Volume 1, Issue 1

viv • i • fy | viv'u-fī" |

verb. to endow with life or renewed life.

’ve always had a love/hate relationship with spring. While among the bitter blankness of winter my heart may delight in the flashing image of the pastel skirt of my sundress, tickling my legs as it catches the breeze and glowing a golden yellow against the finally green grass— let’s be honest. This is not the spring we actually experience. Spring means due dates and allergies, good-byes and cleaning the house, sweating and swatting bugs. Spring means change, and every year I find myself a little unready for it.

Yet something in me comes alive at the thought of it all. Knowing that I can finally roll down the window while I drive across town. Feeling free to listen to jolly music that matches the sky outside a little better than it did the heavy winter clouds. Walking down to the mailbox barefoot, taking the longer way, if I can find one. Something in me wakes up a bit, lifting up my eyes to the amazing people and places of the eclectic city of Jackson, Tennessee. And as the sun rises over the long-darkened shadows of winter and this town becomes a little more alive.

This spring I have had the privilege of getting to see this awakening more intimately with the creation of the pages you hold in your hands. It is with great pride and much greater gratitude that we present to you the very first edition of Our Jackson Home: The Magazine. This work has been a long time in the making and years in the dreaming, and it couldn’t have been done without each and every contributor. The people behind this mag truly believe in Jackson, and they’ve stuck around to tell both their stories and the stories of the people and place that they have come to know. These men and women are eager to vivify Jackson, their home, and to showcase it in all its imperfections and quirkiness and absolute beauty.

So as together we watch Jackson transition from a mean winter to a kind spring and slowly fade into a Southern summer, we invite you to join us as we dare to explore this town. We ask you to visit the Farmers’ Market, Morris Nursery, and La Tapatia. We encourage discussion about hospitality, womanhood, and community. We introduce you to Jacksonians who are passionate about adoption, art education, coffee, cooking, and working with their hands. And we offer you to partake in the enjoyment of this place through creative writing, music, and art-making. These sixty pages hold only a miniscule fraction of what Jackson is made of, but we think it is more than worth discovering.

Katie Williams, Art Director & Designer

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The PUBLICATION TEAM

K A TI E W I L L I A M S

Art Director | Designer | Photographer L U K E P R U E TT

Overseer | Storyteller JOSH GARCIA

Editor | Storyteller | Photographer C O U R TN E Y S E A R C Y

Storyteller | Photographer

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OUR JACKSON VOICES C ON T R I BUT OR ’ S N OT E

4 Vivify

Katie Williams

ESSAY

16 Sharing in the Story of Southern Hospitality Joseph Smith ON:

22 Being a Life-Giver Hether Pflasterer ON:

32 Growth Through Community Courtney Searcy ESSAY

34 Art is Only 3/5 of Smart Marilynn Eblen

C R E A TI V E N O N - F I C TI O N

52 Why We’re Coming Home Joshua Bullis & Whitney Williams

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OUR JACKSON HANDS

OUR JACKSON NEIGHBORS

GI F T G UI D E

A C O N V E R S A TI O N W I TH :

11 Mother’s Day & Father’s Day Katie Williams A P OEM

14 Anna Witham Katie Williams S TO R Y

25 On Holy Saturday

18 New Life

HEL L O, JA C KSON

S TO R Y

Rebecca Edgren

38 La Tapatia Kristi Woody ON :

46 The Farmers’ Market Josh Garcia

P L A YL I ST

50 Spring & Summer Katie Williams

Courtney Searcy

26 Levi Hartsfield Wants to Break Your Heart Josh Garcia S TO R Y

40 All Things New Josh Garcia S TO R Y

47 Rita’s Gold Courtney Searcy

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Gift Guide & Photography by Katie Williams

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T H E R E S T O R E D A T T I C S M A L L B A R N B O A R D | $ 20

Give Mom a little touch of handmade beauty for her home. The Restored Attic specializes in “upcylcing,” making one-of-a-kind home decor and refurbishing furniture.

Available for purchase through The Restored Attic Facebook page or at the upcoming Summer Swell Pop-Up Shop (www.jacksonpopup.com). Read more Ellen and her journey with The Restored Attic on page 18.

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G A R N ER BL U E S I L K C I R C L E S C A R F & F A B R I C E A R R I N G S | $ 40, $8

The gift of a hip accessory never gets old, and what’s cooler than hand-dyed indigo textiles? Garner Blue has everything from scarves to earrings to throw pillows, available for purchase online at www.garnerblue.com or at the upcoming Summer Swell Pop-Up Shop (www.jacksonpopup.com).

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K E L S E Y N A G Y C E R A M I C S F L O W E R B R I C K | $ 62

What mom doesn’t love a beautiful mug, pitcher, or dinnerware? Pick up one of Kelsey Nagy’s original creations at Morris Nursery & Landscapes, Inc., (2108 Hollywood Drive) and grab some lovely flowers while you’re at it! Be sure to also check out the rest of her vast selection of pottery available through her Etsy shop (www.etsy. com/shop/kelseynagy). Read more about Morris Nursery on page 47.

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SOUVENIR DESIGN CO. GREETING CARD | $3

This year, how about a card with a personal touch rather than the cliché one you found at the grocery store? Jackson-based Souvenir Design Co. sells a variety of beautifully illustrated greeting cards for all occasions. Available for purchase at the upcoming Summer Swell Pop-Up Shop (www.jacksonpopup.com) or by contacting them through their website (www.souvenirdesignco.com).

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P OUR M E SO M E J U I C E 8 O Z C I T R U S Y U M Y U M J U I C E | $ 5 . 5 0

Here’s a new, healthier spin on orange juice for Mom’s breakfast in bed: Pour Me Some Juice. PMSJ specializes in raw, all fruit and veggie juices that taste amazing and fill your body with good things. Available for purchase online at www.pourmesomejuice.com or at the Firefly Café located inside the Lift Wellness Center (101 Jackson Walk Plaza). Makes for a convenient workout and snack date with Mom! 6

ALICE CALVERY TENNESSEE RIVER ALBUM | $5

Give the gift of local music! Mom will love Alice Calvery’s lovely voice, poetic lyrics, and Southern roots. Available for purchase at Alba (112 East Baltimore Street) or online through the iTunes Store. Check out Alice’s song on our summer playlist on page 51.

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ROCK’N DOUGH PIZZA & BREW CO. GROWLER | $6

Drinks on me, Dad! Your pop will love the refreshing taste of Rock’N Dough’s handcrafted beer, available in a growler the two of you can share together. Available for purchase in-store (16 Jackson Walk Plaza).

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t he C O C O : M E M B E R S H I P C E R T I F I C A T E P U Z Z L E B O X | $ 75 , $ 300

For the dad who plays with everything, give the gift of a laser etcher, a 3D printer, and a CNC router. Purchase a one- ($75) or six-month ($300) CO:Membership to theCO, and see how long it takes him to figure out how to open that puzzle box!

Available for purchase at theCO (541 Wiley Parker Road). Visit www.attheco.com to learn more.

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SI ER R A OW EN S - H U G H E S C E R A MI C S M U G | $ 20

Pottery isn’t just for Mom; Dad needs a good coffee mug too. Check out Sierra Owens-Hughes’ unique nature-inspired ceramics at the upcoming Summer Swell Pop-Up Shop (www.jacksonpopup.com). Also available for purchase at Union University’s Annual Mother’s Day Pottery Sale on May 8.

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JA C KSON ESC AP E R O O MS G I F T C E R T I F I C A T E | $ 12 P E R B O O K I N G

What better father-kiddo activity is there than a good challenging game? Take your dad to the Summer Escape Rooms happening June 22 – July 4 (620 Old Hickory Boulevard). Learn more at www.jacksonescaperooms.com. Available for purchase through the website.

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A L BA C OF F EE, TE A & F O O D 1 L B W H O L E B E A N C O F F E E | $ 12. 95

Brew an extra good cup of joe for Dad this Father’s Day. Buy a pound of Alba’s whole bean coffee for him to enjoy throughout the week. Don’t have your own grinder? The baristas are happy to grind it for you, whether for a classic coffee maker or a French press. Available for purchase in-store (112 East Baltimore Street).

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SOUV EN I R D ESI G N C O . G R E E T I N G C A R D | $ 3

Souvenir has Dad’s card covered, too. Available for purchase at the upcoming Summer Swell Pop-Up Shop (www.jacksonpopup.com) or by contacting them through their website (www.souvenirdesignco.com).

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M OBI L EM OUN T S O L U TI O N S E A S Y M A G D E S K T O P X L M O U N T | $ 29. 95

For the tech-savvy dad, get something extra handy. Jackson-based MobileMount Solutions makes easy-to-use device mounts for smartphones and tablets. Available for purchase at www.mobilemountsolutions.com.

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A CONVERSATION WITH:

Anna Witham THE NEW BRUNCH CHEF AT COMEUNITY CAFÉ

————— Interview by Katie Williams

ow did you end up in Jackson? What does your life here currently look like? After finishing culinary school, I moved back to Covington, Tennessee, and there weren’t a lot of opportunities there for me. Two of my siblings currently live in Jackson, so that was part of it. I went to look for different jobs here and found a lot more options for me. Right now, it’s sort of a transition period. Working at ComeUnity Café and Say Grace has helped me gain more knowledge and broaden my resumé.

How long have you wanted to cook professionally? I’d say from a very young age. That’s what I always wanted to do, and my mom would cook all the time in our kitchen back home, so she kind of started that love of cooking. In high school I got my first restaurant job in a café, and I kind of realized then that that’s what I wanted to do for the rest of my life.

