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The man said he needed to talk to someone about a situation that had gotten out of hand.  All he asked of me was to listen to his story.  I sat quietly as he stared into his coffee cup and shared his troubling tale.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “how did all this begin?”

He said it started in a small way that seemed harmless at the time.  “I noticed my hair was thinning on top and decided to drop my part a little.  It was hardly noticeable at first, maybe a half inch or so below the norm.  As my hair kept receding, I went lower with my part.  When my part met my ear, I began wondering if I could comb my sideburns upward.  That’s when I knew I needed help.”

“Have you thought about wearing a toupee?” I asked.

“I thought about it,” he said, “but I don’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s hair.  There’s no way of knowing where that hair came from or where it’s been.”

“But couldn’t you wash it, run it through the dryer, and spray it with Lysol?” I asked.  The man acknowledged it could be done but quickly added, “It would be like wearing someone else’s underwear.  You could wash it a hundred times but that still wouldn’t be enough.”

“What about trying a new approach to your combover?” I inquired.  “You could part it from the other side, or go from back to front, or maybe give it a swirl?”

“Tell me more about the swirl,” he said.  “That’s sounds rather promising.”

I confessed that I had only seen a full swirl done successfully one time and that regretfully I had no pictures to document it.  “It was a spring day several decades ago,” I began.  “The Chamber of Commerce was hosting a Developer’s Day in Dooly County.  We had invited 20 or so influential guests who could help us with industrial recruitment.  Most of them were from Atlanta and worked in state government or for the utility companies.”

“Who was the guy with the swirl?” asked the man.

“I’ve long forgotten his name,” I said.  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t want to share it without his permission.”

“I understand,” he replied.  “Tell me more.”

“The developers were given three choices of how to spend the day.  They could fish in Dewel Lawrence’s pond that was loaded with bream, play a round of golf at Lake Blackshear, or take a boat ride on the Flint River.  I went with the group on the boat ride.  That’s where it happened.”

“That’s where what happened?” asked the man.

“That’s where the swirl broke loose,” I said.  “Buddy Pruett was driving his boat about twenty miles an hour straight into a noticeable breeze.  The fellow wasn’t wearing a cap.  Next thing you know he had two feet of hair flapping behind him like a flag.  It was fully extended like a car lot banner in a March wind.”

“Did you get tickled?” asked the man.

“I got tickled,” I said, “but I didn’t laugh.  I looked away and tried to think of sad occasions to help distract me.  As Buddy slowed the boat to pull up to the dock, the fellow ran his hands through his hair.  To my surprise it returned to its original position, a full wrap-around swirl that cleverly hid his baldness.”

“So, you think a swirl may be the answer to my dilemma?” asked the man.

“Absolutely not,” I said.  “I think a swirl is a terrible idea.  I told you that story to let you know just how bad it can get.  I believe you already know what you need to do.”

“You’re right,” said the man.  “But do you think I’ll look funny without my hair?”

“Probably,” I replied.  “Maybe you should first try to train your sideburns to grow upwards.”

He laughed and said he was going to get a haircut.  I hope he doesn’t change his mind.  Lowering his part had seemed harmless in the beginning, but he almost hit rock bottom at the top of his ears.

The late Stanley Gambrell was affectionately called “Stan the Man.”  He was the city manager for Vienna, Georgia, for 30 years.  He founded The Big Pig Jig, Georgia’s official barbeque contest, and left a trail of notable accomplishments.  It is, however, the humor and creativity he scattered along that trail that I recall most fondly.

Much of Stan’s career overlapped with my own.  I saw him on a regular basis at Bank of Dooly.  Sometimes we’d talk about business.  More often he’d just share something he knew I would enjoy.

Stan was involved in numerous pranks, both as an instigator and a recipient.  He’s the only person I know who had a cap that was kidnapped.  He met regularly for early morning coffee with men at the American Legion.  Those fellows were behind the cap caper and were privy to many others.

Frank Morgan, Jr. knew that Stan loved the Indianapolis Colts and their quarterback Peyton Manning.  On a business trip to Indiana he bought Stan a bright blue Colts’ cap with the horseshoe insignia.  Stan began wearing his lucky cap to the Legion and bragging about the success of his team.  He bragged too much and the cap mysteriously disappeared.  Ransom notes were sent picturing three masked men and a hostage cap.  Cryptic messages demanded that $20 be left with Frank at Forbes Drug Company.  Serious consequences were threatened if Stan didn’t comply.

