Ramblings and ruminations about and around Asheville, my “Appalachian barrio”—nestled at the confluence of the Swannanoa River and the French Broad River in Western North Carolina.
PHOTO GALLERY. People of Asheville
AS WE snaked through Merrimon Avenue, I saw Clare Hanrahan chatting with a young man with grayish beard with a “Stop The War” shirt or something, near Greenlife Grocery. And I think I saw George Glass with a beat-up guitar on his shoulder striding towards Musician’s Workshop.
That night, as usual, I had two PBRs at Westville Pub, my neighborhood bar—while I listened to River Guerguerian’s and Stephanie’s Id’s new CDs on my Walkman. An hour or so after, I walked back to my house just a block away. A squirrel scooted out of my front yard tree as my neighbor’s cat greeted me, “What’s up, bro?” Then, the gentle rain fell… I was home again at last. [--from my book in progress, “My Life as a Greyhound.” First published in The Indie; Loved by the Buffalo Publications. 2007. Asheville, North Carolina. Edited August 2010]