What was your culinary school experience like? What were your most and least favorite parts? I was is Cannon Beach, Oregon, so that was a great opportunity in itself to get out and see the world a little bit. It was a oneyear accelerated program, so it had cooking and baking both in the curriculum. It was very fast-paced, and a lot of time was poured into it. It was a nine-to-five, six-daya-week program, so pretty constant. It was very professional, because they really want you to get a job. At the end of the week, we would always do an internship in the town, so it was kind of like preparing for the real world and what the industry is actually like, and that would be something you could also put on your resumé. I liked how it was very professional-minded. And I liked how fast-paced it was. I was always working, never bored. A thing I didn’t like about it was that it was so fast-paced that sometimes you missed a little bit—like your brain couldn’t process everything in that short amount of time.

What advice would you give a young person interested in cooking professionally? I would say if you can, definitely get professional schooling, because every day I’m using things I learned in school that I didn’t even think I would use. Also, all my jobs I have gotten recently, they have hired me mainly because I have that professional, excellent experience. That’s the number one thing they look at. Also, get as much experience as possible, even if it’s just interning or doing volunteer work at soup kitchens—stuff like that—because all of those look great on a resumé.

How did you land the brunch chef position at ComeUnity? When I first moved to Jackson, I heard about the place, and it intrigued me a lot, so I went there

before I had a steady job, just to volunteer for about a week. I loved what I saw there, and I wanted to get more plugged in with that, but at the time they didn’t have a paying position open. But I still continued to come every now and then just to volunteer my time, and when they posted on Facebook about brunch—needing help with that—I immediately responded and got in touch with Amy [the owner], and we talked about it, and they wanted my help!

What does planning for brunch each week look like?

What factors must be considered? Tuesday is when they do the food order, and so by then I need to have my menu out, and that’s all up to me, though Amy and Cari [the gardener] are always helping me with ideas for that, but I get to make it, essentially. I usually pick two entrées, two sides, and two sweets. I have to think about, “Would the population of Jackson like it?” Not too fancy, but a little more upscale than what we think people are used to. Then on Friday, I go in and do all the preparation for that, and I try to do as much as possible so the morning goes smoothly. And then on Saturday, I’m there bright and early! Money is something to definitely think about because it’s a non-profit organization and most of their food is donated, so I usually ask, “What do we have a surplus of? What can I use the most of?” to keep that cost-efficient. And then also nutrition—I try to make it balanced if possible with a lot of variety in flavors and fresh vegetables and fruits and try to think of ways that people might not like a Brussels sprout, but how they might like it in the way I present it. It’s just changing people’s mindset about food and health.

What brunch dishes are you most excited to try? I was excited about the shrimp and grits. That’s something one of my professors had shown me in class, and I had been looking for a way to do that. I’m excited to do real giant cinnamon rolls for brunch sometime. I think that’d be really yummy. I want to try different cold soups, like strawberry soup or cucumber-apple—something like that.

What is your long-term goal in cooking? What’s the dream? I feel like I have a lot of ways I could go. I love restaurants, and I love working in them, but that’s not necessarily the end goal for me. I don’t necessarily want to own my own place or have my own restaurant, although that might be something that’s in store for me.

I’d like to continue working in nutrition and working in the community to help in making that more accessible and easier for people to accept. • ComeUnity Café is located at 218 East Main Street and serves Saturday brunch seasonally from 9:00 am to 1:00 pm.

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rowing up in the South has been a unique experience; my upbringing has been fostered by arguably the most distinct and well-preserved regional culture in our country, one that is often recognized and celebrated for its pride in tradition by visitors and (definitely) natives alike. It’s hard to deny how significant the carryover is from generation to generation, whether we’re talking about our carb-loaded homemade recipes, the alwayscharming accent, or that trademark sweet tea. These cultural staples always seem to inhabit some form of narrative—there’s a story about how your uncle used to do this or how the neighborhood mailman would say that which brings a certain spirit of nostalgia and conviction to how we live now. (“My Mama always baked her biscuits the right way, so I’m doing it that way, too!”) There’s such a sense of life in our favorite customs because they are what give us life! And at the end of the day, this is where cultures make a name for themselves, right? Their ability to grow relationships and sustain communities in some mysterious way is what makes them so fascinating to learn about and so attractive to be a part of. This means that culture-making, in its essence, takes place through an expression of hospitality. A lot of times this requires having some kind of sense of knowing what your neighbor likes or is interested in and then being intentional about making an effort to connect with them in their sweet spot. But sometimes it just requires having plain ole empathy and showing them that they’re worth the time and energy it takes to share a piece of your lives together.

My mom, a card-carrying Southern woman, prized herself on going the extra mile in this department. As a kid, whenever we would have guests come over for dinner or have family from out of town come in for the weekend, the intensity level in our home would crank up a few notches the day before in order to have things looking/smelling/sounding their best by the time company was at the door. I’ll never forget about the first time my now sister-in-law came home with my brother for Christmas, and by that, I mean that I’ll never forget the days leading up to that visit when I spent more time on my hands and knees cleaning bathrooms, floorboards, and kitchen cabinets to the point of total exhaustion and having a souring attitude of why this girl was so important.

We had allowed for a little recovery time before her arrival, and when she and my brother walked through the door we knew that it was finally time to simply enjoy the time together because all of the work had already been done. This not only served the functional purpose of tidying things up, but it also showed my sister-in-law, and all of our other guests, how important the visit was to our family, and that who we’re preparing for is worth all of the work and thought that’s put in leading up to the event.

I think this remains true for all forms of hospitality. It’s not serving someone our favorite recipes at dinner or initiating interesting conversation in the living room that we think about moments before someone’s at our door. It’s a decision we make well before any of that. It’s a decision we make about our attitude that simply reflects that we care. And there’s nowhere else this attitude is so widely shared than in the South. I haven’t learned to care for others through my family alone; whether it’s church members or ball coaches, the people who’ve surrounded me from the beginning have taken it upon themselves to show me how to both share and receive hospitality graciously in a manner that pays tribute to the story of how they once learned the virtue. As I slowly begin to grow older, it becomes more and more important to me that I, too, share in the cultural pride of offering what I have to others, so that life can continue to be given to those who’ve given it to me. That’s what I love about Southern hospitality: we’re all in this thing together, from beginning to end. •

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One Jacksonian’s trash is another’s treasure.

Jackson creative Ellen Bennett breathes new life into forgotten finds.

Story by Courtney Searcy Photography by Courtney Searcy & Katie Williams

hile most of us are prone to toss out old things and run to the new, others are gifted with the vision to make something out of what the rest of us leave behind. Ellen Bennett, the creator of “The Restored Attic,” creates home decor and furniture pieces by repurposing found and thrifted materials.

From childhood trips to yard sales with her father, she learned that she didn’t have to pay full price for anything. As she grew up, it evolved into trying to search for furniture and other pieces to decorate her home. Gathering stacks of home decorating magazines, she is constantly inspired by new ideas. Eventually, she began to put her own style to work.

“My love is to take something that you get for five or ten dollars and make it look like something you could've bought anywhere,” she says.

Ellen surveys the neighborhood as she drives, stopping to claim the occasional table or chair left out as trash. “I will scan and look for a mound of trash and if I see interesting things poking out I always have to go back,” she says.

Sometimes pieces of wood long buried in a friend’s attic find their way to her paint-stained carport, awaiting a few cuts from a saw and some brushstrokes before they are purchased.

“I love to breathe new life into a piece,” she says of the creative process of finding something old and discarded and transforming it into a functional and beautiful item.

Some of her most popular pieces are barnboards, nailed together and finished by painting words on them. Her philosophy for choosing the quotes and verses she paints onto the wooden panels is, “If it speaks to me it should speak to somebody else.”

Every corner of the Bennett home holds a piece touched with Ellen’s handiwork, making her home warm, eclectic, and inviting.

Her dining room table was reclaimed from the junkyard to become a place for holding

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family dinners, each member of the family of six crowded at a table of assorted chairs and a bench made from a wooden board.

Every piece has a story, and for Ellen part of the joy is when creative friends join in with ideas and contribute.

“Having younger girls help me, get it, bounce off ideas, and contribute—that has been a joy,” she says.

She finds the work of restoration has lessons to teach her, reminding her of her own struggles and shortcomings and the grace that she finds despite them.

“There have been many times as I am stripping something or sanding something when I feel like the Lord guides me through it.

It sounds kind of odd or strange or something.

I just feel like He has shown me that this is working out with my hands and putting into fruition what He does within me, making a new creation. I just feel like it’s a parallel in a sense. If there’s something that is maybe particularly scratched up, and I have to really take a sander to it and really work to get a stain off, or if there’s a paint that persists, that’s how He molds me. If there’s a particular area of stubbornness or pride or jealousy that I won’t let go of, sometimes He has to rub a little bit harder like I might with a piece,” Ellen says.

For this reason, each piece is an exercise in vulnerability. The artist evaluates and reevaluates what a piece should look like, and the physical labor and attention to the piece makes it feel personal.

“I get really connected to pieces. It means a lot to me. It’s sort of like I’m taking my heart and putting it out there,” Ellen says.

Each new commission and conversation encourages her to keep moving forward. With warm weather inspiring spring cleaning, Ellen will continue to search for discarded things to fill our Jackson homes with reminders of the beauty of reclaiming and restoring forgotten things. •

being a life-giver Essay by Hether Pflasterer omen are made to give life. Before anyone shuts down on me, I don’t just mean that women are simply made to have babies.

Sure, there is that obvious and very amazing way of giving life—actually giving birth to another human. But truly being a “life-giver” goes far beyond the physical sense of the word.

I first heard about the concept of women as lifegivers through a Bible study. It’s true that my Christian faith continues to shape my understanding, but I have learned what it means, what it truly looks like, to be a life-giver from several different women in my life, some who wouldn’t claim Christianity at all.

Over the years I have realized that my interactions with other people have been mostly captive to my emotions. I spoke kindly when I felt happy and optimistic, and I became impatient and short-tempered when I felt stressed or tired. When I learned that in every given moment and every interaction I have the choice to speak life or death to people around me, it was a revelation. Could it be that I have the choice to nurture or destroy with every word or look? As I became more and more purposeful about how I interacted with the people around me and took notice of how positively my relationships were affected, I began to see the power of choosing to give life. Our society would have us believe that power comes only to those who raise their voices the loudest or apply the greatest amount of force. I don’t believe that’s true.

