My four-year-old son has become obsessed with hockey over the last year. We’ve enjoyed a few collegiate games together and he can’t get enough. Often, at home he pretends he’s a hockey player. Winter gloves, boots, pool goggles, and a flap eared hat provide his makeshift pads. At his first hockey game, one of the assistant coaches gave him a broken stick that’s just his height. It is one of his most prized possessions.

My brother Shane and I have been making up for the lost 28 years behind us. We recently discovered that neither of has ice-skated. The closest to skating that I’d ever come was watching The Mighty Ducks. This fit perfectly in line with my son’s desire to learn. We all strapped skates to our feet and wobbled to the ice entrance.

“Well, brother, I guess this is where we learn to skate,” said Shane.

I do not enjoy doing things I am not good at. I do not enjoy looking like a fool in front of people. I really do not enjoy the idea of hurting a fellow skater because of my lack of coordination. All of these things make me uncomfortable, but when your four-year-old wants you to teach him how to ice-skate, you Zamboni your pride and figure it out.

I learned to “ice-skate” in about two minutes. Let’s be clear, I’m not skating, I’m just using only one hand on the wall and not falling. My son’s legs had very different plans than the rest of his body when on the ice. With an adult on either side he focused on all he had on staying upright. Much like me, he gets frustrated at not being good at things. A frustration set in that only Cheetos and chocolate milk could cure. We sat and snacked and you could see his aggravated processing at his less than successful first attempt. I’m preparing my dad speech about how he tried really hard and that was okay, that I was proud of him for who he was and not because of the things that succeeded at.

He wiped his face with his sleeve.

Stood up.

“I’m gonna go get better, Papa.”

None of use became expert skaters that day. I doubt we will be making our figure skating debuts anytime within the next decade. That day, the three of us didn’t give up. We struggled together, and it wasn’t pretty. I focused on the experience. Shane and I have a lot of firsts to check off. We got to hold my son’s hands and walk him through a new experience.  

I know I will fall short, but my new goal is to focus on more things I’m not very good at. To keep pushing myself to get uncomfortable, and see every thing around me. If it ain’t pretty, I’ll just go get better.   


Jake Bradley Turner

(Casey Joe Collins)




Photo: Aaron Kafton

circa. 2008

I’ve always said I cut my teeth on the world in Joplin, Missouri. Growing up near Cassville (Population: 2,500) served me well, but I knew I wouldn’t stay. A childhood friend of mine and I attempted higher education right out of high school. I reference this time as the “first fifteen minutes that I went to college.” Shortly after that stint, our idealistic minds decided that music was the way to go. We went from sleeping in a ’92 Chevy Lumina to a nearly condemned rental house. We started our roots in our new town.


The more I reflect on the big memories, the more the smaller ones begin to glow again. Those moments shaped who I am today, from pitchers of Rolling Rock at the Keystone to exploring the train depot. The miles we put on our second hand boots combined conversations about our understanding of the world around us made us feel at home. For as much I enjoyed pounding the concrete of the Joplin city streets, my imagination was most captured above and below.


Joplin was once a booming mining town with infrastructure designed for massive growth. Unfortunately, the expected boom never came. Now along sections of Main Street, there are 100-year-old buildings that have not heard footsteps inside for decades. Those were my favorite. In most things, the unloved and abandoned are my preferred choice of company.


I even took a date on one of my unofficial tours of town. We walked a mile of lesser-known underground tunnels. Then we climbed eight stories of fire escape to let our legs hang above the street below. Joplin also has a few fantastic options for fountains that one could take a late night swim in, or so I’ve heard. Perhaps urban exploration isn’t for everyone. She never returned my calls.


I can still feel the chain link fences on my hands that I jumped in Joplin. My first real attempt at making music came from there. Folks I became friends with there are still part of my life. Some remained, bought our old bars, and continue to grow the music community. Some moved to other locations, like myself. They’ve become a big part of the regional network I travel and they have supported me for more than a decade.

