Page 25 of Echoes of a Southern Song

“I see some green,” I tell her. “I think I can salvage them.”

“Be my guest,” she says.

“I’ll grab the stuff from your car.”

I pop the trunk of Aggie’s car and stare at the haul. Bags of mulch, trays of flowers, and a couple of small shrubs are crammed into every available space. She really did get carried away. I heave the first bag of mulch onto my shoulder and carry it to the side of the house where we’ve set up our makeshift staging area. Aggie’s already on her knees in one of the beds, pulling out a trowel and gloves from a gardening caddy.

“You sure you don’t want me to just take care of this while you supervise?” I joke, dropping the bag with a thud.

She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Not a chance, cowboy. This is my garden now, and I’m getting my hands dirty.”

I chuckle and head back to the car for another load. There’s something about working outside like this that feels good—like I’m accomplishing something real. Music can be fickle, but this? This is progress I can see.

By the time I’ve unloaded everything, Aggie’s already got a row of marigolds planted along the edge of one bed. She pats the dirt around them with steady hands, her face scrunched in concentration.

“Where do you want these shrubs?” I ask, holding up one of the small plants still in its plastic pot.

She glances up, squinting against the sun. “Oh, those go over by the fence. They’re hydrangeas. I thought they’d look nice along the edge.”

I nod and carry them over to the fence, setting them down carefully before grabbing a shovel to dig the holes. Aggie hums a tune under her breath as she works. I find myself smiling as I listen. It’s a simple moment, but it feels good.

After a couple of hours, the landscaping is starting to take shape. The roses are trimmed back, revealing new growth that looks promising. The marigolds are bright spots of orange and yellow, and the hydrangeas are planted in neat rows along the fence. Aggie stands back, her hands on her hips, surveying the work with a satisfied smile.

“It looks amazing,” she says, brushing dirt off her hands. “You’ve got a real talent for this, Jack.”

I shrug, feeling a little bashful. “It’s just digging and planting. Anyone could do it.”

“But you did it. I can’t believe the transformation. Thank you.”

We head inside for lunch. It’s strange to think about—how different my life could have been if I’d stayed on the farm. Maybe I would have found joy in this kind of work instead of feeling like I was suffocating under my dad’s expectations.

We sit at the kitchen table with sandwiches and chips, talking about nothing in particular. Aggie tells me about her plans for next year. I listen with half an ear. I want to give her my full attention, but I have that familiar tingle. There’s a song brewing. All the manual labor helped jog it free and now I’m itching to get it on paper.

“Uh-oh,” Aggie says.

I blink and focus on her. “What’s wrong?”

“I know that look.” She laughs. “You’ve got a song.”

I grin. “I do.”

“Go. I’ll clean up. I’ll be out in the greenhouse if you need someone to listen.”

“Thanks, Aggie.”

I jump up and go into the bedroom. I grab my guitar first. The melody is there. I know the words, but I need to hear the melody. Once I feel like I know where I’m going with it, I grab my notebook.

The words flow faster than I can write them, the rhythm thrumming in my veins. This one’s good. It’s a summer song. One of those songs that will always take you back to the summer. I smile as I write another line. This one is about summers back home. I remember the bonfire with my brothers and yes...beer. I kissed Melanie Watson that night. Back then, I thought it was the best kiss I was ever going to have.

I know better now. More of the good memories flood back. I twist them and turn them into lyrics. I know it’s not just me who’s going to have bonfires, first kisses, and four-wheeling in a beat-up old truck in my memory banks. This is that kind of song everyone can relate to. Maybe it’ll be a summer anthem one day.

Three months ago, I was stocking shelves at a hardware store, counting pennies for gas money. Now? Now I’ve got a bank account my father can’t touch, a room at Aggie’s that’s starting to feel like home, and a growing stack of cash from weekend gigs.

The old anger simmers under my skin at the thought. That night plays on loop in my head sometimes—Dad’s handprint still stinging my cheek, his voice dripping with contempt. “College? What the hell you gonna do with that? Waste of time and money.”

Well, look at me now, old man. Making more without a degree than I ever would’ve shoveling shit on your farm. All those assholes who gave me shit for messing around with my guitar instead of going out drinking and fucking. All those people that saw me as the outcast because I wasn’t like my dad or brothers.

They were right. I’m not like them. I’m not like most of the kids I went to school with. They used to make me feel like shit because I was different. Not anymore. I like that I’m not like them.