I now believe there is much more potential in everyday choices than we realize. I believe that we as women have much more life-giving power than we ever imagined.

We can all choose whether or not to speak irritably to a whiny child or complain about a troublesome friend, client, or spouse. We can choose to answer softly instead of snapping at someone who first snaps at us. We can encourage a complaining friend. We can take a deep breath and repeat the same directions, again, to a child who never seems to listen the first time. We can choose to use our life-giving words and actions to breathe life into every situation and every person around us. How does that affect my choice of tone and my words? How does that allow me freedom to step outside of comfort and into someone else’s heartache?

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To understand my choices I have to see what it really means to be a life-giver. A life-giver sacrifices, encourages, forgives, sees, creates, builds, instills hope, makes new, breathes fresh starts, gives grace, recognizes potential and calls it by name, bears burdens, and lives in a way that heals. Looking at this image conversely, we can also imagine what it means to be a life-taker. It seems to come down to this difficult absolute: we’re either giving life with everything we do and say or taking life in the same way. Unfortunately, there really doesn’t seem to be much neutral ground here.

To illustrate this, I want to share with you three tales of life-givers. These life-givers represent the women who have taught me that being a life-giver can look very different yet still be united by the same pervasive joy of sacrificing for the sake of another. You might recognize these women in your life…you may actually be these women. I believe we can all be these women.

Our first life-giver is my friend and a single mom who has faced many challenges over the years. She never uses those challenges as an excuse for not giving her children everything she can. She was counseled by family members to have an abortion, more than once, to avoid lifelong difficulty, yet she chose, more than once, to give her babies life. True, in her case, life-giving actually started out with bearing children for nine months and giving birth but hasn’t stopped there. This woman works when she can, but it’s been hard for her to hold down a job due to inconsistencies with childcare and transportation.

When she had to miss her son’s kindergarten graduation due to work, she spent her last bit of grocery money to buy him a bunch of balloons. While that seems frivolous to some of us, she wanted her son to feel special, so she sent this spectacle of “I love you” Mylars to graduation with her neighbor. She doesn’t usually have time to help her kids with homework because of her job, but she often tells them sternly that they’re very smart and better study hard to get into college. This woman gives life to her family by sacrificing everything she has on a daily basis.

Our next life-giver found out several years ago that she and her husband aren’t able to physically bear children. While she has longed to adopt, so far he hasn’t been ready, and so the years pass. Yet this woman gives

life every day. She writes beautiful, descriptive words that enlighten the soul and fill the mind with images and ideas. She nurtures plants in a front yard garden that brings new life to her neighborhood, and she has nursed a menagerie of stray animals back to health. As a high school teacher, she coaches her students to treasure the written and spoken word and to communicate their ideas through debate and theater. She once told me that she fears growing old and bitter, but her creativity and passion simply radiate the opposite. This woman gives life by changing the world around her for the better in small but oh-so-significant ways.

Our third life-giver is a mother in the traditional sense. She has two biological children. She started a blog a while back but rarely remembers to update it, and for birthdays she attempts the cute cake patterns she finds on Pinterest, but they often turn out more like the “hilariously awful cake fails” on Buzzfeed. She is also a mother in less traditional ways.

Besides her two biological children, she also gives life to many more. She and her husband “temporarily” took in a little girl whose mother asked them to care for her while she went away to Army Boot Camp. Five years later, the girl, not so little anymore, remains in their home.

This woman believes that when she became a mother she suddenly became aware of every other child in the world. And so she prays for the neighborhood kids. She prays for the Compassion International kids her family sponsors. She prays for the all of the kids in the orphanage her friends are adopting from in Sierra Leone. And she prays for the kids in the grocery store this morning, whose weary mother yelled at them in front of every-

one. This woman gives life by advocating for children and spiritually mothering them all through prayer as if they were her own.

I, like you, could tell the tale of many more life-givers: the college women in our church who took a special interest in my daughter and mentored her through the teen-age years, or the nanny who shares my sister’s load, picking up kids afterschool, asking how their day was, commiserating with them over bad grades and mean boys. How about the baby sitter who helped me pottytrain my kids and loved them like a grandmother so that I could teach? And we can’t forget all the grandmothers who spoil their grandchildren or the grandmothers who raise a second set of kids because their own parents can’t.

There are women who heal and comfort sick and hurting strangers in the ER and women who speak kindly to you as you enter and leave the bank. Women who write songs that play over in our minds and women who teach people to play instruments and sing. Women who teach us how to stay healthy, and women who make our nails and hair pretty, or women who counsel us when we can’t find our way. The list could go on forever.

If being a life-giver is determined by what we say and do, then we as women hold the power of life and death in the simple choices we make. What if the words we speak are the only life-giving words heard all day? What if our actions are the only life-giving works experienced all day? Then it matters what we say and do. We can become the life-givers in our own tales. We can watch with amazement the life-giving tales of women around us. We can celebrate being the life-givers we were made to be. •

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112 E. Baltimore | 731. 554.7336 | M-F 6:30 a.m. - 9 p.m. | SAT 7 a.m.- 9 p.m. instagram: @albacoffee | facebook.com/albajacksontn | twitter: @albajax

A POEM

On Holy Saturday Rebecca Edgren Photography by Katie Williams

Some winters come opening into us slowly.

Each frost scrawls brighter white on the water in the ruts between the cotton stalks, which darken and fold as if by fire or harrowing wind.

Such cold can call a hollowness in us where seismic losses have sunk

hidden snow fields

like anchorholds against tides.

The winter-welled earth recoils from the rivering spring.

Our caving caverns shudder as water strikes,

rising through the shafts.

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Forget what your dad told you about coffee.

Barefoots Joe’s roaster wants to serve you a sadness that tastes better than nostalgia.

liams cia atie Wil osh Gar J K y b & y r ia c o r St Josh Ga aphy by r g o t o h P 26

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f your coffee education has been anything like mine, you were probably introduced to the centuries-old beverage that’s been studied and practiced and thought about deeply by way of the Just Add Sugar method. You know what I’m talking about.

Your dad might have taught it to you and maybe still practices it to this day. He tears those little pink packets open and pours their contents into his steaming cup, and you see a look of satisfaction on his face after that first sip. Years later, the smell of that good ole Folgers takes you back to a time of sneaking cups as a kid and adding more sugar because that’s how your dad did it. But as we’ve grown older, we began to realize things are not quite as simple as they once seemed, and we rejoice in this newfound complexity—a lesson learned by one of Jackson’s very own coffee roasters. If you’ve enjoyed a cup of coffee from Union University’s coffee shop Barefoots Joe recently, then you’ve had a taste of this education. Junior mechanical engineering major Levi Hartsfield has been roasting coffee for Barefoots since 2013 and has been learning the art behind a good cup of coffee since.

“I’ve always loved coffee,” Levi said. “…[but] not at the same place as now—it was different. It was just whatever I could do to get what I had to taste good to me, and it was simple and nice…. My dad started drinking Starbucks several years before, just to brew in the morning. He used a French press, and so that’s what I did, and that’s what I liked coming to [Union].”

Since then, Levi’s taste has evolved as he’s not only been exposed to more coffee, but has also had the challenge of learning how to roast coffee well. He says he can still enjoy a cup from home, but it’s the nostalgia that tastes good. What then does good coffee taste like?

“It tastes so smooth,” he said. “It’s so sweet. It’s so creamy. It’s so easy to drink. It’s got so many different things happening, but it’s still comfortable coffee that’s deliciously lathery in the mouth.”

I asked him to describe a perfect cup of coffee.

There are a number of variables, he said, that must be perfect in order to achieve the perfect cup: how the coffee is harvested, processed, stored, roasted, ground, brewed, etc. But what does that feel like when the cup is in your hand? His answer: it ultimately comes down to the coffee itself.

“I can have a perfect cup that I don’t necessarily like, and that’s something I had to swallow because there are coffees that are different. I would say if it’s perfect, though, I will enjoy it. It may not be my favorite because of the flavors that are in it, but it should be enjoyable. It should be sweet. There are some coffees that are smooth.

Some coffees just aren’t, and they aren’t supposed to be.

Some coffees are delicate, others are hearty; some are mild and some are earthy; and some are herbaceous, some are floral; but they all should have the sweet taste because that

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sweetness is already in the coffee. It depends on what you do to it—whether or not you let it come out.”

Levi set out to do exactly that—to learn how to roast the beans in a way that the coffee can best represent itself. In the beginning, fearing over-roasting, Levi erred on the side of under-roasting, resulting in a grassy flavor.

He eventually had to start taking chances to bring the coffee to its fullest potential.

“If it’s supposed to be toasted almonds and dark chocolate with slight lemon, I want it to have a smooth, sweet base, and then I want it to have those flavors. If I can get it to that, then I know that mostly I’ve stayed out of the way enough to let the coffee shine. We get great coffees, and as much as I can stay out of the way and give it nudges, that is the perfect cup.”

A lot of time goes into deciding which coffees Barefoots serves. Levi receives a four- to five-page list of coffee beans from their distributor and spends hours studying the list. He takes notes, researches what the coffee community has to say, looks at variety, and takes note of varieties he knows will be good.

Most recently, Barefoots received fourteen coffees to try out before placing an order. Levi roasted the beans and then he and his colleagues sampled them in the cupping process. From small, porcelain cupping bowls, they smelled the dry grounds of each variety, added water, smelled as they broke the crust, and tasted the coffee

with a cupping spoon, taking detailed notes along every step of the process.

“The biggest difference between drinking coffee and cupping coffee is, whenever cupping, the roast is a little bit lighter than whenever you’re drinking it. It shouldn’t be too much lighter than what we have here, but it may be a little bit lighter because you don’t want to cover anything up with the roast flavor…. So after tasting and taking notes, there will be some that we cross out, but hopefully there won’t be many of those, and it comes down to balancing price and how it tastes.”

