Why do we create monuments to the past? What is it about physical reminders—be they statues or plaques—that move us? Why do we feel the need to travel to the places of great historical events and walk the same ground? I am struck by the words of Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, the hero of Little Round Top at the Battle of Gettysburg: “In great deeds, something abides. On great fields, something stays.”

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.

Hailing from the small town of Pinson, the city of Jackson was considered our metropolis. The vibrant downtown community was a far cry from the simple and wholesome country life of farmwork, church, school, and more farmwork. The coveted opportunity to go to “town” was a big deal. The long journey of a mere eleven miles up Highway 45 from Pinson was overshadowed by the thoughts of bright lights, department stores, food choices, and other amenities that were unavailable in Pinson.

If we could create a community that lets people thrive, prosper, and grow with safe streets, better schools, and improved infrastructure, along with economic growth, prosperity, and a better quality of life for decades to come, would you want to be a part of that vision for our community? For me, the answer to this question began fifty-four years ago just thirty miles up the road in the small rural town of Dyer, Tennessee. As a young boy, nothing excited me more than Saturday night when my family would load up in our white Ford Galaxie 500 and drive south to the big city of Jackson.

My parents were Olean and Carl Mayo. They ran a small grocery store on D Street in Bemis for thirty-five years, working long hours, six-and-a-half days a week, with no vacations because they had a dream of sending all five of their children to college. In our small house, the seven of us learned to share one bathroom, two bedrooms, and chores both at home and at the store. Our parents’ business was not only our livelihood but the key to our future, so we did our part to make it successful.

Like so many of my generation, my family grew up struggling a bit. I was born at 844 East College Street, near the old A&P store, just down from the Aeneas Center. My dad was in the service and retired as Lieutenant Colonel in the United States Air Force. Back then, the people of Jackson took care of each other, cared for those who couldn’t care for themselves, and helped families stay together and self-reliant. There were government programs to help, but we relied more on ourselves and our neighbors. I believe we were better off for it.

My childhood was probably different from most. Some of my earliest memories are from campaign events and press conferences, crawling around on the floor of the old city hall. Six generations ago, my family settled in Jackson, Tennessee. Since then, the Conger family has been a part of moving Jackson forward. My great-great-great-grandfather, PDW Conger, was mayor in 1861 to 1871. He was also part of the citizens’ committee that searched for the suspects in the Union Bank robbery and murder in 1859.

In the last fifty-two years, the city of Jackson has had a total of three mayors. Robert Conger was mayor from 1967 to 1989. Charles Farmer succeeded him and served until 2007. That same year, Jerry Gist transitioned from county mayor to city mayor and will step down later this summer when Jackson elects a new mayor. There are a few possible reasons that only three men have held the most important position in the city over the course of half a century.

"I hope she knows you only like the beginnings of things." I remember hearing this line when watching Mad Men one day, and while it was referring to the breakup of two characters on the show, I couldn’t help but think how much it speaks to a greater human characteristic. Do we not all love the start of something new? Isn’t an infatuation with the promise of beginnings a universal condition?

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.

“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.

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.

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.

My daughter is in the fifth grade. She’s just beginning that transition from child to full-blown adolescent. And with that transition inevitably comes the time when I’m not fun enough to hang out with on a Friday night. I’m experiencing that right now. Sure, it wounds the pride a little, but I knew it was coming, so we’re dealing with it. By “dealing with it,” I mean that we’re inviting her friends to do stuff with us on the weekends now instead of putting a puzzle together or playing Mario Kart or watching Andi Mack.

My dad had a Jeep when I was very young. Riding in it was one of my earliest memories. I don’t remember the model or the color (it could have been brown) or if there was a lift on it. I only remember that it didn’t have a top and that the wind would blow in my face as he drove. The sky was over my head, the clouds directly above me. I knew that I liked the feeling of having nothing blocking my senses. Light poured in. The breeze slapped us silly. We could see everything above and around us.

2002 was the year that changed my life. I had just moved to “the big city” of Jackson from the incredibly small town of Trezevant, Tennessee. My new journey started at Union University as a Christian Studies major, and quickly I realized I had turned religion into a textbook, not an action. It took a while to recover from the shock of not knowing what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, as this was my plan for quite some time—going into ministry. I continued pressing on with my major until 201 Ash Street happened.

Never ever in a million years would I have guessed that I would be a small business owner living in Jackson, Tennessee. I am one of the most shy people you will ever meet. That ambitious entrepreneur spirit is in me, but growing up, it wasn’t readily apparent, even to me. My husband, on the other hand, always knew he would work for himself and probably stay here in Jackson. Both of our grandparents owned their own businesses, and their examples shaped our lives. When I think of Jackson, I think of my family.

