John B. Marek is a storyteller with dirt under his nails who weaves tales inspired by a lifetime immersed in nature. His insightful essays and award-winning fiction delve into the complexities of sustainable living, the heart of rural communities and the thrill of outdoor adventure. You can find more of his writing at johnbmarek.com.
Last Wednesday, I climbed into my trusty red pickup truck with my dog Millie, her ears flopping as she claimed the passenger seat. We were bound for the Mecklenburg County Recycling and Compost Facility in northwest Charlotte to haul a load of mulch for my front yard, which had grown weathered and desperate for care over the winter. The facility sits near a regional fuel depot, its towering cylindrical tanks shimmering in the morning sun. For years, those tanks were my touchstone. Back when I was a road warrior, crisscrossing the Midwest on business trips, my flights home to Charlotte-Douglas Airport often swooped low over them on approach. Spotting those tanks meant I was almost home – a moment I captured in my book, “Breakfast at Midway,” which chronicles the blur of airports, hotel lobbies and fleeting human connections that defined that chapter of my life.
This morning, though, the wind blew from the northwest, sending jets roaring skyward just above the facility instead of descending. Their silver fuselages gleamed as they climbed, and I couldn’t help but picture myself on one of those planes bound for Cleveland, Chicago or St. Louis. Those memories of travel, filled with long days pitching deals and nights away from home, crowded my mind. I wrote about the Greek restaurant at Midway Airport, where I’d grab breakfast between flights, swapping stories with fellow travelers. Those moments, small but vivid, became the heart of the book – a snapshot of life lived at 30,000 feet. Waiting in line to fill my truck with wood chips while Millie snoozed beside me, that world felt like a distant memory, a story I’d told well and left behind.
The drive to the facility had taken me through Charlotte’s industrial edge, where skyscrapers gave way to warehouses and the faint scent of diesel from the depot. But as I pulled into the recycling center, the air shifted to the rich, earthy aroma of compost and mulch – the smell of growth and renewal.
At the gate, a worker in a bright yellow vest waved me through, pointing to the mulch piles. The place hummed with activity: trucks rumbled, residents unloaded trailers and a loader sculpted mountains of dark, fragrant wood chips. I parked, Millie rising to see what the fuss was about, her nose twitching and stub of a tail wagging like a metronome. A front-end loader lumbered over, scooped up a load of mulch and deposited it skillfully in my truck bed.
The hard part was yet to come, of course. Back home, I set to the back-breaking task of dispersing the mound into a wheelbarrow and onto my yard. Shoveling mulch is honest labor, and its rhythm grounded me as I worked. A jet thundered overhead, pulling me back to “Breakfast at Midway.” I remembered writing about the hardships of travel but also the clarity it brought – how being a stranger in a strange city sharpens your sense of self. Those experiences inspired me to embrace the present, find meaning in everyday moments and appreciate the journey rather than solely focus on the destination.
As I watched the jet streak across the sky, I smiled, no longer yearning for the constant hustle of business travel – the whirlwind, the rush, the transient connections. Now, my life felt more anchored, focusing on the roots of community and home – like my front yard, scruffy but full of potential.
I finished spreading the mulch, with Millie lounging in the shade of an oak tree. The yard was transformed – neater, richer and full of promise. As the sun began to set, I retreated to my deck with a local craft beer, scratching Millie’s ears, content in the simple joy of the moment, her steady breathing a quiet comfort beside me. With the yard renewed and a new chapter unfolding, I’m no longer just passing through; I’m planting for a future.
Listen to the audio version here.