With each new order of coffee, it can take some time to get the roasting just right.

“Sometimes it’s just maddening, but it can be an enjoyable thing. It demands a lot of attention.” He watches the roasters carefully and logs the process in detail: roast time, temperature, how much gas is allowed inside the roasting drum, among other things. But the factors determining the final product aren’t as formulaic as one might think.

“I was in a rut a while ago, probably not noticeable to anybody except me, but I was not getting what I wanted from the coffee. At the end of the summer, the beginning of the school year, I knew I was doing great things; great things were coming out of here, and then all of the sudden it changed. All of the sudden everything I was doing was wrong.’”

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Drive). Visit their website at www.uu.edu/barefootsjoe.

After relaying this to a friend who works at a coffee shop in Texas, she mentioned that their coffee roaster always gets frustrated during the winter.

“And I thought, ‘Oh, of course, of course. So I started trying to combat that…. I knew it was the cold, and I was getting better things because of that…. I’ve changed the parameters, and so I’m not getting any defects like I was before.”

“You talked about the nostalgia of the coffee you had growing up,” I said. “Tell me about some of your favorite coffee drinking experiences.” “…My dad’s enjoyment of coffee every single morning in a French press in exactly the same way, somehow that created a desire for and an enjoyment of coffee. So some of the best cups ever, maybe the best experiences ever, were getting it exactly right in high school. You know, making the cup of frozen ground Starbucks coffee, but getting it exactly how I wanted it and pouring that cup and having all the foam be on top and drinking that with a piece of carrot cake and kicking back in the evening…. At first it’s nostalgia and then it fades into a harsh, harsh taste that I don’t enjoy anymore. Really one of the great cups I’ve had lately was Columbian…. The sweetest, the creamiest, very simple. Some peach and cream, caramel, sugar. It was just really in its stride. I went kayaking with my father-in-law on the river and we went from one point to the other…. I had brought my scale, my hand grinder, my AeroPress, and a pot, and we built a fire and sat there. I brewed a couple of cups of that coffee, and we just sat there and drank it, and it was all around great.”

I asked Levi what he wanted for Barefoots customers—what he hoped their experience would be when they get a cup of coffee and take it with them into their day.

“I do everything I can to preserve the coffee and give the patrons that drink this coffee an experience of drinking an exotic, beautiful beverage prepared in such a way that they will be predisposed to enjoy it…. I want them to come in and get their coffee and walk out having that cup that tastes like everything it should but sweet and to some degree creamy, always smooth. I want them to have a cup that they can be sad when it’s all gone, you know? I want them to all of the sudden be at the bottom of the cup and think, ‘Man, where did that go?’”

“I love that. It sounds like you’re trying to break your customers’ hearts one cup at a time.”

“Yeah, that’s what I want. I want them to feel a little bit whenever they get to the end.” •

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GROWTH THROUGH COMMUNITY Essay & Photography by Courtney Searcy ur lives are marked by transition, and our feet don’t grow roots to tell us when to stay put. At every new season we find ourselves uncertain about what a step in a new direction might mean for us.

Maybe we are desperate for change to lift us out of our monotony or afraid we took a wrong step somewhere or disappointed by our careers. Maybe it’s the successdriven culture we are raised in—but sometimes choosing to stay put is the least appealing option. Especially in Jackson, Tennessee.

In this town, my answer to “What are you doing with your art degree?” isn’t met with a multitude of appealing options for a designer or a photographer or a writer. It isn’t a city creative people flock to, it isn’t written about on many travel blogs, and it isn’t many college students’ first pick for their post-grad plans.

It is, however, a place to grow.

In sharing the mission of Our Jackson Home, cofounder Luke Pruett quoted Wendell Berry, who writes that community is “the mental and spiritual condition of knowing that the place is shared, and that the people who share the place define and limit the possibilities of each other’s lives.”

Slowly, my paralyzing doubts about deciding to stay here a year ago when I graduated are being outweighed by signs of growth. I didn’t stay here because it was com-

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fortable or because I was afraid of a new place. I stayed because the people I am sharing life with are re-defining and exceeding my expectations with a sense of community and belonging far more fulfilling than the confines of a life dictated by career.

The stories of this community show this city has a pulse and that growth is taking place. These stories are only possible because someone decided to stay and find growth here.

This city has its fill of brokenness, of crime, of homelessness, and prejudice, but in the people around me I’ve found people who are rooted here and seek justice, reconciliation, beauty, and life. I am watching friends decide to stay in a place, fill in empty spaces, and build bridges.

I like what the poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote: “There is much beauty here, for everywhere there is much beauty.”

I can’t know if I will be here long enough to see if this city and the things I’m invested in will become everything I’ve dreamed. For now, I’m thankful that all around me I see green sprouts shooting up from the dirt.

I’m thankful that even when my feet don’t find stable ground, I can put my hands to work at something that might take roots and grow beyond my years. And when it’s time to go, I’ll leave this place with my sense of community transformed. •

Rainer Maria Rilke

Photography by Katie Williams 34

few months ago, I sat across a table from a four-year-old named Thomas. He and I were waiting on his dad who was in the gym coaching my son and the rest of a high school church league basketball team. I had some paper and markers, so we began to draw. Thomas drew his brother, where he lived, a mystery map, the gate to his house, the family car, his mom, his dad, a basketball, a fish in the water, and much, much more. Did I know this because he was a gifted illustrator? No, I knew these things because he talked about each symbol as he drew them. Thomas and I conversed on many things during our time together. As he drew, he explained, described, defined, and analyzed his drawing, often critiquing my drawing as well. I learned a lot about him that evening, and we became friends. As our time drew to a close, I told Thomas what an amazing artist he was. His response was, “I know. I’m a genius.” You may laugh, but you weren’t there. I was and I believe him.

You see, I’m a high school art teacher. I see kids every day like Thomas who probably thought they were geniuses, too, until our current education system taught them they aren’t. Why is this? Why don’t my high school kids with amazing creativity and imagination see their “genius”? The answer may lie in how we, in today’s educational culture, define “smart.” I sit through hours of faculty meetings looking at PowerPoint charts and graphs of testing data knowing my students’ many gifts aren’t represented by any of the information on those screens.

Are you only smart if what you know can be tested? Is smart a certain number on an ACT test? Is smart so narrowly defined that we ignore the genius inside those kids who have artistic abilities most of us only dream about?

Kids are smart. They know that when something is important, we spend time and money on it. Did you know that elementary students in the Jackson-Madison County School System receive only two hours of art instruction a month? In middle school, six to nine weeks at the most. Of the students who arrive in my Art I class, most don’t know the basics of a color wheel, the names of more than one or two artists, or how to speak in any articulate manner about the millions of visual images they view in a single day. While math and science programs are funded by billions of dollars across our nation, arts education receives only a small fraction of that amount.

At Jackson Central-Merry (JCM), my yearly art budget allows for $7 to $10 per student per semester—about what most of us spend on lunch. Like most teachers, I often supplement my art budget out of my own salary because I truly believe that what I do and what my students do is important.

I am perplexed by why our schools receive so little support for arts education. We know that school systems that show great academic gains give strong support to

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the arts and realize rigorous and intentional instruction in the arts benefits all students in all areas of study. Research tells us that students who are involved in the arts on average have higher ACT and SAT scores than students who are not. We also now know that schools with strong arts education programs show the most gain in schools populated by low-income students. For obvious reasons, children who are raised in affluent homes are often exposed to the arts much more so than low-income students. By not offering high quality arts education instruction in our schools, we create even wider gaps between the haves and the have-nots.

I was lucky. While by no means affluent, my parents were educated and knew the importance of the arts to our overall development as well-rounded and knowledgeable citizens. We visited museums, were taken to operas, ballets, plays, and concerts. My mother kept a closet in our home full of art supplies along with games, sports equipment, and (my favorite) dress-up clothes. My imagination and desire to create was strongly nurtured and encouraged. I later chose art as a major in college with the complete support of my parents. As I raise my own children, I have tried to follow their example, and my children have benefited as well. But most parents and many teachers today think of the arts as a frill, as something fun to break up the real work that happens in academic classrooms. I’ll let you in on a secret: art is scary. Art is hard. Art is work. To succeed in art, you have to be brave. Think about it. You can work on an English paper or a math assignment and few people other than the teacher know if you are doing well or not. In an art class, your success or failure is up front and present for all to see. A blank canvas or sheet of drawing paper can be the most intimidating thing in the world for a student. Everyone is going to know if you have what it takes or not. In art class, we teach students to face those fears and jump in with both feet. We train for success, but if failure occurs, and it does, that failure becomes our best teacher. We often use the term “Happy Accidents” because sometimes our mistakes result in our best work.

Art also has a distinct language, as do most fields of study. Not only do we teach our students to draw, paint, make prints, and pottery, we teach them to speak and write about what they see, experience, and create.

We introduce our students to the great masters of art who, throughout history, have changed the way we see

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the world. Through our study of art and artists, we also learn about the time and place in which the artist lived and produced art. Today we discussed the painting Bedroom at Arles by Vincent van Gogh. As part of our critical analysis of the painting, I asked the students why they thought van Gogh painted such a simple painting of his bedroom. A student responded that he didn’t think van Gogh’s bedroom was really that orderly in real life, but that he painted it that way as a means of calming himself because his personal life was so chaotic. He thought the painting was a metaphor for what van Gogh desired, not what he had. I was floored. I had never seen that painting in that light before, and I will never see it the same way again.

While the state of arts education in our schools currently is not what it once was or should be, each semester at JCM, students walk into my classroom with trepidation on their faces. But we start the same way that four-year-old Thomas and I started a few weeks ago. We sit; we talk; we make marks. We talk about how the marks we make become symbols and that those symbols have great meaning. Before long, the symbols evolve into drawings as the students learn to really see the world around them in all its richness of color, value, line, and texture. While grown-ups may not think art is important, kids do.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve heard my students say, “I didn’t know I could ________ (fill in the blank with draw, paint, make a clay pot).” Or the phrase that makes me happy and sad at the same time, “I only came to school today for art.”

