What? Hendersonville?

 

We are presently in Black Bear Cabin in Barnardsville. Since 1965, it has been unincorporated—it seems 300 residents are not quite enough to hold a charter together. It is sparsely populated; I have barely seen a soul.

In fact, on this tiny road we are currently “camping” on, I doubt anyone would have business coming this way all day. The little Kia had to work hard to climb the last dirt hill, but when we parked on the small ledge high above a rushing creek, we were in another world.

The hut we are camped in might even be referred to as a house. It is tiny—about 800 square feet, I guess—with very low ceilings and creaky, uneven floors. However, it seems completely airtight. So much so that I cannot hear a thing as I type. Nothing. The silence is a dominating silence, almost like we are living inside a big hunk of gravity.

Directly ahead of me, out the window, I see bright orange, red, and yellow leaves. If you open the door, you hear the creek. It’s brisk out, too. At present, it is overcast, but sunshine is in the forecast.

The thing about Stick and me and our choices of lodging: we often end up in tiny places like this, and they are always like heaven to me.

We had fun on our drive, though I must admit I was really nervous driving in the dark with rain and fog. The wet roads looked like mirrors, and the oncoming lights looked like Lightsabers instead of headlights—all turned vertical and either bright white or red. When I would crest a dark hill, it was not unusual to “lose” the road entirely for a second or two. When the line broke through the clouds, I would make the necessary corrections and my Kia’s onboard assistant would say, “Hey dude, you may want to pull over.”

I think the struggle had as much to do with my age and my eye health as it did the terrain and conditions. Anyone with healthy eyesight didn't appear to have any problem at all, passing me like I was sitting still.

The overcast conditions and rain were also playing tricks with street signs. When the exit appeared for Hendersonville, it was supposed to read “West Hendersonville,” but the word West was compromised by age, wet weather, and a low cloud. I could see the shadow of a word, and having been deep in an audiobook written by Alexandre Dumas and read by a man with a heavy British accent, I borrowed that accent in my head to guess at the wording. It came out: “What? Hendersonville?”

I started laughing at my own observation—why a highway marker would pose a question is beyond me, but I was exhausted. I told Stick what I was laughing about, and we started saying it for fun: “What? Hendersonville?”

This started a chain reaction of laughter, especially combined with an observation Stick had made earlier. We both noticed that gas was 20 cents cheaper than where we had filled up at home. It may have just been the area, but Stick wondered aloud, “Has the gas of price been coming down?”

I laughed, and she didn’t even notice her dyslexic arrangement of the words until I caught my breath and said it back to her.

“You know what I meant,” she said. But it was too late.

Whenever I repeat anything Stick says, I channel her and say it with her very southern accent. I love the way she talks (though she insists she has no accent).

“Has the gayus of price been coming day-on?” I would ask.

“What? Hendersonville?” she’d reply.

Being that tired, we must have been punch-drunk. The whole scene was hilarious. I laughed until my sides hurt.