are significant.

The clinic is supported by area churches, individuals, civic groups, and grantors. Haywood County and the United Way contribute as well. This support helps the clinic to continue to provide medical services to uninsured adults in our county.

“Our general operating funds are not used for the mental health program,” said Donda Bennett, executive director for GSC. “This program operates solely on grant funding and donations.”

Although funds were applied for in early 2009 the clinic will not find out if they are being funded until early June. The only way to continue this program is to appeal to the community for emergency funds.

Current clinic counselors are Art Dosch and Sequoyah Rich. Both are master’s level practitioners with a wealth of experience and a desire to serve those in need. I am the director of mental health services and oversee the counseling program of the clinic.

The counselors work as a team with the health care providers; medical director Don Teater, MD, and Kristin Gruner, PA. This coordination of care has tremendous advantages to more traditional models of care that treat mental and physical health separately.

The clinic has the capacity to provide about 140 client visits monthly, or 1,600 annually. Providing this mental health care benefits the entire community in many ways. By keeping people emotionally stable we will see a reduction in emergency room and urgent care visits, fewer interventions needed by law enforcement, and healthier individuals and families.

To find out more about the Good Samaritan Clinic contact executive director Donda Bennett at 828.454.5487 or visit the Web site at www.gschaywood.org.

(Teater is available to discuss the mental health program at 828.454.5287, ext.1009, or by email at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it.. The clinic provides speaker and programs to any community group. Donations are tax deductible. To designate a donation for the mental health program note that on the check. Mail donations to Good Samaritan Clinic, 34 Sims Circle, Waynesville, N.C., 28786.)

When it comes to caring for the mentally ill in North Carolina, there’s been very little good news over the last few years. A 2001 attempt to radically reform the state’s mental health system has been, by nearly unanimous opinion, a disaster. It has wasted millions of dollars and created a system that has too little oversight of patient care, too few facilities, and too much opportunity for mismanagement at the local level.

The breadth of these problems, however, is exactly why a new psychiatric unit at Haywood Regional Medical Center that’s being praised by mental health professionals is so promising, and why it might be the model to start fixing some of what’s gone so wrong over the last several years.

The new 16-bed unit at HRMC opened in November and was paid for with a state grant that also funded another wing at another hospital. The hope was the regional units would reduce the waiting list for patients to get into a long-term bed at Broughton Hospital in Morganton. The Broughton facility is way overcrowded and has suffered its own woes. Besides, those in need of immediate psychiatric help can run into serious problems if they have to put off professional care. It became a very dangerous situation for patients when they could find no facility to check into when their problems needed medical attention.

The new unit at HRMC helps solve of these issues. For one, patients can get care closer to home, which allows more interaction with family members they trust and depend on. The new facility is run under a model that allows the patient to take part in the cure. The program allows patients to make choices about how to structure their day, similar to what life is like on the “outside,” where many of these patients will soon return to and begin taking care of themselves.

“It’s a support network that gives you the strength you don’t have outside,” a 20-year-old patient told The Smoky Mountain News.

The new center’s early success is worth noting. Doug Trantham, interim director of Smoky Mountain Mental Health, said the region has had its lowest transfer rate to Broughton in recent memory. Two other hospitals are looking at the HRMC model with an eye toward possibly replicating it. There’s also hope that the Balsam Adult Recovery Unit may re-open. It closed when the HRMC wing opened because there was only enough trained staff to operate one of the units. When that happens, there will be even more options for patients in Western North Carolina who are in need of residential mental health care.

We’ve got a long way to go before we solve the crisis confronting this state’s mental health system. But increasing the number of available local beds — and increasing the opportunity to receive the necessary treatment right here at home — is a good first step toward helping patients gain access to the kind of treatment they need.

