Welcome to Joiner's Corner

I don’t particularly care for chickens.  I appreciate their role in the food chain but find nothing endearing about their personality.  Our troubled relationship goes back to my first paying job of gathering eggs.  I was probably six or seven years old and got paid a penny per egg.

We had a large fenced area about 50 feet from our back door.  Our white-feathered laying hens had plenty of room to frolic and hunt grasshoppers and such.  A small opening at ground level provided the chickens access to a wooden building we called the coop. The coop was about twenty feet long and maybe ten feet wide.

Inside the coop was a row of straw lined nests for the hens to lay their eggs in, and a long wooden perch that was a few feet off the ground.  It was a spacious and secure fortress, almost impenetrable to potential invaders like the red fox who lived in the nearby woods.

The hens had access to an unlimited supply of ground corn that Daddy bought from Giles & Hodge Purina Store.  We poured the corn into the top of the round metal feeder in the coop and the chickens pecked it out from the bottom.  All that was asked in return was one egg per day.

By the time I began gathering eggs our rooster was gone.  He had attacked my brother Jimmy and learned too late the consequences of breaching unpardonable sin.  Most of the time the hens cooperated with my egg collections.  Occasionally, however, we would have a setting hen that was difficult.  They were called setting hens because they would set themselves on the eggs to incubate them.  Even though the rooster was long gone, their maternal instinct drove them to protect the nest.

It was my ongoing battle with setting hens that caused my relationship with all poultry to go afoul.  I was about eye level with their nest.  The setting hens would stare crazily at me and refuse to budge.  My solution for that was to pry them off the eggs with a stick.  That process on one occasion led to the death of a setting hen, a death which I still maintain was in self-defense.

But lately I’ve had to reconsider my attitude about chickens.  Maybe I’ve been a bit narrow minded in my thinking.  Maybe I’ve been influenced by a somewhat errant childhood perception.

Groves and Mary Jo Jeter from Byromville have a son named Walt who lives in Charleston, South Carolina.  When Hurricane Florence was heading that way in September of 2018, Walt and his family drove to Byromville to stay until the danger passed.

Walt, Lorraine, and their three children, Luke, Isa, and Ivey came to Georgia.  They also brought three dogs, two roosters, and two hens along.  I understood bringing the dogs, but the chickens seemed a bit of a stretch, even for a family of devoted nature lovers.

Their first chickens had come by way of The Easter Bunny in 2016.  The bunny brought a biddy for each of the children plus one for their mother.  They named them of course and provided good care and companionship.  Mary Jo confesses she is not a “chicken holding type of person” but says she could not resist when a granddaughter said, “Here, JoJo!  Hold Cora Belle!  Isn’t she sweet?”

The original cast members have changed some, but their flock still numbered four when the Jeter family left South Carolina.  Luna, Harbor, Louise, and Rooster Boy made the trip from Charleston to Byromville.  The stress of travel was too much for Louise, but the other three have been relocated to the home of a friend.  The Jeter children all went to help deliver the chickens and to say their goodbyes.  They left their fowl friends in Georgia but retained unlimited visitation rights.

I would have probably turned those chickens loose in South Carolina and told the kids they should be fine.  But Walt and Lorraine made the extra effort to do the right thing.  I don’t know as it mattered a lot to the chickens, but it mattered to the children.  Three children on James Island will long remember their unusual trip to Georgia.  They’ve been given a wonderful lesson in parenting.  That may not be obvious to them now, but I expect it will serve them well somewhere down the road.

I doubt that I’ll ever want a chicken for a pet, but I’ll admit that my attitude is mellowing a bit.  Maybe one day soon I’ll bring a chicken home for dinner.  That seems like a really good place to start.

I admire people who have good posture, people who carry themselves erectly with no hint of slouching. For some folks it seems to come naturally. Others of us have to work at it. I’ve known a lot of people with excellent posture, but none more perfect than Mrs. Sadie Belle Collins.

Mrs. Collins was my English teacher at Unadilla High School for all four years, plus she taught me two years of Spanish. Her manner was stately but pleasant, despite being surrounded by students whose attention often fell short of her rigorous expectations. She had a low tolerance for misbehavior.

