Jon Jackson started a farm outside of Milledgeville, Georgia, as a place for combat veterans, like himself, to heal from the trauma of war. Through immense challenges, the small agri-business, like Jackson and his team, is thriving.
Story by Jennifer Kornegay | Photographs by Matt Odom
“One day, I was working really hard out here, and I’d just been talking to one of our veterans who was in a dark place, and I realized how, sometimes, there’s nothing comfortable about Comfort Farms,” says Jon Jackson.
He’s walking between raised vegetable beds, stooping to pluck greedy weeds and interrupting his own epiphany by naming items on the long to-do list required to keep Comfort Farms running. Recent labor is evident in his mud-spattered boots; worn, dusty jeans; and sweat-soaked T-shirt. His thick, tatted-up forearms bear small scratches and fading scars from line-of-duty nicks received in days past. Nothing about him at the moment says “comfort.”
This observation and his own comments raise a question: Why call it “Comfort” Farms? The answer is usually a surprise. The “Comfort” half of the name doesn’t refer to the concept of relaxation, solace, or satisfaction. It’s the name of Captain Kyle A. Comfort, a fellow Army Ranger and dear friend whose broken and lifeless body Jackson carried off a helicopter after an IED killed him during an operation in Afghanistan, where the two served together in 2010.
Swatting a bee away with his baseball cap, Jackson continues. “This isn’t supposed to be about comfort, though. Nothing grows in comfort.” Still, a whole bunch of somethings are growing at Comfort Farms. As Jackson starts sharing what he’s doing on this fertile land in central Georgia — and why — his smile is a sunbeam cutting through thick clouds.
Jon Jackson checks on the progress of an eggplant. “I tell people all the time, the vet who has benefited the most from Comfort Farms is me; this place saved me. That’s how I know it can do the same for others,”
On the outskirts of Milledgeville, Comfort Farms is two things at once. It’s a working 20-acre farm, using natural and sustainable practices to grow and raise a variety of produce and livestock that end up in some of the South’s hottest restaurant kitchens as well as countless home kitchens in the surrounding community.
It’s also the program arm of the nonprofit STAG (Striving to Achieve Greatness) Vets that Jackson founded in 2016, a place where servicemen and women suffering from PTSD find a lifeline in Jackson, who created Comfort Farms to help one specific veteran. “I tell people all the time, the vet who has benefited the most from Comfort Farms is me; this place saved me. That’s how I know it can do the same for others,” he says.
After time spent at Comfort Farms, hundreds of veterans have rehabilitated and reintegrated into society; they often find their way to the farm when other avenues of support have proven inadequate. Someone hands them a phone number, and they call Jackson’s cell at 2 a.m. Or they read about Comfort Farms somewhere and simply show up at the farm’s gates. No matter how or when they arrive, they receive a welcome and then they’re put to work. “That’s what we do here,” Jackson says.
Every year in the United States, thousands of veterans grappling with depression, anxiety, and a host of other issues die by suicide; a 2019 Veterans Affairs study noted there were more than 6,000 veteran suicides every year from 2008 to 2017, averaging out to about 17 a day. Bringing this number down is Comfort Farm’s immediate goal, “stopping the hemorrhaging” as Jackson says. “We’re the place for guys who need somewhere to go right now.” At Comfort Farms, they can escape the dark thoughts crowding their minds by grounding themselves in routine and in specific tasks. “That’s something we’re used to from the military,” Jackson says.
They do what needs doing, and every day is different. They wrangle hogs, feed rabbits, collect eggs, and mend fences. They fertilize and irrigate fields, harvest crops, and run from angry geese. They get the farm’s products ready for the weekend onsite markets and for the farm’s chef clients. The demands of farm life, which are many and never-ending, have proven a powerful balm for the psychological struggles they face.
“We are not providing formal clinical treatment; what we do here is very organic,” Jackson says. “The farm can absorb some of your issues, some of that negativity, whatever it is getting to you, pushing you down.” He’s a born-again believer in the restorative power of nature and fresh air alone; add a hard day’s work done well, and he feels sure the combination can be curative. “Veterans don’t lose the need to serve the day they leave the military,” he says. “That’s why so many end up displaced, and disoriented, and depressed. But when we give them a way to be of service again, we empower them.”