I began getting tattooed in earnest at the age of 19. The stories behind the pieces I chose while in Joplin play back like movies. I’ve kept those memories close and the tattoos are just reminders of my journey. Hard lessons and happy lessons, all important in their own way and worth remembering. Looking at these maps under my skin I feel blessed to be where I am and excited to see where the map leads.  

- Jake Rat



Scan 2 copy.jpeg

Photo circa 2000, 7 miles north of Cassville on Y Highway.

Winters in the Ozarks aren’t nearly as harsh as the ones I’ve come to know in central Iowa. Folks up north scoff at southern drives in snowstorms, but bare in mind, our roads are rather dangerous even in ideal conditions. Over the years the old snaking logging roads turned into paved roads that require keen observation to navigate.

Grandma lived half a mile down the road from my childhood home. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday she served bacon, eggs, and flakey biscuits. Tuesday and Thursday was biscuits and gravy with sausage patties. Saturdays, pancakes and waffles and Sundays we ate breakfast rice.

Our snow day started with refilling the wood box by the cast-iron fireplace. I used to spit on the top just to watch it sizzle away into oblivion. We drove our 88 Dodge Ram Charger over and ate the appropriate breakfast for the day of the week. Second hand Carhartts were wrapped around to keep a body warm.

The old Ford farm truck was an odd combination of mustard yellow, rust, and mud. The heater never warmed up to a sufficient temperature, which didn’t much matter, as I spent most of my time riding in the back. We would lower the hay spike on the back of the truck, spike a round hay bale, and take it to the top of a hill. Few things are as fun as shoving a round bale of hay down a hill. After a few rotations downhill the bale lost all control and careened over or through most obstacles.

I don’t know how many hours I spent in the barn pictured above. With the imagination of a young boy, the barn became a rallying point for the 101st Airborne in northern France in 1944. When the snow covered the ground, it became Bastogne.  I could bend my surroundings to fit the narrative of any historic setting I desired. That barn was the equivalent to tree houses all the kids in mid 90’s movies had. It was an escape from reality and a refuge from the elements.

One particularly bad ice storm sums up life on an Ozarks farm. Across the lower field from grandmas house sat one of our steepest hills. Debris often rolled down the hill, took the 20-foot drop into Flat Creek, and began its journey downstream. The cattle had found cover under a cedar tree grove. The incline proved too much for their hooves, and we watched as our main source of income slide off that hill toward the creek. There was nothing to be done, other than watch the tragic bovine bobsleds make their decent.

In my youth, nature made life harder; the same goes for life as a troubadour. Shows cancel, attendance can be low, and travel is risky at best. Perhaps childhood tales of Jeremiah Johnson and Hugh Glass have fortified themselves in my psyche, making it impossible not to enjoy the danger or challenge of a Midwestern snowstorm.




and these thoughts are not my own, just words from my favorite songs.

PHOTOS: Rob Skalecki

I never wanted to be a police officer, but I wanted to be on SWAT. I wanted to be a fire jumper, not a traditional fire fighter. If there was an extreme version of a career, I wanted to do that. I have always enjoyed being pushed beyond what I think I can do. Too frequently in my early days I heard “you don’t have what it takes.” Often this is fuel for my fire, but those words can haunt a person for decades.



I’ve always lived with the idea that if there’s no more room in the fire for irons, make a bigger fire. While living in Joplin, Missouri in my early twenties, I worked two jobs. Not because I had to, but because I was bored and restless. Along with my overnight stocking job, I picked up eight more hours of factory work. I fell asleep standing at my machine once – but only once. Then, the Queen City Saints out of Springfield offered the rhythm guitar position to me. That time pushed me harder than any other to that point in my life. Weekends were filled with band practice or shows. Weekdays offered 2-4 hours of sleep between shifts. I bit off a big chunk and got in return:

1.  A lot of tattoos.

2.  A lot of guitar gear

3. Stories and friendships that I still cherish

4. The ability to fall asleep under a table in a back room in a bar.

5. Understanding that if you want to do a thing you love, it’s going to hurt.


2018 was my first full year of living off music. It’s been a learning and growing season. There have been more struggles and tribulations than ever before, but I can honestly say I’ve never been happier.


