I've never had much money, but I'll give you all I am

Iowa Farm (1860)

2015

When looking for employment in Joplin, the thing we needed most was flexibility to play shows. A couple of our band members took jobs at a chain home improvement store. The primary reason being that the overnight shift left Friday and Saturday nights off. The pay was just above poverty and our coworkers were entertaining. Most of our hours were without customers, which is probably the only reason I was able to stay at that job for the seven years I did. I enjoyed the quiet solitude of the mostly empty store. At most, we had eight folks working in the entire building overnight. One could easily spend most of the night without seeing anyone else. 

I had downloaded a dozen gigabytes of college level lectures I’d found online. Every evening while bringing order to the chaos of freight from the truck, I fell into a million other worlds. From Voltaire to the Cold War. From Alexis de Tocqueville to Francis of Assisi. Long hours of stocking just meant more learning. Somewhere in a hardware aisle of that store was probably the first time I had the inkling of an idea to become a history professor. Organizing industrial cleaners twelve feet in the air, listening to the fall of the Holy Roman Empire, and daydreaming of getting paid to think and create. 

My shift was usually over around six a.m. I’d sleep for a few hours and then watch movies or play music in my room. My first punk band was on hiatus and I was in the process of joining my second, so I had more free time than I knew what to do with. I decided to get a second job and applied for factory work. I was under the impression that I had received temporary work as a forklift operator for one of the food manufacturers in Joplin. Work, yes. But sitting on a forklift for my second full-time job wasn’t in the cards. I stacked pallets and pallets of chicken broth. It was around this time of year, and the build up for holiday products had begun. The building was full of nothing but broth, and I feel like the warehouse was 300 yards long and at least 100 wide. Every pallet had at least one individual container of broth that had a seal go bad. Somewhere in the pallet. As we restacked the cartons for distribution, we culled those offensive to the nostrils. Every fall I can recall the months I spent in that warehouse and the smell of rank chicken juice. I got a lot of guitar gear and tattoos during that time but very little sleep. 

Years later, I found myself nearing the end of my bachelor’s degree. The lectures were real, and I was plowing fields with oxen. My last three credits as an undergrad came from a living history internship. We demonstrated farming techniques in Iowa through the decades. There was a smoke house and a cellar, both containing farm products we raised through the seasons. We grew wheat, corn, and pumpkins and demonstrated the planting and harvesting methods of the time. Beau and Luke were our plow team, and a fickle one at that. They hammed it up for visitors and frequently ignored our “gee” and “haw” (left and right) to try and plow their own row patterns. 

School groups and families alike visited the farms. There were occasionally visitors that clearly were not enjoying the farm education experience. It was usually hot, and by the time a visitor had reached our farm they were nearing the end of their day. Often it was a father who had been making sure his kids didn’t fall into the pig sty or that they didn’t try to ride one of the Percherons off into the sunset. The smokehouse was usually the best way to bring history alive for those folks. They often enjoyed chatting about similarities in our methods and their own backyard BBQ.

Folk singing is by far my favorite job. More than any monetary compensation that I’ve received in the past, I’m grateful for the learning experiences. Traveling around the midwest selling roofs helped me better understand the micro cultures from one Nebraska county to another, but I didn’t know that was happening. I wasn’t aware when I was painting houses full time that it was preparing me to have well-organized spreadsheets for booking. The prep work isn’t glamorous, but it keeps the show running. 

My boss is still a jerk and the pay still ain’t great, but the people I’ve met and the experiences I’ve had make it all worth it.

Brown recluses and police dogs

For a short period of time, my dad and I lived across the state line in northwest Arkansas. We dubbed it the “Brown Recluse House.” Very little creativity went into the name, it just had a crap ton of brown recluses. We sat at the top of a proudly tall Ozarks incline on a slab concrete floor. The windows in my room fit loosely in their frames. Sitting atop the Ozarks during a thunderstorm will move your soul. It also rattled the ill-fitting windows and scared the hell out of me with every clap of thunder.

