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A Walk to Remember
NICHOLAS
SPARKS
Prologue
When I was seventeen, my life changed forever.
I know that there are people who wonder about me when I
say this. They look at me strangely as if trying to fathom
what could have happened back then, though I seldom bother to
explain. Because I've lived here for most of my life, I don't
feel that I have to unless it's on my terms, and that would
take more time than most people are willing to give me. My
story can't be summed up in two or three sentences; it can't
be packaged into something neat and simple that people would
immediately understand. Despite the passage of forty years,
the people still living here who knew me that year accept my
lack of explanation without question. My story in some ways
is their story because it was something that all of us lived
through.
It was I, however, who was closest to it. I'm fifty-seven
years old, but even now I can remember everything from that
year, down to the smallest details. I relive that year often
in my mind, bringing it back to life, and I realize that when
I do, I always feel a strange combination of sadness and joy.
There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and
take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I
did, the joy would be gone as well. So I take the memories as
they come, accepting them all, letting them guide me whenever
I can. This happens more often than I let on.
It is April 12, in the last year before the millennium,
and as I leave my house, I glance around. The sky is overcast
and gray, but as I move down the street, I notice that the
dogwoods and azaleas are blooming. I zip my jacket just a
little. The temperature is cool, though I know it's only a
matter of weeks before it will settle in to something
comfortable and the gray skies give way to the kind of days
that make North Carolina one of the most beautiful places in
the world. With a sigh, I feel it all coming back to me. I
close my eyes and the years begin to move in reverse, slowly
ticking backward, like the hands of a clock rotating in the
wrong direction. As if through someone else's eyes, I watch
myself grow younger; I see my hair changing from gray to
brown, I feel the wrinkles around my eyes begin to smooth, my
arms and legs grow sinewy. Lessons I've learned with age grow
dimmer, and my innocence returns as that eventful year
approaches.
Then, like me, the world begins to change: roads narrow
and some become gravel, suburban sprawl has been replaced
with farmland, downtown streets teem with people, looking in
windows as they pass Sweeney's bakery and Palka's meat shop.
Men wear hats, women wear dresses. At the courthouse up the
street, the bell tower rings. . . .
I open my eyes and pause. I am standing outside the
Baptist church, and when I stare at the gable, I know exactly
who I am. My name is Landon Carter, and I'm seventeen years
old.
This is my story; I promise to leave nothing out.
First you will smile, and then you will cry-don't say you
haven't been warned.
Chapter 1
In 1958, Beaufort, North Carolina, which is located on the
coast near Morehead City, was a place like many other small
southern towns. It was the kind of place where the humidity
rose so high in the summer that walking out to get the mail
made a person feel as if he needed a shower, and kids walked
around barefoot from April through October beneath oak trees
draped in Spanish moss. People waved from their cars whenever
they saw someone on the street whether they knew him or not,
and the air smelled of pine, salt, and sea, a scent unique to
the Carolinas. For many of the people there, fishing in the
Pamlico Sound or crabbing in the Neuse River was a way of
life, and boats were moored wherever you saw the Intracoastal
Waterway. Only three channels came in on the television,
though television was never important to those of us who grew
up there. Instead our lives were centered around the
churches, of which there were eighteen within the town limits
alone. They went by names like the Fellowship Hall Christian
Church, the Church of the Forgiven People, the Church of
Sunday Atonement, and then, of course, there were the Baptist
churches. When I was growing up, it was far and away the most
popular denomination around, and there were Baptist churches
on practically every corner of town, though each considered
itself superior to the others. There were Baptist churches of
every type-Freewill Baptists, Southern Baptists,
Congregational Baptists, Missionary Baptists, Independent
Baptists . . . well, you get the picture.
Back then, the big event of the year was sponsored by the
Baptist church downtown-Southern, if you really want to
know-in conjunction with the local high school. Every year
they put on their Christmas pageant at the Beaufort
Playhouse, which was actually a play that had been written by
Hegbert Sullivan, a minister who'd been with the church since
Moses parted the Red Sea. Okay, maybe he wasn't that old, but
he was old enough that you could almost see through the guy's
skin. It was sort of clammy all the time, and
translucent-kids would swear they actually saw the blood
flowing through his veins-and his hair was as white as those
bunnies you see in pet stores around Easter.
Anyway, he wrote this play called The Christmas Angel,
because he didn't want to keep on performing that old Charles
Dickens classic A Christmas Carol. In his mind Scrooge was a

A Walk to Remember

NICHOLAS

SPARKS

Prologue

When I was seventeen, my life changed forever.