Were there times I missed a 9 to 5? Yes.

Were there times I questioned my decision to go full time? Sure.

Did I eat more Ramen noodles than a thirty-one-year-old man should? Absolutely.

 Is it worth it? 100%.

I don’t enjoy comfortable—it teeters on the verge of boredom. Instead, I need grind. New markets, projects, albums, and creations are sure to come in 2019.  There’s plenty more progress to make.

- Mississippi Jake


I encourage you to get a little uncomfortable this year. Learn an instrument, start a blog, run a marathon, reconnect with someone from your past, perform in front of people, or just strike up a conversation with a stranger.

Joyeux Noel


Photo circa 1991

Back in the mid nineties when inline skating and the X-Games got wildly popular, I went through a roller blade phase. I put all my eggs in one basket and only asked for skates at Christmas. I am a persistent human, if nothing else. When I got my inline skates for Christmas he hid a series of clues around the house. After a dozen of so clues my dreams of becoming an X-Games medalist started forming. Unfortunately, I grew up in rural Missouri on a dirt road. Such surfaces don’t lend themselves to small wheels. Occasionally, when were at school afterhours, I was able to use the skates on level ground. If someone needs a pair gently used roller blades, I think they still exist in a basement in Cassville Missouri.


Christmas 2003 was my favorite. Dad and I had moved to northwest Arkansas after my adoptive parent’s divorce. Dad worked in one school district, and I was in high school at another. His responsibilities paired with my school activities made our weeks very hectic. Slowly I started to stay at my grandma’s house more often than not, it was easier and convenient for me.  I still hold guilt about that time. I should have spent more time with dad.


We acquired a small rental house in Cassville halfway through the fall. I still mark those days as some of the best I’ve had. I remember the slight rental smell from years of temporary inhabitants, the generic paint color for the walls, and that is was ours. The Turner men had a place to call their own again.

Money was tight, but ain’t it always? We had left behind years of memories at our old house. Fifteen minutes to gather our most precious items meant we had unwillingly become minimalists. Life is about perspective.  It’s hard to answer the question of “what do you want for Christmas” when all you possess is what you could quickly throw into a garbage bag and throw in the truck. I could only think of one thing I felt was missing, but I couldn’t ask. There wasn’t money.


Music had always called to me. Anytime I brought up an instrument or music I was discouraged to pursue it from half of my parents.  After a decade, you just stop trying, but Christmas 2003 was different. It was dad and I. We weren’t held back anymore. I let slip my interest in an electric guitar. I tried to make sure dad knew there was no obligation or expectation.


Christmas morning we made pancakes. Breakfast food is always present during our best times. We tore into our humble stash of presents.


Gift number one: VHS copy of Gettysburg. Dad knows me.


Gift number two: Monopoly. We used to play on snow days after feeding the cattle.


Stocking: A clue.


Dad’s clues lead me around the whole house. Kitchen. My room. Laundry area. Bathroom. The final clue directed me toward the Dollar General drum ornaments on our tree. In the decorative gold braiding, I found a guitar pick. Then another and another. Closer examination of the fake tree trunk unveiled a ¼ inch instrument cable, carefully placed from the base to the star.


“Look under the couch,” dad said.


A Fender Squire Stratocaster was tucked neatly below where I had been sitting.


I don’t know how many times my poor father watched Gettysburg or how many games of Monopoly I talked him into, but I can tell you I spent hours playing that guitar. I like to think that guitar and I really helped dad learn a great deal about patience and grace.


As a kid who had seen dark times, I had been looking for my voice. I was trying to scream out that I was hurting, that I had things to say, that I noticed some things about life. In youth, we have a hard time knowing what our voice is and how to use it. Christmas of 2003, my father gave me a voice, and although at times it’s a growl filled with red clay dust, it’s my voice.

