I rolled into Munfordville, Kentucky, drawn not by any particular beacon or happenstance of note, but rather by its miniscule place on the map. It’s barely a blip, this town of less than 1,000, where every face is a familiar story etched by time and toil. You could easily mistake the town for Mayberry, RFD, home of the beloved TV show of yesteryear, the Andy Griffth Show.

It was here that I chose to deviate from “the mission,” that being to seek out unsung community heroes and breathe life into their untold stories. But this is an adventure of my own doing; I owe nothing to a board or committee at large. So this day I chose to pencil whip the mission statement and make the Tour itself the beacon rather than any single person, at least for a single day. 

My plan was simple in conception but grand in spirit. I intended to walk into the local grocery store of this unassuming town, purchase every frozen turkey they had, and then give them away freely to the townsfolk. A gesture of pure goodwill, timed perfectly for the approaching Thanksgiving holiday.

The sun had just bent past the noon hour when I pulled into the small employee-owned IGA store. The facade was humble—faded paint and a hand-painted sign that had weathered many a season. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of fresh bread, ground coffee, and the indefinable aroma of everyday life.

I asked for the manager and waited, my fingers tapping a silent rhythm against my leg. When she finally appeared—having left me standing there for 15 minutes cooling my jets—her gaze was sharp, tinged with a skepticism that seemed out of place in such a tranquil setting.

"Good afternoon," I began, extending a hand. "My name is Brock Meeks, I’m a journalist from South Carolina and I have a project that I think you can help me with.” The manager’s demeanor stiffened noticeably; if I didn’t defuse whatever her unspoken concerns were, this conversation would be over before it began.

“I'm not here to sell you anything, and I don't want any money from you," I said quickly.

She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Alright. So what is it you want?"

I took a breath and dove right in. "I have a thousand dollars to spend, and I'd like to buy every single frozen turkey you have—and any others you can get hold of,” I said. “Then, I'd like to give them away to your customers, right here in the store."

For a moment, silence settled between us, thick as the dust that gathered in the corners of the ceiling. Her expression didn't soften. "I'll have to call headquarters," she finally said.

I blinked, surprise flickering across my face. "You need permission to sell me a thousand dollars' worth of turkeys? Isn't that what you’re in business to do? Sell to anyone that can pay?”

She shifted her weight, glancing away. "It's not that simple,” she said, and I could hear her shifting through the gears turning in her head. “We have to make sure we have enough stock for everyone, especially with Thanksgiving coming up."

I chuckled softly, though there was an edge to it; I wondered silently how much longer she was going to ride this hobby horse. "That's exactly the point,” I said. “By giving turkeys away now, we're ensuring people have them for the holiday."

She took my card, promising to get back to me the next day. But as I left the store, the sinking feeling in my gut told me I'd hit a wall. Sure enough, the next day crawled by, half gone without so much as a whisper from her. Frustration mounting, I dialed the number she had scrawled onto the back of one of my own cards. I half expected the call to go nowhere…

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she said; her tone was hollow and unapologetic. "We won't be able to fulfill your request."

I sighed, a mixture of disappointment and resignation washing over me. “Well, that’s unfortunate; perhaps I’ll just come over now and buy every single turkey you do have in the store and just be content to give those away.” And I disconnected the call before she could mount a verbal counterdefense.

By now  I was married to the idea of a turkey giveaway and my mind churned through any and all possible options. I had identified another grocery store on the outskirts of town—a Save-a-Lot, not quite your charming, family-owned local market, but not quite in the same league with WalMart either.

The building was unremarkable, but hope often hides in the most unassuming places. I decided to stroll around the place and check out their stock of frozen turkeys. Much to my delight, they had about three times the turkeys out in a freezer case as the IGA store had. And I felt the logjam on this idea begin to break up.

