Shootin' the Breeze
This piece was originally published in the December 2019 - March 2020 issue of our journal, Vol. 5, Issue 3: Pioneers.
You can find them at the corner of Westwood and Summar, really anytime of day—the group of men of various ages, sometimes a few women or children mixed in. They gather around in a circle in white, resin chairs, discussing sports, the daily goings on in the news, or updates on their kids and grandkids. (That’s at least what I imagine; they could be talking about nuclear physics or the Kardashians, what do I know?) These gentlemen seem to be the epitome of “community”—you know, the kind of community that Andy and Aunt Bea and Opie had on their front porch on a lazy Sunday afternoon: a breeze blowing and Andy strumming on his guitar and softly humming a gospel tune as they discuss who wore what to church that morning or who was going steady with whom. The occasional passersby waves “hey” as he strolls past on the sidewalk, in no hurry to get anywhere. That’s what I’m reminded of each time I pass this house on Westwood.
Growing up in the 60’s and 70’s, that’s what we did. That’s all there was to do. Pre-Internet, cable TV, or video games, we played outside until the street lights came on or our moms called us in to eat. After dinner, we would sit outside on the porch with our parents—sometimes our grandparents, aunts, uncles, or cousins stopping over to join us—and we sat, talked, and laughed while the grownups drank a beer and smoked their after-dinner cigarettes. Sometimes we kids would lie in the grass and look up at the sky if it was still light out and take turns yelling out what each cloud resembled in our own childlike interpretations. If it was a dark, clear night, we’d count the stars to see who could reach the highest number. Those were the days. Slow. Simple.
Fast forward to 2019–no time to sit outside and shoot the breeze, rushing home from work to get to a meeting, to a soccer/baseball/basketball/dance/football/gymnastics practice or game, to our second job, to [insert your own activity here]. Life these days is a stress-filled sprint to make it to the finish line of each Friday afternoon—at least mine certainly is. Of course, that doesn’t mean that after the work week is over that rest will come. Oh, no, friend. The weekends are an amalgamation of catching up with the laundry and house cleaning and grocery shopping that were neglected Monday through Friday as we rushed to and fro to make all of the weekday stuff happen. We have become a society of worn and weary souls who do not take time to really rest—a society who no longer gathers in our own yards to just be.
These guys on Westwood have perfected the art of being. I had the privilege of meeting Jerry and his wife Bridget, who have lived there since 2006 after moving here from Savannah, GA, and they are as friendly and approachable as I had imagined them to be all these years. Jerry’s brother, Charles, lives within walking distance with their elderly mother whom they care for. They spoke proudly of their young grandchild who often toddles around under the tree while they sit and watch.
“We love this area,” Jerry told me. “It’s close to our friends and my mother’s house and to the hospital.”
We chatted about our kids and grandkids, sports our families play or have played in the past, and just generally shot the breeze for a while. It was a lovely visit. It is clear that this close-knit family makes it a priority to sit out here and spend time with each other. Almost on cue, a car drove by, honked, and waved, and the brothers waved back. Obviously I am not the only one who appreciates this sight as I drive down Westwood and see this family gather and represent the lost art of simplicity and community.
I challenge you with this: turn off the TV, abandon the housework for a bit, put your phone face-down on the kitchen table, and go sit outside and wave at the people who pass by. Get to know your neighbors and your community. Let’s bring back a little bit of Mayberry.
Born in Youngstown, Ohio, Chris Rowland moved to Jackson in her teen years, has lived and raised four children here, and now works for Union University in the College of Arts & Sciences. She lives in the LANA area and is excited to watch the progress and improvements in Jackson, especially the downtown area.
Header image by Chris Rowland.
In the vibrant tapestry of the Jackson community, few threads shine as brightly as the one woven by Wendy Trice Martin. As a stalwart advocate for equal justice and cultural awareness, Wendy has dedicated her life to fostering unity and empowerment in the Jackson community. She has been a master storyteller, a devoted educator, a community convenor, and a mother to so many. And through her tireless work, she has helped our community witness significant changes, while inspiring countless others.
Jackson is home to some of the best mural artists in West Tennessee! In the past few years, the Mayor’s Public Art Initiative, and through efforts of many others like Our Jackson Home’s Artist in Residence program, there has been an explosion of new art popping up in and around Jackson. Whether you are joining us on this virtual tour, or going on adventure of your own, we hope you find time to explore our hometown in a new light by supporting these amazing artists. If you go on your own art-fueled adventure, we would love to see your photos! Use the hashtag #OJHmuraltour on Instagram to support local artists.
