“Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble there’s no place like home! A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there, Which, seek through the world, is ne'er met with elsewhere: Home!” —John Howard Payner

Last July, I went home for the first time in four years. Home for me is Southeast Tennessee. I lived there for 55 years before moving to the Northern Great Plains. Areas of South Dakota are also “home,” as I have close associations there that date back over 40 years. Ultimately though, I am an expatriate.

When people say “home,” they generally refer to that part of the world where they grew up.

A close friend in North Carolina and the breeder of my Gordon Setters was the impetus for this journey, as initially it was going to be a marathon road trip to simply pick up a new Gordon Setter puppy, spend time with the breeder, and get the puppy back home as quickly as possible.

But the more I thought about it, a realization dawned — just like Marty McFly in “Back to the Future” who realizes, “Wait a minute … I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ve got a time machine.” Well, with a modicum of reason and planning, being retired can be somewhat similar. So I decided to leave early, visit some friends and former neighbors, revisit some favorite spots in the South, do a little fly fishing on the way, and just generally let the time unfold. I knew that once a seven-week-old puppy was in the truck with me, life would consist of simply checking the basics for us both and making that 1,200-mile journey back to North Dakota as quick and painless as possible.

Of course, plans are usually laid to waste as soon as they are made — and this trip was no different. Fortunately, past experiences in a number of pursuits that require rapid ability to adapt kicked in.

I used to do the annual 22-hour drive nonstop. At my current age, I decided that taking two days was a wiser plan. However, 12 hours into the trip, all the preplanned campsites were full, and the CrowdStrike computer outage made getting a hotel virtually impossible without a prior paid-for reservation.

So I drove. Through the night. Just like I was 37 years old. Except, this was 30 years later.

Somewhere south of daybreak and Nashville, I saw a sign for a Cracker Barrel restaurant and took the exit. Good ole southern comfort food was needed. Pulling into the parking lot, there were only four cars. Unusual. Looking across the street at Emma’s Family Cafe, however, the parking lot was full and overflowing with mostly tradesmen’s pickups and the odd farm vehicle. A good sign. I left my vehicle and walked across the street.

Walking in, I am greeted by wonderful smells and a waitress who says, “Sit anywhere you can find a seat, hon. I’ll bring you some coffee.” I must look like I’ve been driving for 22 hours.

Returning to take my order, she is speaking a language you sort of have to be from the South to understand. “What would you like?” becomes “Chaunt’ hon?” “Let’s see — two eggs over easy, bacon, biscuits and gravy.” “Yont’ grits and taters too hon?” “Sure.”

The food was fantastic and the service exemplary. I sat right beside what I call “The Big Table,” although the sign hanging above said “Liar’s Table.” Every seat was taken or I would have joined them. My kind of place.

It was also 85 degrees at 7 AM at the start of a day that would soar above 100. Coming to the party was humidity you could swim through, but this sure feels, sounds, smells, and tastes like home.

After an all-too-short time in my hometown of Chattanooga, I am never able to catch up with all the people I love and miss. Time is too short this trip. But, there are memorable meals and company and I press on to North Carolina and spend a night in one of my favorite “Down and Out” motels in Black Mountain.

The Swannanoa River is blown out and too muddy to fly fish due to torrential rains upon arrival — a foreshadowing of things to come for this community. There is a seafood restaurant half a block away I know to be good, as I stayed in this same place and ate there more than 12 years ago on the way to pick up Gordon Setter Maggie. That will suffice for evening entertainment.

The following day is spent hiking around the summit of Mt. Mitchell — the highest point east of the Rocky Mountains and perhaps my favorite place in the world. The night is spent in a wonderful campground a few minutes away from my breeder’s home and kennel. Sitting in my chair at dusk, I am reminded how much I love the enveloping sounds of cicadas and bullfrogs and the smell of hickory smoke from campfires. I also know this will likely be the last peaceful night I will spend for a while, so I sit outside and just drink it all in until a steady drizzle at midnight forces me to shelter and sleep.

The following morning I am up at 6 AM to a misty and foggy daybreak. Old-timers in certain parts of the South used to call mornings like these “swallow ups,” as anything moving away from you rapidly vanishes.

Looking for breakfast, I drive a bit back east and find a diner with four 18 wheelers parked to the side. As I’m walking in, a local has spotted my front license tag and says, “Long way from home, ain’t you son?” I’m in the right spot and make good medicine out of country ham, buttermilk biscuits, and gravy. Then it is on to meet Stephen and my new puppy.

Pulling into the kennel, Stephen is working in his garden. I get out of my truck and walk toward him with an outstretched hand. He instead gives me a big hug, a gesture of friendship far more common in the South among good friends than in other parts of the country.

It’s good to be home. I understand this place.