Stan had suspicions of the culprits’ identities but no evidence.  He ran an ad in the local paper offering a reward, but eventually paid the ransom.  Two heavily disguised men on a borrowed golf cart returned the cap. They watched from a distance as Stan played the ninth hole at Lake Blackshear.  When he was too far from his cart to give chase, they drove past and threw the cap toward him.  Fred Walls, Derald Woods, and Andy Colter denied Stan’s accusations.  Frank Morgan, Jr. kept their secret well.

I believe it was Stan and Derald Woods who had a memorable outing while fishing at Lake Blackshear.  Two of their coffee club friends were nearby in another boat, watching in amazement as Stan casually pulled countless bream from a bed.  Their friends kept edging closer, hoping to get in on the action.  After about a half hour Stan showed them his technique.  He only had one very confused fish.  He had been lowering him over the side and bringing him back up.

Stan and his wife, Ann, had S&R Shell Station and Restaurant near I-75 in the 1980s.  The Stanburger, a homemade hamburger with a delicious chili topping, was their highly acclaimed specialty.  The chili recipe was, according to Stan, kept in a safety deposit box at Bank of Dooly.  He figured if Coca Cola needed to protect their prized formula, he should do the same for his.

The station’s marquee gave Stan an outlet for his creativity.  One of his most enduring slogans was, “TWO KIDS IN COLLEGE- PLEASE STOP.”  His creative talents also included song writing.  He planned to title an album, “The Road Signs of Life.”  The lead song was, “Sharp Curves and Soft Shoulders Made a Wreck Out of Me.”  Stan the Man was full of ideas.

Stan also used his creative talents in his role as city manager.  Years ago, when Cargill decided to build a poultry processing plant in Vienna, Stan told me about a problem that threatened to sidetrack the project.  A small area of wetlands had been identified as a potential site for Carolina Gopher Frogs, a federally protected species.  Cassette tape recordings of such frogs were provided to the city.  They were instructed to play the tapes on seven consecutive nights during the summer mating season.  If the frogs were in the area, their distinctive croaking response could be expected.

Rather than hiring an outside firm, Stan asked the Vienna Police Department to assist.  After receiving the required training, the VPD was scheduled to begin the week-long process later that week.  I asked Stan what would happen if the police heard the croak of a Carolina Gopher Frog.

“Three officers, spaced 20 feet apart, will each fire five rounds of buckshot toward the sound,” he said.  “They’ll wait 30 minutes then play the tape again.”

I ran out of space before I ran out of stories, but there are plenty of people around who’ll gladly share some more if you ask.  To honor Stan’s memory I have one request of the readers:  If you ever hear a Carolina Gopher Frog in Vienna, please don’t say anything about it.

Stanley Gambrell – November 25, 1939 – October 12, 2010

I once had an idea I considered brilliant for a book to be titled “Dare to be Average.” I envisioned a lighthearted parody of the motivational program “Dare to be Great.”  A Google search, however, determined my proposed title had already been taken.  I’ve not read the book by David Martin, but per the brief description his concept seems to be in sync with my own.

Jimmy Collins is a friend and a member of our men’s Sunday School class at Vienna First Baptist.  I told him about my initial excitement for such an undertaking and related the unexpected transition toward disappointment.  He suggested an alternative title, “Aspirations of Mediocrity.”  Jimmy thought my inspiration to cover a topic that had already been addressed further validated the project.

Since then I’ve learned that book titles aren’t protected by copyright, so if I want to title my book “Dare to be Average” then legally I can.  Copying a title seems like a good beginning for a book which heralds the celebration of coming in second in a three-man race.

I don’t remember ever hearing a squad of cheerleaders enthusiastically chanting, “We’re Number Two!”  That wouldn’t resonate with most crowds.  And parents never boast to their friends, “Just look at my kid!  He’s about average!”  But maybe we should rethink some of those things.

