Asheville Quotes

Lee Mellon told me that he was born in Meridian, Mississippi, and grew up in Florida, Virginia, and North Carolina, 'Near Asheville,' he said. 'That's Thomas Wolfe country.' 'Yeah,' I said. Lee Mellon didn't have any Southern accent. 'You don't have much of a Southern accent,' I said. 'That's right, Jesse. I read a lot of Nietzsche, Schopenhauer and Kant when I was a kid,' Lee Mellon said. I guess in some strange way that was supposed to get rid of a Southern accent. Lee Mellon thought so, anyway. I couldn't argue because I had never tried a Southern accent against the German philosophers.

It was the most popular tree-buying destination in Asheville. Lots were everywhere in the mountains of North Carolina—this was Christmas-tree-farm country, after all—so to distinguish themselves, the Drummonds offered friendliness and tradition and atmosphere. And free organic hot apple cider. Asheville loved anything organic. It was that type of town.

My mother and little sister died in a car wreck over in Asheville. My sister’s name was Carianne.

Oh, by the way,” Chase said. “I have to drive over to Asheville in a few days to buy goods for the

Eventually she had decided to marry for background, and the young pagan from Asheville had gone through a spiritual crisis, joined the Catholic Church, and was now--Monsignor Darcy.

It's hard to feel smart when you're always forgetting things, but Mama Shannon says that's how you can tell a smart person. They're too busy thinking about Big Ideas to worry about little details like tying their shoes or remembering their homework" -Fella

Mark felt the Berg descending. He leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes, for a moment wanting nothing but to fall asleep and never wake up again, or to do the opposite and kneel, bashing his head against the floor until it was over. But there was still that small sliver of clarity in his mind. He held on to it like a man clinging to a root on the side of a sheer cliff. Eyes open again. With a grunt, he forced himself to his feet, leaning against the window. The small city of Asheville lay spread out before them. Walls had been constructed out of wood,

She went around reading everything- the directions on the grits bag, Tate's notes, and the stories from her fairy-tale books she had pretended to read for years. Then one night she made a little oh sound, and took the old Bible from the shelf. Sitting at the table, she turned the thin pages carefully to the one with the family names. She found her own at the very bottom: There it was, her birthday: Miss Catherine Danielle Clark, October 10, 1945. Then, going back up the list, she read the real names of her brothers and sisters: Master Jeremy Andrew Clark, January 2, 1939. "Jeremy," she said out loud. "Jodie, I sure never thought a' you as Master Jeremy." Miss Amanda Margaret Clark, May 17, 1937. Kya touched the name with her fingers. Repeated it several times. She read on. Master Napier Murphy Clark, April 14, 1936. Kya spoke softly, "Murph, ya name was Napier." At the top, the oldest, Miss Mary Helen Clark, September 19, 1934. She rubbed her fingers over the names again, which brought faces before her eyes. They blurred, but she could see them all squeezed around the table eating stew, passing cornbread, even laughing some. She was ashamed that she had forgotten their names, but now that she'd found them, she would never let them go again. Above the list of children she read: Mister Jackson Henry Clark married Miss Julienne Maria Jacques, June 12, 1933. Not until that moment had she known her parents' proper names. She sat there for a few minutes with the Bible open on the table. Her family before her. Time ensures children never know their parents young. Kya would never see the handsome Jake swagger into an Asheville soda fountain in early 1930, where he spotted Maria Jacques, a beauty with black curls and red lips, visiting from New Orleans.