-Little Jake

 Ps. Joyeux Noel is one of my favorite Christmas films.


Photos: Aaron Kafton @clovenlife


“Not sure how we’d pay the rent, just knew we had to keep going.”

We were on tour and that was all that mattered. Parents and friends did their part in reminding us of how foolish touring was. Our band had possibly the most unreliable vehicle I’ve ever had the misfortune of driving. Sometimes $900 for a vehicle and big dreams is enough to get you a few thousand miles. The van wouldn’t surpass 65 mph without cutting out. That made keeping up with the other band REALLY hard. We also discovered that the colony of ants in the engine compartment was very displeased with the heat from the engine. For a minor respite from the heat, they joined us in the cab of the van. There were no seats, save for the driver and passenger seats up front. We acquired some nice after market seating that had obviously accidently been left by a dumpster. Sometimes it IS the simple things in life. 


July of 2008 brought torrential rains to Texas and Louisiana. The ground couldn’t absorb any more water, so it stood nearly ankle high everywhere. The sun came out and the lower Mississippi River states became saunas.  Mind you, I hate humidity more than I hate menthol cigarettes, and I really hate menthol cigarettes. So much water was evaporating into the summer sun that it was almost foggy.


We arrived at the venue in Baton Rogue late the evening the day before our show. We were just two vans of punk rock/hippie/reggae/metal head kids chilling out in the parking lot, living our dreams. From the other side of the venue, we heard a distinct noise. There’s a sound that baseball bats and beer bottles make when being wielded as battle weapons that one never forgets.


At that moment my adrenaline removed any thought of the persistent humidity. I’m sure that our minds eye equated our situation to an epic medieval battlefield prior to a charge. In reality it probably looked more like a Spaghetti Western. One of us somehow found the capacity to utter something regarding playing at the venue the next evening. Guards and baseball bats came down and coolers of beer came out. We shared the rest of the evening with our new Baton Rouge friends in our makeshift parking lot camp.


Rats had the privilege of opening for some really amazing artists. Since those days it’s been enjoyable to see many of them carry on to bigger and better shows than the punk clubs in Joplin, Missouri. Of all those encounters, I remember talking with Brian Fallon in the green room (concrete room used for storage) before a show. Either he said one of the most simply profound things I’ve ever heard, or my brain decided he should have said something profound and interjected it in my memory. “We just decided to get in a van and go until it worked out or we ran out of money.”

 Fact or fanciful imagery, I think I’m just going to get in the van and hope it works out.

-Mississippi Jake



You can still hear that fiddle cry, down in the valley low

As a full-time working musician I get asked two questions frequently. The first has a very typical flow.

“What do you do, Jake?”

“I’m a musician.”

“But what do you do for work?

“I write and play music.”

“Yeah, but how do you make money?”

“I write and play music.”

Usually the inquirer leaves not quite understanding how a person can live off of music. I smile, half wonder the same thing, then go back to my pint.

The second question is my favorite: How did you start playing music?

Since I can remember, I was singing along with whatever came to my ears. I was raised on Southern Gospel music, my first big concert was the Gaither Vocal Band. We drove when we went on vacation and I would get lost in my headphones for days on end. My imagination carried me to the performance stage. Those songs pounding through my Walkman became my own and I pictured myself singing to the crowd.

I spent a lot of time at my grandma’s house. Music was my escape. I could crawl into my favorite albums when I didn’t know how else to cope with life. At the age of twelve I pointed at the guitar that always leaned in the corner of her room.

“Grandma, how do you do that?”

Life is about asking the right questions. She showed me how to form a few chords, and wrote out the arrangement for Amazing Grace on a small piece of paper. Over the last ten years, that paper has hung on my wall wherever I live. She probably wouldn’t have understood my punk rock phase, but otherwise I think she would be proud of what she started.

Grandma Turner passed away my senior year of high school. She went in for a rather routine surgery, and never came back out. I was borrowing her guitar for a few weeks prior to her passing. Days before she passed, we talked on the phone.