The experience of each veteran is unique. Some guys drive in every day for a few weeks or a few months. Some camp on the land or roll up in an RV. Some stay for only a short time, just enough to clear their heads a bit. Sometimes, the farm is a necessary stopgap for a veteran in the VA waiting line for treatment. Comfort Farms can currently house three veterans at a time onsite (with housing for five more coming in a few months). Jackson puts others up in a hotel in town when needed. So far, the timing has worked out, and there hasn’t been enough of a crowd to make lodging a major issue. But as word of Comfort Farms continues to spread, Jackson knows that is likely to change.
Often, even a short stint provides results, affording vets clarity that’s also tinged with hope. “I had a Marine come here; his wife had just left him. He was on the edge of suicide,” Jackson says. “He’s telling me all this, and I say, ‘I hear you. I understand, but right now, I’ve got vegetables to get in, eggs to pull, and pigs to catch, so let’s get to work.’” After two labor-intense days on the farm, Jackson sat down with the man for another chat. “We worked our butts off, and after that, he had a little different perspective.”
He wants to stop vets from killing themselves, but the farm is more than an in-person suicide hotline. “Those who live are still in crisis; they’re drug addicts; they’re hopeless, and there is a lot of money being thrown at the end-stage of this,” he says. “Sober living environments and homeless shelters abound, but there’s not as much being done to address the root — programs and places that get these guys out of that space where they’ve accepted living a numb, half-life.”
Jackson gets agitated talking about the “band-aid” treatments he’s seen. “They might keep them alive, but they don’t do anything for quality of life,” he says. “We’re not like that. I don’t want them to stay here forever,” he says. “I want them rising up, learning skills, getting back to and on with a real life.”
According to Jackson, he could secure more funding if he emphasized getting vets off the streets, providing “three hots and a cot.” But that’s not the purpose of Comfort Farms. “It’s not the most popular thing to say, but for some vets who’ve sunk deep, they’re really far gone, and they’ll settle for getting their basic needs met at a shelter or something.”
Jon Jackson started STAG Vets and Comfort Farms in 2016 as an alternative to what he calls “band-aid” treatments for vets reentering society. “Veterans don’t lose the need to serve the day they leave the military,” he says. “That’s why so many end up displaced and disoriented and depressed. But when we give them a way to be of service again, we empower them.”
Today, Comfort Farms is self-sustaining, thanks in part to donations and ticket sales from annual fundraisers like its boucherie, but mostly, to the income generated by the farm’s sales — both to individuals in the community through the weekend markets and to restaurants in Atlanta and all over central Georgia. “We didn’t want to be at the mercy of donors being able to give one year not give the next,” Jackson says. “So that’s the other cool thing about using the farm and doing agri-therapy, we’re also an agribusiness where 100 percent of the proceeds support our veteran mission.” Although restaurant business slowed significantly in spring due to the pandemic, that business is bouncing back. The weekly Saturday onsite market has remained strong.
While its chef clientele and the throngs who show up for the farm’s weekend market prove that its products would draw customers on their own merit, add a mission with mass appeal, and you’ve got a strong marketing tool. “People want to help us do this, and everyone who buys some squash or sweet potatoes or gets a turkey at Thanksgiving, they are a donor,” Jackson says. “All of that money goes straight back into the farm and to aid our vets.” Who’d like a warm, fuzzy feeling along with a juicy watermelon for the price of just the fruit? Judging by Comfort Farms’ sales growth, pretty much everyone. “Our first year we raised $10,000,” Jackson says. “In year three, we did $300,000 in sales.”
The vets who want to spend time at Comfort Farms volunteer their labor, assisting Jackson with farm duties, in exchange for a safe spot to just be; plus, when they want and need it, communion with kindred spirits. Many quickly realize their contribution to the daily grind brings the most restoration. It’s why, as passionate as Jackson is about helping vets, he’s looking for a bit of passion from them, too. “We don’t have unlimited resources,” he says. “If you’re going to come here, I need you to want to help yourself because you see something within yourself, and you just need help getting there.”
