🎙️ DEAR RACHEL is here.
A fictional call-in show with real-world resonance.
In Episode 1, The Aspiring Creator asks: "Why am I doing everything right—and still falling behind?"
This isn't satire—it’s a mirror.
Watch, listen, or read: [Insert Link]
#DearRachel #AspiringCreator #WorkingClassVoices #HickoryHound
Why We Created “Dear Rachel” – Giving a Voice to the Voiceless
In the post-industrial shadow of the Foothills Corridor—a stretch of the Southern Mid-Atlantic once powered by mills, factories, and generational stability—something has been unraveling for decades. First it was jobs. Then community cohesion. Then dignity itself. The systems meant to catch people began collapsing, and those left behind were told to reinvent themselves, hustle harder, or fade quietly.
Dear Rachel was born to push back on that silence—not through data charts or policy memos, but by dramatizing the ache in the room that no one talks about. It’s a fictional call-in show, but the voices you hear are rooted in real-life struggle. Each archetype comes from The Shrinking Center, a cultural mapping of characters shaped by economic dislocation, civic betrayal, and a relentless demand to adapt in a system rigged for the already-powerful.
The Aspiring Creator, The Grandparent Who Stayed, The Institutional Lifer—these aren’t abstract types. They’re based on people we know, or perhaps the people we’ve become. They wrestle with questions like: “Why am I doing everything right and still falling behind?” or “What happened to the promises we built our lives around?” Dear Rachel gives them a place to ask out loud—and to be answered with care, insight, and solidarity.
Why now? Because traditional media doesn’t reach this center anymore. Because the loudest voices online often erase the human texture of working-class life. And because there are millions of Americans stuck between nostalgia and progress with no one speaking for them—until now.
I’ve asked people to send me feedback, and while I’ve gotten some, it’s been very little. I can see there are views, that something’s registering—but it still feels like I’m operating in a void. That’s unfortunate. It’s not cool being made into a loner just for trying to speak up with purpose. If you’re watching, reading, or listening—reach out. Let me know you’re out there.
Dear Rachel isn’t satire. It’s not parody. It’s a mirror. The Hickory Hound Network presents this series with dignity and depth—because people like us deserve to be heard.
The Foothills Corridor: A History of Loss, A Blueprint for Collective Power
For most of the 20th century, the Foothills region of western North Carolina was a place where people could build lives with their hands, their backs, and their pride. This 20-county stretch—bounded west of I-85, north of US-74, east of the Blue Ridge Parkway, and south of US-421—wasn't just defined by geography. It was shaped by purpose. These were towns powered by furniture factories, textile mills, tobacco warehouses, and tool manufacturers. People didn’t have to leave to make a living. In fact, they didn’t want to.
What Happened to This Region
By the 1980s and 90s, the forces of globalization, automation, and free trade policy began unraveling what had taken generations to build. NAFTA accelerated outsourcing. Whole factories disappeared—sometimes literally, crated up and shipped overseas. Tax bases crumbled. Young people began leaving. Communities that once thrived on local capital were gutted by corporate consolidation and policy decisions made far from the region’s hills and valleys.
Culturally, identity was tied to labor and place. When the jobs disappeared, so did a sense of belonging. Churches, ballfields, civic halls—once filled with industrial rhythm and intergenerational pride—lost their anchors. Politically, the region was increasingly sidelined. Urban centers in Raleigh and Charlotte attracted attention, funding, and influence. Rural voices—diverse, skilled, and deeply rooted—were treated as fringe, not foundational.
What Happened to the People
The people of the Foothills didn’t become lazy or backward. They became survivors. They stitched together part-time jobs, helped raise each other’s kids, and watched as Main Streets turned into ghost strips. Some went into healthcare. Others into warehousing or construction. Many left. The ones who stayed carried the weight of loss—economic, cultural, and emotional. Addiction rose. So did despair. But so did a quiet, persistent hope. A stubbornness not to disappear.
The people of the Foothills didn’t fail. They were failed—by systems that capitalized on their labor and then erased them from policy, media, and memory.