I secretly smile when I see a student slip out their phone to take a picture of their completed artwork. I cheer when a student tells me they had a writing prompt in English that asked them to write about an image, and they could do it because of our “boring Art Criticism” assignments. (They are teenagers.) I tried not to giggle when a high-achieving student complained that chemistry was easy but art is hard. I ran into a former student a few years ago who said, “Hey, Mrs. Eblen, I’m still using my art. I’m a barber!” I loved that he made that connection!

So, to all my kids courageous enough to be artists, to Jasmine, to Robert, to Kamesha, Rodrigo, Briana, Hailey, Pablo, Pavan, and Anthony, and every kid that walks in my door, I am humbled to be part of your journey. You are on your way to something amazing. I know this because I believe you are a genius. •

218 E Main Street

731.300.4674

www.comeunitycafe.org

W H E R E I N J A C K S O N TO F I N D :

Story & Photography by Kristi Woody

bout a year ago, I remember someone from work mentioning paletas, Latin American ice pops usually made from fresh fruit, in Jackson. I had to try one right away! Some friends and I went by this wonderful treat shop called La Tapatia the next day, and we certainly weren’t disappointed. This delightful Mexican treat shop not only has delicious paletas, but homemade ice cream in a huge assortment of unique flavors!

When you first walk into La Tapatia, you’re greeted by punchy, bright colors and a smile from one of the Sevilla sisters working in the family business. The shop is lined with booths along the left side and a counter with ice cream, paletas, and other treats along the right. La Tapatia serves a wide variety of treats in the $2 to $8 range, making it a perfect destination on a hot summer day. Their biggest hit is the ice cream that they make in-house. It has a texture right in the middle of icy and creamy, which makes it a nice change from what you can buy in stores. It also comes in some unique flavors like yellow cherry and mango con chile. In addition to the ice cream, they serve paletas, fresh fruit cocktails, chicharron, flavored water, and delicious drinks like tamarindo and horchata. If you’ve never heard of these things, well, that’s all the more reason to go try it out! The horchata in particular will knock your socks off.

Laura Sevilla was kind enough to chat with me about the family business in one of the cozy booths while I contemplated what flavor of ice cream I would get before I left. (I went with passion fruit.) The Sevillas own a hair salon in Memphis, Tennessee, and almost exactly a year ago, they opened their treat shop in Jackson. Makes perfect sense, right? Maybe not at first, but Lauren explained that near the hair salon in Memphis is a Mexican ice cream shop that the locals really enjoy. This gave the Sevillas the idea to open one of their own, and they decided to put it in Jackson where it would be the only one of its kind. Laura noted that the Latino community in this area is very different from Memphis because everyone knows each other here in our smaller city. She and her sisters have found many friends here in their new home. I think I probably speak for anyone who has tried La Tapatia, but we’re certainly glad the Sevillas decided to make Jackson the home for their business! It’s wonderful to have diversity of culinary options, especially in the dessert department, my personal favorite. | La Tapatia is located at 566 Carriage House Drive.

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Story by Josh Garcia | Photography by Courtney Searcy & Katie Williams 40

had been craving some good country biscuits for a while when the Autrys invited me over for breakfast one Sunday. Marcie told me that her husband, Jamie, makes excellent biscuits and, man, was she right. “One of our dreams is to have a biscuit truck at the farmers’ market. We have a lot of dreams, though,” she said laughing in their kitchen. In fact, they’ve started keeping a written list, storing their dreams away in a log, ready for the picking when the time is right.

I first met Marcie a few years ago when she was getting a group of volunteer photographers together to take family portraits as a fundraiser for her family’s adoption. I remember thinking what a meaningful idea it was to arrange family-based services to assist in family building. Since then, Marcie’s creativity, work ethic, and passion for people has been made evident in A New Thing fall marketplace, a marketplace of local vendors and nonprofit organizations. The proceeds of the marketplace help alleviate the financial needs of adoptive families. Many of the vendors sell up-cycled and handmade items including jewelry fashioned from shrapnel in the third world, furniture once discarded and non refurbished, and, last year, artisanal paper. Fig Paper Company, one of Marcie’s ongoing dreams, recycles paper to make stationary, wall art, and other beautiful paper goods.

The Autrys’ table had some of the expected breakfast staples: eggs, bacon, and strawberries. But Jamie’s biscuits were center stage. We passed around gravy, honey, and jam and butter. We talked about travel and cheerleading and growing up and laughed with their son Kaplan through breakfast. Afterward, Marcie sat down with me to talk about Fig Paper Co., her family, and how their dreams intersect to tell a story of restoration and redemption.

“Tell me a little about Fig Paper Co.,” I said.

She said it began with A New Thing marketplace and a preexisting interest in how our consumerism can intersect with social awareness and have a positive impact. She asked herself the question: “If I’m going to sit down and write a card, is there a way that I can purchase the cards I’m going to use so that the money is going to go to a greater good? I think, for me, I felt a passion for that social enterprise for a while.”

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After going to Ethiopia with True Light Childcare in January 2014, Marcie began thinking about how her interest in social enterprise could benefit the families and women she met there.

“After I got back from Ethiopia, I really started feeling this stirring within my spirit…. I started praying about being connected somehow with these women that were there and experiencing hardships, and I felt like I heard the Lord say, ‘Learn to make paper.’

It was really weird because I’d never made paper before. I didn’t know anything about it. But through the process of learning how to do that, I feel like I started learning so much about working with your hands and about creating something from nothing. So that is how the idea came to be.”

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Last summer, Marcie teamed up with Courtney Searcy to learn how to make paper. In July, Courtney studied with Claudia Lee, a Nashville-based artist who works with handmade paper, and brought her new knowledge of the trade back to Jackson. Together, she and the Autrys set up a makeshift studio on the Autrys’ back patio. With a paper press made of old cutting boards and screens made by Jamie, they began to make paper.

“There’s this verse in Thessalonians that says, ‘Make it your ambition to lead a quiet life and work with your hands.’” Marcie said, “There’s something, to me, spiritual that happens when I am creating with my hands…. It’s putting your hands in that warm vat of water and pulling the screen up and seeing this newly formed sheet of paper and then being able to lay that out and press it down. The process takes two or three days just to dry the paper and then being able to peel it off the surface and its completely solid and dry. I just think that there’s, once again, that redemption and restoration story that runs through that.”

Fig Paper Co. recycles discarded paper collected by Marcie and Courtney or given to them by friends. They’ve used scraps from Inkwell’s Press (friends of the Autrys who make hand-bound journals and original prints) and old church materials. Marcie says the process and their products seem more meaningful when the paper being recycled has a story.

“Courtney made batches of paper from old sewing patterns. I just love how things can be repurposed and have a story.

I think that I use that word a lot—just the idea that everything has a story and is interconnected, and I love that. I love how this sewing machine pattern was used by some grandmother, maybe, to make her grandchildren these clothes…and then being able to take that and break it down and create a notecard that someone will [use to] write an encouraging note to someone else. I just love that theme.”

“We’re dreamers, right?” I say. “And we’re embracing our humble beginnings, as you said, but I know we’re still dreaming, so what is the big dream for Fig Paper Co.?”

“The big picture would be that there would be women who could work with their hands and could make paper and be able to sell it. My dream sort of was that it would be a two part process.

Women and mothers in Ethiopia and caregivers who are caring for these children, I can see them standing outside their house and pulling these sheets of paper and having these big drying racks and then being able to sell the paper… to us, [and we would] put the paper together to make different products. We would always purchase those handmade papers from them, and then we would have women who would work that needed extra income, that needed childcare, that we could provide child care free of charge. That we would be able to sit around and put these cards together and tie them with envelopes and put them in packages and ship them out, and it would be this connection of taking something you have

created out of this paper and making it into this product…. So that’s the dream. The big picture dream would be that that’s what it would turn into. I don’t know the logistics of how that happens but maybe one day.”

In the meantime, Marcie intends to get really good at making paper while the logistics work themselves out and while their family eagerly awaits a new addition. With an upcoming adoption, which will hopefully be finalized later this year, the Autry family is busy preparing for its newest member.

“This adoption has been crazy,” she says. “The first adoption with Kaplan was very [straightforward]. This adoption has been going on for about three years.” And indeed their second adoption story seems to have taken a long and winding road. After the Autrys initially felt drawn toward international adoption, they had chosen to focus on adopting from Honduras. They were accepted into one of the two Christian adoption agencies working with Honduras at the time and began the process. “But many plans are in a man’s heart,” Marcie said, referring to a Proverb, “but it is the Lord’s purpose that prevails.”

Through circumstance, prayer, and listening to the stirrings the Lord gave them, the Autrys’ second adoption process has had a few chapters, some longer than others, with a range of settings.

“To people who are in the adoption community, all of that would make sense to them, but to people from the outside who are not in the adoption com-

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munity, I felt like a crazy person. I felt like, ‘Okay, we’re adopting from Honduras. No, just kidding, now Ethiopia. Wait, not Ethiopia, maybe India. Nope, it’s China!’ I just felt kind of tossed around, but within our family it didn’t feel like that at all because everything that the Lord had been stirring and working—it all seemed to make sense in that moment.”

After feeling led toward a special needs adoption, the Autrys are now pursing the adoption of a little boy from China who will hopefully join them by the end of the year. “He’s just beautiful and wonderful and perfect…. I just want to go get him right now…. His file became ready for adoption last October right when we were feeling this stirring. So it all makes sense now, but it’s just been a crazy ride…. We’re now waiting to be able to go get him and bring him home and [Kaplan comes running in from another room and jumps into Marcie’s lap] then have two wild and crazy boys. Do you think he’s going to be wild and crazy like you, Kap? Yeah, I think so, too.”