By Brent Martin • Guest Columnist

In an article in Blue Ridge Country magazine, author and professor Steve Nash provided a bleak overview of what climate change means here in the mountains of Western North Carolina. Most significant are current predictedions for increasing temperatures, including a boost in the number of days over 90 degrees (75 a year predicted by 2080), and record drought (coupled with record intensity storms).

Changes such as these will alter the face of this ancient landscape in ways that we can hardly imagine. Iconic Appalachian creatures such as brook trout are expected to lose 50 to 90 percent of their habitat by 2080, and woodland salamanders dependent upon soil moisture could be wiped out altogether. High-elevation spruce-fir forest would also suffer. And these are but a handful of the projected impacts.

Given that climate change is now considered indisputable by every leading science organization in the world, one would think that as citizens we would be more alarmed and thus determined to make every change we can in order to reverse the momentum of this seemingly irreversible trend. Yet, according to some polls, almost half of all Americans are unsure that climate change is occurring. I suppose this is not surprising given the Bush administration’s denial of the issue for eight years, along with the limited media attention and public understanding. However, with the advent of the Obama administration, not only do we have immediate recognition of the issue but prompt action.

One of the administration’s first actions was the creation of an Office of Ecosystem Services and Markets. This office will be part of the U.S. Department of Agriculture, which includes the U.S. Forest Service and its 193 million acres of public land. The mission of this office will be to connect industrial emitters of carbon dioxide (CO2) with private landowners to plant new forests or crops to absorb their CO2 emissions. This could be a good thing for us here in Western North Carolina, where national forests make up over a million acres and private forest land totals another two million. Such incentives for forest and farmland conservation could be part of a broader agenda for our region to become agriculturally independent, to conserve our remaining working forests, and to mitigate the projected impacts of climate change.

With this “new climate” in Washington, and in anticipation of climate change impacts to our region, Warren Wilson College, The Wilderness Society, and Orion Magazine have come together to launch their first annual Headwaters Gathering March 27 to 29 at Warren Wilson. As our region is the source of drinking water for millions of downstream residents and is home to the East’s coal fields, the conference is aptly subtitled “Southern Appalachia at the Crossroads.” The conference will focus on the impacts of climate change in the region and what these impacts will mean to our economy, environment, and community well being.

Keynote speaker Herman Daly will be joined by activists Majora Carter and Winona LaDuke, retired coal miner Chuck Nelson, and renowned environmental educator David Orr. Also presenting are NOAA’s National Climatic Data Center scientist Thomas Peterson, author and activist Janisse Ray, New York Times writer Andrew Revkin, and National Wildlife Federation President Larry Schweiger.

From a town meeting with expert panelists, to intimate sessions with inspired leaders, the Headwaters Gathering will engage a broad array of citizens and inspire a new network of problem solvers. Registration and information is available at www.headwatersgathering.org.

(Brent Martin is the Southern Appalachian Director for the Wilderness Society, and his office is in Franklin. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)

What a great way to earn public trust: a public body decides that minutes from closed sessions no longer need to be secret, and therefore it periodically votes to make them public.

That’s what the Franklin Town Alderman Bob Scott asked the Franklin board to do. Scott was concerned about the information in one particular set of minutes, but he also understood what he was doing. If the town adopted a formal policy, the public would be a lot better informed as to what went on behind closed doors when aldermen lawfully shut out the public from their debate.

Here’s the deal about closed meetings and public bodies. The North Carolina Open Meetings Law gives public bodies seven lawful reasons to close their discussions. Those seven reasons are clearly defined, and minutes must be kept. How detailed those minutes are depends on each group of elected officials, but it must be discernible what was being discussed and who was saying what.

Once the reason for going into the closed meeting is past — say an industry has finished negotiations and announced plans to build — then the minutes become a part of the public record.

Most boards — including Franklin’s — adhere to the letter of the law. But what becomes of those closed session minutes? Reporters and the public seldom request them. In truth, most of what took place in those meetings is never revealed despite the fact that taxpayers and voters could gain valuable insight from them.