Why a Partnership Must Be Formed
To reverse this decades-long slide, a new kind of power must be built—not from the top down, but from the ground up. A formal partnership among the counties, cities, towns, and communities within the Foothills Corridor would not be about branding or politics. It would be about survival, leverage, and momentum.
No single town, no matter how creative or well-led, can outmuscle the forces that shape federal and state investment alone. But together, these communities can:
Align on regional grant priorities and stop competing for the same limited funds
Share procurement systems that save money and increase access
Create talent pipelines that connect education to actual jobs across counties
Build a unified platform that speaks with one voice to Raleigh and Washington
How Smaller Communities Can Compete
The towns of Taylorsville, Valdese, Drexel, or Sparta will never match Charlotte, Winston-Salem, or Asheville in raw population or national visibility. But they can compete in other ways:
Agility: Small towns can pilot new ideas faster—whether it’s trail development, co-op grocery stores, or remote work hubs
Authenticity: Tourists and talent are drawn to real places with real character
Cost Advantage: Housing, commercial space, and land are more accessible
Community Trust: Small towns can mobilize volunteers and partnerships more efficiently
By focusing on identity-driven development and tactical partnerships, these smaller communities can carve out distinctive, resilient niches that attract investment and talent on their own terms.
How Smaller Communities Can Partner with Larger Cities in the Corridor
Rather than operate in silos, the smaller and larger communities in the Foothills Corridor must coordinate to amplify their combined strengths:
Larger cities (like Hickory and Gastonia) can serve as administrative anchors for regional projects and initiatives
Smaller towns can serve as testbeds for policy innovation or unique lifestyle offerings
Together, they can build workforce pipelines that allow residents to move fluidly between educational programs, job centers, and entrepreneurial opportunities
Tourism strategies can link urban centers to rural escapes—trail towns, heritage districts, and agritourism routes
This is not a hierarchy—it’s a network. The region will thrive when it acts like an ecosystem, not a chain of competitors.
How the Foothills Corridor Can Get Raleigh and Washington to Listen
Power in American politics is organized, not granted. If the Foothills Corridor wants to be seen and respected, it must act like a region with intention—not a group of struggling towns with separate agendas.
To get Raleigh and Washington to pay attention, the region must:
Speak with one voice: Whether it’s education, broadband, or health equity—there must be a shared legislative platform and lobbying plan.
Track and publish data: Policymakers respond to dashboards, not anecdotes. The region needs a living scorecard with real metrics.
Tell its own story: Launch a media and narrative campaign that frames the Corridor as an asset, not a charity case.
Organize for funding: Regional grant writers, rotating convenings, and co-sponsored applications will signal capacity and seriousness.
Leverage strategic allies: Partner with universities, foundations, and think tanks to amplify the Corridor’s needs and strengths.
The Purpose Is Clear
The purpose of this partnership is not to create a new bureaucracy. It’s to reclaim dignity, power, and future-building capacity in a region that has given far more than it’s received. The Foothills Corridor is not asking for handouts. It’s building leverage.
This partnership is the next chapter in a long story of grit, grief, and rebirth. It is the foundation for a future that doesn’t just preserve what was—but builds what could be.
And that’s the essence of reinvention: not a return to old glory, but the creation of new strength, written in the voice of those who stayed.
For 25 years, the Catawba River has quietly powered Charlotte’s explosive growth—fueling server farms, sprawling suburbs, and booming tech hubs. But the cost has fallen on Catawba County and surrounding foothill communities. With server farms consuming millions of gallons a day and Charlotte requesting even more through Interbasin Transfers, the river basin is reaching a breaking point. Local needs—like agriculture, drinking water, and environmental balance—are being sidelined. This is more than a water issue. It’s a warning. Without accountability and fair resource management, rural communities will continue to bear the burden of urban expansion they never signed up for.
In 2011, Hickory stood at a crossroads—its furniture and textile legacy fading fast. Fourteen years later, the city has retooled its economy with fiber optics, data centers, and workforce training through CVCC. Microsoft, Apple, and Corning now anchor the area’s job market. Housing has stabilized, public spaces improved, and Hickory ranks among the best places to live in North Carolina. While cultural diversity and leadership remain mixed bags, the overall trajectory is forward. Hickory hasn’t reinvented itself overnight—but it has steadily turned decline into progress, proving that resilience is less about reinvention and more about refusing to stand still.
