This year we spent a lot of Thanksgiving weekend on the road — with time to hear each other, sometimes talking, sometimes breathing steadily in sleep. This trapped togetherness can be just what a family needs.

Our oldest son came from college. Our high school son was there as was our daughter, an eighth-grader. We were on our way to Asheville, joining the ride from different parts of our lives, pulled together by holiday and highway.

We left Greenville early and stopped for lunch in Hickory, sunning on the town square with barbecue from the Arcade Pool Room and Sandwich shop, an old haunt. I showed my sons the furniture store where my parents bought a guitar for me in the '60s, and where my grandfather operated a clothing store in the 20s. And I pointed out where I bought all my bluejeans of childhood and "Weejuns" of high school, and where my brother still has an office.

We went by my schools, by the house I grew up in, the cemetery. All the old home places, more and more distant yet still so hard to leave behind. As we moved along, the kids asked questions; I reveled in answering them.

There were no reluctant travelers on board, since we weren't going just to hear me reminisce but to hear a musician our family has grown to appreciate. In fact, we got to the concert hall early.

It turned out that the artist — David Wilcox, a well-known guitarist, singer and songwriter/poet — was there early, too. I felt comfortable enough to approach him and thank him for his work and tell him about our family's appreciation. I explained that everyone in the family — from age 14 to 58 — really enjoyed his music. Had to be a record, I told him. He was gracious.

My son later got his autograph on a concert poster — perfect for dormitory room display. More perfect was simply being there together.

My daughter provided the best laugh of the weekend when she and her mom told about a recent shopping trip. Every time they would see something neat, my daughter said, her mother would say, thoughtfully: "You know, we could make that," — which meant they would not be buying it.

It turned out we didn't have time that day to do much shopping or hike anywhere or go to the Thomas Wolfe house. We did wander around a few shops in Biltmore Village long enough to get hungry. We decided to drive downtown to eat, and then it was off to the concert.

We came back down the mountain and across the state the next day — the large green road signs reminding me of basketball trips to Marion and Asheville, a stint as a plumber's helper and interviewing Sam Ervin in Morganton, hitchhiking Interstate 40 from Hickory to Chapel Hill.

From Asheville to Connelly Springs and Conover, Statesville and Mocksville, Winston, Greensboro, Chapel Hill, Durham, Raleigh and now on beyond I-95 past Wilson to Greenville. So many of these signs I remember seeing most of my life — marking the journeys, so many, so different.

But this trip, short as it was, surely was the best. I remember thinking just that as we passed Zebulon, with an autumn-low North Carolina sun at our backs, and eased on to 264 East — the long, dark shadows pointing toward home.

Al Clark is executive editor of The Daily Reflector. Tell him what you think at 252-329-9560 or at aclark@coxnc.com.