Mr. Don’s Pizza

I am thrilled to feature a guest post written by my own son, Caegan. His brother,Cam,recently gave him the following advice: 
Pray about it. Write about it.

Caegan took his advice. This is the result. 

With permission from both Caegan and Don’s wife, Laurie, I am honored to share these words with you. 
Love you all mighty much-
Ronda 🩷

Mr Don’s Pizza

By Caegan Jackson

This is not the story of a rich man, at least I don’t think it is. Nor is it the story of a man who ever held a position of great power or influence, by modern societal standards. To my knowledge he was not a math whiz, he never wrote any books, and he never trained for a marathon. I suppose you could say he was average in most ways. In all honesty, he and I were never truly that close. Despite all these things, he quite possibly had the greatest influence on my life of anyone I’ve ever known. He literally changed my life, and he never knew it.

Donald Casper Jackson and I are not related, contrary to popular belief. He and my grandfather, Skippy, went to work together selling animal health products back in the mid-80s and became lifelong friends. Don, much like my grandfather, had a big personality. The two dominated any room they were in. Imagine Dean Martin & Jerry Lewis, or Jim Valvano & Dick Vitale. People they would meet on the road would often ask if the two were related, and the response was the same every time. “No, but my grandaddy’s birddog and his grandaddy’s birddog used to piss in the same creek.” For you non-southerners out there, that’s Jackson-speak for, “we’re brothers, just not by blood.” Don and I were raised in the same rural community of Spivey’s Corner, although Don was about forty-five years older than me. For those of you that grew up in the state of North Carolina, you know the critical role that our local churches play in our lives. You are as they say, “raised in the church.” Don and I both attended Mt. Elam Baptist Church. I saw him every Sunday. Now this is an important tie that binds us together, but the thing that perhaps brought Don and I together closer than anything was our love for the Wolfpack. Those of you raised where I was know, that is a religion in and of itself.

I spent many Saturday afternoons tailgating alongside Don, his wife Laurie, and his son Reggie. Man, were those good times. We sat through some big wins together. I can still vividly picture Russell Wilson weaving through defenders for a big rushing touchdown against Florida State and turning around to see Don with his hands in the air in disbelief. He’d do that about 15 times a game. I also vividly remember the following year when Mike Glennon was doing the exact same thing, and Don would tap me on the shoulder and yell, “Russell who?” Don was by every stretch of the imagination, a character. Or as my father would say, “a bird in this world.” On Sunday afternoons, we’d get to relive it all over again. I’d stand around all the old men and hear about how great State was and how we might have a chance to make a run to the ACC Championship, or equally as often hear of how we won’t win another game and that it’s time for a coaching change. Don was always right there in the mix. He’d give his usual two cents backed up by that trademark hand slapping, falling sideways laugh.

Now, if you aren’t familiar with Spivey’s Corner, or more specifically the neighboring community of Godwin, then the words “Grocery Barn” won’t mean much to you. Those of you raised where I was know all too well, this was the Taj Mahal. The Grocery Barn was a remnant of the good ole’ days. It was a country store located in a rural area between small towns.

For a bit of context, there was once a time in the South when people didn’t drive into town for their basic grocery supplies. So, they used country stores for those very needs. The Grocery Barn started long ago as a small wooden country store, but by the time I came into the world it was a large establishment with gas pumps and a grill where all the locals would eat. It was a gathering place of sorts. Farmers would stop, eat and chew the fat. (many of them three times a day) The Grocery Barn was world-renowned for its chicken salad. There’s legend of an old lady who gave them her secret recipe, but my mind is a bit fuzzy on that. For me though, the Grocery Barn will always be about the pizza. Probably doesn’t sound like something that would be served in a country store, but believe me it’s the real deal.

