Cary Vincent Jackson

Now here’s a story about an old feller by the name of Cary Jackson. First thing y’oughta know about him is that he could spin a tale taller’n a redwood and funnier’n a bare foot in a cowpie. Cary weren’t much for formalities or takin himself too seriously, so we’ll skip the somber bits, but this here is a tribute to a good doc, and a good man. Kindly remove yer hats, thank ya.

Cary was born in Cambridge, England amid cobblestones and rain-soaked streets. Nary a tumbleweed in sight, but plenty of grumpy men in smart cloaks using big words. Not long after, young Cary and the Jacksons hopped back across the big pond, over a few midwestern farm towns, and landed in the in socially complicated and uncomfortably moist town of Montgomery, Alabama. The eldest of 4 children, Cary took advantage of every opportunity to prank his siblings with ever-increasing frequency and creativity.

Several cuts, scrapes, and scars later, Cary set out to make his way as a doctor. Simultaneously—and some might say more importantly—he met a woman with eyes as bright as the sun and a spirit as fierce as a thunderstorm: Ruth Hanner. Ruth and Cary formed a partnership as solid as a frontier fence post and were married in the sultry heat of August after their graduation from Birmingham-Southern College. Together, they started a family and brought up two byoot-tiful daughters, Elizabeth and Kristin.

With the two young’ins in tow, the Cary Jacksons packed up their teal green suburban and headed west to the wilds of Pocatello, Idaho. Doctor Jackson found his calling both in the hospital, and in the generous landscape. Although it was brand new territory for the Jacksons, Idaho quickly became their beloved home.

No stranger to near-death experiences, Cary led the family on various, and occasionally terrifying, adventures. Communing with the fish, becoming one with the snow, and carving out “short cuts” through the woods; never were his girls at a lack of shit to do nor tears about having to do it. His Cessna airplane, affectionately known as “Victor Victor,” was his trusty steed in the sky, carrying him up to the clouds where he truly belonged. Eventually, he gave up sketchy latrines and whatchagot stew for huckleberry pancakes and diner coffee at sunrise.

Yes indeed, life was good for Doctor J.

Cary was more than a doctor; he was the head of the Jackson clan, a figure of wisdom and strength whose absence leaves a void as vast as the prairie sky. We miss him terribly, holding onto the memories of a man who lived life by always looking ahead, and always looking up.

So as the campfire dwindles and the coyotes sing their lonesome song, we bid farewell to Cary Jackson, a true legend in a world that often forgets the greatness found in everyday lives. Ride on, Cary, into the great wide open.

Donations can be made in memory of Cary Jackson to Idaho Rivers United or Maui Strong Fund.

Thank you!