Albert Jackson

Born in Germany in 1962, I was one among three siblings, steadfastly raised by a resilient single mother. Our world transformed when we relocated to Georgia when I was just eleven. The unhurried rhythm of the south was a soothing contrast.

Amid the warmth of Southern hospitality, I grappled with the distinct twang in which the residents spoke. Schooled in British English, adapting to the southern dialect was a challenge but something I was certain I could master. With barely enough time to adjust to this new world, four years later, our journey took us to a picturesque town in Mississippi. It was in this humble place that I received an education unparalleled by any elite academy.

As a child who preferred introspection over interaction, I naturally leaned towards the conversations of adults, finding their depth more compelling than the transient concerns of my peers. At fourteen, life introduced me to Edd, our neighbor. With him, I ventured into the world of hands-on wisdom. From understanding the intricacies of car mechanics to the hard work of farming and tending to livestock, Edd became more than a mentor. He taught me the value of taking pride in any task life presented to me. He was the familial touchstone I hadn't known I needed; a bond fortified during challenging times.

What fueled my love for writing was the early evenings I spent quietly listening to homespun stories which flowed around me. In the cool evening hours, elderly women would tell beautiful stories their grandmother’s shared with them. They would recount generations of relatives speaking fondly of those who settled on the land they now cared for. This they all did while never looking down as they shell butter beans which were harvested earlier. Front porches transform into old weathered wooden stages where grandpas exchange fishing stories and epic tales of bygone days as they whittle toys for their grandchildren. Smoke from their corncob pipes circle their gray bearded faces and I watch as one wipes away a tear when speaking of the wife he lost only a year prior.

The simple pleasures of this slow paced and measured way of life, is often taken for granted. The sights of horses roaming in a nearby pasture, and children laughing while jumping into piles of gold and amber leaves, these images no artist can truly capture on canvas. Neither poetry nor song can truly capture the harmonious sounds of distant crickets, the deep croak of bullfrogs, and the beautiful song of the whippoorwill which combined create a concert for which no man can purchase a ticket. This was my personal paradise, imparting lessons pure and profound.

I am deeply grateful for growing up in an environment steeped in genuine warmth and strong core values. These experiences shaped the core of my being.

The pull of these memories fuels my narrative aspirations. If, by the end of my story, readers feel they have walked alongside me, relishing the tapestry of my past, then I know I know I have done my job as a storyteller.