I heard a former student years ago make a comment that has stuck with me. He said, “I couldn’t stand that woman in the ninth grade, but I loved her by the twelfth.” He went on to explain that he never was one of her better students, but that he came to respect what she was trying to do. She gave her best to those in her classroom, and she demanded their best in return.

I began attending Valdosta State College in the fall of 1970. I was enrolled in English 101, an introductory course for freshman. I think it was the first day of class when Dr. Trent Busch gave us a surprise assignment. He put three topics on the board to choose from and told us to start writing. I picked the elementary sounding title of “My Life as a Frog.” I wrote a silly story about a frog landing in an ant bed then saving himself by jumping in a pond.

The next day during class Dr. Busch commented on our papers. Before he returned them he read mine aloud, telling the class that it was a good example of what he was looking for. My tale of the careless frog was not riveting by any means. But it was organized, and the grammar didn’t warrant significant red marks. His praise made me more appreciative of Mrs. Collins’ sometimes stern approach to teaching. The discipline she dispensed wasn’t as much for her benefit as for her students.

Her authority was not confined to the classroom. She would stand in the hall as classes changed and keep a watchful eye for improper conduct. I don’t remember her ever giving a paddling or sending anyone to the office. I’m sure she did both during her long career, but it must have been a rare thing. What I remember is her slight smile as she assertively told students what she expected of them.

Mrs. Collins was born in Texas. I don’t know if that played any role in her fluent command of Spanish, but she could roll her R’s with machine gun speed. I never got the hang of rolling my R’s nor of the Spanish language. There was a time when I could read it pretty well and maybe write something simple, but I had no aptitude for the spoken word.

She sought to inspire us by hosting Spanish Club suppers in her home. A jovial atmosphere complimented her yellow rice and enchiladas. It didn’t occur to me at the time that she was going well beyond what was required. She was trying to help us enjoy learning and to appreciate another culture.

After two years of Spanish the only bit of conversation I knew was what was printed inside the cover of our books. It was a short greeting, typical of two people who might meet on the street and inquire about each other. I saw that conversation in print so many times that it stuck with me.

It was more than ten years after my high school graduation before I saw Mrs. Collins again. I was working at Bank of Dooly in Vienna when she unexpectedly walked into our lobby.

“Como esta usted?” she asked. I quickly responded by following the script. “Muy bien, gracias. Y usted?” She gripped my hand firmly and showed a tender side that was no longer disguised by her classroom demeanor. “Neil,” she said, “You don’t know how much good it does a teacher’s heart to know that someone still remembers.” I hugged her for probably the first time ever, and I silently prayed, “God, please don’t let her ask me anything else in Spanish.”

Her posture was as perfect as anyone I’ve ever known. Looking back these many years later, I think I know why. I think she walked that way, because she thought that way. It’s not always so obvious, but at some point our walk will reflect our thoughts.

Mrs. Collins stood tall in the halls of Unadilla High. In the halls of my memory she stands with perfect posture.

SADIE BELLE HANKAMER COLLINS – December 12, 1908 – May 13, 1997. “Descanse en paz.”

Larry Walker of Perry recently introduced me to a longtime friend of his, Mr. Foster Rhodes.  Foster’s name is already familiar well beyond his home area of Houston County.  Hundreds of thousands of people have visited or passed by the Foster Rhodes Beef & Dairy Arena at the Georgia National Fairgrounds.  Many others know him through the Walker-Rhodes tractor dealership where he’s been hanging his hat since 1974.

But Larry didn’t invite me to Perry to discuss the decades that Foster has spent in business, or to talk about his commendable history of community service.  I went to Perry to hear a story that Larry knew I would enjoy, and to meet the man who tells it much better than I can write it.  If you see Foster, I don’t think he would mind giving you a first-hand account.

I published a recent column titled “A Flat Tire Memory.”  It was about a livestock show from my high school days in the late 1960’s.  Larry read it and was reminded of a story from Foster’s early career with the Extension Service of the University of Georgia.  After working a year or so in Houston County and then Soperton, Foster spent five years in Athens as the Extension’s beef cattle expert.  That was in the early 1970’s, a time when almost every county had some sort of fair or livestock show.  Foster judged cattle all over Georgia, something he had the ability to do with confidence.