I tracked down Steve, the manager, a man whose weary eyes hinted at long hours and hard decisions. When hearing my unusual request, he paused for half a beat, as if double-checking his hearing. Most important, he didn't dismiss the idea. Instead, he called over Dalton—the meat guy.

Dalton’s eyes were bright with a kind of earnestness seldom found—the kind of guy that sought out solutions, not problems. "So, you want all our turkeys?" he asked, a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"That's right," I said. "Every last one. I'd like to buy them and give them away to your customers."

Dalton nodded slowly. "Well, let's see what we've got." He led the way back to the freezer in the store, and he started counting. Dalton and Steve together counted about 30 turkeys. Dalton said he had more in the big freezer in back and that he’d go count those. In all, there were a total of about 60 turkeys. We hauled them all up front, and Steve began to scan each one, and the total began to rise. The numbers added up neatly; the cost fit just under my thousand-dollar budget.

I handed Steve the cash, and he handed the change, and we were in business. Soon, a makeshift station was set up near the checkout stands, turkeys piled high. As shoppers moved through the checkout line and paid for their food, I snagged them before they left the store.

Curiosity sparked in their eyes. I began handing out turkeys, my smile met with expressions ranging from astonishment to sheer joy. And soon the store began to buzz with the news that free turkeys were being given out up front.

One rugged man, his face etched by sun and hardship, grasped my hand firmly. "Bless you, sir," he said, voice thick with emotion. Then, pulling me into a bear hug, he repeated, "Bless you. Bless you."

A woman clutching a worn purse approached hesitantly. As I offered her a turkey, tears welled in her eyes. "I thought we'd be eating out of a can for Thanksgiving," she whispered. "But not now!" Her face lit up, the afternoon sun streaming through the plate-glass windows, casting what looked like a halo around her.

Children peered from behind their mothers, eyes wide with wonder. Elderly couples nodded gratefully. "You're doing a good thing here," one man said, his weathered hand squeezing my shoulder. "Keep it up."

Not everyone was entirely pleased, of course. One woman recoiled slightly as I handed her a turkey. "Can I get a bigger one?" she asked, her tone edged with dissatisfaction.

I chuckled softly. "Sure, no problem. Will this 15-pounder do?” And she snagged it and left. 

Soon people came into the store, their eyes searching, their heads on a swivel. They were looking for a free turkey. Seems the word got out and neighbors were telling neighbors what was happening. 

As the last turkey found a home, I stood for a moment, absorbing the flurry of gratitude and the palpable lift in the store's atmosphere. The sun was dipping low, painting the sky with strokes of crimson and gold. I felt a deep sense of contentment—a fulfillment that went beyond the simple act of giving.

Driving away, I reflected on the day's events. Things hadn't gone as I'd initially planned. Obstacles had risen where I least expected them, and yet, perhaps that was just the way of things. 

The road stretched out before me, a ribbon winding through the darkening landscape. I didn't know where Josie and I would land next, but for now, I was content to have kindled a spark of hope in this small corner of the world. And that, I thought, was worth every twist and turn along the way.

OK, let’s get real…

Driving down endless stretches of asphalt, I've too much time to think. This road trip sounded like a grand idea back home—a mission to dig into people's lives, to pull out their stories, and share them with the world. But every morning, I wake up with a knot in my gut. The idea of walking up to a stranger and getting them to open up feels like stepping into the arena without any armor, exposed and unsure of what happens next.

Some days, the open road becomes a copout.. I keep the wheels rolling, watching battered mailboxes blur past, just using the road as an excuse to avoid the hard stuff. It's easier to stay behind the wheel than to step into someone else's world uninvited. Maybe I'm running from the fear of rejection…

Nights are the worst. The empty passenger seat is a constant reminder of who I'm missing. My wife's back home, and every fiber of me wants to be there with her. The bed's cold, the silence is loud, and the loneliness digs in deep. Thirty-five years together, and being apart doesn't get any easier.

