I grew up in Cross Plains, Tennessee, a town so small you could stop in the middle of East Robertson Road to chat with your neighbors without worrying about traffic.
It was the kind of place where everyone knew your name and your business. I remember walking into Mrs Nancy’s Market, greeted by a warm “hello” and ordering a double sausage biscuit with tomato for my grandmother.
Gas came from Gerald Jackson’s little filling station, and the post office was a daily stop. My grandparents only ever had 1 mailing address PO Box 28.
At Thomas Drugs, the salty dog lemonade and grilled chicken sandwich were staples, and everyone knew better than to have certain prescriptions filled there—those required a trip to the next town over. Cross Plains was home, the world as I knew it.
But in my early twenties, I ventured far from Tennessee to Alaska—a land as wild and vast as my imagination could stretch. With only 600,000 people scattered across a state that takes up a third of the United States, Alaska felt impossibly big and yet comfortingly familiar.
People there lived with the same small-town spirit I grew up with. They picked up hitchhikers, got to know their neighbors, and gathered around dinner tables on long, dark winter Sundays.
Life was slower, the land endless, and the connections deep.
As I moved from one small town to another, adulthood brought me a chance to see more of the world.
Last week I drove from Tennessee through the winding roads of Arkansas, down to the sprawling metropolis of Houston, Texas.
The moment I reached the city limits, I was overwhelmed. Seven lanes of traffic roared past me, a small-town girl trying to navigate a world far bigger than I’d ever imagined.
Finding my friend’s house in a gated subdivision, surrounded by music, bustling activity, and people connecting in countless ways, was surreal.
Houston felt alive in a way that was almost electric, a stark contrast to the quiet simplicity of Cross Plains.
Over time, I’ve realized just how big the world truly is.
Cross Plains isn’t the same anymore. It’s a suburb of Nashville now, with subdivisions and roads named after people I once knew.
A few fragments of my childhood remain, but the soul of that little town, the one where you knew everyone and everything, feels like a memory.
Nothing stays the same.
The world changes, grows, and shifts beneath our feet. But the stories remain—the ones about the places we’ve been, the people we’ve met, and the moments we’ve lived. And I’ve learned that the true measure of a life well-lived isn’t just in the miles you’ve traveled but in the tales you carry with you.
If you can’t tell a good story about where you’ve been, have you really lived at all?
Jennifer Davis is a realtor, auctioneer and storyteller from Cross Plains, TN
Comments