The challenging part of judging often followed the main event.  There would be competitions for such things as chickens, pigeons, ducks, and rabbits.  The Extension specialists usually had no qualifications to judge these locally flavored contests, but their help was heavily solicited.  They were basically given only one option, which was to say yes.

Foster’s boss at U.G.A. advised his staff to leave as soon as the judging for their specialty was over.  He said nothing good was likely to happen after that.  His advice was sound but almost impossible to follow.  Foster did his share of judging critters that were far outside his realm of expertise, but he attributes his favorite story to a fellow worker and friend.

The late Bob McGuire was the swine specialist with the Extension Service during Foster’s tenure.  Bob told Foster about a trip he made somewhere in the north Georgia mountains for a county fair hog show.  He finished the judging, presented the awards, and thought he was about to leave for home.  He was, instead, invited to judge the Adult Division Coon Hound Show.

Bob told the local county agent that he didn’t know anything about coon hounds and absolutely could not judge the contest.  The county agent, however, prevailed.  Bob was soon joined in the show ring by seven weathered mountain men in overalls, each of them spitting tobacco and holding on to their best coon hound.  Bob quickly realized that a frivolous approach was not suitable for judging those dogs.

“Get me a yardstick!” Bob told the county agent.  Bob slapped that stick forcefully on the leg of his denim jeans as he did a visual assessment of those dogs.  He stared at those coon hounds with the same intensity as he had earlier focused on the swine.

Then he gave directions to those men, commanding their attention with his emphatically delivered instructions.  “Get him up!  Turn him sideways!  Straighten his head!”  After he had established what was expected, he turned to his trusty yardstick.  He pulled on the ears of each hound, measured them, then wrote it on a pad as he called out the results.  “Seven and one-half inches on the left,” he would say loudly, then nod his head or put his hand on his chin.  “Seven and a quarter on the right.”

Measuring their ears was followed by their tails.  “Twenty-two inches,” he would shout out.  The inflections in his voice and expressions on his face ranged unpredictably between admiration and concern.  The crowd’s respect for the judge’s prowess grew with each turn of the yardstick.

After what he deemed a reasonable time for judging a coon hound contest, Bob heartily congratulated the winner.  He headed again toward the exit gate, but one of the mountain men stepped into his path.  The man spit his tobacco, then looked Bob squarely in the eyes.  He said, “I’ve never known it to be done like that sonny, but it’s the best judging I’ve ever seen.”

Sometimes we don’t know what we’re capable of until we’re pushed into the show ring.  A confident approach can lend credibility to our efforts.  Bob McGuire disguised some subtle lessons with humor.  Those lessons are worth remembering.  We never know when our time in the ring may come.

A longtime friend of mine, Mike Chason, taught his grandson how to ride a bicycle in June of this year.  In July they took the training wheels off and practiced on an empty tennis court.  Brody found his confidence amid his grandfather’s encouraging cheers to, “Keep pedaling.”  Now they ride together often.  On Labor Day they spent the morning exploring the bike trails of St. Simons Island.  But Mike and Brody weren’t just riding their bikes.  They were in Mike’s words, “making memories.”

Mike suggested that “Keep Pedaling” might be a good title for a column.  I didn’t know where it would lead, but his idea had instant appeal.  It’s a compelling little phrase that kept resurfacing in my thoughts.  Part of its charm is found in contemplating how such a simple expression can address complicated situations.  “Keep Pedaling” needs no explanation, but it seems deserving of its own story.

When I learned to ride a bicycle, our family lived on a sandy dirt road surrounded by Dooly County farm land.  The only thing I remember about my first bike is that it had been hand painted bright red.  I don’t know if the previous owner did that or if Daddy tried to make it look a little better.  The brush painted lines were visible, so it clearly wasn’t a factory job.

I don’t recall the actual process of learning how to ride.  Daddy, or Mama, or my brother Jimmy probably taught me how.  I don’t remember anyone shouting out for me to keep pedaling, but it’s almost a certainty that came with the coaching.  Keep pedaling is a line that many of us have heard or said at some point.  It’s what keeps us upright and moving forward.  It’s what helps us navigate the sandy spots on roads where the tires sink into the soft dirt.  It’s what helps us get up the steep hills, like the one just north of Joiner’s Store.