“Grandma, do you need me to bring your guitar back soon?”

“No, it’s okay. I won’t be needing it. Keep it for a while.”

I’m not sure if she knew what was coming, but as soon as I got the news of her death, her words drifted through my mind. If I remember correctly, I was pretty terrible at guitar. Grandma never let that stop her from encouraging me or bragging on my “talent” to passersby. She knew how much I enjoyed playing and creating and she protected that.

“Talented” gets thrown around a lot in art. I’ve never been one to say it about myself. I can’t tune a guitar by ear. I can’t play by ear. I don’t know the rules. I write songs or progressions through trial and error. I’m sure it’s a painful process for anyone unlucky enough to be within earshot. I don’t have musical talent, I have iron willed determination. From that day in 1999 to 200 hundred shows in 2018, I’m playing like grandma taught me.

- Little Jake

We were DFS kids.

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I jumped on a train, I wondered if you were doing the same. I’ve slept on the streets, not sure if you’d even know my name. I’ve been hungry and I prayed you’d find a feast. I’ve been tired, I prayed you’d find peace.”

In the early summer days of 2015, when 80 degrees already felt oppressive, everything changed. Scrolling through random social media posts about who was eating Taco Bell and who had recently mowed their yard, I came across an image of a woman with a sign. Just before scrolling on, I caught a few lines.

“His birth name was Casey Joe Collins.”

Odd. That was my birth name.

“His birthday was 04-27-1987.”

Very odd. That’s my birthday.

“Monett Missouri.”

Well hell, that’s where my foster home was.

That’s when it hit me. For the first time in 28 years I was looking at the woman who brought me into this world. It’s been a very strange life and few things shake me, but my heart stopped and I had to consciously remind myself to inhale and exhale.

I have always known I was adopted. It never bothered me, even when kids made fun of me in school. “You were adopted! Nobody wanted you!” Kids sure can be mean, but a thick skin has always served me well. Somewhere around third grade I realized I had more ammunition than any of them. “I. Got. Picked. Someone walked into a house of kids, in a system with untold options for adoption prospects, and picked ME. I bet you were an accident.” That shut them up.

After seeing mom’s post, I sat on it for a few weeks. I wasn’t aware of the circumstances that led to my time in foster care, and after 28 years of not having a relationship I wasn’t sure I wanted to open that door. Eventually, I respond because I wanted her to know I was okay.

“Hello, my name is Jake Turner, I’m who you’re looking for. I was adopted at three by a very loving man who has made sure I had every opportunity in this world. I hope you’re well and just wanted to let you know I’m making it just fine.”

Enter my brother Shane. He responded in the best way possible.”I’m your brother Shane. I’ve been looking for you since the day you were adopted. I know this is all very strange, and I’m leaving the ball in your court as far as contact and a relationship.”

I always wanted siblings. Growing up in the middle of nowhere can be lonesome. We decided to meet and immediately I understood what all the hoopla about blood relations was. It only took 28 years. Since then I’ve been able to experience the most incredible things that many take for granted. In my late twenties I got to jump on a trampoline with my brother. We’ve played video games for hours together. I’ll never forget the first time I shot fireworks with my big brother on the Fourth of July.

The most common question I get when folks hear my story is: “what’s it like to be adopted?”

Normal. I understand the question, but it’s a little silly. What’s it like to live with your biological family? Normal. Normal is relative.

I have a few take aways from this part of my strange life:

Family is a choice. I have a really big family. From the Turners to the Collins and hundreds of folks I’ve met along the way. We’ve all DECIDED that we are family and that’s not something you’re born into. I have family that I see a few times a year when they pass through on tour, or when I tour to their towns. If I call you friend, that means you’re family.

Be more than you should be. On paper, I shouldn’t be much. Shane and I have spent hours talking about how going through foster care, and having the ups and downs that we’ve had, don’t generally translate into successful humans. I think we’re doing alright, for being wards of the state.

-Jake Bradley Turner