The gentleman who lived behind us trained police dogs. He was adamant that they were harmless. That was probably true, but the man was missing an arm. My fifteen year old brain wasn’t willing to believe his work and his arm situation were mutually exclusive. I never ventured that side of the house. The two mile dirt driveway and the deep ravines draping down the sides of it offered plenty of distractions from the spiders and dogs.

We often stopped at a rural gas station on the way home. They had a movie rental section. Truth be told, there were more options of barbeque sauce for the chicken in the fryers, but it was something. I don’t know how many times my poor father had to watch The Hobbit, but I certainly owe him for it. Rush Hour 2 and one of the Spiderman movies showed up frequently as well. We would occasionally drive down to Bella Vista and watch a new movie in the theater. 

Neither one of us enjoyed being in that house. There’s an onion worth of layers to why we didn’t enjoy it. It was a lonely place. Life was tumultuous. I think we were both looking for something to hold still long enough to grab on to. 

I became grateful for something that I also hated. Dad and I were able to figure a lot of things out together. We rode bikes around Pea Ridge National Battlefield weekly. We talked a lot. That house gave us the freedom to process and understand the hell that each had also been living in. We didn’t walk through the flames alone. 

We didn’t live in Arkansas too long. We settled into a rental house in Cassville within a few months. The Cassville rental will remain one of my favorite homes I’ve lived in, one of my favorite Christmas mornings, and where I learned a lot of what would develop who I am today. I also got my first electric guitar there. 

It’s my dads’ fault for the rock and roll, is what I’m really saying.

There will be enough seats at the table we build

Shell Knob Elementary

1993

There are a unique group of children who walk through the halls of schools every year. They look almost identical to other students. They are invited to the same events as their classmates. But, these kids experience their education in ways that others will never know. We call these folks: teachers’ kids. Hello, I’m Jake. I was a teacher’s kid.  

There were aspects of being the child of a teacher that put pressure on school for me. The school district my dad taught in was tiny. I think we had seventeen kids graduate from 8th grade to high school. If a grade started to slip, my teacher would simply walk down the hall and give my dad a heads-up. I didn't have a damn chance. 

I realized that when I got caught the punishment would be twofold. Once I had served my detention(s) at school, there were at least extra chores for me at home, if not a grounding. My options were clearly:

A. Get my act together and behave

B. Don’t get caught

That double jeopardy business had to go.

We didn’t live in the school district where my dad taught. Some of my closest friends growing up were the kids of other staff members. There weren’t any kids around home, that was just me and the creek. Looking back, I’m pretty thankful for my alone time. Memories from that school are ingrained in my memory. My first smell of popcorn probably came from the old gym in Shell Knob, Missouri. I can recently remember not enjoying my first sampling of relish on a hot dog. Dad was also the basketball coach, so I’m kind of a concession stand connoisseur. 

The gym became the lunchroom and the smells changed from pickles and over-carbonated sodas to rectangular pizza and the occasional spoiled milk carton at the bottom of the cooler. Breakfast and lunch always came from the cafeteria. An afternoon snack from the vending machine or the gas station on the way home was always inevitable. During tournament weeks, I feasted like a king in the hospitality room. The basketball tournaments had been sponsored by Pizza Hut for years. Somewhere along the way Subway got in on the charitable contributions, and we had a smorgasbord on our hands. 

The Ray family were a big part of Shell Knob school, for me. Lanetta was in charge of the lunchroom starting early in the morning before students arrived for breakfast. Her three boys and I played after school nearly every day. I watched in horror after school as their middle son busted his head open on the playground. On game nights, their family would be the last to leave the building for they had the task of cleaning after each evening's events in the gym. Their Ozark farm house was filled with every book in the Star Wars canon, NES games, and the best kinds of love. 