The vets are expected to engage in the farm chores because they want to be of service; because they want their mental focus shifted from their own problems to the newest dilemma with the chickens hiding their eggs or a busted waterline on the tractor. No one is calling roll, checking time cards or micro-managing. “It’s a self-paced program. No one's gonna force you to be here every day,” Jackson says. “You have to want to be here. The vets who are searching for a greater purpose are here doing what they need to do. They're putting in the work, for the farm and for themselves. They're learning; they’re healing. And they're giving back to the next round of guys.”
Many vets who’ve already gotten what they needed at Comfort Farms keep coming back. They return and pour their time and sweat into the farm’s fields to mentor the vets who’ve just arrived and ensure the farm is around for the vet who’ll need it next year.
Get Jackson going, and he’s hard to stop. His mind moves at an almost frantic pace, jumping here and there, point to point, but it’s not ADD; the stream of thoughts is somehow structured. He’s stroking an ear of heirloom Sea Island White Flint corn and noting its origins as sustenance for the enslaved; he’s showing off a massive watermelon that he claims, “Ain’t done yet,” while rapid-firing obscure melon facts. Then he’s back to how Comfort Farms rescues wounded souls, most notably his own.
“I am a 100-percent disabled vet. People say, ‘Well you don’t look disabled,’ but it’s up here [he points to his head.]” A traumatic brain injury diagnosis in 2013 led to Jackson’s medical retirement from the military. He was battling PTSD and other complications related to his injury, and he had his own brush with suicidal thoughts. “When I was at my worst, I was screaming at my kids all the time; I was still at war. I treated everything like a wartime situation,” he says. “That’s not necessarily a problem if it is positive, but most times, viewing civilian life through that lens is not a positive — not for the people around you.”
He understood he needed help but couldn’t find the right fit. “I was looking for programs and found meditation and yoga, but for me and for a lot of other vets, our minds move too fast for that to help.” Spend 10 minutes with Jackson, and it’s clear his frequent self-description of “working dog” is apt. He vibrates with barely contained energy that’s got to go somewhere. “So, where does it go? I wanted — no needed — to put it into something positive,” he says.
His PTSD manifests itself in a hyper sense of alertness that has him always engaging and constantly moving. It’s an asset on the farm; Jackson can tackle the workload of two “normal” people. But in most other environments, it would likely be a liability. “If I was in an office, imagine me there, working around others not working at my crazy up-tempo. I would be frustrated all the time,” he says. “I would be thinking ‘You guys are all slugs,’ and I’m probably not going to have good work relations.”
Tending to the routines, demands, and seasons of planting and harvesting heirloom fruits and vegetables along with raising heritage breed livestock provides veterans with agri-therapy and provides Comfort Farms with a successful and sustainable business model.
He’d never farmed before, but had an interest in food and knew enough about the eons-old profession to notice parallels between farming and combat. “You have to fight to farm, not other people, but often, Mother Nature herself,” he says.
Jackson needed an outlet but a purpose too. “You go to war to fight for your country, and once that is gone, who are you? What and who do you serve now?” He believes it’s what a lot of other vets crave as well, so in Comfort Farms, he combined refuge, release, and self-rediscovery to create the solution that he longed for. Then, he put a sign out front with a photo of his buddy Kyle Comfort on it, unchained the metal gate across the dirt driveway, and he shared it.
Comfort Farms’ menagerie includes ducks, geese, rabbits, turkeys, heritage breed hogs, and a flock of overly friendly chickens. The chickens roam and cluck and follow folks moving around the farm, often invading personal space in a way that’s a bit disquieting. Jackson calls them “so weird.” Veteran Jon Abbott thinks they’re “damn funny.” “There’s one, she will dance. Puts her wings out and steps around like a little waltz,” Abbott says. “On Saturdays, when people come out here to the market, the chickens rush over to all the cars, chattering up a storm, like a noisy welcome wagon.”