I doubt I will ever write such a book.  That would take a lot more than an average effort.   But I hope this column will encourage others to celebrate life in the middle of the pack.  I should probably clarify that a bit.  I’m not saying our goal should be to secure a spot near the middle.  We should, instead, fervently try to excel.  But there’s no shame in average results if we’ve made our best efforts.

I’m an average piano player, better than some but not as good as many others.  With a lot of practice, I might be able to move up a notch or two on the list, but I’d still fall into that group of folks with mid-level talent.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  I enjoy playing and I play well enough to help out at church.  I’ve been to a few nursing homes recently and so far no one has complained.  If I aspired to greatness on the piano, I would have become frustrated long ago and probably quit playing.

My wife enjoys sewing, but it takes her a long time to complete a detailed project.  She is an unlikely candidate to win Seamstress of the Year, but that doesn’t diminish her pleasure.  Our grandchildren don’t check to see if the stitching is perfect.  They thank her with a big hug.  Average talents can produce exceptional results.

One area, however, that is tempting to settle too easily for being average is our faith.  Our churches have plenty of empty pews to prove it.  We tend to give our best efforts to our jobs, hobbies, and hopefully our families.  But giving our best to God can be a lot more challenging.  His reward system is a long-term plan.  It doesn’t promise a paycheck at the end of each week.

Years ago, a couple came to my office at Bank of Dooly for some financial counseling.  They had, as the country song says, “too much month at the end of the money.”  When I reviewed their checking account it surprised me they faithfully tithed.  I mentioned it, not sure where the conversation was headed.  The husband said, “We write our check to the church the first of every month.  We might not have the money to tithe if we waited.”

I don’t know if I helped them with their budget, but they helped me with my perspective.  If we only give from our abundance, then we’re settling for being average.  That’s true of everything, including our time, talents, money, and attitude.  The greeting that Christians hope for one day is, “Well done thou good and faithful servant.” (Matthew 25:21) It sure would be disappointing to hear Jesus say, “It looks like you were about average.”

There are a lot of days when the average line is the one I would be asked to stand it, but that’s not what Jesus wants for any of us.  He can use average talents, but he expects our efforts to be the best.  Maybe a better title for a book would be “Dare To Be Our Best.”  I think I’ll check Google to see if it’s already been written, but that can wait until tomorrow.  I’ve already made an average effort today.

I’ve written three columns about the same country graveyard: “Finding Walter Nutt,” “Whiskey, Guns, & Horses,” and “Wallace Cemetery – An Unsolved Murder.”   Walter Nutt was killed in a tragic accident on his wedding day January 1, 1919.  The other columns are about three men who died from gunshots.  Two of those men, John and Will Joiner, were brothers to my grandfather, Jim Joiner.

The stories of John and Will’s deaths are recorded in the Joiner, Mashburn, & Allied Families History Book.  It was written by Mary Joiner Pearce, a first cousin to my father.  Her versions are the same as those told to me on visits to Wallace Cemetery with my father and Uncle Murray.  It surprised me to recently learn that the facts are quite different from what I had long believed.

When I ran the column about John Joiner’s unsolved murder, I had no idea it would lead to any answers.  It always struck me as odd that an unknown man on a horse would shoot him as he walked home with friends from a dance.  That vague account begged for an explanation.  Edward Benns, from Taylor County, gave me one.  He called and told me what he’d found on a website for Georgie Historic Newspapers, then mailed copies of three articles.

Bill Giles, who grew up near Unadilla, emailed what he discovered online, then helped me navigate my own search.  Thanks to Edward and Bill I can now give a more accurate account of some ancient family lore.

A headline in The Vienna Progress, December 22, 1898, edition read, “KILLED AT A DANCE.”   “At a country dance near Singletary’s Mill, five miles from Unadilla, Bose Turner and John Joiner, two young men in that community, became involved in a dispute which ended in a duel, the result of which Joiner is in his grave and Turner is not expected to live.  The young men, previous to the difficulty, were the best of friends and went to the dance together.  It seems that both were drinking and the trouble was provoked without cause.  They quarreled in the house about a young lady and after the dance renewed the difficulty outside the house.  Both were armed with pistols and began firing about the same time.  Joiner was shot through the heart and Turner over the heart but the ball glanced and did not pierce his vitals.”