“If you want to follow my work, you
can find me on the Hickory Hound blog and the Hickory Hound YouTube
channel.
Follow me on X at @Hickory Hound. Like I told you last week, when all of the censorship was going on and the lawfare and such, I kept
getting these 24 hour bans and worse, so I dropped the Twitter Channel
and lost all of my connections there. So if you are on X formerly Twitter,
please give me a follow. I don't see a lot of private Hickory groups on there and this is a great place to build a brand.
I am still moving towards a Patreon platform to release old and new deep dive and special material, and I’ll let you know the details as they come around.
Feel free to shoot me an email anytime at HickoryHoundFeedback@gmail.com—I
do read what comes in. And if you stop by YouTube, please like and subscribe—it really does
help more folks see what we’re talking about here.
The Paperback cookbook “A Book of
Seasons” is available on Amazon for $21.95. Just go to Amazon and type in "A Book of Seasons" Cookbook and my name and it will come up. The Link is provided in the text based version on the Hickory Hound Blog. The Next cookbook is done and will be released in early May.
Charlotte’s explosive growth is draining the Catawba River. Discover how Catawba County bears the burden—and what’s at stake for the next 25 years.
A Basin Under Strain: The Catawba River’s 25-Year Burden
For 25 years, Catawba
County has watched Charlotte’s skyline soar, its tech hub boom, and its
population swell to 2.5 million within a 50-mile radius, while the county’s
164,645 residents have borne the cost of fueling this growth. The Catawba River
Basin, which supplies water to server farms and Interbasin Transfers (IBTs)
that power Charlotte’s economy, has been pushed to its limits, often at the
expense of Catawba County’s own future. Now, with the basin’s 255 billion
gallons under strain, server farms in Maiden using 11 million gallons per day
(MGD), and Charlotte requesting an IBT increase from 33 MGD to 63 MGD, the
county faces a critical question: can it shift from being a resource hub to a
true partner in the region’s growth, or will it lose out again in the next 25
years?
Spanning North Carolina and South
Carolina, the Catawba River Basin supports over 2 million people across 11
reservoirs, but its capacity has been severely tested. During the 2007-2009
drought, Lake Norman dropped 6.3 feet below full pool, Hickory’s 40,000
residents faced strict rationing, and downstream South Carolina communities
like Rock Hill reported fish kills and threats to the endangered Carolina
Heelsplitter mussel as flows fell below 700 cubic feet per second (cfs). Today,
the basin’s 650 MGD total withdrawals include 100 MGD for industrial users
(15%), with server farms like Apple and Microsoft in Maiden drawing 11 MGD—80%
of which (8.8 MGD) supports Charlotte’s tech economy, including Microsoft’s
2,000+ jobs there.
The IBT Battle: Charlotte’s Demand Sparks Regional Pushback
Charlotte’s 2024
request to increase its IBT to 63 MGD—an additional 30 MGD, enough for a city
of 150,000—has reignited a 25-year battle over the Catawba River Basin’s finite
resources. Combined with Concord and Kannapolis’ 10 MGD IBT, total transfers
could reach 73 MGD, pushing the basin to its breaking point. The
Catawba-Wateree Water Management Group (CWWMG), a coalition of 18 utilities
including Hickory’s, projects sustainability through 2065 in its 2020 plan, but
this projection fails to account for the 11 MGD used by server farms or
Charlotte’s 63 MGD IBT request, leaving upstream communities vulnerable.
Hickory Mayor Hank Guess captured local frustration in 2024, stating, “We need
more say in how our water is managed.”
