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,...