Kaplan nuzzles his little head into Marcie’s neck and wraps his arms around her. She runs her fingers through his boyishly tousled hair as she continues to share about motherhood.

“The idea of motherhood is like a Johnson & Johnson commercial. My friend has this great idea that we have of the white curtains flowing with the children sitting on the floor and playing, and they’re all dressed in white, and it’s very flowy and beautiful. And then the reality of motherhood is crushed up goldfish on the floor and screaming naked children running through the house and throwing fits in the middle of the grocery store.”

“You don’t do any of that do you, Kaplan?” I ask.

“No, he actually never has [Marcie reaches forward to knock on a wooden side table] thrown a fit in the grocery store…. Before you become a parent, you really do have this idea. Every parent wants the best for their child, and you want your kid to be wonderful and perfect. For us, our definition of parenting has totally changed. We desire for our children to learn and to grow up and be responsible and stable adults and all of that, but more than anything else, we really just want to provide a loving place. We want this to be a haven of peace and encouragement and thriving…. We want our kids to learn to love people, and we feel like that happens inside the home. How we treat one another, and how we mess up and have to ask for forgiveness, and how we interact—this is a place where all of us can throw fits, and this is the place to do that. If you can’t experience those emotions and those hard things at home, where else can you?”

After a while Kaplan went upstairs to play with his dad.

I asked Marcie what adoption means to the Autry family, and she said that, as her husband put it, it means “everything.”

“We feel like we’re a family built on adoption. I feel like it defines who I am. It has a lot to do with who God has made me to be…. Going through the process with Kaplan, the Lord really showed us His love for His people, not just us and this child, but Kaplan’s birth mother and birth family. In a perfect world there would be no adoption because there would be no hurt and brokenness and need for that. But adoption is something now, once again, a story of redemption that is worked into the fabric of our lives. That experience, it was beautiful and it was hard and it was wonderful, all of those things. I feel like that’s the main thing—really seeing the Lord’s heart for His people and getting to join with Him in that was and still is such a gift to us….

“This is going to sound really crazy. I think I’ve only told one other person this. I just have this vision of our family on a Christmas card…this family that is a rag tag bunch of people that are of all different colors and backgrounds and abilities and giftings, and that’s how I would envision my family. There’s another one for the list….”

And as we continue to talk, I can hear Jamie laughing upstairs and the little feet of one of their dreams running around playfully above us. •

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THE FARMERS’ MARKET Essay & Photography by Josh Garcia here is something comforting about ritual. Of course there’s also something comfortable about the familiar, but ritual is different. The repetition that comes with ritual isn’t out of habit. It’s not something you slip into, like ordering the same dish every time you go to your favorite restaurant. It’s done with intention, with reverence, and with appreciation. For many Jacksonians, Saturday mornings at the West Tennessee Farmers’ Market is one such ritual.

There’s something about waking up easy in the cool of a Saturday morning at the end of a long week. If you’re like me, you stretch and turn in your bed until your covers seem to fall away. You take your time warming up to the day. Maybe you listen to some music as you wash and dress before heading downtown. As you walk in the shade of the market’s pavilion, you examine the colors of the fruits and vegetables and flowers that perhaps don’t seem too spectacular on their own, but when collected in one place, in all of their variety side by side, the colors burst and a gratitude wells up in you at the mere the abundance of it.

You walk slow here. You enjoy the breeze and the taste of tostones from the La Cubanita food truck as you take everything in, peoplewatching the other passers-by and the vendors. Sunlight illuminates jars of amber-gold honey. There is a trailer stacked high with watermelon. One melon sits on top, split open to show off the bright red promise inside. A pocketknife is fixed upright in the heart of it, ready to carve out a sample for those curious to taste. The juices spill out with each bite, and you spit out a seed before asking, “How much?” From the back of trucks you can buy catfish or free-range meats or donuts that melt in your mouth and leave you dreaming of vanilla.

As your bag fills up, you stroll through the market one more time, eyeing baskets of your favorite foods. You wonder if you need more peaches for the cobbler you’re making. If there’s a way to incorporate okra into a meal this week. If one baguette is enough. And then you take your food home. You open a window and let the contents of your bag pour out onto your kitchen counter. And it is here—here that the ritual is fulfilled. It is here that the bounty of your Saturday morning will go on to nourish you. Whether you break off a piece of bread before work or cut up some fresh tomatoes for a simple salad or prepare a large meal for those you invite to gather around your table, you will be sustained and nourished until next Saturday morning. Until you can partake once again in the exchange between farmer and neighbor, in the sun and the breeze, and of fried plantains. •

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mong a greenhouse full of sprouting and thriving plants and hanging baskets overflowing with carefully attended vines, Rita Randolph meticulously places a cutting of a plant into its own compartment of soil so that it will take root and grow. I am at Morris Nursery on accident, because a warm spring afternoon convinced me I could learn to keep a few plants alive.

Her hands, dirt-stained and worn by more than thirty years in the garden, are a mark of her history with the give-and-take of the craft. Her parents opened Randolph’s Nursery in Jackson in 1947 just after World War II. During the war, her mother grew flowers to support the family while her father was enlisted. Rita began to participate in the family business as a teenager, after her father passed away.

Piling into a Ford Pinto with her mother, the two drove to Florida to collect clippings of plants.

It was the seventies and there was a house plant boom, so they set out to bring fresh variety to Jackson.

This was the beginning of what she calls an addiction. She was enamored with the direct results of producing a living thing from the work of her hands—hence her reputation for propagation.

Collecting rare plants and arranging a garden is one thing, but the process of propagation is Rita’s passion. From a cutting of two or three leaves from the tip of one plant, she grows another. The pinching

Need some hort therapy?

Morris Nursery’s Rita Randolph’s got a house full of gold for you.

Story by Courtney Searcy Photography by Courtney Searcy & Katie Williams 47

mong a greenhouse full of sprouting and thriving plants and hanging baskets overflowing with carefully attended vines, Rita Randolph meticulously places a cutting of a plant into its own compartment of soil so that it will take root and grow. I am at Morris Nursery on accident, because a warm spring afternoon convinced me I could learn to keep a few plants alive.

Her hands, dirt-stained and worn by more than thirty years in the garden, are a mark of her history with the give-and-take of the craft. Her parents opened Randolph’s Nursery in Jackson in 1947 just after World War II. During the war, her mother grew flowers to support the family while her father was enlisted. Rita began to participate in the family business as a teenager, after her father passed away.

Piling into a Ford Pinto with her mother, the two drove to Florida to collect clippings of plants. It was the seventies and there was a house plant boom, so they set out to bring fresh variety to Jackson.

This was the beginning of what she calls an addiction. She was enamored with the direct results of producing a living thing from the work of her hands—hence her reputation for propagation.

Collecting rare plants and arranging a garden is one thing, but the process of propagation is Rita’s passion.

From a cutting of two or three leaves from the tip of one plant, she grows another. The pinching and pruning causes the first to grow more fully. Within ten days to two weeks, a new plant has grown roots and is added to her collection, soon to be purchased for someone else’s garden.

“What’s new?” is the question she hears season to season. An attentive gardener wants to find something they haven’t seen before, so every year Rita and her mother would drive around the country to collect new cuttings and plants to bring back to eager customers.

“Traveling was my teacher,” the now nationallyknown speaker and writer says. Weekends or vacations were spent traveling to botanical gardens and learning from horticulturists all over the country.

Rich green vines and translucent elephant ears, bright red leaves with dark veins, ferns and a host of other plants line the walls of her greenhouse. Rita is familiar with the distinct characteristics of each one. As she works, she is eager to stop what she is doing to guide each shopper to the plant they need, or maybe introduce them to one they’ve never seen. She is well versed in which plants grow best in shade or sunlight and which plants grow well together, and you can’t leave a conversation with her without her knowledge spilling over.

Throughout her career, she began to develop a philosophy about foliage. “Foliage first” is her advice to gar-

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deners eager to fill their gardens with colorful flowers.

She advises them to surround the blooms with the array of leafy plants that will contrast and make the colorful blooms stand out. “Flowers are fickle. They can be a bonus,” she says.

In her travels, Rita found the fern now known as “Rita’s Gold,” and she instantly loved its fluorescent color. Growing it for a few years, she showed it in lectures, and eventually gave one to the famous professor Allan Ermitage at the University of Georgia. He named the plant and gave it the Classic Coty award for performance. He wrote about it in Fine Gardening, and Rita developed a trademark for it. Because of this attention, she began writing for trade publications.

Under a bench at the Biltmore Estate gardens, Rita claimed a plant that was discarded as a freak of nature.

She named it “shiny shoes” for its patent leather leaves.

Before long, the Biltmore had commissioned her to grow two hundred of the plant for a dragonfly arrangement on the grounds.

It took a long time for Rita to accrue the rare and unusual collection that eventually drew people to her land from out of state. It is her attentiveness to the people and living things around her that made her greenhouse a thriving enterprise.

September 2012 marked the bittersweet end of Randolph’s Greenhouse, when several near misses from tornadoes were followed by a fire that made the business financially unsustainable. With an outpouring of support from customers who have been shopping long enough for Rita to know their children, everything down to stones signed from her garden was sold.

When the greenhouse closed, Rita took a year off and then began working at Morris Nursery after she was offered a job, expanding the landscaping business into one with various plants for indoor and outdoor gardeners to purchase.

She has taken time from her afternoon to tell me her story, and I have earned a new love for a few vines now growing on my windowsill. I remark that I feel better after sitting surrounded by the vibrant greens, smelling the damp soil. Rita says she calls it “hort therapy” because just walking and looking at the plants is refreshing. She has found that something about seeing how quickly plants grow and participating in that brings people joy. The customers she has served have been diverse, and she is amazed that something as simple as a plant can bring a moment of friendship between two completely different people.

She invites me to come back anytime, and I know I will.

“Do you still love what you do?” I ask, curiously.

