Over the Next Mountain, Around the Next Bend
Community Stories
Over the Next Mountain, Around the Next Bend
by April N., Lead Storyteller
Richard was one of the first to arrive to the Haywood St. garden a couple of Wednesdays ago. He sat at a picnic table with a cup of coffee and a Bible open to Psalms. I asked if I could join him and he gestured with a smile and nod to the seat across from him.
“Reading the Psalms is my way of praying,” he said, “I just wish the print was larger for these old eyes.”
Richard was traveling alone, making his way from Wyoming to Asheville on a Greyhound bus. Back in Wyoming he lives in a small log cabin built in 1856 on his family’s 80-acre homestead. He spoke with pride about how he and his brother have been able to hang on to that parcel. It used to be much greater, but hard times during the Great Depression forced his parents and grandparents to sell off the largest tract.
As the sun rose higher and more people filled the garden, warming up with coffee and conversation – awaiting the Downtown Welcome Table meal, Richard shared more about his life. This was not his first visit to North Carolina. He served in the Marine Corps in the 70s, stationed in North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia, and mustered out as gunnery sergeant after eight years. I asked what brought him back this time around.
“I’ve always wanted to see what’s over the next mountain and around the next bend or on the other side of the river,” he said, “but I always come back home.”
Ultimately he wanted to make it farther east to the Uwharrie National Forest to placer mine. With a bucket and a shovel he enjoyed mining for gold hidden in rivers and streams. His eyes sparkled as he explained the difference between the lode gold deposits in the mountains that over time became alluvial gold in creeks and streams.
He wouldn’t make it to the Uwharrie on this trip though. With cold weather and Thanksgiving and Christmas on the way, he decided to make his way back to Wyoming after two months in Asheville. His brother needed his help on the homestead and he wanted to spend the holidays with him and his niece and nephew. Within the next couple of days, if his plans fell into place, he’d be on a Greyhound heading west.
“I miss my mountains,” he said, noting the difference between the Blue Ridge and the Wind River Range and Tetons, “and I miss my dogs.”
Back home, two Irish wolfhounds named Pegasus and LuluBell, were waiting. He was looking forward to their warmth and companionship, and to simple things like hearing rain on the tin roof of his cabin.
I thanked Richard for spending time with me, and asked if I could take his photograph and share his story. He graciously agreed. Later that day I saw him sleeping on the last pew in the sanctuary. Beside him were his backpack with a fishing pole attached and a neatly rolled sleeping bag with his cowboy hat on top. He was resting up for the journey ahead.
My time with Richard reminded me (a reminder I get over and over at Haywood St) that every person we meet has a unique story, that each life is a turn of the kaleidoscope where the bits and pieces, moments and years, converge into sacred beauty. How much goes unseen when we don’t slow down long enough to listen to the person sitting across from us at the table?