I know that there are people who wonder about me when I

say this. They look at me strangely as if trying to fathom

what could have happened back then, though I seldom bother to

explain. Because I've lived here for most of my life, I don't

feel that I have to unless it's on my terms, and that would

take more time than most people are willing to give me. My

story can't be summed up in two or three sentences; it can't

be packaged into something neat and simple that people would

immediately understand. Despite the passage of forty years,

the people still living here who knew me that year accept my

lack of explanation without question. My story in some ways

is their story because it was something that all of us lived

through.

It was I, however, who was closest to it. I'm fifty-seven

years old, but even now I can remember everything from that

year, down to the smallest details. I relive that year often

in my mind, bringing it back to life, and I realize that when

I do, I always feel a strange combination of sadness and joy.

There are moments when I wish I could roll back the clock and

take all the sadness away, but I have the feeling that if I

did, the joy would be gone as well. So I take the memories as

they come, accepting them all, letting them guide me whenever

I can. This happens more often than I let on.

It is April 12, in the last year before the millennium,

and as I leave my house, I glance around. The sky is overcast

and gray, but as I move down the street, I notice that the

dogwoods and azaleas are blooming. I zip my jacket just a

little. The temperature is cool, though I know it's only a

matter of weeks before it will settle in to something

comfortable and the gray skies give way to the kind of days

that make North Carolina one of the most beautiful places in

the world. With a sigh, I feel it all coming back to me. I

close my eyes and the years begin to move in reverse, slowly

ticking backward, like the hands of a clock rotating in the

wrong direction. As if through someone else's eyes, I watch

myself grow younger; I see my hair changing from gray to

brown, I feel the wrinkles around my eyes begin to smooth, my

arms and legs grow sinewy. Lessons I've learned with age grow

dimmer, and my innocence returns as that eventful year

approaches.

Then, like me, the world begins to change: roads narrow

and some become gravel, suburban sprawl has been replaced

with farmland, downtown streets teem with people, looking in

windows as they pass Sweeney's bakery and Palka's meat shop.

Men wear hats, women wear dresses. At the courthouse up the

street, the bell tower rings. . . .

I open my eyes and pause. I am standing outside the

Baptist church, and when I stare at the gable, I know exactly

who I am. My name is Landon Carter, and I'm seventeen years

old.

This is my story; I promise to leave nothing out.

First you will smile, and then you will cry-don't say you

haven't been warned.

Chapter 1

In 1958, Beaufort, North Carolina, which is located on the

coast near Morehead City, was a place like many other small

southern towns. It was the kind of place where the humidity

rose so high in the summer that walking out to get the mail

made a person feel as if he needed a shower, and kids walked

around barefoot from April through October beneath oak trees

draped in Spanish moss. People waved from their cars whenever

they saw someone on the street whether they knew him or not,

and the air smelled of pine, salt, and sea, a scent unique to

the Carolinas. For many of the people there, fishing in the

Pamlico Sound or crabbing in the Neuse River was a way of

life, and boats were moored wherever you saw the Intracoastal

Waterway. Only three channels came in on the television,

though television was never important to those of us who grew

up there. Instead our lives were centered around the

churches, of which there were eighteen within the town limits

alone. They went by names like the Fellowship Hall Christian

Church, the Church of the Forgiven People, the Church of

Sunday Atonement, and then, of course, there were the Baptist

churches. When I was growing up, it was far and away the most

popular denomination around, and there were Baptist churches

on practically every corner of town, though each considered

itself superior to the others. There were Baptist churches of

every type-Freewill Baptists, Southern Baptists,

Congregational Baptists, Missionary Baptists, Independent

Baptists . . . well, you get the picture.

Back then, the big event of the year was sponsored by the

Baptist church downtown-Southern, if you really want to

know-in conjunction with the local high school. Every year

they put on their Christmas pageant at the Beaufort

Playhouse, which was actually a play that had been written by

Hegbert Sullivan, a minister who'd been with the church since

Moses parted the Red Sea. Okay, maybe he wasn't that old, but

he was old enough that you could almost see through the guy's

skin. It was sort of clammy all the time, and

translucent-kids would swear they actually saw the blood

flowing through his veins-and his hair was as white as those

bunnies you see in pet stores around Easter.

Anyway, he wrote this play called The Christmas Angel,

because he didn't want to keep on performing that old Charles

Dickens classic A Christmas Carol. In his mind Scrooge was a