Mornings always came early, because Lanetta was in the school building by 6:00 am each day. Her three boys and I had a full run of the school for just a little while during those mornings. I stayed with the Rays a few nights during tournament weeks. Lanetta was always delighted to have me over and treated me just like one of her own, without the chores that usually came with living on their farm. It’s the first time I recall sleeping in a bunk bed, a dream finally come true. She gave “goodnights” all around and kissed all the kids, including me.

That struck me oddly in the moment. That was when I realized that since being adopted, mom hadn’t told me goodnight but a few times. It took a lot more years to really start to understand that my mom wasn’t like everyone else’s mom. She later revealed that she didn’t have much interest in me, since she already had her kids.

Lanetta Ray passed away this year. She served people her whole life, at school and at her home. I can still hear her laugh in my memory, regardless of which thankless job she was putting all her efforts into. She will always be a reminder for me to be good to folks, because you never know who needs it.

---

WE STRIVE FOR GREATNESS WHILE WE STRUGGLE TO PUT FOOD ON THE TABLE.

I STOLE HIS NAME

“My teeth are rusty railroad spikes…”

I spent the first years of my life in and out of foster homes and hospitals to then be adopted into the Turner family. Grandma raised six children of her own, and when I came along she treated me like a seventh. Grandpa rarely smiled or laughed, but when he did, he meant it. Grandma went to church and Grandpa chewed plug tobacco. In many ways their personalities made little sense together, but in the most beautiful way. Grandma doted on me and Grandpa was stern, but so unbelievably proud that my father named me after him.

As a young man Grandpa Jake was a sweet potato farmer in Portales, New Mexico, with his family heritage based in Georgia. At age sixteen, Grandma ran away from Missouri with her sister. I’m not sure of the reasoning but they ended up in New Mexico. Grandma was a waitress at a diner, and in all of New Mexico it was the diner Grandpa daily ate lunch at. After their wedding and a few more years growing sweet spuds, they moved back to Grandmas roots in Missouri just a few miles north of the Arkansas line.

Grandma and Grandpa were uprooted when the White River became Table Rock Lake. They sold what little of the farm remained above water and moved into Barry County. There they raised a family, grew a garden, and tended cattle. Grandpa was a serious man who worked hard, rarely took time off, looked out for those who couldn’t look out for themselves, and was proud of his work.

Often I get told I don’t smile much, which is probably true. I hope a perpetual scowl isn’t the only way I am like Hubert Memory “Jake” Turner.

- Little Jake

YOU GET A LINE, AND I'LL GET A POLE, HONEY

“Walk down them dusty, winding roads, I’m going to lay my head in Hungry Hollow.”

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Maybe it’s being in my thirties or maybe it’s just stage of life, but I’ve been dwelling on who I am and where I came from. So much of me was transformed on Ozarks dirt, running around hills and trees. I spent hours on the weekends and weeks during the summer by myself on those beautiful acres. Dad started taking me fishing soon after he adopted me. I am surprised we didn’t go on day one.

I’ve been blessed (and cursed) with a very vivid memory. To this day, smells, temperatures, or sounds transport me to childhood. Sometimes it is crisp air in my lungs early in the morning. Other times I can smell the dense red clay or wild strawberries growing along the creek. Lately, there have been a lot of dots connected to those times and the lessons they were starting to teach me.

Fishing can be frustrating when you’re a kid with boundless energy. I will never forget the look dad gave me when I mindlessly started throwing rocks in the water.

“You’re scaring of the fish!” No, Dad. I’m recreating the battle at Wilson’s Creek, and those rocks are cannon balls.

As the years floated by my attention span for standing in a single place increased. I wanted to know the secret and mystery to catching fish. Mornings turned to evenings and I was still wading up and down Flat Creek on my hunt for the biggest Small Mouth Bass I could land. While I caught some wonderful fish, I hooked something greater: patience.

I’m still trying to reel that one in.

-Gone Fishin’