Josey was a different person than she was even a month ago. She reminded Margaret so much now of Marco's cousins from Italy. They'd shown up in Bald Slope without warning once, early in Marco and Margaret's wedding. They were magical women, with their long curly hair, large breasts and movements like dancers. Their bracelets sounded like wind chimes when they walked. Margaret had been fascinated by them. Marco had ushered them out within hours of their arrival and taken them to Asheville for their stay. He was ashamed of them, their earthiness and sensuality, of their provincial ways. No one from Italy ever visited again.

one helped him through the window. Every inch of his body ached and his muscles were rubber, but somehow he managed to make it on his own, falling to the floor of the cockpit in a heap. Alec sat hunched over the controls, his face slack and his eyes empty. Trina sat in the corner, Deedee huddled in her lap. Both of them looked at him, but their expressions were unreadable. “Flat Trans,” Mark blurted out. Sparkles and flashes of light continued to cross his field of vision, and he could barely contain the unstable emotions that churned within him. “Bruce said the PFC had a Flat Trans in Asheville. We have to find it.” Alec’s head snapped up and he glared at Mark. But then something softened in his gaze. “I think I know where to

It truly is a team sport, and we have the best team in town. But it’s my relationship with Ilana that I cherish most. We have such a strong partnership and have learned how we work most efficiently: I need coffee, she needs tea. When we’re stressed, I pace around and use a weird neck massager I bought online that everyone makes fun of me for, and she knits. When we’re writing together she types, because she’s faster and better at grammar. We actually FaceTime when we’re not in the same city and are constantly texting each other ideas for jokes or observations to potentially use (I recently texted her from Asheville: girl with flip-flops tucked into one strap of tank top). Looking back now at over ten years of doing comedy and running a business with her I can see how our collaboration has expanded and contracted. But it’s the problem-solving aspect of this industry, the producing, the strategy, the realizing that we could put our heads together and figure out the best solution, that has made our relationship and friendship what it is. Because that spills into everything. We both have individual careers now, but those other projects have only been motivating and inspiring to each other and the show. We bring back what we’ve learned on the other sets, in the other negotiations, in the other writers’ rooms or press situations. I’m very lucky to have jumped into this with Ilana Rose Glazer, the ballsy, curly-haired, openhearted, nineteen-year-old girl that cracked me up that night at the corner of the bar at McManus. So many wonderful things have happened since we began working together, but there are a lot of confusing, life-altering things in there too, and it’s such a relief to have someone who completely understands the good and the bad.

Asheville Citizen-Times newspaper, which reported how a man – his name isn’t given – walked into a branch of Bank of America, picked up a deposit slip and wrote on it: This is a stickkup. Put all you muny in this bag. Then, like all polite robbers, he waited in a queue to hand the note to the teller. As he stood there, he started worrying that someone might have seen him write the note, and that the police could be called before he reached the window. Thinking quickly – or as quickly as he was able – he left the Bank of America and hurried across the street to a branch of the Wells Fargo Bank. There he again waited in a queue for a few minute, until it was his turn to see the teller. He handed her the note and she read it. Realising that he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, she told him that, unfortunately, she couldn’t accept the demand because it was written on rival bank’s stationary; he would either have to rewrite the note on a Wells Fargo slip, or go back to the Bank of America. ‘Looking somewhat defeated, the man left the Wells Fargo Bank,’ says the Citizen-Times. He was arrested a few minutes later – in the queue back over at the Bank of America.

Above the list of children she read: Mister Jackson Henry Clark married Miss Julienne Maria Jacques, June 12, 1933. Not until that moment had she known her parents’ proper names. She sat there for a few minutes with the Bible open on the table. Her family before her. Time ensures children never know their parents young. Kya would never see the handsome Jake swagger into an Asheville soda fountain in early 1930, where he spotted Maria Jacques, a beauty with black curls and red lips, visiting from New Orleans. Over a milkshake he told her his family owned a plantation and that after high school he’d study to be a lawyer and live in a columned mansion. But when the Depression deepened, the bank auctioned the land out from under the Clarks’ feet, and his father took Jake from school. They moved down the road to a small pine cabin that once, not so long ago really, had been occupied by slaves. Jake worked the tobacco fields, stacking leaves with black men and women, babies strapped on their backs with colorful shawls. One night two years later, without saying good-bye, Jake left before dawn, taking with him as many fine clothes and family treasures—including his great-grandfather’s gold pocket watch and his grandmother’s diamond ring—as he could carry. He hitchhiked to New Orleans and found Maria living with her family in an elegant home near the waterfront. They were descendants of a French merchant, owners of a shoe factory. Jake pawned the heirlooms and entertained her in fine restaurants hung with red velvet curtains, telling her that he would buy her that columned mansion. As he knelt under a magnolia tree, she agreed to marry him, and they wed in 1933 in a small church ceremony, her family standing silent.

