A few weeks ago marked the first anniversary of my grandmother’s death. In celebration and memoriam of my growth during this time without her, I embarked on a makeshift grief pilgrimage/self-structured writing from my home in South Minneapolis to The Triangle of North Carolina. 

A fervent solo traveler in my early 20s, it had been years since I’d done a trip like this, particularly something so unstructured, with wiggle room for gentleness, discovery, and ease. I saw this time as an opportunity to write about my grief, to be slow and present in a way I so rarely allow myself. For once, I made it my one responsibility to feel, rather than do, and to do so without the pressures and responsibilities present in my everyday life. I was ready to only tend to myself, and if I needed to put more than a thousand miles between me and my beloveds to do so, I would. 

Armed with an ambitious pile of books, an absurd assortment of car snacks (apparently aromatic bitters and olives are a necessity these days?), and a recently tuned-up car (thanks Fleet Farm!), I set off, radio blasting and windows down. As I ambled through parts of the country formerly foreign to me, it was all too easy to forget it was Eau Claire connections, both imagined and intimate, that attracted me to my destination in the first place. 

I blindly latched onto this area of the country as a sort of dream destination shortly after hometown hero and Durham transplant Phil Cook’s unforgettable year two performance at the Eaux Claires Music Festival. I attended the festival solo, as I did every year, but found myself side by side with dear friends for the heart-quaking, soul-shaking blues that is Cook’s calling card. We grooved freely, laughing and beaming with tears rolling down our faces as Sister Perry, a legendary gospel singer, crooned along with Cook and Bruce Hornsby. 

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As I ambled through parts of the country formerly foreign to me, it was all too easy to forget it was Eau Claire connections, both imagined and intimate, that attracted me to my destination in the first place.

KATY HACKWORTHY

COLUMNIST

It was the kind of acute moment that reminded me why Eau Claire will always feel like home, why the intersection of joy, community, and creation is so integral to my identity, and the way Cook talked about Durham made me believe, or at least hope, it had the same special sauce the Chippewa Valley seems to have running through the river. For years after, I aspired to visit and see what all the fuss was about, but life kept getting in the way: From the pandemic to necessary family health-related trips to never seeming to find the time for a “just me” trip, Durham kept slipping through my fingers.

Finally, this February felt like the perfect time. A beloved was embarking on a month-long artist retreat, and his passion and drive, as well as my own deep desire for a bit of adventure, inspired me to construct a retreat of my own. As I planned my course, I thought of all the delights I might find along the way – delicious Southern food, live music, local bookstores, the Blue Ridge Mountains, friendly locals, and the freedom to just “be” in a place that doesn’t know me the way Minneapolis or Eau Claire does.

In Durham, I discovered all that and more, developing so much kinship in my short time there I extended my trip. I met and stayed with a soul friend who I was connected with through my former Eau Claire pastor. I bonded with fellow bar dwellers at a place reeking of the hometown energy of The Joynt with a dash more Queer energy. I cried at a Hurray for the Riff Raff concert, pulled cards from a handmade tarot deck, and wrote poetry about the links between these two special places. Now, I offer up a prayer of gratitude for the person whose passion for this place brought me there, and another for the way his hometown became a home for my heart.