Back to Jackson

The Jackson Motif

This morning, on my way to Brunswick Forest for my daily constitutional, I detoured to Port City Java for a cup of the needful. Pulling into the drive-thru, I turned the volume down on the satellite radio just as Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood began singing Jackson.

You know the song. We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout. A song so committed to its own momentum that it makes you want to do something reckless before the song ends.

I turned the volume down to place my order. When I turned it up again, the song had finished, and the disc jockey was already talking, but not about the song per se; he was talking about Jackson, Tennessee, where the temperature was currently seventy-five degrees, and the home of his good friend Wink Martindale.

From the first time I heard that song, without evidence or argument, I had simply decided: Jackson, Mississippi. I don't know why. I'm not sure what that says about me as a Tennessean, but I suspect it isn't flattering.

I filed this small mystery in the back pocket of my mind and continued my cruise into the pine groves of Brunswick Forest. Once there, strolling underneath the pine bows, I opened the app on my phone and backed the stream to the part where the song was playing, and waited for the disc jockey to talk about Jackson again.

I listened closely this time. Plash, the morning host of 60's Gold on SiriusXM, and a man I trust in these matters, confirmed what I'd heard the first time. It was Jackson, Tennessee.

I was still turning this over when I noticed something dark and wet near the bank of the lake. Large turtle, I thought. Or possibly something that wanted me to think it was a large turtle.

You may remember my interest in cryptids, but if not, search this blog for "Creature of Lake Jordan," though I'd advise against reading it at bedtime. The dark shape resolved itself, upon closer inspection, into a gathering of turtles. A bale of turtles, if you want the proper collective noun, which I always insist on.

I didn't disturb them, of course. Certainly not. I don't appreciate having my own basking interrupted, and I believe in Do Unto Others regardless of species. I attempted a photograph from a respectful distance and fat-fingered the shutter button, not for the first time, and certainly not for the last. The unintended result was that my SiriusXM app lurched sideways onto a station I'd never listened to before.

The song that was playing, in its final measures, was Jackson. When it ended, the guest host explained, with the casual authority of someone stating the obvious, that Jackson, Tennessee, was a great place, and hotter than a pepper sprout.

The guest host was Nancy Sinatra.

I stood there at the edge of the lake for a moment, listening to the water and thinking about the particular texture of mornings when the universe appears to be tapping me on the shoulder and telling me in a tone far too smug for a woman of advanced years, You ain't seen nothing yet.

On my way home, I stopped at a favorite thrift store, the kind of place that rewards a loose agenda and an open mind. I wasn't looking for anything specific, which is, in my experience, the correct way to find exactly what I'm looking for.

I was browsing the hard goods aisle when a small figurine caught my attention. A woodpecker in overalls, hammer in hand, with a small piece of wood stuck on his bill. He seemed to be midway through a carpentry project of mysterious purpose. Whimsical. The plaque on the base said his name was Woodrow.

I thought: if ever there was a soul vessel, this woodpecker would be one. I'm not entirely certain what I meant by that. But I've learned to pay attention to the things that make me think it.

I bought Woodrow and gave him a good cleaning as soon as I arrived home. When I turned him over to check the bottom, out of habit, the way one does, the Universe drove home her message.

The piece was a limited edition, hand-painted tchotchke. Its name, according to the base, was Experiencing Technical Difficulties. He'll live on my desk for days when I need reminding that technical difficulties are, on balance, more interesting than smooth sailing.

Beneath the manufacturer's information was the original sales sticker from the store that first sold him.

Jackson Cards and Plants. Jackson, Tennessee.

I've been sitting with this all afternoon, and here is what I've concluded: either the universe has a sense of humor and a fondness for repetition, or it has something specific to say about Jackson, Tennessee, and is simply waiting for me to go there and find out what it is.

I haven't ruled out either possibility.

What I do know is that Woodrow is on my desk, beak-deep in his eternal carpentry project, and that somewhere in the Brunswick lagoons there is a creature that has so far eluded documentation. I've promised myself I'm going to find it.

If the universe keeps sending motifs, I intend to follow them.

Stay tuned for the Creature of the Brunswick Lagoons. And if you happen to know why Jackson, Tennessee is so popular, I'm listening.