Garage Sales and Mayberry

Do you have a place that you love just because you love it? Maybe it is a church pew that feels just right. Maybe it is the restaurant you visited for every childhood birthday. Maybe it is the town you first lived in with your spouse. It is an unexplainable feeling. You can’t quite describe why you love the place so much, but that doesn’t detract from the feeling. You’re just attached!

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Featured photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/w4U39kmTiWWxG23f6 

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May 23rd, 2025- Congaree Day 1

I feel that way about the Appalachian Mountains. Don’t get me wrong, I adore the Tetons. The Cascades are incredible. In a contest against their younger, more magnificent cousins, the Appalachians may seem a little plain. But for me, the Appalachians hold their own. 

The rolling green slopes of the Appalachians are like the curves of a mother’s arms. Gently, the Appalachians cradle little towns and hardy farms in their lush valleys. The boughs of the hardwood forests whisper secrets to the waterfalls and streams. Wildlife lives abundantly in the care of the Appalachians, knowing the motherly mountains will keep them safe. Despite the assault of the mining industry on the noble mountains, the Appalachians stand tall. There is grit beneath their gentleness. The Appalachians will outlast us all.

The people of the Appalachians mirror their mountains. Their voices are honey-sweet with a southern drawl, but strength lives in their eyes. They’ve known poverty, natural disaster, and destruction. They’ve seen hard times before and will see them again. They face every day with determination. They are undyingly loyal to their kin. They are mountain folk, now and forever, and you’d best leave them that way. 

I grew up taking family roadtrips to visit my relatives in Kentucky. We left behind the smooth crop fields of Ohio to enter the warm embrace of the Appalachians. Not too long after, we’d enter the embrace of our Kentucky family, too. Uncle John once told me I was his favorite niece (a badge of honor I still wear to this day). Aunt Vertrice found joy in cooking us gigantic, delicious meals. Aunt Dorothy had a wonderfully thick, warm voice that sounded like velvet. The list goes on. My great-grandma took on a new persona when she returned to her Kentucky homeland. She smiled brighter, spoke differently, laughed as if the world’s woes had never touched her. It was as if her Ohio identity had dropped away from her on the banks of the Ohio River. When she was in the Appalachians, she was home. And so were we. 

It has been more than a decade since my great-grandma passed, but the Appalachians still feel like home to me. As we drove through wonderfully green hills that Friday morning, joy swelled in my heart while a tear welled in my eyes. The mountains looked the same as they always did. If I squeezed my eyes shut, I could imagine myself in our childhood minivan with my great-grandma in the front seat. The smell of Twizzlers tinged the air while my younger sisters chattered away. In a few hours, we’d be pulling up the steep driveway of Uncle John’s house. We’d scamper out to the pasture to say hello to their old black mare, Jill. We’d run around and shout and play while the motherly Appalachians looked on. 

I smiled, a little sadly. Times were different now. But the Appalachians were the same.

Tyler and I were on our way to Congaree National Park in North Carolina. In a wonderful change of pace, we had decided to drive to the park instead of fly. I glanced over at him in the driver’s seat. His handsome silhouette stood out against the green hills outside. He tapped his fingers mindlessly on the steering wheel, listening to the audiobook on the radio. I smiled again. This was us in a nutshell. We were cozied up in a rental car together, driving long hours to see somewhere new. What adventures would be in store for us this time?

It turns out, our first adventure was a garage sale!

We drove through countless little Virginia towns on our way to North Carolina. In every single town, we saw at least one garage sale. Sometimes there were two. Sometimes, a collection of garage sales had descended on a parking lot to create the effect of a spontaneous flea market. By the third or fourth town, we were getting suspicious. Was this a planned event? Did we happen to drive through Virginia on “National Garage Sale Day”? Or do Virginians just really, really like their garage sales?

By the fifth and sixth town, the temptation was becoming unbearable. I love a good garage sale. Something primal in my brain really enjoys the foraging feeling of sorting through other people’s junk. Tyler loves a good bargain. We’re a match made in heaven! When I caught a glimpse of a guitar sitting on a rocking chair, I knew we had to stop. How often do you see a guitar at a garage sale? We climbed out of the car and strolled casually through the rows. I was pretending to be aloof. We hadn’t stopped at the garage sale specifically so I could look at the guitar. No siree, we stopped because we liked to look at paintbrushes and old jeans. Not interested in anything else at all. Oh hey, how about that? There’s a guitar on a rocking chair!

I picked up the instrument. It was Yamaha in a pretty red-gold color. The body was solid and the neck was straight. It was missing a few strings and was splattered in paint, but both of those were fixable issues. Casually, I let my hand settle on the fingerboard. It was oddly wide and flat. Curious, I tipped the guitar up to examine the broad fingerboard more closely. Then it clicked. It was a classical guitar! 