A cold Coca Cola never tasted better than after a July trip up that hill.  Even after the county paved the road with gravel, it still took a lot of effort to reach the store.  The downhill trip coasting toward Mr. Tom Sangster’s farm was splendid.  The ride back up to the store, however, was a challenge.  I understood it was a necessary part of the journey, that the fleeting thrill of downhill rides came with a price.  It’s a lesson that I’ve never forgotten, but have at times admittedly ignored.

Pedaling up that hill would sometimes get the best of me.  I’d hop off my bike and push it for a while.  Then I would get back on and pedal some more.  I knew it was best to keep pedaling but taking a break from the tiring routine was sometimes too tempting.

Maybe someone already sells t-shirts, bumper stickers, or cards featuring a “Keep Pedaling” theme.  If not, it sure seems like a good idea.  Most of us have been on some hills that seemed unbearably steep.  Or we’ve traveled sandy roads where it took standing up on the pedals to keep going.  Perhaps our bikes have even tipped over at times because we pedaled too slowly.

Alyssa Wehunt is a sweet little girl who lives a few miles outside of Vienna.  She’ll be six on December 18th.  She’s spent about half of her young life courageously dealing with Metastatic Pilocytic Astrocytoma.  She has inoperable tumors on her brain and spine.  Since her January 2016 diagnosis Alyssa has had countless hospital stays.  She’s had chemotherapy, radiation, and all sorts of unpleasant procedures.  She’s had pain, and nausea, and felt the sting of too many needles.  But she keeps smiling and bravely dealing with her illness one day at a time.

Alyssa loves getting mail.  She finds encouragement in knowing that others are thinking about her and praying for her.  Cards won’t cure Alyssa’s illness, but the medicine’s not quite as bitter when you know people care.  It’s inspiring to have cheerleaders lining the sides of the road.

I’m inviting all my readers to be cheerleaders for Alyssa.  I’m asking you to take a few minutes and write her a note.  And somewhere in your message tell her to, “Keep Pedaling.”  The hills don’t seem nearly as steep nor the sand quite as deep when others are cheering us on.

I think Mike Chason had a really good idea for a column title.  I hope you feel that way too.  You can write to Alyssa Wehunt at 677 Pleasant Valley Road, Vienna, GA  31092.

Keep pedaling, Alyssa.  Keep pedaling.  Always, always, always, keep pedaling.

In the spring of 1974 I was close to graduating from Valdosta State College and only six months away from a December wedding.  I figured it might be a good idea to get a job.

The economy wasn’t great but there were some companies that came on campus to recruit employees.  Richard Gaddy drove over from Tallahassee to represent Burroughs Corporation.  It was a national company whose main product was computers.

Richard was manager of the sales team of eight or ten guys.  That was in the days before someone discovered that women could sell too.  The salary was more than most companies paid, and I could tell that Richard would be a great boss.  A few weeks later I was renting an apartment at 2600 Miccosukee Road and had my own business cards.

Burroughs had a great training program that lasted almost a year.  It included two weeks in Philadelphia, four weeks in Tampa, then another two weeks in Philadelphia.  The intense classroom training was interspersed between periods of going on calls with Richard and other veteran salesmen like Bob Abernathy.

When I gave my final sales presentation in Philadelphia, I drew hearty applause from the 20 or so young men in the room.  Back in the real world in Tallahassee, however, I was terrible.  I’ve often told people that my best line was, “I don’t guess y’all want to buy anything today do you?”  That wasn’t something that I actually said, but it’s a pretty good representation of my approach.

I was 22 years old and making cold calls on crusty old guys who were often in their fifties or beyond.  None of them were enthusiastic about some kid explaining how a computer could help them cut back on staff.  The staff weren’t always real excited about that either.  The company training on how to overcome objections was seldom used on my calls.  When the prospect said “No!” it was like a fire drill at school.  I headed to the nearest exit.

Eighteen months after signing on I reluctantly told Richard I was leaving.  Burroughs had invested a lot of time and money in me, and I felt bad about that.  Richard suggested that I give it a little longer, but the shoes of a computer salesman were killing my feet.  I knew they would never fit.