We think Franklin should have set itself up as the most open board around. It did not change its policy, but merely formalized what’s already taking place: once every few months, its attorney will review closed session minutes and determine if they can be released. That’s OK, but the public would be better served by the policy Scott proposed.

Franklin Alderman Bob Scott is to be commended for his commitment to open government. The public and elected officials need to understand that nothing has to be discussed in closed session, that the law gives public bodies a few exceptions where they are allowed — if they choose — to go behind closed doors. Some personnel matters probably should be discussed privately, but many times it seems public bodies close their meetings when the reasons for doing so seem suspect.

Franklin’s isn’t a bad policy, but we think a better one is to formally include closed session minutes in board packets whenever the reason for closing the meeting has passed. Rather than have an attorney make the decision, we think elected officials or the manager could more easily — and cheaply — make that call. The onus for conducting the public’s business in the open is on the elected officials, and they will suffer the fallout if they wrongfully shut the door on their constituents.

“Unique” is a word much abused as a descriptor for human beings. I have heard many, many people described as unique, people who are actually a great deal more like other people than they would like us to believe. Scratch the surface of a gothic kid and underneath you’ll find someone who is most likely just as desperate to find his place and fit in as any fraternity boy. This is not a criticism — just an observation of how seldom we meet a truly unique individual, someone for whom being different is not a style, but a calling.

My friend, Terry Presnell, was a unique person. I thought he might be a poser, or simply an advanced prankster, back in high school when we were on the tennis team, and he wore a rubber Richard Nixon Halloween mask in a match against West Wilkes, our conference rival, and refused to take it off, despite the protest of his opponent and the other coach. Nothing in the rules against wearing a mask to play tennis, Terry said. He wore it, and won the match.

Terry wasn’t big on rules anyway. Rules came from institutions, as far as he was concerned, and he had great, venomous contempt for institutions — schools, churches, government, you name it. Like Huck Finn, he was afraid that institutions were out to “civilize” him, and when he looked around, he didn’t much care for what civilization had come to mean in this age — war, hypocrisy, tyranny, fighting over oil but not genocide. He didn’t want any part of that “civilization.”

For Terry, the continental United States was his Mississippi River, and he drifted all across this country, never allowing himself to become too “tied down” to any particular job. Over the years, he called me from all sorts of places — Las Vegas, Kitty Hawk, somewhere in New Mexico, the Keys in Florida. He kept as much as possible to warmer climates, with the beach as a special favorite. He took any sort of job he could find, even delivering newspapers if necessary. He basked in the sun, but he really thrived in the nightlife. Within a few days, he became a “personality” in any town he lived in, which was as natural to him as breathing, with his background in professional wrestling, radio, and gonzo journalism. He had been a columnist for several newspapers, even started his own rag in the Ozarks, which lasted for a good while until he got behind on some debts and then pulled a stunt that would prove to be the beginning of the end for him.

Terry owed some company $1,400, which may not seem like an insurmountable sum unless you don’t have it and can’t get it. He could have called his friends — we would have pitched in and got him out of a jam. But he had never taken charity from any of us, and wasn’t going to start then. So he thought of a way out. He drew up a fake death certificate, sent it to the company, and hit the road with everything he could take with him, leaving whatever was left behind.

This bad decision — which I can easily imagine Terry rationalizing as a silly prank that he would somehow make good on later — led to other bad decisions. I believe there were some counterfeit checks, identity theft, I can’t remember what all. He stayed on the run for months, but one night in Ohio he got pulled over on a routine traffic stop, and within minutes, it was all over. In some ways, it was a relief to Terry. As the bad decisions accumulated, there was just no way to keep going without making another one, to get him through the next day.