The Tifton Gazette and The Macon Telegraph referred to John Joiner and Bose Turner as cousins.  John’s father, W. G. Joiner, was married three times, outliving his first two wives.  John’s mother was Mary Ellen Turner, which probably accounts for John and Bose’s kinship.  I don’t know why the reports of his death in multiple newspapers are so different from what was told in our family.  Maybe it was less painful for his parents to blame an unknown man rather than explain the sad truth.

John’s mother died in September of 1899, nine months after his death and seven months before the death of another of her sons on April 24, 1900.  The April 26^th edition of The Vienna Progress states that Dr. Will Joiner died from a gunshot wound inflicted a week earlier by Bud Downing.  Their trouble started at Singletary’s Store when, “Joiner spoke to Downing about some ill treatment to a horse that Downing was training for Joiner.”  Downing followed him home and they exchanged fire.  A man named J. C. Spradley held the reins of the horse and was charged as an accessory.

The October 4, 1900, edition of that same paper reports O. L. Downing returned home after fleeing to Texas, where he had lived with some cowboys.  He and Mr. Spradley were in jail at the time awaiting trial.  Mr. Spradley was acquitted.  Mr. Downing was convicted of murder and sentenced to “life on the gang.”

I’ve learned more about our family history than I ever expected.  John Joiner and Bose Turner made foolish choices.  One died from it and the other had to live with it.  Bud Downing’s sentence left his wife to raise several children without a father.  The youngest, a son born while Mr. Downing was in Texas, was blind from birth.  Will Joiner’s son never saw his father for a different reason.  He was born four months after Will died.  The death of one man affected the lives of many.

Wallace Cemetery holds ample evidence of the dangers in mixing gunpowder with alcohol.  I don’t know the location of Singletary’s Mill or Store, but if I find out I’ll travel another road.  Our family record of settling disputes that originated in that area is zero and two.  I have no interest in adding to either number.  As far as I can tell, that’s the rest of the story.

I was introduced to Bobby Ward shortly after he moved to Dooly County in 1986 to pastor Riverview Baptist Church.  He soon became my customer at Bank of Dooly as well as my friend.  He was usually wearing overalls when we visited in my office or took an occasional trip to Marise’s for fried chicken.  While pastoring a growing congregation, Bobby also drove an eighteen-wheeler.  He’s a country preacher who juggled two full time jobs and had the boundless energy to do them both well.

He was grinning mischievously the first time we met, something I quickly learned was a side effect of his incurable optimism.  When I visited him on August 29^th to talk about his diagnosis of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis), he was still sporting that same grin.  Not everyone can smile when facing Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Dr. Glass at Emory University Hospital gave Bobby and his wife, Teresa, the news on July 30, 2019.  It had been obvious for a while that something was wrong, but that doesn’t lessen the pain of learning it’s a problem that can’t be fixed.  Yet Bobby cheerfully responded with a slowly spoken question. “So, you’re saying I have about 20 years to live?”  It took Dr. Glass a moment to appreciate Bobby’s sense of humor.

It takes a lot of effort for Bobby to speak now, something that came easily before.  Most of his years in ministry were spent at two churches, first Riverview then later at Victory Baptist Church.  He preached twice on Sundays plus held Wednesday night prayer meetings.  He’s delivered thousands of sermons and officiated at innumerable special occasions.

Funerals are where I’ve mostly heard Bobby speak.  He would read from Luke 12:15, “For a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.”  Then he would remind us it’s not our possessions that are important but what we do with them.

Several times I’ve heard Bobby tell how he enjoys visiting old cemeteries.  He likes to walk among their silent guests and read inscriptions etched on weathered tombstones.  On those unhurried strolls he is reminded that the dates of our birth and death are not what’s most important.  “It’s the dash between the dates that matters,” said Bobby at countless funerals.  Then he would tenderly ask those gathered at the graveside, “What are you doing with the dash between your dates?”

It was only a few weeks ago that I mentioned Bobby in our men’s Sunday School class at First Baptist of Vienna.  I hadn’t seen him in months and didn’t know he had ALS.  I had talked about his gift for conversational witnessing.  On the job with his fellow truckers he talked about Jesus, sometimes in more detail than they wanted to hear.  Or chatting with a waitress he had met for the first time he would talk about Jesus.  Bobby has been looking for opportunities to share his faith as long as I’ve known him.