Anxious to defend his adopted city—especially his side of town, the less fashionable west end—Eli considered giving Veronica a condensed lecture on the history of Asheville, North Carolina. 1880: the Western North Carolina Railroad completed a line from Salisbury to Asheville, which later enabled George Washington Vanderbilt to construct the Biltmore Estate, the largest private residence in America. Over time, that 179,000 square foot house transitioned into a multi- million dollar company. Which lured in tourists. Who created thousands of jobs. Which caused the sprawl flashing by Eli’s window at fifty-five miles per hour. But Eli refrained from being the Local Know-It-All, remembering all the times he’d traveled to new cities and some cabbie wanted to play docent, wanted to tell him about the real Cleveland or the hidden Miami. Instead, he let the air conditioner chase away the remnants of his jet lag and thought about Almario “Go Go” Gato. He waited for Veronica to say something about the Blue Ridge Mountains, which stood alongside the highway, hovering over the valley below like stoic parents waiting for their kids to clean up their messy bedrooms. Eli gave her points for her silence. And for ditching the phone, even if she kept glancing anxiously toward the glove compartment every time it buzzed. The car rode smooth, hardly a bump. For a resident of Los Angeles, she drove cautiously, obeying all traffic laws. Eli had a perfect driving record. Well, almost perfect. There was that time he drove the Durham Bulls’ chartered Greyhound into the right field fence during the seventh inning stretch. But that was history. Almost ancient.

Well, I have never been to Asheville nor worn a store-bought dress in my life, but you will say all sorts of lies when you're feeling not one inch tall.

At Carolina Ground, a tiny mill in Asheville, Jennifer Lapidus has had to soften her approach with old-school wheat farmers who don’t immediately buy into her all-female operation. “I have never wanted to punch a man in the face more than when they say, ‘Oh, I want to watch this girlie work that forklift,’ ”she said.

I believe North Carolina is going to be a very important place in holding positive energy for this part of the world as we go through our next evolution on a body, mind, spirit, and planetary level. I believe that North Carolina is evolving into a light center for the United States. I see the symbolism with the lighthouses all along the North Carolina coast, shining brightly. They remind me of the great lighthouse in Alexandria, Egypt, where the world’s greatest library once existed. On the other end of the state lie the mystical Blue Ridge Mountains, one of the oldest mountain ranges in the world, and with vortices in the area spinning with so much energy in cities like Asheville that the area has been nicknamed the Sedona of the South, in reference to the vortices and spiritual energy

North Carolina Haiku "Asheville is just so cool. We got a craft gallery AND 3 other stores!

US Craft Brewery Sales to Anheuser-Busch InBev March 28, 2011: Goose Island Beer Co. (Chicago) February 5, 2014: Blue Point Brewing (Patchogue, New York) November 5, 2014: 10 Barrel Brewing (Bend, Oregon) January 23, 2015: Elysian Brewing (Seattle) September 23, 2015: Golden Road Brewing (Los Angeles) December 18, 2015: Four Peaks Brewing (Tempe, Arizona) December 22, 2015: Breckenridge Brewery (Littleton, Colorado) April 12, 2016: Devils Backbone Brewing (Roseland, Virginia) November 3, 2016: Karbach Brewing (Houston) May 3, 2017: Wicked Weed Brewing (Asheville, North Carolina)

If Troy Callahan had ever been in a quieter locker room, he didn't know when. That included the year Troy played for the New York Rangers and they lost to the Washington Capitals in the division finals. The locker room might have been quiet, but there was at least the air of sweaty, tired athletes who'd left it all out on the ice even if the result wasn't the one they wanted. The Asheville Ravens' locker room? It was like a goddamn funeral scene in a silent movie.

