I met Henry Jackson at the Farmer's Market in Kilgore, Texas. I was selling my hand-painted rocks for gas money, and Henry was selling his home grown black-eyed peas and watermelons off of the back of his truck. Friendly and careful, he meandered over to my fold-out table with my painted rocks warming up in the hot East Texas sun. It was already over ninety degrees and it hadn't hit ten o'clock yet. We chit-chatted about the heat, East Texas, the produce that was lined up on the sidewalk near the oil derricks, and watched only a few people go by. I told him that I moved up here from Houston, and was out of a job like so many other people, and that I thought East Texas was the most beautiful place on the planet. Everything grows here. If there is one tiny crack in the sidewalk, there will be something green growing in no time. Vines covered every fence and most trees. Trees are everywhere, and strangers smile and wave as they go by. My heart and my family live in East Texas, and I just wanted to come home and so I did. Henry shook his head in agreement and began to tell me his story. He was born in East Texas, the second from the youngest of eight girls and six boys. I told him he should write these stories down. He said he didn't write much. I paused for a moment and replied, "I do." Over the next two years, I learned Henry's Story,