Story
Kitchen table, 5 a.m.
I grew up in Elkins, West Virginia, in my grandmother’s kitchen, where the radio was always on and nobody was allowed to talk over the Saturday night show. She taught me three chords on a guitar that had belonged to her brother and told me the fourth one I’d have to find myself.
I moved to Nashville in 2014 with that guitar and a waitressing apron. For six years I worked the lunch shift at a meat-and-three on the east side, and I wrote in the two hours before it, at the kitchen table of a rented half-house, while the coffee went cold.
That light, the one over the sink before the sun is up, is where every song on the new record started. So that’s what I called it.
June
















