She cursed loud enough to attract the attention of an older man who’d dolled himself up for the evening, his eyes glaring at her over the top of the Asheville Citizen-Times. She slashed him with a sardonic smile and got up, enraged at herself over this swell of weakness. She took two steps. Everything changed. The anger melted. Exhilaration flooding in to take its place. In the emotion and fear of the moment, it had completely escaped her.

still spinning in

That’s one of the problems with the way I’m wired. I don’t trust people to accept who I am in process. I’m the kind of person who wants to present my most honest, authentic self to the world—so I hide backstage and rehearse honest and authentic lines until the curtain opens. I only say this because the same personality trait that made me a good writer also made me terrible at relationships. You can only hide backstage for so long. To have an intimate relationship, you have to show people who you really are. I’d gotten good at reeling in a woman and then bowing to say, “Thanks, you’ve been a great audience,” right about the time I had to let her know who I really was. I hardly knew who I really was myself, much less how to be fully known. WHEN BETSY ARRIVED IN ASHEVILLE, I’D HARDLY talked to another human being in weeks. I felt like a scuba diver having to come to the surface when she asked a question. We were sitting by the pond in front of the cabin when she asked how I could spend so much time alone. She said her friends admired my ability to isolate for a book’s sake but wondered whether it was healthy. I don’t think she was worried. She just found the ability foreign. I thought about it and told her something I’d learned about myself in the year I spent pursuing her. I’d learned my default mode was to perform. Even in small groups I feel like I have to be “on.” But when I’m alone my energy comes back. When I’m alone I don’t have to perform for anybody. She said I didn’t have to perform for her. She didn’t have to say that. I knew it was true. Who else do you marry but the person who pulls you off the stage?

I see a sign for Asheville, North Carolina, and decide to go, because everyone says Asheville is like Ithaca but bigger. Because of all the places I’ve been, Ithaca is my favorite and I can’t go back.

The Charlotte NC Work Comp Lawyers Group represents those people who have been injured on the job. We represent those workers in Charlotte North Carolina and the surrounding areas. Our work comp attorneys also represent those injured workers in all cities in North Carolina, including Greensboro, Raleigh, Wilmington and Asheville to name just a few. We are available for consultation and free case evaluation of your worker's compensation claim by appointment over the phone. We work with all insurance companies as wells as the medical community to provide the very best service to those who have been injured on the job.

It’s a real place,” I counter. Dusty had made the little mountain town sound so idyllic I’d actually googled it. Sunshine Falls, North Carolina, sits just a little ways outside Asheville.

That’s frustratingly common. “I’ve evaluated thousands of quartz samples from all over the world,” said John Schlanz, chief minerals processing engineer at the Minerals Research Laboratory in Asheville, about an hour from Spruce Pine. “Near all of them have contaminate locked in the quartz grains that you can’t get out.” Some Spruce Pine quartz is flawed in this way. Those grains, the washouts from the Delta Force of the quartz selection process, are used for high-end beach sand and golf course bunkers—most famously the salt-white traps of Augusta National Golf Club,16 site of the iconic Masters Tournament. A golf course in the oil-drunk United Arab Emirates imported 4,000 tons of this sand in 2008 to make sure its sand traps were world-class, too.

I am simply saying that you think you have a plan and a path, and it just might not be the one He has set out for you.

The woman I fell in love with was sassy, and fun, and she still can make me laugh at anything. She was also so capable, and never wanted to ask for help with anything.” He added a look. “Heck, if she wanted to, she’d hang the dang lights on the roof herself. I just won’t let her.

I adore every last little thing about that woman, and I mean to spend the rest of my life making sure she knows it.

To Paraphrase William Faulkner, " In Asheville the fifteenth century is never dead. It's not even past

I discovered years ago that there is great truth to the happy wife-happy life motto.

At his touch, her color paled. She quickly withdrew her hand from his grasp. I’d only seen Marisol react that way one time before. A long-ago trip to the library in Asheville when a politician shook Marisol’s hand after his speech on education reform. When I’d asked about her reaction to the man, she’d said, “Shaking hands with him was like shaking hands with a snake.

He and his entourage took up almost all the Holiday Inn out by the interstate, and reporters from as far away as Asheville descended on us. Sonny was big news, and so was the state of his marriage.