Don Jackson loved making pizzas. I have vivid memories of being a small child and seeing him back in that kitchen cranking out pizzas one by one. I was a little fella, and as little people tend to do, we create our own little realities. So, the delicious pizza at the Grocery Barn became affectionately known as Mr. Don’s pizza. It was quite a treat to for me as a child to get Mr. Don’s pizza. I can remember so many Friday nights at home, birthday parties and church functions where Mr. Don’s pizza was a fixture. Of course, on those sacred Saturdays in the fall, I would always hope Don and Laurie would show up to the tailgate with that red and white box.

Sometime during my senior year of high school, I decided that my riding the roads and chasing young girls would be much more efficient with some spending money in my pocket. There was only one logical solution. A job at the Grocery Barn. Now I’m sure that I would’ve been hired there no matter what, but with my birddog ties being what they were, it was kind of a no-brainer. Working at the Grocery Barn was a magical experience for me. It was a small taste of the good ole’ days. All the old farmers passing through day by day. All my high school classmates buying their gas and their afterschool snacks. The big dinner rush after a baseball game. The thing that sticks out in my mind the most however, were the unauthorized breaks spent with Don, who had affectionately become ‘Uncle Don” by this point. We would sit on his prized chairs from Reynolds Coliseum that were conveniently located near the front of the store, and he would tell all the old stories about him and Skippy traveling the country together.

Now unfortunately, this is where the story takes a sad turn. Our beloved Uncle Don was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Disease around the same time I started working at the Grocery Barn. I like to think I caught him right before things took a turn for the worst. I slowly watched him struggle to make those same pizzas. He moved a little slower, and he would often forget what he was doing. In my eyes, a man like Uncle Don was larger than life. Things like this don’t happen to Don Jackson. Those legs-crossed talks we had on the Reynolds chairs turned into the same story over and over. When you tell a story the way Uncle Don did, it was worth hearing over again. Of course, I would just sit and laugh every time. It was just nice to see that smile on his face that had become so famous. He would typically begin with the same story of how my grandfather Skippy would drive the school bus back in high school, and on select Fridays he would stop at his father’s store and buy everyone a drink. He would always end the same way. He’d look to see who was around, give a sly grin and say, “you know Skippy likes the women.” We’d laugh, a few minutes would pass, and he’d give the same story with the same line, “Skippy likes the women.” Despite his fading health, Uncle Don was always quick with an anecdote and a good laugh.

While Don’s life was lived to the fullest, full of laughter and kindness, it was actually his death that left a profound effect on my life. You see, the day of his funeral was the day I realized how I wanted to live the rest of my life. Mount Elam Baptist Church was full that day, and everyone shared their best Don stories. It was one of those rare happy funerals in my eyes. Celebrating the life of a man whose life exemplified the famous quote from Nat King Cole, “The greatest thing you’ll ever learn, is just to love and be loved in return.” I realized that day that it will never matter how much money I make, what awards I earn, or what kind of public status I attain. All that matters is the love we share while we are on this earth. The same love that Don Jackson shared with so many. One day we will all die. We’ll be lowered into the ground never to walk this earth again.

How many people will attend your funeral?

What will they say about you?

How did you make them feel while you were alive?

If you’ve made it this far, I want to both applaud and thank you for enduring my rant about an old friend. I’d also like to offer one simple question and challenge.

How often do you give the gift of Mr. Don’s Pizza?

How often do you share a simple laugh, joke or even a smile?

How often do you ask your co-worker how they’re doing?

I want to reiterate the fact that Don Jackson and I were never really THAT close. He was a close family friend and was a fixture in my life for sure, but I wouldn’t say he was as close as a father figure. And that my friends, is what makes his story so great. We may never know the impact we have on someone else’s life. It could be a lifelong friend, or it may be a stranger on the street. The one thing I do know is our world could use a little more kindness. A little more compassion. No act is too small, and you never know, it just might save someone’s life.

The world could use more of Mr. Don’s pizza. You just need to be willing to share a slice.

“And remember my sentimental friend. A heart is not measure by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others” – The Wizard of Oz