Suddenly, I envisioned myself following the path of the talented musicians I like to follow on YouTube. I could see myself skillfully fingerpicking classical guitar pieces like “Romanza Española.” My fingers would fly across the strings, my wrist bent artfully over the broad fingerboard. What if I became the next classical guitar legend? Trying not to act too eager, I carried the guitar over to the garage sale host. We bargained it down to $20. Then, my grin breaking through my facade, I excitedly carried my new guitar back to the car. It nestled on top of our suitcases, earning the title of the strangest thing I have ever purchased on a national park trip. 

The guitar became a fun little subplot for our trip. On evenings in our hotel, I used a hot washcloth to clean off the paint splatters. On afternoons in little towns, I looked for music shops that sold classical guitar strings. To date, I have not become a classical guitar master. Nonetheless, I have enjoyed being the owner of a classical guitar! It lives decoratively in our bedroom. On nights when I can’t fall asleep, the guitar often finds its way to my hands. I lovingly tune the little instrument and pluck a few strings. Then, my endlessly patient husband (who is often trying to fall asleep) gets serenaded with whatever song soothes my restless sleeplessness. He doesn’t mind too much.

We spent the rest of our afternoon in Mount Airy, North Carolina. Better known as the birthplace of Andy Griffith, the town is said to have inspired the fictional town of Mayberry in The Andy Griffith Show. Once a hub for granite quarries and textile manufacturing, the sleepy town has now leaned fully into its Mayberry identity. Tyler and I visited Andy Griffith’s childhood home, the Mayberry courthouse, and Floyd’s barber shop. We visited a museum that thoroughly represented the history of the Andy Griffith show, regional Native American culture, the pioneer days, old fire trucks, and Appalachian musical instruments. Not wholly cured of the garage sale itch, we visited the Mayberry Antique Mall too. We wrapped up our afternoon with big ice cream cones from Hillbilly Ice and Creamery. My ice cream cone was apple pie flavored. We enjoyed our sugary snacks comfortably on a sunny sidewalk bench in downtown Mayberry. It was fun to watch the town move around us. It was unmistakably modern, but there was a touch of the Mayberry nostalgia too. 

What is it about Mayberry that attracts people? In the town gift shop, we saw t-shirts that said, “Make America Mayberry again” and “Taylor for President.” The shop sold aprons, cookbooks, jars of jelly, sheriff’s badges, golf balls, giant pencils, commemorative spoons, and license plate covers. The variety was impressive. What is it that spurs people to buy such trinkets? Nostalgia. Some people want to relive a bygone era. More importantly, I think the rest of us long for an era we never experienced. The message is simple in Mayberry. If you buy a t-shirt, you might be able to take home a little bit of Mayberry magic for yourself. You might be able to fulfill that ache for a simpler time. This t-shirt might make you feel whole. All good marketing makes these same promises. It just seemed especially evident in Mayberry. Every tourist in Mayberry was there because they wanted a piece of it for themself. They had fallen in love with the simple joys portrayed in the television show. In their pilgrimage to Mount Airy, they hoped to be transformed. 

In the early seasons of The Andy Griffith Show, the sheriff Andy Taylor spends nearly every evening relaxing on his front porch. Sometimes, he plays the guitar. Sometimes, he talks about life with his impossible-to-dislike Aunt Bee. All the while, his adorably redheaded son, Opie, plays at their feet. The episodes often portray comedic mishaps performed by the sheriff’s deputy, Barney Fife. In every incident, Andy Taylor is calm, patient, kind, and endlessly forgiving. In a few notable episodes, Taylor goes out of his way to encourage Barney or boost his bantam-rooster ego. All in all, The Andy Griffith Show portrays a slow, content lifestyle in a town where neighborliness and kindness are still heralded as virtues. You are accepted in Mayberry. Your mistakes and flaws are acknowledged but not held against you. You have value in Mayberry. In other words, Mayberry feels like home.

Our modern world tells us that individualism is the chiefest emphasis. Nothing says it more clearly than the advertising motto of my college, “Accent on the Individual.” I see this plastered on purple and gold banners all over my hometown. It makes me a little sad. Accenting the individual removes the individual from community. In community, we settle into our identity and role. In community, we are encouraged and lifted up. In community, we are accepted. 

I think this is why we crave for the “home-ness” of Mayberry. In a world that tells us we are at our best when we stand alone, we find ourselves hungry for community. As we individually rush to climb the career ladder, maximize our productivity, and pursue the American dream, a hole in our souls grows wider. At the top of the ladder, we stand alone. 

Maybe we haven’t evolved as much as we thought we did. Maybe Mayberry had it figured out all those years ago. 

Maybe we’re all just looking for home.