He gave me a card when I recently visited in his home.  It has the same message he’s been passing along for decades.  “If we meet and you forget me, you have lost nothing:  but if you meet JESUS CHRIST and forget Him you have lost everything.”  He knows those cards sometimes end up in the trash.  He also knows they sometimes find a place in the heart.

Bobby and Teresa were passing through Lake City, Florida years ago and stopped at a Sonny’s BBQ to eat.  A lady approached the entrance at the same time they did.  Bobby rushed to grab the door handle with the intent of having a little fun.  “I’m going to beat you inside!” he said.  The lady made no reply.  She walked past him and sat alone.

Bobby discreetly paid for the woman’s meal and left a card behind.  That was all he knew about her until five years later when she called.  He learned that her son had been buried a couple of days before their brief encounter.  She had kept Bobby’s card all that time, waiting to explain her solemn demeanor, waiting to thank him for his gesture of kindness.

ALS is a hard road to travel, but until he reaches the off-ramp Bobby plans to keep grinning and sharing what’s most important.  He’ll continue handing out cards.  And he’ll keep posing a question that he knows one day we’ll each have to answer: “What are you doing with the dash between your dates?

A pack of fleet footed runners were chasing Mike Chason in the spring of 1973, but his tenacity proved too much.  He won the gold at the intramural cross-country race at Valdosta State College.  Track coach Dave Waples was so impressed he offered Mike the first ever cross-country scholarship for VSC.

The college didn’t have a budget for a team, so a $50 stipend was an honorary gesture.  Mike declined the offer, but he appreciated Coach Waples’ encouragement.   Winning that race was as much about character as speed.  When Mike Chason starts something, he sticks with it.

Mike and I have been friends since meeting at Valdosta State College in 1970.  I asked him recently about that memorable run from yesteryear.  It was a nominal accomplishment by worldly standards, but a defining moment on a personal level.  At Lanier High School Mike ran the half mile in track.  He didn’t consider himself a distance runner when he entered the Valdosta race.

He was surprised when he passed John Trimnell, an outstanding athlete and a starter on the VSC basketball team.  As Mike went by John shouted out, “Go on and win this thing!”  Those words of encouragement helped inspire Mike to keep up a demanding pace.  It’s been a lasting reminder of the importance of encouraging others, something Mike is passionate about.

Mike has run a good race in many areas of life and he’s still going strong.  When I asked him about some of the accomplishments I knew he had attained, he first went in a different direction.  He said the most important day of his 67 years is when he accepted Christ at First Baptist Church in Lakeland, Georgia.  He was ten years old when he embraced a personal faith that he readily shares.

He’s begun countless speeches by enthusiastically saying, “It’s a great day to be alive!”  It’s not a quote from the Bible but its message is consistent with scripture.  It helps him focus on positive thinking as he cheers others along.

Mike was a sportswriter for The Valdosta Daily Times right after college, then was promoted to sports editor.  On May 15, 1979, he became the Public Relations Director for Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College.  That was his full-time job for 32 years and has been his part time position since 2012.  It’s not often you hear someone with a 40-year career in anything say, “I love this job.”  Mike gets a lot out of his work because he puts a lot into it.

Shortly after he joined the ABAC staff Mike took a Dale Carnegie course.  Ralph Edwards, owner of Tifton AM radio station WWGS, was in the class and asked Mike to help him put ABAC basketball games on the air.  When Mike told him he didn’t have any experience calling games, Mr. Edwards said, “I know you Mike.  You can do it!”  He called every play and had another 12 minutes to fill during halftimes.  That experience helped develop his speaking voice and style.  Mike fondly recalls Mr. Edwards’ encouragement and he keeps paying it forward.

He was the voice of Tift County High School football for 27 years on Friday nights and called the Valdosta State football games on Saturdays for five overlapping years.  In November he’ll begin his thirtieth year announcing VSU basketball games.  With ladies and men both now playing he’s sometimes on the air for five straight hours.  When I asked how he can manage such a demanding role, he credited his Creator.  “God’s given me the energy and enthusiasm to do a lot of things,” he said.