He went to prison for a few years, and we lost touch. Then, a little over a year ago, he reappeared in our hometown, about twice his normal weight, barely able to move. Prison had been hard on him. He had a variety of very serious health problems, and no real way to make a living. Some of us did what we could for him, donating furniture, a microwave, a computer, groceries, whatever he needed to get on his feet. But he couldn’t get on his feet, not in any meaningful way. Part of being Terry was being on the move, beholden to no man and no institution.

He got by in a dingy little rent-controlled apartment for about a year. I saw him whenever I got home, which was only a couple of times. We visited and reminisced and laughed a lot — he had the greatest laugh in the world. He laughed with his whole body, his shoulders literally shaking up and down if he was really amused.

The last time I saw him, right around Thanksgiving, he gave me a grocery bag packed full of movies and CDs. He said he was getting the hell out of Sparta and moving back to Hickory, a town where he probably had the most success in making a decent living and where he had become pretty well known for his column on pop culture.

Now we know the real story. He “moved” to Hickory as a launching pad for his last big adventure, a trip to Florida, where he spent the last days of his life driving around, sleeping in the car most likely, or on the beach, drinking beer, which he had not really been able to do much with his health in such poor shape. He wrote a few fond farewells to his friends, and assembled packages for a couple of people containing the most meaningful scraps of his life. Somehow, he managed to get a gun, which he used to shoot himself two weeks ago.

Another friend from the old days, Stewart, called me last week to tell me about it. Initially, there were no reports of a note, which didn’t sound like Terry. Sure enough, two days later, Stewart called me again and said he had received a package, along with a note, in which Terry basically said that with his health getting poorer by the day, he was looking at another lengthy hospital stay, dialysis, even worse. He quoted Neil Young, “It’s better to burn out than to fade away.” He said if the preachers were right, he was “probably headed South,” but he thought the company would be more interesting there anyway. He said if reincarnation turned out to be true, he might come back as a fat Chihuahua.

He said that if there was going to be a service, he wanted only for a few of his friends to get together, drink a few beers, listen to some music from the old days, and remember some of the good times. He said he absolutely did not want the service to be held in a church, or for there to be any preachers.

There was a service on Saturday, at Saddle Mountain Baptist Church in Ennice, N.C. There were preachers. One of them had talked with him a handful of times in the hospital, the other had never met him at all. I was asked to speak, too, so I got up and shared a few stories, but whatever I said was swallowed up whole by 45 minutes of pure alter call preaching. For these two fellows, Terry was not a person. He was a platform. His life had no meaning for them other than as a cautionary tale for the rest of us. At one point, the preacher said, “Since I didn’t know Terry, I asked God what to say here today, and God said, “Remember me,’” which, it turns out, is translated as a very long story about the preacher’s own salvation, and how, thank God, he had not made the choices Terry had made.

It turns out that most of the memorial service for Terry was not really for Terry after all. Several times, I thought about walking out. I wish I had. After the service, someone told me they wished I had had an opportunity for a rebuttal.

Well, here it is. I don’t presume to know where Terry is today, but if God has a sense of humor, Terry may be pleasantly surprised with his accommodations. On the other hand, those responsible for denying him his final wishes ought to be deeply ashamed. Like Huck Finn, Terry once faked his own death. Unlike Huck Finn, he did not get to watch his own funeral. If he had, he would have been outraged. I have known him for 35 years, and I can guarantee that much. He would not have been alone. I spoke with at least a dozen of his friends after the service in front of the church, and every single one of them was upset by the service. Someone said it was more like a revival than a memorial for Terry. Someone else said those preachers ought to be ashamed.

Sometime this spring, there will be another service, the one he asked for. Call it a memorial mulligan, a do over. We’re going to get together, play some of the old songs, and drink a few beers in his honor. Then we are going to divide up his ashes and take them to various beaches — wherever anyone is going on vacation this summer — and set him loose on the tide.

If I see a fat Chihuahua running loose on the shore, I swear I’ll bring it home.

(Chris Cox is a writer and teacher who lives in Waynesville. He can be reached at This email address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it..)