She replies. “Oh, yes. I will always do this.” •

S P R IN G

P L A Y L IS

T A I R TR A F F I C CO NT RO LLER

Pick Me Up

A L EXI M URD O CH

Towards The Sun AND REW B I RD

Rising Water TH E A PACHE RELAY

Katie, Queen of Tennessee T HE B EAT LES

Here Comes The Sun CO LD PLAY

Strawberry Swing TH E CRANB ERRI ES

Linger

FLEET FO XES

Ragged Wood T HE FO RM AT

On Your Porch F R E E L ANCE WHALES

Generator ^ First Floor I N G R I D M I CHAELSO N

You And I

JO HN D ENVER

Take Me Home, Country Roads TH E L I G H TH O U S E & T HE WHALER

Pioneers

MU M FO RD & SO NS

Not With Haste THE O H HELLO S

In Memoriam TH E PAPER K I T ES

Featherstone THE RI VERSI D E

Time’s Goin’ SERY N

Foreign Fields S I MO N & GARFUNK EL

April Come She Will TH E T EM PER T RAP

Sweet Disposition 50

A LIC E C A L V ER Y

Tennessee River A LT-J

Left Hand Free THE A V ET T BR OT HER S

At The Beach BEN HOW A R D

Old Pine

CEREUS BR I G HT

Goldmine

A FLOC K OF SEA G UL L S

Space Age Love Song THE HEA D & T HE HEA R T

Summertime IRO N & W I N E

Tree By The River J UDD & M A G G I E

Someone

THE KER N EL & HI S N EW ST R A NG E R S

Green, Green Sky KING S OF L EON

Back Down South KISHI BA SHI

Bright Whites LOLO

Year Round Summer of Love N EN A

99 Red Balloons N OA H & T HE W HA L E

5 Years Time OW L C I T Y

Umbrella Beach REG I N A SP EKT OR

Folding Chair

SUMM

ER P LAYL I

ST

REL I EN T K

Savannah SEABEA R

Seashell SHE & HI M

In The Sun 51

When we find a place to call home, we are slow to leave it.

Joshua and Whitney are two young people who came to Jackson for college and then moved to other cities after they graduated. Joshua went to Houston for a graphic design position (while continuing to work in retail as he had been doing in Jackson); Whitney went to New Haven for a master’s degree from Yale. Their next logical steps might have been cities like Austin and NYC, but instead they have both chosen to come back to Jackson. OJH asked them to explain their counter-cultural decision to return, and they responded with this story.

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WHY WE’RE C O MI NG H O ME Creative Non-Fiction by Josh Bullis & Whitney Williams

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WHY WE’RE COMING HOME Joshua

T H E SU M ME R BE FORE LE AV ING JACKS ON t was the summer of 2014. I had just graduated from college two months ago with a degree in philosophy. I had gotten a job at Office Max through a friend. As it turns out, jobs are all about who you know, so I settled for the job where I had someone to vouch for me, even though I had never had any interest in retail. It was not something I expected to enjoy, but I was committed to working hard at it and the other workers there quickly came to like me.

My boss once said, “It’s so rare that we get somebody that’s actually a real asset to the store.” He was extremely encouraging and made a point to notice when I did good work. The store was clearly under-staffed so every day seemed like a desperate attempt to keep up with all the demands the store faced. I felt like I was making a difference in the lives of my coworkers, and I felt like I was, in some small way, benefiting the town as a whole, which was probably because we were the only Office Max in Jackson.

The work was mostly mechanistic, mostly requiring speed and familiarity but very little mental engagement otherwise. “Mindless” was the word I used to describe it, but I didn’t mean it in a judgmental way. After only a week or two I recognized this “mindlessness” as something my work had in common with that of the desert fathers of the early church, who would spend their days unraveling ropes as a way to keep their hands busy while they contemplated God. Once I made this connection I came to really love working at Office Max, fantasizing that in a sense my work was a way to engage in an ancient spiritual tradition.

My time at work was already important because it was an opportunity to serve people I loved, but it also then became an important time for reflection that I would use to meditate on scripture, especially the old testament, on the nature of spiritual concepts like love, the purpose of the church, the dual nature of Christ, the already/not yet nature of the kingdom of God. I ended up spending most of this time in prayer for people in my life outside of work. Sometimes, instead of scripture, my meditations would focus on Ulysses by James Joyce, which Whitney had invited me to read with her and a reading group she was a part of. The book is extremely dense and, in Whitney’s words, “opaque,” and it took most of my time outside of work to keep up with the group. My days were divided fairly equally between contemplation and study while also providing a service to loved ones and to my community.

My parents lived in England, my sister in California, and I tried to navigate schedules and speak to all three of them for at least an hour every week or two.

In July my mom called me while I was at the park reading the Cyclops chapter of Ulysses. She asked me how I was doing, how my summer had been, what I had spent it doing and how I felt about it. I explained to her everything I just wrote out here, and ended with a comment that even surprised myself, “I’m happy! I love this! In fact I’m so happy, I kinda think I just want to do this forever!”

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Whitney

T H E PL AN I imagine someone telling eighteen year-old me that in six years I will be thrilled to be returning to Jackson, Tennessee. Eighteen year-old me comes to one of two conclusions. Either the person is lying, or something has gone terribly wrong. Coming back to Jackson is not part of The Plan for me when I am a freshman at Union.

The Plan is very clear: finish college, go somewhere Big and Important for graduate school, and finally go on to do Great Things at an intellectual hub like New York or London. Jackson is merely a stepping stone, one which I am eager to leap off at the first chance. I’ve come from the outskirts of Nashville and find Jackson lacking in what an overly ambitious adolescent deems important: concerts, museums, good movie theaters, hip restaurants. Though I like Union well enough, I am ready to get out of its town.

Joshua

SEVERI TY After graduating from high school I had to attend a week-long training meeting in Virginia with my parents.

They were the ones being trained, my sister and I were lumped into a kids group for ages 12 and up that was designed to keep us entertained and out of trouble. One of the activities was having a role in a mandatory skit with some vague relation to Christian values. In this skit I was consigned to play a character who was chased by another recent graduate acting like a bird, and to submissively let him peck at me from behind in a base comedic way that did nothing to serve the plot or message of the skit. This was demeaning and insulting to me at the time, and I think it still would be. I was an adult. I was a serious person who felt he had put in his time and deserved respect, and my response was to rally together three other kids who felt they were too good for what was being asked of them and sneak away to play poker in another room, which I justified by saying “my dad would never put up with this sort of thing; I shouldn’t be asked to either.” In retrospect I think my dad would have had more humility than I did and would have tried to make the most of the skit demeaning or not, but I was too proud of my recently acquired “adult” status and demanded that it be recognized.

Coming to college as a Freshman I had to attend introductory events, one of which involved watching a student leader eat peanut butter from out of his armpits.

For months after this I would use this as evidence to say that Union’s claim to be an “institution for higher learning” was clearly unfounded and misleading since this showed it to really be a youth group for children and

an insult to those of us who were genuinely interested in learning. I should not have taken this one student’s impulsive actions and this isolated event to reflect on the school as a whole, but I was too focused on what I felt I deserved to see past it and recognize any of the positive things that were also being shown in these early months.

The word I now usually think of to describe my attitude at that time is “severe.” I wanted to be treated in a serious manner. I wanted to become something great, and I wanted greatness expected for me. And because no one seemed to publicly have the same high vision for my future, I was angry and dismissive towards the community as a whole.

Whitney

BARE FOOTS It isn’t uncommon for college students to become addicted to coffee. For me, however, it isn’t the caffeine that I crave so much as a particular coffee shop. By my second year at Union, I am spending the majority of my free time in the university’s on-campus treasure, Barefoots Joe. You might think that a coffee shop attracts a serious student because of its potential as a study environment. But it only takes me a few attempts to realize that this is not a place to get serious homework done; it is a place to hang out with friends, attend concerts, meet new people. The shop is almost always busy, filled with students, professors, and the general Jackson population.

Yet I keep coming back.

Between or after classes, I sit down at a table with my laptop and textbooks, knowing I would be better off studying in my dorm. When finals and papers come around, I do seek out a quieter space. But on an ordinary day, I sit in Barefoots Joe, sip a cup of their excellent coffee, and welcome the distractions of community. Despite my pledges to keep academic success my primary goal, I find another love creeping into my life. This one isn’t a part of The Plan, but it has some interesting faces.

Whitney

A LOVABLE FUNG US “I wonder if anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember, the place is so beautiful.” So said W.B. Yeats of the enchanted city in which I live the summer after my junior year. Sunrises and sunsets are for walking in fields. The time in between I spend researching in the famous Bodleian library, reading in one of the gardens, or exploring countless museums. It is a magical summer in a city I have dreamt of visiting since I was twelve. And yet. Despite the beauty, the history, and the brilliant new friends, I surprise myself. I’m missing other fields, those of West Tennessee.

55

I confess my excitement to return to Jackson to a friend in England. She asks about what made Jackson so beautiful, assuming it must rival Oxford in its charms for me to miss it like I do. I have no answer for her. “Is it the people then?” she asks. Yes, that is the large part of it, but not all. I seem to miss even the city itself. “It’s the whole thing. The people, the place. I guess it’s grown on me,” I conclude. “Like a very lovable fungus.”

Joshua

A REL UCTA N T B I O GRAPHY I stayed in Jackson for January that year, and when my best friends came back they saw me standing outside at the commons. They drove up in Tyrone, which was the name we had given Jeff’s car. They jumped out from all four doors and picked me up in a fireman’s hold and they danced around with me screaming and hollering with joy and all I could think was “no, not this. This is so uncivilized. I don’t want to be treated like this. I don’t want this to go down in my biography when I’m the next Edgar Allen Poe. How will anyone understand me if I have to tell them I let people treat me like this? That my best friends were people that acted like this? How will I ever be taken seriously? Put me down. I am important.