Abbott served 13 years in the Army and the National Guard and saw combat in Iraq in 2008 and 2009, where he was in an aviation cavalry regiment. He suffered a broken back, neck and shoulder while in the Army and now relies on a spinal cord stimulator to function physically. It does its job; he’s handily shoveling mounds of mud from in front of a weathered wood shed while he talks about his time at the farm.
Abbott didn’t get the same relief for his less-visible injuries until he came to Comfort Farms. “We lost two guys in my regiment; we were a close-knit group, and that messed a lot of us up. I’ve got PTSD and stuff like that,” he says. His head is bowed, eyes glued on his muddy feet as he shuffles them around, not unlike the dancing chicken. “When I became disabled and had nothing to do all day, of course, I got in a little trouble,” he says. Abbott is from nearby Griffin, Georgia, and his mom had heard of Comfort Farms. She pushed her son to reach out. “I talked to Jon, and he wanted me to help out here. I grew up doing some farm stuff, so I knew I could be a help to him.”
He’s now found not only a productive way to fill his time but, as Jackson has, a renewed sense of self-worth. “Coming from the military, being of service is something in me, and here, I know something good comes of my work,” he says. “I help with the farm, the farm keeps going, and other guys after me will have this place to come to.”
With a bum back, lifting and hauling and digging and bending take their toll; but the weariness is welcome and even the soreness brings serenity. “I mean my back doesn’t love it, but I can handle it. No one is pushing us to do anything we can’t do,” Abbott says. “And with PTSD, it helps to keep your mind off of things, and yet at the same time, know you’ve got others out here who understand, who know what you’re dealing with. Jon having gone through some of the same things makes all the difference.”
Jackson is just giving what he got. He recalls how the openness of several ranking officers showed him what he tries to impress on other veterans. “These were guys I looked at as real pillars, real strengths in our special ops organization” Jackson says. “They came forward and said, ‘This is what’s going on; this is what I’ve dealt with or am dealing with.’ Them not sweeping things under the rug taught me a lot.”
The bond of common experiences is valuable and was missing from the other forms of help Abbott initially turned to. “I sure didn’t feel that from the VA,” he says. “All I got there was meds. They just want to hear your war stories and then give you the red pill or the blue pill.” Three of Abbott’s fellow veteran friends died by suicide just in the last year. “They needed a place like this,” he says. A sense of shared ownership is also therapeutic. “Jon calls this place ours, not his,” Abbott says. “It’s like being on a team again, like when we worked in units.”
And once the work pulls vets back from their crisis moment, there’s learning to do. “Whatever you have going on, there’s something at the farm that can help you with it,” Jackson says. For some, the main issue is figuring out how to stay focused; their thoughts are running wild. “When you come here, there are a billion things to do, but you have to focus on one task at a time to get it done right. You are forced to work on that one thing, then move to the next thing,” he says. “When you complete that task, it’s rewarding to see that accomplishment. And learning how to do that over and over, that is a skill that works great back in the real world too.”
Building a bridge back to life in the “real” world is the final facet of Comfort Farm’s philosophy, and Abbott is soaking up knowledge like a sponge. “I knew a good bit about farming, but I learn something new every day,” Abbott says. “Blair, the chef here, he’s teaching me about food and cooking, like how to butcher chickens.”
Blair Machado is not just a teacher; he’s a student too. While aiding veterans is the focus of Comfort Farms, Jackson has an open-door policy that extends to anyone in need. “We have had a couple chefs coming here recently seeking this work as therapy for what they’re going through,” Jackson says.
Thanks to the many restaurants that, pre-pandemic, bought Comfort Farms products, plus the farm’s annual boucherie fundraiser that draws chef participants, Jackson has gotten to know a lot of chefs, including Machado, who has helped with the boucherie for the last few years. “Jon and I instantly bonded over food and particularly, a respect for the animals,” Machado says. “I could tell he has such respect in the way he raises them; I try to show that same respect in cooking them.” His best friend killed himself after four tours in Iraq, and that loss made the farm’s veteran mission equally significant. “Once I learned about that, I decided that whatever I could do to help him, that was my new goal,” Machado says. That was four years ago; today, the tables have turned.
