Welcome to the first edition of The Wayne Train email newsletter.

Each Sunday, I’ll share a few stories, places, and observations worth lingering over. I’m glad you’re here.

There’s a spot on the highway that holds a special place in the hearts of Appalachians who’ve spent time away.

It’s that place around a certain curve, or just over a small hill, when a familiar line of mountains rises back into view through the windshield.

“Almost home,” you say—to yourself or to anyone within earshot—as the ridges come into focus. You’ve seen that view a thousand times, yet you know you could see it a thousand more and never grow tired of it.

Almost home.

I’ve felt that moment more times than I can count—coming back from jobs, assignments, detours, and years that took me farther than I expected.

Whether you were born along the Blue Ridge, in the shadow of the Great Smokies, or high up on the Cumberland Plateau, those mountains stay with you. No matter how far life carries you, they remain part of the map you carry inside.

Home, after all, is more than a physical place. It’s a feeling. Comfort. Familiarity. The quiet certainty of belonging. A place where you are known, and where you’re allowed to be.

This paper comes into being at a time when the world feels loud, unsettled, and anxious. My hope is that each week you’ll find something here worth lingering over—something interesting, something amusing, something new to learn—and in doing so, set the noise aside for a little while.

Consider this an invitation.

You’re headed home.

And there’s no better place to be.

High above Pineville, Kentucky, there’s a place called Chained Rock. It sits on the mountainside overlooking town, easy to see once you know where to look—and hard to forget once you do.

The story behind it has been told for generations. The rock, a massive boulder resting high above the valley, was believed to threaten the town below. The solution was as simple as it was bold: chain it. Wrap it tight. Hold it in place.

The chain itself is the detail that stops you. One hundred and one feet long, with seven-pound links. Heavy iron wrapped around solid stone, fastened with the belief that if you could just secure the rock, you could sleep a little easier at night. Stand there long enough and you can’t help but imagine the effort it took—not just the labor, but the conviction.

Over time, the chain turned into legend. Was it a feat of local engineering that saved a town, or a clever scheme to attract tourists? Visitors still leave pondering that question.

Today, Chained Rock hangs suspended between fact and folklore. Whether the chain truly keeps the boulder from breaking loose almost doesn’t matter anymore. What matters is what it represents: a town’s refusal to feel helpless in the face of something larger than itself.

It’s a strange comfort, maybe. But it’s a familiar one. And in a place shaped by mountains, that kind of thinking has always made sense.

I’ve retired from publishing small-town weekly newspapers.

But as the old saying goes, once you get ink in your blood, there’s no going back.

There are a lot of strong voices out there right now speaking on behalf of Appalachia and its people. I know that because I’ve spent a lifetime paying attention—first in newsrooms, and now as a reader who still cares deeply about our history, our culture, and where we’re headed next.

I’ll be sharing some of what I find each week, along with a few observations of my own. Stories worth your time. Bits of history that still matter. Small things that have a way of sticking with you longer than expected.

This isn’t meant to be definitive or loud. It’s meant to be steady. Rooted in place. Curious. And written with the same care I tried to bring to every paper that ever landed on a front porch.

If we do this right, it’ll reflect the best of Appalachian values: attention, honesty, and a sense of belonging. And if nothing else, we’ll be able to say we enjoyed the ride.

I’m glad you’re here.

I hope to see you again next Sunday.

I saw a statistic recently that’s been hard to shake. Since Russia invaded Ukraine, there have been more than two million casualties—dead, wounded, or missing—on both sides. Many of them weren’t soldiers at all. Just people living where the fighting reached them.

Big numbers tend to blur after a while, but this one didn’t. Maybe because it wasn’t tied to a headline or a moment on television. It just sat there, heavy, asking to be noticed.

There’s a Bible verse I’ve carried with me for most of my life: What does it profit a man to gain the whole world and lose his own soul? I don’t know that it was written with modern wars in mind, but it feels uncomfortably relevant.

I’ve been thinking about that question ever since I saw the number.

How often is the cost paid by people who never sought the prize?

Thanks for taking the ride this week.

If you grew up in a place like this, you know how stories travel—passed along, remembered, sometimes misunderstood, but rarely forgotten. My hope is to keep a few of them moving, one week at a time, in a way that feels familiar and steady.

We’ll be back here next Sunday. Same route. Same pace.

Until then, take care of each other—and keep an eye on the road.