The CWWMG’s
utility-focused approach, evident in its 2024 Water for All Summit in
Morganton, has sidelined residents, despite Hickory’s seat on the board. In
response, Catawba County leaders are fighting back. Commissioner Cole Setzer
and Hickory City Council member Jill Patton shared The Paper Media’s March 2025
post on the IBT, rallying opposition. The Western Piedmont Council of
Governments (WPCOG) passed a 2024 resolution against Charlotte’s request,
aligning with the Catawba Riverkeeper Foundation, which is advocating for 2025
General Assembly legislation to make IBTs harder. This legislation, in the
session that began January 8, 2025, could impose rigorous environmental
assessments, public input, and drought contingency limits—potentially capping
Charlotte at 40 MGD during extreme conditions, as with Concord-Kannapolis in
2010. South Carolina communities, represented by the Catawba Regional Council
of Governments, also oppose the IBT, citing past ecosystem damage.
Server Farms and Economic Disparity: A Quiet Drain on Catawba
County
While the IBT battle
rages, the server farms’ 11 MGD usage remains a quiet drain on Catawba County’s
resources, exacerbating an already stark economic disparity. Apple’s $1 billion
Maiden facility, operational since 2010, uses 3 MGD (saving 0.3 MGD via
recycled water), while Microsoft’s $1 billion Boyd Farms project, under
construction, will use 8 MGD by 2025-2026. Catawba County offered substantial
incentives—50% property tax abatements, $7 million and $10 million JDIG grants,
and sales tax exemptions saving Apple $5 million and Microsoft $4-6 million
annually—securing $6 million in annual tax revenue ($2 million from Apple, $4
million from Microsoft). Yet, the economic return is minimal, with only 300
jobs created (100 from Apple, 200 expected from Microsoft) at $60,000 salaries,
compared to Charlotte’s tech jobs paying $80,000-$120,000.
This imbalance is
glaring when contrasted with Catawba County’s broader economy, which includes
23,000 manufacturing and 2,495 tourism jobs (2023 figures). The county’s $5
billion manufacturing GDP and $50 million fishing industry, tied to Lake
Norman, are at risk if water shortages intensify, as they did in 2007-2009 when
Hickory faced rationing while Charlotte continued withdrawals. For 25 years,
Catawba County has reacted defensively, missing opportunities to secure more
jobs despite its 45-minute commute to Charlotte. Leaders could negotiate with
Apple and Microsoft for 300-500 corporate jobs in Maiden, leveraging Catawba
Valley Community College (CVCC), which serves 5,000 students and offers IT
programs, to train locals for higher-paying tech roles.
A Path Forward: Balancing Growth with Water Sustainability
To break free from
its role as Charlotte’s resource hub, Catawba County must balance economic
growth with sustainable water management. The county can mandate a 20%
reduction in server farm freshwater usage (2.2 MGD) through greywater reuse or
advanced cooling, easing basin strain. Investing $5 million in leak
repairs—Charlotte reported 12% water loss in 2023—could save 2 MGD for
Hickory’s residents and industries. The WPCOG can press the CWWMG to update its
2020 plan, factoring in the 11 MGD and 63 MGD IBT, and advocate for drought limits
in the 2025 legislation. A regional water-sharing agreement, tying usage to
economic benefits—e.g., 100 jobs or $5 million in community projects per 10 MGD
withdrawn—could ensure Catawba County benefits from Charlotte’s growth, as
Lenoir did with Google’s $1 million STEM investment.
Attracting tech offices requires
infrastructure improvements. Expanding broadband—only 70% of the county has 100
Mbps access, versus 90% in Charlotte—with a $10 million investment would
connect 5,000 more households, supporting remote work and businesses. Widening
US-321 to cut commute times to Charlotte by 10 minutes, a $15 million project,
would position the county as an extension of Charlotte’s tech corridor,
capitalizing on its low housing costs ($300,000 median versus $430,000 in
Charlotte). A $1 million annual investment in CVCC coding bootcamps could
prepare 200 residents for jobs paying $80,000-$120,000, boosting local growth.
Without action, water shortages could cost manufacturing 2,000 jobs and $500
million in GDP, while environmental degradation could raise treatment costs by
$20 million. The next 25 years demand a new approach, ensuring Catawba County
isn’t left behind again.