Jackson checking on a Motherland okra plant, the only of it’s kind, as far as he knows, growing in the United States. If saving veterans is Jackson’s priority, saving the seeds of heirloom vegetables is his obsession. “More than 90 percent of what we grow here is heirloom, and I am saving seeds to protect these great varieties, but I’m also trying to improve the crops, too,” he says. “With climate change, we’re going to need crops that can withstand that.”
In May, when COVID-19 forced him to shutter his food-event business in Charleston, S.C., Machado was devastated. “Before COVID, my team and I would go to farms like this and do demos on humanely slaughtering animals and then show people how to use the whole animal. We were doing well and had a lot of events set up,” Machado says. Then, the virus caused him to cancel all events six months out. He couldn’t hold on. Machado suffered a breakdown that hit him hard. “Depression, crazy anxiety, I had all that fun stuff,” he says. He reached out to Jackson, who offered a simple invitation: “Come here to the farm; let’s get you back to basics.”
Machado has stayed busy, pitching in on everything from building a new pig fence to helping run the weekend market. He’s also figuring out how to let go. “When I got here, Jackson was like, ‘What do you want out of this?’ I didn’t know then,” he says. “Now, I’m seeing how little control I have over things. I’m a control freak, so that’s been humbling but also freeing.”
Machado is interested in staying at the farm; he and Jackson have been talking about a possible full time position for him. Adding to the team is one spoke in an ambitious plan recently set in motion. Comfort Farms currently has no salaried positions. Everything is handled by Jackson and his volunteer labor force of vets — those seeking help plus vets who’ve either already found what they needed or are simply looking for a way to support the farm’s mission. But as the farm’s agribusiness continues to expand, so does the number of veterans seeking assistance. Both increases have pushed Jackson to start searching for a farm manager and a few assistants.
The step after that is more of a giant leap: In August, Jackson found out he received the funds to make his long-held dream of creating an ag-culinary academy a reality. Thanks to a USDA grant and support from area education partners including Central Georgia Technical College, Georgia College’s Milledgeville campus and Fort Valley University, in early 2021, vets will find even more at Comfort Farms; they’ll be able to train as Sustainable Small Farm and Agricultural Technicians onsite at the farm, where they’ll gain 17 credit hours and a certificate. “I’m super excited about this,” Jackson says. “We need more folks in this field, and I felt like we could get some of our vets trained for this. It will be open to anyone, but I’m focused on veterans.”
The certificate program will be a total immersion in the world of food production, from field to fork, covering topics like basic horticulture, sustainable farming methods, the business principles of small-scale farming, farm organization and management and more. “This will answer many calls,” Jackson says. “The first is getting more savvy farm technicians into the workplace. The second is providing the vets who come here and who figure out they’re interested in food and agriculture, a skill set that prepares them for specific job opportunities. That lets us meet that ‘finding a purpose and identity’ need in a direct way.”
More lodging is also on the agenda. “More space to let more vets stay here is key. We’re working on another house right now, and that’s to help make sure we have the space for female vets,” Jackson says. “I want to add some small cabins, maybe back there.” He’s pointing to a spot past a pile-up of napping pigs.
While the critical aid that Comfort Farms gives veterans is unlike anything else on offer, the actual agriculture happening on its acres stands out too; ask the crowds who come on Saturday mornings. “Our customers tell us all the time that when they buy our cherry tomatoes, they never make it home,” Jackson says. “Because they're eating them all in their cars, just eating them all up like candy.”
Jackson bends to pick a cardinal-red tomato hardly bigger than a fat blueberry and pops it in his mouth. The bite brings instant praise: “It really is like candy. So sweet! It’s a Matt’s wild cherry tomato. It sows itself, so we love this variety,” he says. “We’re going to save seeds from it and try to push it out and get more folks growing it.”
If saving veterans is Jackson’s priority, saving the seeds of heirloom vegetables is his obsession. “More than 90 percent of what we grow here is heirloom, and I am saving seeds to protect these great varieties, but I’m also trying to improve the crops too,” he says. “With climate change, we’re going to need crops that can withstand that.”
