America was perspiring in the summer of 1994.
One of the hottest times ever to occur. In the White House, Bill Clinton was present. O. J. Simpson had only taken that notorious trip in a light Ford Bronco. In theaters,” Forrest Gump” was playing. And I had just married, had a degree in journalism, had a few television positions to my name, and no direction to take.
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I had previously worked for two different stations as a standard essay reporter. hunted automobile crashes, state board meetings, ribbon cuttings, ribbon cuttings, board meetings, and other types of accidents. News wasn’t going to pay the bills, but the ink on my press pass was still moist. hardly in a new home. no in the center of Wisconsin.
So I left the speakers and deadlines behind and entered one of the most physically terrible work I’ve always had: working a second change for a company that provided bricks and stones for stores in the Midwest.
No ellipses. No ventilation. Only hard labour, humidity, and heat.
Cleaned, Cuts, and Concrete
Our time began at 3 p.m. and ended around 4 a.m., when we were fortunate. The primary shift would place newly molded bricks into the kilns. By the time we entered those furnaces were piping hot, complete, and awaiting a full discharge.
It felt like the mark had to be broken in the first time we opened one. Air that was hot and humid blew out. A Floridian could readily weep inside if the temperature was 90 inside and it was 110 inside.
I was given a job at the palletizing place. The steaming, then dried bricks would slam down a conveyor belt. My task was to gather, load, and pack them in order for sale. The majority of them were bearable. Some didn’t, though.
The great boys, the vegetation bricks, cost about 150 pounds per piece. Before reaching me, they were supposed to be mechanically cut in half. Accents placed on” supposed to.” These large bricks would encumber the works when the machine broke down. The men needed to have access to make it right. That required me to relocate the villains.
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I would therefore pull each one. single. No forklifts. No assistance. Simply savage willpower and selfishness. I’d put them back on the belt, counting the minutes until crack, and sweating through my boots.
The Mixer Monster
I had one more process at the end of each change while some clocked up. With an air hammer and adequate reading shelter to mask a freight train and remove the hardened debris left behind, I had to walk into the concrete mixer.
It was the cherry on top of a 13-hour day that was loud, stuffy, and terrible. That task didn’t just put my body to the test. It was punished. I still have to pay the price for chest fusions, numerous make surgeries, and severe pain decades later.
My back is still in motion. My arms also do. And of course, my lower spine area, too.
However, something lovely somehow managed to sneak into that cement-and-strengthened, sweat-soaked hell.
Whether or Not I Liked It by Alan Jackson
One of the team members was senior and had a growth field. We all listened to the state music because he liked it.
I was a schmaybe metalhead at the time. Give me something quiet or obscene, Metallica, AC/DC, or something else. However, this wasn’t my home and wasn’t my television. One particular music,” West” by Alan Jackson, was constantly played.
I initially rolled my eyes. It lacked twang. It was Southwestern in nature. It discussed “learning a bit about living and a little bit about like” and river water. It was everything I had in mind.
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However, it remained unchanged between the fourth and thirtyth listen, not just the music but also the mood. Johnson’s simple dialect, clever guitar riff, and feeling of young rebellion served as a kind of musical score for my suffering.
Not because I became a diehard country fan ( which I am not ), but because” Chattahoochee” reminded me that there was still joy to be found, that life could still be simple, and that the grind didn’t have to make me break.
And sometimes it made me realize that I wasn’t the only one sailing downstream.
Alan Jackson, a country musician, announced his retirement from travelling at a music in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jackson stated to the audience,” We’re planning on doing a great song present in Nashville sometime in the summertime, but this is my next road show out here.” pic. Twitter.com/VaAaMDzg— Newsweek ( @Newsweek ) May 19, 2025
The Man Behind the Song
Alan Jackson wasn’t particularly attractive. He wasn’t required to be.
Jackson maintained his roots despite others pursuing crossover success or pursuing pop. He penned a song about small towns, hard work, faithfulness, and doing what you can to help your people. There was no pretense present. Just complete truth.
This week, Jackson made his final tour stop at 66 years old. The” Last Call: One More for the Road” tour ended in Milwaukee, where he addressed the audience and apologised to the fans.
It began 40 years ago in September. We pursued this dream while my wife and I traveled to Nashville in an old U-Haul trailer. It’s been a wild ride.
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He has been suffering from balance and mobility-related complications like Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease and a nerve disorder. He made the diagnosis in 2021, and he kept working. continued to give fans a voice in their own stories.
He is now leaving the stage.
A Private Goodbye
I didn’t think about music charts when I first heard the news. I wasn’t aware of his awards. The Grand Ole Opry escaped my attention.
That concrete mixer made me think.
I considered getting sweat all over, constantly opening my gloves, and possibly buckling my knees as a result. And” Chattahoochee” manages to cut through the chaos with its own twangy lifeline.
Funny how a song that you didn’t choose can now choose you.
That summer job was miserable, but it was enlightening. Since setting the record at age 26, it has served as the benchmark. I recall going back to that mixer at 4 a.m. with an air chisel in hand, ears ringing, and clothes covered in cement dust whenever I’ve come across myself grumbling about a job over the years, bad bosses, long hours, mind-numbing meetings.
And just like that, my complaints diminish.
Because perspective is important. Additionally, gratitude is expressed. And for me, both are forever connected.
The Big Picture
Artists never know where or how their pieces of art will be exhibited. Jackson probably wrote” Chattahoochee” to remember good times and beer-drinking friends. He had no idea it would make time for a man stacking bricks in a heatwave or that it would echoe off the steel walls of a Wisconsin kiln.
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But that’s exactly what great music does. It arrives where we need it. We do, even if we are unaware.
As Jackson bows out, he leaves behind more than platinum records and hit songs. For people like me who were just trying to get through the day, he leaves behind memories, moments, and mile markers.
Alan, you have never met me. However, you assisted me in carrying more than bricks in a sweltering factory, somewhere north of the Chattahoochee. You assisted in carrying me.
And I want to thank you, Alan for that.