These antics are beneath me.” Of course, this attitude only encouraged them. And I later came to realize that they were showing me love. Despite my resistance, they had accepted me into their group and were expressing their love for me in the way they knew how to. I was dry and serious and rejected celebration, but they refused to let me ostracize myself like I had with so many other people. They loved me and they wanted me to be a part of their group, and they wouldn’t let me get away.

Whitney

HOME There are a few times in life when we instantly feel at home in a new place or with a stranger. Although we have never been there, although we have never seen that face before, there is an immediate recognition, a familiarity that usually takes years to form. I don’t have a word for this kind of experience, but I know we should pay attention to it.

The first time I attend a Bible study with Christ Community Church, I know I have found a home. It is my senior year of college, and I decide finally to settle into a church family. In many ways, this action makes no sense. I am applying to graduate schools and plan to be gone within the year. I know full well that another investment will only make the transition more difficult.

Still, I cannot help venturing out to visit the homes my fellow church members. I go off campus more than ever

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before, and I love it. Right when I should be pulling my roots out of Jackson, they begin to grow deeper.

Whitney

GE TTING WHAT YOU WA NT The letters all come at once, and they are all good news.

I get to go to graduate school, and I have my pick of the lot. I have never imagined such good fortune, and I wait for something like ecstasy to settle in. But it doesn’t. Sure, I’m incredibly grateful, and I’m excited at the prospect of studying with those whose work I admire. But the heavens don’t open up, and my existence doesn’t suddenly seem fulfilled or worthwhile. Instead, life feels more complicated. Yet everything is going according to The Plan.

Whitney

THE S UMME R BE FOR E LE AVING JACKS ON I have no job, live in a one-room apartment that I share with another girl, and I am happier than I can remember being. Without school, work, or a proper living situation, I have decided to stay in Jackson for the summer before going off to graduate school. I spend my days visiting friends old and new, writing and reading downtown, and going to church functions.

I have settled on going to Yale. The school is a perfect fit, and New Haven seems like a nice town. It would make sense to move there early and get my act together before the semester starts. But I cannot make myself move away Jackson until the last possible moment.

When we find a place to call home, we are slow to leave it.

Whitney

YALE I wear the nicest dress I own, sip wine I could never afford to buy, and nibble a cheese whose name I doubt I can pronounce. My feet ache in their heels after an hour of mingling with some of the most intelligent and talented people I have ever met. In the last week, I’ve tried food from more than twice the amount of independent restaurants Jackson can boast and have spent my evenings at Shakespeare in the Park and the graduate club.

Yale is everything I imagined, and New Haven isn’t bad either. Famous thinkers and writers come through every week. There are too many receptions to attend even half. New York is only a short train ride away, where I can visit all the coffee shops, museums, and theaters I had been wanting at age eighteen. This move, however, I am missing the friends I left. Those are more difficult to find.

Joshua

CONFINE ME NTS If I can’t smoke, I can’t think. In Jackson my time off work was spent smoking and reading in the park. What most attracts me to it is actually the same thing that turns most people off by it: the fact that it is so blatantly unhealthy. It’s been painted culturally as an irrational and shameful practice. If I can smoke in front of someone and they accept that then I feel that I can trust them not to judge me. But if someone will not let me smoke then I have to be on guard. What else about me will be unclean in their eyes? A non-smoking environment feels hostile to me. There are social restrictions. I must pretend to be an upstanding citizen, to act in that role rather than just be an honest person.

In Houston, by law, all parks are non-smoking. They are also almost all next to schools and have security guards, so a safe park for reading was not to be found. This was confinement number one. The city is an intricate network of highways and off ramps that lead straight to parking lots. No sidewalks, no roads to bike on, all exploring must be done by car. This was confinement number two. The neighbors in the apartment complex stare at us angrily as if we have personally wronged them. We are clearly unwelcome intruders. At times they yell at us, demanding that we give them money or throw cigarettes down to them from our balcony; otherwise they refuse to talk to us. That was unexpected.

That was confinement number three. Best to stay inside when home. Best to keep out of their way. Smoking or not, this is not a safe environment, there is nowhere to go where one is free to think.

Whitney

A MORE S UPPORTIV E S PACE The spring of my first year at Yale is filled not so much with studying, as it is doctor’s appointments. I am sick, and it changes everything. By March, I am having to miss classes on a regular basis and have been advised to take long extensions on my work until I am better. My doctors recommend that I leave New Haven for the summer break in favor of a more supportive space.

Community has a different tenor in New Haven. It can be found after some work, and it can be wonderful. There is, however, a constant hum of competition in and around Yale. Everyone is trying to do something great. Any side interest or creative venture is either a distraction from the important work you should be doing, or it had better be fantastic. It is the ideal environment for someone trying to publish an article or stay on top of her research. But it is not the spot for someone who has had to put school on hold. For that, you need people who loved you before you went to an Ivy League institution and a place that does not remind you of scholarship at every turn. So I find myself spending another summer in the comforting city of Jackson, healing at home.

Whitney

W H AT I WA NT “So what are you doing next?” I believe that Dante forgot to mention the circle of hell for graduating stu-dents. It consists of throngs of people asking varieties of this question, each query causing a new existential crisis before the student can so much as whimper, “I don’t know.”

Perhaps there are people in the world who revel in not having a plan, but I am not one of them. In my penultimate semester at Yale Divinity, I am forced to recognize that I need to take a break before pursuing my next degree. This decision brings with it some uncertainty as to what I will do after graduation. Therefore, I immediately come up with two options for my next stage of life.

I will either work at Yale or go on to somewhere like New York and work in publishing. I do not consult myself as to what I actually want. Rather than probe into that mystery, I blindly stick to The Plan penned when I was eighteen years old and had very different priorities. It has not even occurred to me to move back the place I still refer to as home. It has not occurred to me that I could go where I will certainly be happiest.

Joshua

T H E N OT H I NG I think it was about two months ago when I started to feel something closing in on me. A friend asked me to explain it better yesterday and I said it felt like a Never-ending Story sort of thing, like The Nothing was slowly tearing down my world but I couldn’t see it happening because when The Nothing erases something it takes away your memory of it too. I said that since I first noticed this feeling I had been able to keep ahead of it, outrun it, but over the past two weeks it has caught up with me.

I wake up at five every day and go to work at six.

I still work at Office Max, but I no longer spend much time in reflection. I’ve been promoted multiple times in the past few months and I now have four new workers that I am training. At twelve I get off work and drive straight to my second job, a graphic design position at a theater downtown, where I design their posters, marquees, playbills, postcards, and other graphics. I get off from the theater at six and begin the hour-and-ahalf commute home.

Between the two jobs, I spend eleven hours a day working and three hours a day in traffic. I am taken seriously at both my jobs and am often commended for my good work. A few weeks ago my boss at Office Max told me I was the hardest worker in the store, and that I was one of the two employees he had that showed real promise that they were going to go far in life. But every day when I get home, after dealing with ninety minutes

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of aggressive drivers in standstill traffic while listening to obnoxiously manipulative and indulgent pop songs broken up by offensively manipulative commercials, all I want to do is go straight to bed and escape this miserable day and the endless bombardment of hostility.

Joshua

LONE LINE S S This is pretty much exactly what I was looking for before I moved to Jackson: a chance to prove myself, no distractions from anyone, being able to distinguish myself through hard work, to cut out all superfluities and focus exclusively on being impressive in my work. This was the lifestyle I wanted. This was the way I wanted to be treated, apart from the traffic that is. But I got home last Friday and slept for sixteen straight hours. It wasn’t that I was tired. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get up; I just couldn’t find any reason to do so. Whitney asked me why I slept so long. “I think this is loneliness,” I said.

I grew up living on four different continents in some of the largest cities in the world, and the only place I ever felt at home was Jackson, Tennessee. Now I’m here in the fourth largest city in America, and it’s just the same as all those cities before: lost on the side of a giant anthill with everyone running so fast that they can’t see each other, so tied up in their own thing, so busy, that they don't even realize anyone else is here too, lost in an excited, angry crowd. We are each only an inconvenience to everyone else, a roadblock in the way of their ambition. It’s not that I can’t survive here; I just can’t find any reason to want to.

Whitney

WHAT WOULD MAKE ME HAPPY Sometimes it takes another voice for us to listen to our own. One day a friend and I are talking about the future and my growing dread of it. He challenges me not to live according to fear but to love. He reminds me that what would make me happy is doing life with the people I love. Then he tells me something that rocks my world: “And if you are lucky enough to find a community with people who have needs that you feel you understand and relate to and you see something good in them and you feel that you know what they are aching for and what could make them become even better, then you should hold on to those people. And that’s why I think you should stay in Jackson.”

Turns out he thought that has been my plan all along. Nope. But it only takes a couple of months of continued homesickness and thinking about his words to bring me to a new decision: it’s time for me and The Plan to part ways.

The Plan isn’t bad in itself. It works for many people, and for them I’m glad. Maybe I’ll even pick it up again in a few years and move to a big city to work or pursue another degree. Who knows? But, for now, I am going back home, to Jackson. •

2015 Season Schedule

APRIL 24 MAY 8

Reverend Jesse and The Holy Smokes (Josh Smith) The Kimberlie Helton Band

MA Y 2 2

Jimmy Church Review

JUNE 5

Little Boys Blue

JULY 17

Iron Horse

J U L Y 31

Travis Cottrell

A UGU S T 1 4

King Beez

A UG U S T 2 2

Stacy Mitchhart

SEP T EM B E R 1 2

Paula Bridges, Chuck McGill, Colton Parker & The Bandstand Group

SEP T EM B E R 2 6

Surprise Guest!

OC T O B E R 3

Will Davenport

All performances are free! The open air venue encourages guests to bring their picnic basket or visit one of the food concessions. Music will begin at 7:30 pm. Blankets and lawn chairs are welcome at this family-friendly event! Free parking is available throughout Downtown. In the event of rain, performances will be moved to the West Tennessee Farmers’ Market shed.

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