I am not one who marches for a cause. I don’t exactly enjoy situations in which I have to follow someone else’s lead. I am not an activist. In fact, I think some activists can be detrimental to the cause for which they are advocating. At some point, it all becomes white noise, or worse, it becomes flammable to the ears of everyone else. At its best, activism can enact societal change for the better over a long period of time; at its worst, it can become divisive to the point of an irreparable dislocation.

“Community is not something you have, like pizza,” wrote social critic James Howard Kunstler in The Geography of Nowhere. “Nor is it something you can buy. It’s a living organism based on a web of interdependencies—which is to say a local economy.” Americans, perhaps above all others, have bought into the lie in the last couple of generations that each person is an island, shaping her or his own destiny with nothing but a morning shot of caffeine and a solid WiFi connection.

I grew up in Franklin, Tennessee, thirty minutes south of Nashville, where recycling is a part of the landscape. Most people there are careful to sort out their blue bags however they need to in order to make environmental sustainability a reality for their community. When I moved to Jackson in 2015, though, it seemed no one could give me information on where and how I could recycle, something that I imagine comes as a shock to many who move to the area. You can’t buy blue bins at Lowe’s, and even Home Depot’s selection is extremely small. There isn’t even public curbside pickup available in the city, and I haven’t seen any recycling dumpsters throughout the community. 

If you had asked me about my future in the fall of 1994, I would have told you that I was planning on moving back home to Paducah, Kentucky, as soon as I finished college. I was supposed to live on Jefferson Street, right next door to my life-long BFF, Laura. She was going to live in her grandmother’s house, and I would buy the house next door. Twenty-four years later, she still reminds me of that broken promise. I had roots there in Paducah. They were strong and firmly planted. My daddy grew up there, too

The dark-haired kid in the back row raised his hand yet again. It was the third question that he had asked and the fifth one total that I had fielded from the sleepy-eyed, bored teenagers scattered throughout the small auditorium of my old high school. I scanned the sparse crowd looking for someone else, anyone else who might lob me a softball: “Who’s your favorite writer? “What’s your favorite book?” “Are you married?” Having no luck, I pointed at him, and he haughtily threw another query in my direction.

If you told the twenty-year-old me that I would eventually live in Jackson, Tennessee, he would have died laughing. I wasn't even sure I would be living in Tennessee period. Twenty-year-old me was an M1-A1 Abrahms Tank System Specialist (tank mechanic, y'all, I was a tank mechanic) that had dreams of completing a twenty-year career and retiring. And then after my retirement, I would launch some sort of startup with the security of a nice, fat check to fall back on if things didn't work out. Twenty-year-old me was married to the first of two ex-wives and had no kids.

It’s mid-afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day, and West Alley BBQ is a beehive. Residual customers grab a late lunch, employees make preparations in anticipation of a busy evening, and I sit to one side, shuffling through my bag to find a notepad. I am late for the interview, but I had told her I would be. When I walked in, the fellow said she was waiting for me, which I tried not to feel bad about, knowing neither he nor she was upset.

A 1994 Jackson Central-Merry graduate and basketball standout, Dion Thornton attended Union University on scholarship. She helped the Bulldogs reach the NAIA finals in 1996 and 1997 and was named to the TransSouth All-Conference team twice. She transferred to Kennesaw State in Georgia and was named the top woman’s basketball player in Georgia. After college, she played semi-professional women’s basketball and had two offers to play overseas in professional leagues.

In Norway it gets dark early. As we left for the arena around 4:00 P.M., the hazy glow of the daytime winter sky in Oslo had faded. I was on the bus headed to a concert honoring one of our own. Daniel was a member of our little band of misfits living in Geneva, Switzerland, who worked in and around the United Nations on issues ranging from poverty, hunger, and demining to human rights, health, and humanitarian relief. By all measurements, Daniel had “made it.”

"How many miles away is Sonic?" I stared, dumbfounded, as they told me the nearest Sonic was ten miles out of town. Kevin patted my leg reassuringly. "Well, you'll learn to enjoy the drive." We were newlyweds and newly graduated, interviewing for a Residence Life Director position for Kevin in Middle-of-Nowhere-Close-to-Sonic, Kentucky. They chose another candidate, and our lives forever shifted, allowing us to keep the roots we had been cultivating in Jackson during our stay here as college students.

I came to Jackson sight-unseen in 2011 when I arrived for new student orientation at Union University. Removed from the South since 1999, I had developed a proper Midwestern wall around myself. People like to talk about Midwestern friendliness, but let me tell you, there is none of this "chat with strangers in the grocery store line" or "call everyone ‘hon’" there. As in architecture, walls may be breached with effort, but it's usually easier just to leave them alone.

I watched a film a few months ago that has more or less floated along the periphery of my thoughts ever since. It was titled A Ghost Story and was about the passage of time and the way humans seem to find a way to tear down and rebuild everything over and over again. More than that, however, it’s about one man’s attachment to a physical place. Throughout different scenes in the movie, a young couple is seen discussing the possibility of moving from the house where they live. The house is inauspicious.