Anyone who knows Winfred Keith Davis knows there’s something to be discovered at every turn. To some, he is a yoga teacher, leading meditations and creating space to heal body and mind. To others he is a mentor, reading with a student at a local elementary school, or a voice in the community choir, or an actor on the stage at the Ned.Standing in his garden, this kind of fullness of life is on clear display. It’s a teeming work in progress. There are trays of plants waiting to be planted in the earth, and a wheelbarrow full of mirrors that will be placed to reflect more light in the garden.
It’s not every day that you see a horse and jockey standing at the entrance to a fine arts center. In fact, living in Tennessee, you wouldn’t normally see a horse and jockey anywhere. Horse racing used to be popular in Tennessee, with the first horse race held in Gallatin in 1804. However, the anti-betting law of 1906 put an end to traditional horse racing in the state. Still, breeding and riding horses remained popular. There is steeplechasing in Nashville, where horses and jockeys leap over obstacles on a turf course.
There are plenty of conversations about what art is and isn’t, who it is and isn’t for. I’m interested in this conversation, but I can’t answer that question, unless I answer it for myself. This September, I painted a mural that is now one of the first things to greet you when you arrive in downtown Jackson. Nestled just past Grubb’s Grocery and the Jackson Walk on North Highland, it’s a bright and idyllic scene, and I’m not oblivious to the fact that it’s an even more idealistic message: Love your neighborhood.
What bizarre days we’re living in right now, friends. Never in remembered history – my 91-year-old grandmother couldn’t even recall a time such as this – have we been asked to hunker down at home for the health and safety of ourselves and our community. There is a lot of uncertainty and stress revolving around this situation, but I’m typically one to look for the silver lining. One thing that has really struck me about this crazy and unexpected time is how it has forced innovation and fostered creativity in people. From business owners to parents, folks are discovering new ways to connect, to promote, to teach and learn, to shop, and much more. Nothing really looks the same in our daily activities, but life must go on. It’s pretty amazing how adaptable we can be when we have to.
The Great Stay In of 2020 has begun and I have so many mixed up feelings. It feels good to be doing my civic duty by observing social distancing. It’s small but it’s something, you know? I’m glad to be home with my family, making soup and playing games. Sometimes I can almost forget this isn’t just a normal spring break but something different altogether. The pause in the busy routine of daily life has been oddly welcome around here so far but I can hardly enjoy it for longer than a few minutes at a time.
At the fringes of Natchez Trace State Park, passersby wouldn’t have an inkling of thought to wonder what is being built just down the dirt drive leading into the woods. It’s completely unassuming, and for at least three bumps in the road, I’m not not sure if I’ve arrived in the right place—until a bouncy Rhodesian Ridgeback pup comes galloping up the road, barking to signal my approach. Ranger gives a couple sniffs to the air and a cautionary bark to make sure I’m not an intruder, then happily licks me head to toe.
It was late, and the ferry felt cool in the summer’s evening breeze. We were only a week into my summer in Istanbul, but in our short time learning basic Turkish, navigating public transit, and hopping between Asia and Europe the way I do now between Highland and the Bypass, we felt like naturals. The warm glow of the nearest café’s neon sign welcomed us to the European shore where the five of us girls were staying for the week, and we didn’t need much convincing to stop in for a late-night dinner of pasta and whatever scrumptious-looking mystery pastry the shelf held.
You can find them at the corner of Westwood and Summar, really anytime of day—the group of men of various ages, sometimes a few women or children mixed in. They gather around in a circle in white, resin chairs, discussing sports, the daily goings on in the news, or updates on their kids and grandkids. (That’s at least what I imagine; they could be talking about nuclear physics or the Kardashians, what do I know?) These gentlemen seem to be the epitome of “community.”
There’s a piece of land on the north side of Jackson that looks pretty much any other open lot. It sits at the edge of town just beyond an abandoned golf course and right behind VFW Post 1848. You could walk on that open lot and never have any idea that underneath your feet lay broken pool tiles, aqua blue concrete steps, maybe a piece of an old diving board—remnants of bright summer days, now covered in dirt and twelve feet below the surface.
This September will mark four years of my career at Chandelier Restaurant here in Jackson, and I’ve enjoyed every minute, from my first years as a server to my recent promotion to fine dining assistant manager. Chef Jennifer Dickerson opened this fine dining spot in 2015, and I know the entire community would agree that it has raised the bar for our city’s cuisine.
Wow—what an incredible second year of our 731Day Porchfest! Check out this highlight reel by Jameson Winter, featuring LOLO's revised version of "Wasted in Jackson," written just for this event.
