Hazel Jane

Yesterday, I met Jane at the salon. Initially a stranger, our brief interaction quickly transformed into a warm exchange of smiles and well-wishes. And, of course, some perfectly pink fingernails.

I’ve always been fascinated by people. My curiosity often leads me to ask more questions than I’m asked, a trait that can be both a blessing and a curse. Yesterday was no different when Jane revealed she hailed from McCalla, Alabama. Her initial response hinted at a secretive past, but she eventually shared her roots with me.

McCalla is a town I knew only in passing—just a pit stop during a road trip to Mobile for gas and snacks. It seemed like a nondescript place, easy to navigate on and off the interstate. But Jane’s fondness for her hometown painted a different picture.

Many small towns change over time, and McCalla was no exception. Like many, it has evolved from the idyllic place we once knew. Businesses close, new chains replace old ones, and familiar faces give way to new ones. Jane and I shared a sentiment of nostalgia for a place that no longer felt like home.

As I asked about McCalla, Jane’s hazel eyes sparkled with cherished memories. “When I was a little girl, we worked on our grandparents’ farm. Back then, before the interstate, McCalla was just endless fields and small country stores,” she reminisced. “We didn’t know how hard we worked—it was just life. You worked to eat. That’s how it was.”

A moment of silence followed as she caught her breath from a raspy cough. Jane’s smile widened as she continued. “We got up every summer morning and went to the field, helping our granddaddy with whatever he needed. Whether it was picking vegetables or milking cows—I hated that part! Ever since I left that farm, I've never owned another milking thing!” She laughed, her eyes twinkling.

Our conversation soon veered to her move to Tennessee. Jane's determination shone through as she recounted her journey. Despite the hardened woman, her heart seemed golden, particularly when she spoke of her faith. Our conversation moved and shifted but it was the topic of Tennessee's drought that brought us back to the farm. Circa 1960.

“I was the youngest and the smallest, but that didn’t mean I got a break. Maybe that’s why I’m so mean now,” she said with a grin. Then, with a laugh, she added, “I’m trying to be nicer now, though. I want to find a good man. All my friends are passing away, and I don’t want to be alone.”

Gazing at her wallet stacked with Marlboro Reds, I knew nicotine withdrawal might soon kick in. Jane told me her salon visit—a gift certificate she’d been putting off—was her first manicure ever. She was finally getting it done to both use the certificate before it expired and to maybe catch the eye of a special someone.

“At lunch time, Grandaddy would drive us up to the store and buy us a pack of crackers and a coke.  We'd sit outside on the bench with all the other farmers, who gossiped more than the women." Jane chuckled. 

“I was just a little girl - prolly about seven or eight years old and they’d say - come here, girl!  Let me see them eyes.”  Remembering how those old timers spoke to her.  "They said my hazel eyes turned blue when it was going to rain."

She turned to me and asked, “What color are they now?” I looked and answered, “They’re blue.” Jane squirmed, eager to finish her visit. She announced to all that she had clothes hanging on the line at home and needed to get to them before the rain got to them.

As she hurried out of the salon, I reflected on the connection we shared. Her eyes might predict the weather, and she still used a clothesline, but it was her story—the rich tapestry of her past—that truly stood out.

So, tell your stories. Be the reason someone looks deep into the eyes of another - looking for connection, looking for kindness, looking for a story of yonder living, or looking to predict the weather. Be the reason someone rushes home to string up a clothesline to dry clothes because you've inspired them with your past.

They say the eyes are the window to the soul. Let's open the windows.