Funny thing is, when I do muster up the courage, I'm pretty damn good at it. I can get people talking, make them feel seen. I step into their shoes, feel their joys and pains like they're my own. It's what I set out to do, and it should come naturally. But the fear doesn't care about that.

"Do something each day that scares you," Eleanor Roosevelt said. Well, I'm living that, whether I like it or not. It's become a daily challenge, a bitter pill I force myself to swallow. Sometimes I wonder why I put myself through it.

The raw, unfiltered humanity that you can't find sitting at home.
It's messy, uncomfortable, and sometimes it hurts, but it's real.

But then I remember the purpose behind this "Hope & Generosity Tour." It's about more than just collecting stories; it's about connecting with the heartbeat of this country. The raw, unfiltered humanity that you can't find sitting at home. It's messy, uncomfortable, and sometimes it hurts, but it's real.

There's a kind of thrill in pushing past the fear. When I finally break the ice with someone, and they start to share pieces of their life, it's like opening a vault of their untold stories waiting to be heard. Those moments make the struggle worth it. They remind me why I chose the hard road instead of the easy chair.

The adventure isn't just in the places I go; it's in the people I meet and the walls I break down—both theirs and mine. Every story is a victory over the doubt that tries to keep me silent. Each connection is a middle finger to the part of me that says I'm not cut out for this.

Every story is a victory over the doubt that tries to keep me silent.

Here’s the brutal truth: the temptation to pack it in and head home is strong. The pull of familiar comforts tugs at me every day. But I've got a mission to complete, a promise I made to myself. If I bail now, I'll carry that regret longer than any memory of discomfort.

So I keep pushing. I face the fear head-on, even when my gut churns and my mouth goes dry. The road keeps stretching out ahead, and with it, endless opportunities to prove to myself that I can do this.

At the end of the day, I know the stories I gather aren't just for others—they're for me, too. They're lessons, reminders of the resilience and generosity that people carry with them. They give me hope and make the loneliness a little more bearable.

I'll get back home eventually. I'll hold my wife again and share with her all the moments that tested me and the ones that made me glad I didn't quit. Until then, I've got miles to cover and fears to conquer. The road's calling, and I'm answering, as best I can, one step at a time.

In Dawson Springs, Kentucky—a town that barely dots the map and where everyone knows your name—Jeff Winfrey found his crucible at the epicenter of calamity, not once but twice. First came the tornado of December 2021, a monstrous beast that ripped through half the town like an unkindness of ravens. Then, as if the universe hadn't had its fill, another tornado barreled in on a late May evening earlier this year, turning what was left into kindling debris and dust.

Jeff wasn't the guy you'd peg as a community leader. A retired dentist and pastor of a small Primitive Baptist Church, he was content with the quiet rhythms of small-town life. "I'm a nobody from a nowhere place," he’ll tell you, shrugging off any notion of grandeur. But disasters have a way of drafting unlikely soldiers, and Jeff was conscripted by circumstance.

"I'm a nobody from a nowhere place," he’ll tell
you, shrugging off any notion of grandeur.

"The recovery is still ongoing," he told me in the small, neatly appointed office of his church. A church whose picture became the poster child for the horrendous tornado damage done, owing to the amount of destruction that had laid waste to its structure. A picture of the destroyed church played out on front pages of newspapers and in broadcasts across the nation. "It's still ongoing from the first one. We've still got a lot of people needing help that way." 

The first tornado had obliterated rental properties, displacing the town's most vulnerable—the elderly on fixed incomes, folks on disability scraping by on rice and beans, families who couldn't afford a mortgage even if you gift-wrapped a house for them. "People lost everything they had," Jeff explained. "That group right there has been difficult to help."

And for the first time in anyone’s memory, Dawson Springs has a homeless population that lives in corners and the shadows that only a small town can manufacture.