The farm is an outlier in more ways than one. Being owned and operated by a Black man puts Comfort Farms in an extremely small club. “Black folks make up 5 percent of the 1 percent of our population who are farmers, so think about that, we are the minority of a minority,” Jackson says. “There are a lot of reasons for that. There were times when some in authority used their power to do obviously racist things like denying Blacks the right to get loans and coming up with ways to cheat them out of their properties. I think that left a huge distaste in the African-American community for farming.”
Jackson sees that changing now, and more Black people getting into agriculture excites him. He appreciates the link back to the past, but it’s no longer a link in a chain. “Once, we were tied to the land by force, through enslavement, but today, we chose to make it a positive,” he says. “We can choose to use farming and a contribution to our food system to empower ourselves and others, to exercise freedom and take control of our health and our community’s health.” Jackson is still unpacking all the implications of what a Black farming movement means, but it has driven him to dig deeper into his own history.
Jackson’s mother immigrated to the United States from Liberia. Jackson asked a friend from Liberia to bring him some okra seeds which he calls Motherland okra to conserve and cultivate his family’s heritage
“It’s really fat, right?” The okra pod Jackson has picked off a chest-high stalk is short and wide, noticeably different from more common varieties of the vegetable. “So, you know, there's probably no fruit or veg more African than okra, right? It came here with slaves,” he says. “And this is really African. I call this Motherland okra. As far as I know, this patch here is the only of this specific kind of okra ever grown in this country.”
Like all okra, this squat specimen hails from Africa, in this case, Liberia, also the home country of Jackson’s mother, who came to the United States in the early 1970s with her parents as political refugees. “It’s cool because my grandmother and grandfather were descendants of freed slaves who’d left America after emancipation,” he says. “My kin were brought here on slave ships, went back to Africa, and then came back to America, this time searching for a new home and new hope.” Jackson still remembers the single tear sliding down his mother’s cheek when he watched her become a U.S. citizen.
When he was a kid, Jackson didn’t know much about his mother’s background, but the more he found out, the more he wanted to connect with her story. Once he had his farm, he found a tangible — and tasty — way to honor her and asked a friend he’d made during service for a favor. “He is from Liberia, so I asked him to bring me some okra seeds next time he was in the states,” Jackson says. The friend delivered, giving Jackson the Motherland seeds and allowing him to conserve and cultivate his family’s heritage.
Pastured hogs provide premium meat to high end restaurants in the region. With new funding for an ag-culinary program Jackson is starting a certificate program which will be a total immersion in the world of food production, from field to fork,
There are broader stories to be saved too, and sometimes, this saving calls for difficult conversations, but Jackson doesn’t care. “It makes a lot of people uncomfortable when you start talking about slavery and all its lingering effects,” he says. “But instead of running away from these things, I literally want to make it palatable; I want to put it on your plate.”
Jackson believes his grandparents would be proud of what he is doing now, telling their stories in a way that reaches out and resonates. “We can do it through food, and it can be super impactful because we all share this beautiful connection with food,” he says.
The concept that food and farming are effective storytelling vehicles is now foundational to his agricultural philosophy, one he’s intent on teaching to others who’d like to try the farm life. “My number 1 piece of practical advice to any new farmer is to find a niche,” he says. “For small farmers, that’s key. Find one thing that sets you apart, then drill down on that.” His prescription for finding “your thing” is more introspective.
“Look inside. What’s your cultural DNA? What’s your story? Build off that, and that’s how you’ll connect with folks who’ll want to connect with you and buy your food.”
Arming vets with the tools to do the same, to look inside, find and face their story, is a vital element of what Comfort Farms provides. But it’s a modern notion. “Talking it out” is an alien concept for veterans from wars past.
“PTSD? What the hell is that?” A guy who looks to be in his late 60s or early 70s laughs when he poses his question, but there’s no humor behind the sound or his tight smile. He’s come bearing a gift and is listening as Jackson rails against the stigma of mental health issues that plague veterans. “It’s okay to admit you feel bad,” Jackson says. “It’s not weakness; it is the very definition of strength.”