Western North
Carolina isn’t just mountains and tourist traps. It’s not Asheville’s breweries
or Boone’s college kids. There’s a stretch of land here—my Foothills Corridor—that’s
been the working backbone of this region for generations. It’s not a name
you’ll find on a map, but it’s a region you’ll feel in your bones if you’ve
lived it. It runs west of Interstate-85, north of US-74, east of the Blue Ridge
Parkway, and south of US-421. This isn’t a city or a county—it’s a way of life,
a place defined by its people, its pride, and its quiet struggle.
The Corridor spans
towns like Hickory—the heart—alongside Lenoir, Morganton, Marion,
Rutherfordton, Newton, Lincolnton, Valdese, Taylorsville, Maiden, Claremont,
and Granite Falls. It stretches east to the Yadkin River Valley with
Statesville, Mocksville, and Winston-Salem, north along US-421 to North
Wilkesboro and Boone, and south to Gastonia, Shelby, and Kings Mountain. These
are places built by calloused hands, fueled by mills and factories, and bound
by a shared history that’s been overlooked for too long.
A Chosen Land
The Foothills
Corridor didn’t happen by accident. The Scots-Irish, Germans, and others from
Europe’s old valleys settled here for a reason. They weren’t chasing rugged
peaks or coastal sprawl—they wanted balance. East of the Parkway, down the
slope of the Blue Ridge, they found a climate and terrain that echoed their
homelands: the Piedmont of Italy, the Rhein Valley of Germany, the flatlands of
Austria. Fertile soil, gentle hills, four seasons without the brutal isolation
of the high country. This was a place to build, not just survive.
They brought a work
ethic with them, turning farms into factories—textiles, furniture, tobacco,
fiber optics. By the mid-20th century, the Corridor was a quiet industrial
powerhouse. Hickory churned out furniture that filled American homes. North
Wilkesboro had Holly Farms, a poultry giant that fed the nation. Winston-Salem
smoked the country with RJ Reynolds. These weren’t flashy places, but they were
vital—the engine room of Western North Carolina.
The Fork in the Road
Then the 1990s hit,
and the Corridor slammed into a wall. Global trade deals—NAFTA, WTO—ripped the
rug out from under us. Hickory’s furniture plants shuttered as jobs sailed
overseas. Textiles followed. Fiber optics couldn’t hold the line. Up north,
Tyson bought Holly Farms in ‘89, with Bush-Clinton-era policies favoring
megacorps over local roots. It wasn’t just a sale—it was a betrayal that
stripped North Wilkesboro of its identity. Tobacco crumbled too, leaving Wilkes
County’s small farmers with empty barns and pride that couldn’t pay the bills.
Even moonshining—the outlaw economy of the hills—was squeezed out by
regulation.
Asheville, once
Hickory’s sister city, took a different path. Back in the day, they grew on
parallel tracks: modest, working-class towns with steady promise. But when the
trade winds shifted, Asheville pivoted—leaning into tourism, arts, and outdoor
vibes to become the cosmopolitan darling of the region. Hickory didn’t get that
chance. No one handed us a rebrand. We got hollowed out instead. Boone, propped
up by a university and ski slopes, drifted toward Asheville’s orbit.
Winston-Salem, a bigger mirror of Hickory, scrambles to redefine itself with
healthcare and tech, but its outer edges still bleed poverty. North Wilkesboro?
Too far off the beaten path, too proud to beg, too broken to bounce back.
The Soul of the Corridor
What ties the
Foothills Corridor together isn’t just geography—it’s a way of life. These are
working people: factory hands, farmers, grandmothers raising kids on faith and
grit. They mow their own grass, fix their own trucks, and pray before dinner.
They’re not loud. They don’t march or shout. They show up, day after day, even
when the jobs dry up and the promises fade. Church steeples outnumber
stoplights here. Independence runs deep—sometimes too deep, like in Wilkes
County, where it’s both a badge and a burden.
This isn’t Appalachia
proper, with its rugged myths and federal grants. It’s not Charlotte’s urban
hum either. It’s a middle ground—literally and figuratively—caught between
eras. The Corridor’s towns once thrived on making things you could touch:
chairs, clothes, cigarettes, chicken. Now, they’re left with civic fatigue and
a quiet dignity no one outside notices. They’re not mountain folk or city
people—they’re foothills people, settled where the land was manageable, the
seasons made sense, and the work was honest. They weren’t looking for
escape—they were looking for stability.