At the end of every school year, I have my students create a portfolio of different types of original poetry. I’d like to think I do it in order to foster their creativity, but it’s really because I’m too lazy to grade eighty-four final exams. Either way, it’s a win/win for all of us: they get to write sonnets and pretend that they’re actually writing their first rap hit, and I get to sit back and not grade bubbled-in answer documents. One poem they always struggle with is an elegy.
Two or three times a week, I put my body through the ringer. For thirty minutes, I do exercises that a man approaching forty probably shouldn’t attempt. I throw my body to the ground and spring up as quickly as I can. I push a weighted plate across the floor. I crawl like a bear up and down mats made of rubber. After all that is finished, I put on boxing gloves and hit a heavy bag that sometimes feels as if it’s made of concrete. When I kick it, my foot and shin turn red and bruise. My shoulders and arms feel as if they’re weighted by stones.
Even though I’ve lived in Jackson for almost twenty years, I still feel like a newcomer in a lot of ways, so it surprises me when somebody I think has lived here for quite a while tells me they didn’t know that Jackson has a third post office. It makes sense, when I think about.
I had a college professor tell me once, “Remember, you are changing your generation and the generations of the people around you.” Those words are so true and are still relevant in my life today. In fact, that professor was living proof of that statement by changing my life with mentoring, advising, and pushing me to be better. It was not just that one professor, of course. There were (and still are) many people who continually wanted to invest in me as I grew up here. My father and mother met at Lambuth University, but my dad was not in school there.
Martin, Tennessee, is a town with a population of around 11,475. It’s known for its annual Tennessee Soybean Festival and for the University of Tennessee at Martin. If you drive down University Street, you’ll go right through the university, pass by Sammie’s (an aptly-named sandwich shop), and mosey by several boutiques and small shops. It’s a small, charming place. Locals support the UTM Skyhawks and the Westview High School Chargers and eat at The Grind.
I’m sitting by myself, the steady thrum of others’ voices around me, and I’m looking at a white sign with neat black lettering: “WHERE HOT COFFEE AND WARM CONVERSATION FLOW.”I’ve got the hot coffee part—it’s steaming pleasantly in a glossy brown mug—and I can hear the groups talking around me. There are some college students in the corner of the room. (I can tell they’re in school because of their tired eyes trained on the laptops perched in front of them, even as they continue to hold conversation with each other.)
“Where are you from?” The dreaded question. Whenever someone asks me this, I laugh and try to assess whether the person asking wants the long answer or the short one. Even the long version has been condensed for convenience over the years. This question has had different answers at different points in my life. When I was ten, I was from Northern Kentucky. When I was eleven and my family had moved to South Africa as missionaries, I was from America.
Google gets over 3.5 billion searches a day, processing over 40,000 searches each second. The most common Google searches in 2017 included weather, celebrities, the new iPhone, sporting events, and—making the top ten—fidget spinners. Many of us use Google daily to check how late a restaurant is open, to figure out the name of the actor on the tip of our tongue, to shop, to find directions or recipes, and to scare ourselves by reading way too deeply into the symptoms of a common cold.
Three. It’s a magic number. It’s the Holy Trinity, symbolic of perfection and completion. There were three essential entities in Greek Mythology ruling the sky, the sea, and the underworld. “Third time’s the charm.” Throughout history, the number three has been revered in nearly every culture, even right here in Jackson. We have three governing bodies that have affected and will continue to affect our education system for years: the city council, the county commission, and the school board.
Eight days late and after thirty-six hours of labor from my hard-working mother, I was born at the Jackson-Madison County General Hospital on a hot April day in 1976. Forty-two years later, I am an attending physician in that very same department. It’s very unusual for a physician to practice in their hometown, but I am thankful that my journey has brought me back to where I started. My earliest memory of life in Jackson is from First Presbyterian Playschool.
As I entered into Suite G of 581 Old Hickory Boulevard, I immediately found myself surrounded by waves of smoke, the aromatic scents of assorted cigars, and comic laughter from customers known as “regulars.” Sitting amongst the crowd was new owner Dale Brown. Though he may be a new entrepreneur, Brown is not new to Ye Ole Pipe Shoppe & Cigar Lounge. When he moved to Jackson nearly thirty years ago, he also became a customer to the store.
While perusing the West Tennessee Farmers’ Market, it would be hard to pass by the mountain of deep green vegetables and neon radishes of Rose Creek Farms, owned by Ray and Ashley Tyler. Their farm is nestled in a valley in Selmer, Tennessee, with a little over one acre of active farming land. With the help of high tunnels and row covers, they’re able to extend the typical season barriers to grow deliciously tender greens and veggies all year round.