The old guy presents Jackson with a peach-hued, oblong squash called a North Georgia candy roaster, an heirloom variety that Jackson has nurtured at Comfort Farms. Jackson cradles it like a baby. “What a beaut! Thanks, man.” Jackson explains how he shared some of his seeds with his friend. “And now you’ve brought something back to me!”
The old guy nods and continues his earlier thought. “I was in Vietnam. I lost friends to suicide,” he says. “We didn’t talk about what we thought or felt; nobody did back then.”
“That’s such a shame,” Jackson says. “What a loss.” He shakes his head, then shifts gears. “Trauma leaves a mark on you,” he says. “But it isn’t always bad or doesn't have to stay that way. I tell people, ‘Look at this. Look at what we are doing on and with this farm. This is not in spite of my PTSD, it is because of it.”
It’s the same with the notion of comfort that Jackson has been battling. He believes it can be complacency in disguise. In contrast, discomfort is a disruption, and disruptions can be necessary to shake us awake. “I realized that the ‘comfort zone’ maybe isn’t where these guys need to be,” he says. “Nothing grows in comfort. We experience growth in the hardness of our life.”
Even after the perils of active duty, everyday life stateside can be a fight that’s as tough as the grim realities of war. “We do the difficult stuff overseas; we were trained for it,” Jackson says. “When we get home, we sometimes don’t have the tools to do the ‘easy’ stuff, but when we work together, we can do anything.”
In Comfort Farms, Jackson has built a space where veterans can support each other and serve again by meeting a universal and essential need, the need to eat. It’s a repeating cycle: As they serve the land and coax life from the soil, they’re bringing themselves back to life, engaging in a symbiotic relationship that ties vets to the farm itself and vets to each other. With the results, the production of healthy, sustainable food for others, they provide the comfort they seek in a script flip that challenges initial expectations.
Veterans in distress come to Comfort Farms probably pursuing the feeling its name implies. They will find help; they can find healing. But none of it will come easy. They’ll have to wrestle a new purpose from past pain. And Jackson contends they’ll have the best chance of success if they meet it head-on. “You run full speed into your fear; you run away or push your fear away, and it only gets bigger. Facing it is how you move from brokenness to wholeness, and ultimately, wellness,” he says.
He pauses to munch on a slice of the gifted candy roaster, listing its flavor notes like it’s a fine wine. While he never shies away from the suffering in his own past and stays rooted in the belief that no vet can find lasting peace without confronting theirs, it’s clear he and the farm’s efforts are fully focused on the future.
And alongside all the crops — the stalks stretching up, the vines tumbling over and reaching out — that future is growing. “This is good work,” Jackson says. Then he turns and motions toward a still-untamed swath of land out past a stand of pines. “But there’s still so much to do.”
Correction: September 9, 2020: An earlier version of this story had Kyle E. Comfort instead of Kyle A. Comfort.
Jennifer Stewart Kornegay is a freelance writer and editor living in Montgomery, Ala. Her article on boucheries for The Local Palate was featured in The Best Food Writing of 2017, and her “Friends to Strangers” article for The Bitter Southerner was a finalist for the 2017 “best food and culture essay” in Saveur's blog awards (she was honored although she doesn’t consider BS a blog!). She’s contributed to The Bitter Southerner, Garden & Gun, Southern Living, The Local Palate, thekitchn.com, travelandleisure.com, okra magazine, Paste magazine, al.com, Good Grit and more. She’s managing editor for The Montgomery Business Journal and JOY, a quarterly healthy lifestyle magazine.
Matt Odom is an award-winning editorial portrait, commercial advertising, industrial, and sports photographer from Macon, Georgia. When he's not on assignment, he's more than likely watching his favorite soccer team Arsenal FC, boxing, coaching soccer, reading, drinking hazelnut coffee, or listening to 80's music. He's also an avid comic collector who is one of a few people to hold an original copy of the 1984 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles #1 first print...COWABUNGA!