The Forgotten Fight
The Foothills
Corridor has been forgotten by design, not by fault. Hickory didn’t collapse
because it lacked vision—it collapsed because global trade gutted its base.
North Wilkesboro didn’t fade because it gave up—it faded because Tyson and Big
Tobacco left it no choice. Winston-Salem stands, but it’s a shadow of what it
could be. This is a living region failed by policy, not people. The factories
once roared here; now, the silence feels like an insult.
The people deserve
better. The factory worker who lost his line job. The young person with no
reason to stay but no way to leave. The man with a worn-out toolbox and a voice
no one’s asked to hear. They’re not asking for handouts—they’re asking for a
fair shot, a seat at the table, a chance to rebuild what was taken. This region
doesn’t have a tech hub, a PR firm, or a champion in the legislature. But it
has me—and maybe it has you. If you’ve ever looked around and said, “Why does
no one care what’s happening here?”—you’re part of the Corridor too.
A Voice for the Future
The Foothills
Corridor isn’t just a place—it’s a story. It’s about what happens when hard
work meets hard luck, when pride meets neglect. It’s a region overlooked
because it doesn’t scream for attention, but it’s fierce by nature. There’s
still life here—still talent, still grit. The question is whether anyone’s
listening.
I call myself the
Spokesperson for the Forgotten, rooted in the heart of the Foothills Corridor.
This isn’t about me—it’s about us. From Hickory’s mills to North Wilkesboro’s
hollowed streets, from Winston-Salem’s fringes to Lenoir’s quiet corners, this
is our turf. West of I-85, east of the Parkway, north of 74, south of 421—it’s
not on a tourist map, but it’s on mine. We’re the backbone. We’re the builders.
We’re the people who stay.
We’re not shouting
from podiums. We’re speaking from the ground—where the real work happens, where
the real people live. We’ve been forgotten, but we’re not gone. We’re not done.
This is our voice, and I’m here to make sure it’s heard.
“If you want to follow my work, you
can find me on the Hickory Hound blog and the Hickory Hound YouTube
channel.
Follow me on X at @Hickory Hound.
Back when all of the censorship was going on and the lawfare and such, I kept
getting these 24 hour bans and got a 72 hour ban and had to erase some really
mundane stuff to appease my San Francisco critics. I wear that as a badge of honor. Well I dropped the Twitter Channel
and lost all of my connections there. So if you are on X formerly Twitter,
please give me a follow,
Patreon is coming soon, and I’ll be sharing more details as that gets finalized.
Feel free to shoot me an email anytime at HickoryHoundFeedback@gmail.com—I
do read what comes in. And if you stop by YouTube, please like and subscribe—it really does
help more folks see what we’re talking about here.
The Paperback cookbook “A Book of
Seasons” is hopefully going to available in a couple of days. You know I am
doing this all myself, but AI is assisting me. The spine of the book has to be
perfect and I was a little off.
So I gathered and collated all of
this stuff and all of my life I have had to procure everything, prep it, cook
it, assemble it, and deliver the product and yeah I have to tell people what it
is.
When you go through life and have to
do about everything yourself… well it will wear you down sometimes… when things
don’t go like you want because of stupid mistakes when you get in too much of a
hurry and the perfect little people in their perfect little worlds decide to
cut you down… Well that’ll leave you a little jaded.
Heck… The first person that says I ever said I was perfect is a dishonest
person. I just try to survive… too live to fight another day
And after I should have died in that
car wreck back on September 27th, I try not to take my days for
granted, because not a day goes by that those moments during that wreck don’t
flash before my eyes.
I’ll be honest… I haven’t done a
great job promoting this project over the years. Self-promotion has never come
naturally to me—but I believe the information
matters, and it’s time I start sharing it right.
I appreciate your time, your
attention, and your willingness to hear things that don’t always get said.
I’ll see you next time.”