Jeff saw the widening cracks in the system, the people slipping through like smoke into the gray. He became a reluctant linchpin in the town's rebuilding efforts, stepping up as the pastor of a modest church that suddenly found itself a magnet for out-of-state donations. "Money started pouring into this church," he said. "People were calling, and they wanted to help our town or help our church. They didn't want to give to big-name groups” because they were concerned the money would be siphoned off to pay organizational administrative costs, Jeff said. “I want my money to go help somebody,” was a refrain he heard time and time again.

With a mix of humility and a no-nonsense sense
of duty, Jeff took on the role of steward.

With a mix of humility and a no-nonsense sense of duty, Jeff took on the role of steward for these unexpected funds. "When I spend this money, I would think that you'd be happy if you were standing right beside me," he promised the donors. "And I know the Lord's standing beside me.” 

It was a learning process tempered by adversity. “I've blown it,” he says. “I've messed up sometimes. I've been conned."

But setbacks didn't slow him down. Jeff plunged into the labyrinth of committees, board meetings, and strategy sessions. He teamed up with Habitat for Humanity, Catholic Charities, and any outfit willing to roll up their sleeves. "We worked together well," he said of these alliances. "And that was a good experience. Has been, still."

The weight on his shoulders was palpable. "You do carry a lot of weight sometimes it feels like," he said. "The load gets sort of heavy when you hear a lot of problems." He recounted standing amid the wreckage of obliterated homes, fearing the worst for friends and neighbors. "I just stood there and wept," he said. "Those kind of memories just... I'll never lose that."

Public opinion is a fickle beast, and Jeff knew it all too well. "People are people," he said. "You've got some that's got their hand out that don't need it, and you've got others that need more than what we've got." He faced his share of armchair critics and social media snipers. "I've had my name plastered on Facebook because I'm on these committees," he said. "You can do nothing, and nobody will ever say anything bad about you. You can try to do something and take the risk... then somebody else is mad at you 'cause you didn't build them [a house]."

"If we're going to err, let's err on the side of love."

Still, his guiding principle remains unshaken. "If we're going to err, let's err on the side of love," he says. He knew he couldn't please everyone, but that was never the mission. The mission was to keep moving, to keep helping, even when the road was littered with potholes and second-guessing.

One Christmas morning, pockets stuffed with rolled-up hundred-dollar bills in $500 bundles from the donated cash, Jeff walked the ravaged streets. He approached a lifelong acquaintance who was sifting through the debris that used to be his home. "This isn't going to get back what you lost, but Merry Christmas," Jeff told him, handing over the money. "I had guys twice my size pick me up off the ground and tears just flowing off their face," he said. In that moment, a stack of bills became more than just money; it was a lifeline, a glimmer of hope amid the rubble.

Jeff doesn't see himself as a hero—far from it. "I've been told, ‘you're not the pastor of this church; you're Dawson Springs' pastor,’" he said, almost sheepishly. "I'm saying that, and I feel real small by saying that because I'm not supposed to be bragging." He's acutely aware of his own imperfections and the limitations that come with being human. "You can't change them," he said about the naysayers and opportunists. 

He didn't ask to be the face of Dawson Springs, but when
the role landed on his doorstep, he also didn't flinch.

But he keeps at it. He shows up to every meeting, signs up for every committee that needs a hand, and visits every home where a comforting word might make a difference. He's stared down the barrel of nature's fury and witnessed the darker angels of human nature, yet he refuses to back down.

In the grand tapestry of small-town America, where stories like Jeff's often go untold, he stands as a testament to quiet resilience. He didn't ask to be the face of Dawson Springs, but when the role landed on his doorstep, he also didn't flinch. By stepping up, he offers a blueprint of what can happen when a community chooses unity over division, action over apathy.

At the end of the day, Jeff's journey isn't about accolades or recognition. It's about doing the work that needs to be done, even when it's thankless, even when it's hard. And in that relentless commitment, he captures the essence of a town battered by storms but unbroken in spirit.