IN THIS ISSUE · SPRING 2026 — Read the cover story
The scent of fresh-baked sourdough drifts through the front of the store, mingling with the hum of quiet conversation and the clink of mason jars as neighbors linger just a little longer than they meant to. A ten-year-old works the register with confidence beyond her years. In the back, someone asks about tinctures, while near the coolers, two friends lean close, their talk turning unexpectedly personal. This isn’t just a market. It’s a ministry of sorts — a place where people come for more than groceries.
For Matthew and Kelly Hill, the story of Hill Hollow Farm Market didn’t begin in Overton County, but out west in Ventura County, California. They dreamed of something simpler — a life where their days weren’t swallowed by the rat race and their children could grow up rooted in faith, family, and community. They knew Tennessee was calling, so they rented a place in Spring Hill and started exploring. When they discovered Dale Hollow Lake, they were hooked. The beauty drew them in, but it was the people who convinced them to stay.
“We went to Celina, Jamestown, other towns,” Matthew said. “Tennessee has a lot of really nice people — but this area is exceptional.” About ten years ago, they walked the square in Livingston and just knew. The town felt alive in a quiet, old-fashioned way — welcoming, genuine, and full of promise. “We wanted to be part of this community,” Kelly said simply. They found their farm on Zillow and never looked at another one.
The Hills started small, growing food mostly for themselves and their three daughters — Emmalyn, Dorothy, and Loretta. Before long, Kelly’s mom, Adriane Collins, joined them, moving east to help on the farm and later at the Farmers Market. What began as a way to feed their own family soon grew into something bigger. Each year they planted a little more, learned a little more, and watched their tables at the Livingston Farmers Market fill with local faces and early morning laughter. But each time the market season ended, they saw the same thing: hardworking farmers and makers with nowhere to sell year-round.
“There had to be more,” Kelly said. So they started praying, looking, and dreaming — for three years — until they walked into a building that just felt right. They tried to negotiate, then walked away, thinking it wasn’t meant to be. But something heavy sat on Matthew’s heart, and one day, he simply said, “God told me to trust.” He called Kelly. “Let’s buy it.” The way he tells it still gives folks chills.
Matthew spent the next year knee-deep in sawdust and sweat — painting walls, building shelves, hammering away at their dream. Kelly and her mom worked on something wholly different: finding local vendors, building relationships, and shaping the vision for what the market would become. “It was two completely separate tasks,” Kelly laughed. “He had no idea what I was doing, and I had no idea what he was doing.”
When the paint dried, products started arriving. The shelves filled slowly, and neighbors began stopping by with baskets of vegetables and homemade jams. “One of my favorite things that first summer,” Matthew said, “was when people came in saying, ‘I’ve grown all this corn and don’t know what to do with it.’ We’d tell them, ‘Bring it in. We’ll sell it for you.’” They opened the doors in the summer of 2024 with 35 vendors. Today, they carry products from 76 — and counting.
Kelly has a simple philosophy: every ingredient on the shelf has been carefully vetted so customers don’t have to spend an hour reading labels. That mindset started when she was pregnant years ago, learning to be intentional about what she was feeding her family. “I just wanted better options,” she said. “And if I can help someone else find that too, then that matters.”
Word spread. Doctors began sending patients. The health department recommended their parasite cleanse. Gynecologists referred women looking for beef organ supplements. Families came in seeking help during cancer treatments. And more than once a week, someone ends up in tears — not from sadness alone, but from relief, gratitude, and hope. “Food is a big part of changing people’s lives,” Matthew said. Kelly paused. “The hardest part is when families stop coming,” she said quietly, “and you realize their battle is over. You get to know them. You can’t help but care.”
Then there’s Cecil — the man who grew their garlic. When he passed away, the Hills put out a donation jar for his wife, and within days, the community overflowed with generosity. His last basket of garlic sat on the shelf, and as each bulb sold, it felt like saying goodbye. “It’s a tight-knit group,” Matthew said. “People come in almost every day.”
That closeness goes both ways. One winter, while Matthew was away caring for his dying father, Kelly climbed up into the hayloft to throw hay for the sheep and threw out her back. She couldn’t get down — and the bread in the oven was ready to burn. Laughing now, Adrienne remembers getting the call: “She said, ‘Mom, I’m stuck. And the bread’s ready.’” They called the neighbors, and before long, help was there. “That’s why we love it here,” Kelly said. “That kindness.” Adrienne nodded, smiling. “Livingston reminds me of where I grew up in the ’50s,” she said. “People know their neighbors. It’s the kind of place you appreciate more the longer you’re here.”
Upstairs, above the market, sits a homeschool classroom. During conversations downstairs, one of the girls will often quietly slip down to lend a hand. Emmeline runs the register. Dorothy organizes inventory. Loretta grins and says her favorite part is “meeting people.” They’d all work all day if their parents let them. Adrienne’s still there most days, too. Once, Kelly announced online that her mom would take her birthday off. Not a single customer came in that day — but the next day, the place was packed with people waiting to tell Adrienne happy birthday. Kelly just shook her head, laughing. “I’m never telling people she’s off
When asked what they’re most proud of, Kelly doesn’t hesitate. “Trust,” she said. Trust that what’s on the shelves is safe. Trust that it’s been cared for. Trust that someone’s looking out for you. Matthew added, “Hearing someone say thank you — that never gets old.”
Running a business is hard — and some days, Kelly admits, she wants to cry from sheer exhaustion. But somehow, when she’s at her lowest, someone always walks through the door and says exactly what she needs to hear. “It’s a calling,” Matthew said. “That’s where the drive comes from.”
The future promises even more life at Hill Hollow Farm Market. The Hills are in the planning stages of planting a you-pick flower farm and preparing the building out back for a classroom or indoor seating for afood truck along with plans for a gazebo and small playground. They would love for families to stay a while — shop, eat lunch, pick flowers, and let the kids play. Because at Hill Hollow Farm Market, the product may be produce, but the byproduct is community. And that’s the heart behind it all.
For more information on Hill Hollow, follow them on Facebook.
by Shannon Cantrell, photos by Miranda Nowell
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