In the summer of 1994, America was sweating.
It was one of the hottest seasons on record. Bill Clinton was in the White House. O.J. Simpson had just taken that infamous ride in a white Ford Bronco. "Forrest Gump" was playing in theaters. And I had just gotten married, armed with a journalism degree, a few radio gigs under my belt, and no clear way forward.
I’d worked as a general assignment reporter for two different stations. Chased car crashes, county board meetings, and ribbon-cuttings, ribbon-cuttings, board meetings, and car crashes. The ink in my press pass was still wet, but the writing on the wall was clear: journalism wasn’t going to pay the bills. Not with a new wife. Not in central Wisconsin.
So I walked away from microphones and deadlines and entered one of the most physically brutal jobs I’ve ever had: working the second shift at a concrete company that supplied bricks and pavers for stores across the Midwest.
No bylines. No air-conditioning. Just heat, humidity, and hard labor.
Kilns, Cuts, and Concrete
Each day started at 3 p.m. and ended, when we were lucky, around 4 a.m. Our job was simple in theory but punishing in practice. The first shift would load the kilns with freshly molded bricks. By the time we clocked in, those kilns were full, piping hot, and waiting to be emptied.
The moment we opened one, it was like breaking the seal on a pressure cooker. Hot, wet air blasted out. If it was 90 outside, it was easily 110 inside, with enough humidity to make a Floridian weep.
I was assigned to the palletizing station. The bricks, now hardened and steaming, would come rumbling down a conveyor. My job was to grab, stack, and prepare them for shipment. Most were manageable. Some weren’t.
Landscaping bricks, the big boys, came in at about 150 pounds apiece. They were supposed to be chopped in half by a mechanical cutter before reaching me. Emphasis on “supposed to.” When the machine malfunctioned, those massive bricks would jam up the works. The guys needed access to fix it. That meant I had to move the monsters.
So I’d lift each one. Alone. No forklift. No help. Just brute strength and stubbornness. I’d muscle them back onto the conveyor, sweating through my gloves, counting the minutes until break.
The Mixer Monster
At the end of every shift, I had one more task while others clocked out. I had to climb into the concrete mixer, armed with an air chisel and enough hearing protection to muffle a freight train and chip away the hardened residue left behind.
It was deafening, claustrophobic, and the cherry on top of a 13-hour day. That job didn’t just test my body. It punished it. Decades later, I’m still paying the price in neck fusions, many shoulder surgeries, and chronic pain.
My spine remembers. My shoulders do, too. And, of course, my lower lumbar region, too.
But somehow, something beautiful snuck in that sweat-soaked, cement-caked hell.
Alan Jackson, Whether or Not I Liked It
One of the crew members had a boom box and seniority. He liked country music, so we all listened to it.
At the time, I was a schmaybe metalhead. Give me Sabbath, Metallica, AC/DC, something loud, something angry. But this wasn’t my radio, and this wasn’t my turf. One particular song was played repeatedly: “Chattahoochee” by Alan Jackson.
At first, I rolled my eyes. It was twangy. It was Southern. It talked about river water and “learning a lot about livin’ and a little ’bout love.” It was everything I didn’t think I needed.
But it stuck somewhere between the third and thirtieth listen, not just the melody, but the mood. Jackson’s easy drawl, catchy guitar riff, and sense of youthful rebellion turned into a sort of soundtrack for my suffering.
That song carried me, not because I became a diehard country fan (which I'm 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 break me.
And maybe, just maybe, it reminded me I wasn’t the only one paddling upstream.
Country music star Alan Jackson announces his retirement from touring at a concert in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Jackson told the crowd “I will say that this is my last road show out here, but we’re planning on doing a big finale show in Nashville next summer sometime.” pic.twitter.com/4UVaAaMDzg
— Newsweek (@Newsweek) May 19, 2025
The Man Behind the Song
Alan Jackson wasn’t flashy. He didn’t need to be.
Where others chased crossover fame or dabbled in pop, Jackson stayed anchored in his roots. He sang about small towns, working hard, staying faithful, and doing right by your people. There was no pretense. Just honesty.
At 66 years old this week, Jackson played his final tour stop. The “Last Call: One More for the Road” tour ended in Milwaukee, where he told fans,
It started 40 years ago this September. My wife and I drove to Nashville with an old U-Haul trailer and chased this dream... It’s been a crazy ride.
He’s been battling Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease, a nerve disorder that affects balance and mobility. He revealed his diagnosis in 2021 but continued performing. Continued giving fans a voice for their own stories.
And now, he’s stepping off the stage.
A Personal Goodbye
When I heard the news, I didn’t think about music charts. I didn’t know about his awards. I didn’t even think about the Grand Ole Opry.
I thought about that concrete mixer.
I thought about sweat pouring into my eyes, gloves ripping open constantly, and knees buckling under the weight. And through it all, “Chattahoochee” plays in my head like some twangy lifeline, cutting through the chaos.
Funny how a song you never picked can pick you instead.
That summer job was miserable, but it was formative. Being 26 years old, it’s been the benchmark ever since. Anytime I’ve caught myself grumbling about a job over the years, bad bosses, long hours, mind-numbing meetings, I think back to crawling inside that mixer at 4 a.m., air chisel in hand, ears ringing, and clothes soaked in cement dust.
And just like that, my complaints shrink.
Because perspective matters. And so does gratitude. And for me, Alan Jackson is forever tied to both.
The Big Picture
Artists never know how or where their work will land. Jackson probably wrote "Chattahoochee" to celebrate good times and beer-drinking buddies. He never knew it would echo off the steel walls of a Wisconsin kiln or keep time for a guy stacking bricks in a heatwave.
But that’s what splendid music does. It shows up where we need it. Even if we don’t know, we do.
As Jackson bows out, he leaves behind more than hit songs and platinum records. He leaves behind memories, moments, and mile markers for people like me who were just trying to get through the day.
Alan, you never knew me. But in a sweltering factory, somewhere way north of the Chattahoochee, you helped me carry more than bricks. You helped carry me.
And for that, I say thank you, Alan.
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