We stop for gas in Asheville, North Carolina. The cashier in the minimart sits in a bulletproof booth, something I haven’t seen since leaving San Francisco.

An analysis of nutritional and metabolic data by Jon Pangborn, Ph.D., a well-known nutritional biochemist affiliated with the Great Smokies Diagnostic Laboratories in Asheville, North Carolina, found that the metabolism of methionine is the “most frequently impaired or disordered amino acid” among 1,500 individuals with food and chemical intolerances, degenerative diseases, neuromuscular dysfunction, and mental diseases.

Curator David Finley called his friend Edith Vanderbilt, who agreed to hide the nation’s most precious artworks—sixty-two paintings and seventeen sculptures—at the Biltmore, her family estate in western North Carolina. There, after a secret 450-mile train trip to Asheville, the artworks were stored in the first-floor music room of the palatial château. Security was crucial to the mission: Workers installed steel doors and bars on the music room’s windows,

Marco Cirrini had been skiing on the north face of Bald Slope Mountain since he was a boy, using the old skis his father brought with him from Italy. The Cirrinis had shown up out of nowhere, walking into town in the middle of winter, their hair shining like black coal in the snow. They never really fit in. Marco tried, though. He tried by leading groups of local boys up the mountain in the winter, showing them how to make their own skis and how to use them. He charged them pennies and jars of bean chutney and spiced red cabbage they would sneak out of their mothers' sparse pantries. When he was nineteen, he decided he could take this one step further. He could make great things happen in the winter in Bald Slope. Cocky, not afraid of hard work and handsome in that mysterious Mediterranean way that excluded him from mountain society, he gathered investors from as far away as Asheville and Charlotte to buy the land. He started construction on the lodge himself while the residents of the town scoffed. They were the sweet cream and potatoes and long-forgotten ballads of their English and Irish and Scottish ancestors, who settled the southern Appalachians. They didn't want change. It took fifteen years, but the Bald Slope Ski Resort was finally completed and, much to everyone's surprise, it was an immediate success. Change was good! Stores didn't shut down for the winter anymore. Bed-and-breakfasts and sports shops and restaurants sprouted up. Instead of closing up their houses for the winter, summer residents began to rent them out to skiers. Some summer residents even decided to move to Bald Slope permanently, moving into their vacation homes with their sleeping porches and shade trees, thus forming the high society in Bald Slope that existed today. Marco himself was welcomed into this year-round society. He was essentially responsible for its formation in the first place, after all. Finally it didn't matter where he came from. What mattered was that he saved Bald Slope by giving it a winter economy, and he could do no wrong. This town was finally his.

Court Clerk Harold Willey was dispatched by Warren to spend a fall weekend scouting Asheville for a possible relocation facility. “Because all large cities are considered to be prospective enemy targets, a hotel in a secluded small city, wherein approximately one-hundred people could both live and work, with spaces available for a court room and clerical offices, seems a most appropriate facility for the Court,” Willey wrote in his report to the chief justice. Willey

There weren't any tear tracks on her cheeks, but I remember thinking she was crying anyway, right there in front of me, in her own way" -Fella

Editor Maxwell Perkins had an eye for prose. Ernest Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald were among the writers he had ushered through the publishing process at Charles Scribner’s Sons. Perkins took what was originally Wolfe’s 294,000-word, door-stopping tome and pared it down . . . to a still-whopping 223,000 (626 pages). The result was Look Homeward, Angel, Wolfe’s novel about life in the mountain town of “Altamont” and the goings-on at a boardinghouse called “Dixieland.” His mellifluous sentences poured one over another, describing in sumptuous detail many a barely veiled reference to Wolfe’s hometown. Upon publication, Asheville’s families tore through the book looking for versions of themselves.

I was once again doing something I didn’t want to do, and once again I didn’t know why. I was leaving the beach to drive back “home” where it was cold and wet. While the mountainous city of Asheville was certainly a beautiful place, I felt better near the ocean. I’m not saying the ocean is better than mountains, fields, cities, rivers, or anywhere else; the ocean was simply my preference.