In May of 2019 Mike called out the names of over 400 graduating seniors from Tift County High School.  This was his thirtieth year, another record he’s still adding to.  They have one practice, during which Mike makes phonetic notations to use as a pronunciation guide.  “Some of these kids may never have their name called again from a stage,” he said.  “I do my best to get it right.”

It would take another column to list Mike’s accomplishments.  He’s set the bar high in multiple pursuits that are unlikely to ever be equaled.  But if he should hear the footsteps of those who follow him getting close, there’s no doubt he would shout out, “Go on and win this thing!  You can do it!”  Even if you’re chasing Mike Chason, he wants you to run your best race.

“It’s a great day to be alive,” he said as we ended our conversation.  Mike knows I sometimes need to be reminded of things I already know.  I’m passing it on in case you need reminding too.

Wallace Cemetery is a small country graveyard which rarely has a visitor.  An old headstone marks the spot where the young victim of an unsolved murder is buried.  I learned about it on childhood visits there with my father and Uncle Murray.  Sometimes I still wonder about the glaring absence of details.  It seems there would have been more evidence when it happened and perhaps a front-page story in a local paper.

John Larkin Joiner was born April 25, 1876, five years before his brother, Jim, who was my grandfather.  He was killed December 15, 1898, at the age of 22.  John had received his license to practice law a short time before his death.  He was single and lived, I believe, on the farm where he grew up.  It was just a short walk from the homeplace to the cemetery where he is buried.

The Joiner, Mashburn and Allied Families history book includes the sketchy details of his murder.  It’s the same story that my father told me, the same story that his father told him.

John was said to have been among a group of friends who were walking home at night from a dance.  A man on horseback, who was reported to have been drinking, approached the group and asked if John Joiner was among them.  When John stepped forward the man fired a gun and killed him.  Someone told John’s family that he had refused to dance earlier.  It’s not clear if that had anything to do with his murder, but it’s an intriguing bit of information that begs for conjecture.

The witnesses from that night in 1898 are long gone.  It’s possible though that someone is still living who heard whispered stories at family gatherings years ago.  It seems odd that no one knew the man on the horse or his motive.  And it seems the circumstances of John’s refusal to dance would have been shared with his family.  The account of John Joiner’s murder is inexplicably vague.

It’s possible the mysterious man on horseback was a character invented to cover up a quarrel that took a deadly turn.  That’s speculation on my part.  Daddy never hinted that might be the case.

If refusing to dance stirred up such heated emotions, it seems that someone would have known those involved.  It’s possible that John embarrassed a young lady by declining her request and that someone settled the score for her.  It’s more likely that he may have angered a jealous suitor of the woman, a drunken man bitterly riled that John had attracted her attention.

There’s a picture of John in our family history book that was made not long before he was killed.  He was a handsome man who was embarking on a rather prestigious career.  It’s easy to imagine how jealousy could have played a part in his murder.

I’ve always wondered who was in the group that night when they were walking home together.  I would think that John’s parents and siblings knew, yet none of that information was passed on to my father’s generation.  I wonder where the dance was held and if anyone there may have noticed something out of the ordinary.  And I wonder if the man on the horse ever confided to his family or maybe even bragged to a friend about what he had done.

It’s a long shot that mentioning an ancient unsolved murder in a weekly column will lead to any answers.  But it’s like a lot of other things in life, all we can do is the best we know how then leave it alone.  If I don’t find the answers now, I think I’ll have a chance to fill in the blanks later.

There’s an interesting headstone in Wallace Cemetery for Susan E. Carr.  She was born September 4, 1861, died September 21, 1881, and was the wife of Alexander S. Carr.  Her concrete marker tells everything that I know about her.  Its long inscription reads, “Susan we know how precious you were on this green earth but how can we envy heaven of so bright a juel.  She shoutingly exclaimed that she could see her loved ones who had gone before.”  It’s a captivating etching with a sense of promise, a modern-day reminder that death opens the door to another life.

It’s unlikely I’ll learn the rest of John Joiner’s story anytime soon, but one day I hope to get a firsthand account.  If he doesn’t want to talk about it, I may ask Susan Carr.  I’d love to hear more about her short life and final moments.  She died 17 years before John Joiner when she was only 20.  Her crumbling marker is a mere 50 feet from his.  It’s possible she knows his story too.