My cousin, Rooney Bowen, asked me about working with him at his Chevy dealership in Vienna.  Rooney’s close friend, A. C. Daniels, worked there also.  Between the two of them I got some classic on-the-job sales training.  I don’t remember them ever giving me any specific pointers, but I paid close attention to what they did.

We traded in an old car that had barely escaped the junkyard.  We priced it at almost nothing, maybe $300 or so.  A fellow looked it over, cranked it up, and gave it a test ride.  When he came back he asked Rooney if it used any oil.  Rooney said, “I don’t know, but if it does it’s got a good place to put it in.”  That response remains one of the best examples of overcoming objections that I’ve ever heard.

A.C. was a master of conversational selling. He sold life insurance on the side.  One day a few men were standing around the shop visiting when A. C. started excitedly telling them about a new insurance product.  One of the fellows asked A. C. if he could help him get a policy.  A. C. told him that he would be glad to try, then he walked him to his office.  A. C. had presented his product in such a way the customer was asking if he could buy it.  That doesn’t happen often.

After five years of selling Chevrolets, I spent the next 35 years in banking.  That’s where I found the shoes that fit me best.  I found my sweet spot in selling people on the idea of trusting us with their finances, then trying to make sure we kept their trust.

Somewhere along the line I discovered a valuable lesson.  I learned that even when the shoes we are wearing are a bit uncomfortable, they can still help us to get farther down the road.  Burroughs wasn’t the place I needed to be, but it was a good stop on the trail that took me there.

I don’t know as I ever thanked Richard for putting his confidence in me, or for his kind understanding when I needed it at the end.  So, thank you Richard for everything.  I wanted to send you a nice gift certificate, but the bank says it’s best not to write checks without having funds in the account.   I’m still not a good enough salesman to know how to overcome that kind of objection.

I’ve never been a very good salesman.  The evidence goes all the way back to childhood.

At some point during my grammar school days I decided I wanted a guitar.  I couldn’t play but Chet Atkins made it look easy.  I found a flattop Silvertone in the Sears & Roebuck Catalog that looked mighty fine in the picture.  The only thing standing between me and that guitar was a lack of funds.

My mother suggested that I sell Christmas cards.  She had seen an ad explaining that you could make good money by providing this much appreciated service to your family and friends.  It sounded like a failproof plan.

We ordered a kit and hit the road with our sample cards.  Mama did the driving and I was to handle the sales.  That strategy looked good on paper, but every time we stopped at a house I would suddenly have a tinge of lockjaw.  I didn’t like the idea of putting folks on the spot to buy something they might not want.  Mama did about 95 percent of the selling.  I just wrote down the names, put their checks in the envelope, and said thank you.

Mrs. Marie Taylor placed a generous order.  That’s the only home that I still clearly remember going to.  Daddy ginned his cotton with her husband, Mr. Ernest, so maybe that influenced her purchase.  Or maybe she needed more cards than most folks.  I left there with enough money to buy that guitar and with the welcome relief that my career in Christmas card sales was winding down.

My next venture in sales came in high school.  I joined the FFA String Band in the ninth grade.  The other four guys were two years ahead of me.  The band needed some money to buy some matching outfits.  Our fundraising project was to sell ads that would be printed on the back of the Unadilla Blue Devil seat cushions.  The ads would pay for the cushions which we could then sell for our profit.

I went with Michael Sullivan to Hawkinsville, knowing that he would take the lead on the calls.  I don’t know who all we visited, but the one place that I remember was Clark Funeral Home.  That’s where we got sprinkled.

As we headed toward the front door their irrigation system came on.  It was probably on a timer, but I always wondered if they saw us coming and decided to have a bit of fun.  Funeral home folks don’t get to liven things up very often.

Michael, Jerry McIntyre, Charles Jones, and Jerry Pickard sold enough ads and cushions that we took a trip to Ferguson’s Men’s Store in Cordele.  We left there with everything from cowboy boots to string ties.  With our black pants and white shirts, we were a stage-ready band.  Not long afterward we played on a flatbed trailer for the grand opening of a Purina Store.  They gave us some red and white checked shirts, further expanding our already impressive wardrobe.

With a sketchy history in sales, it came as quite a surprise to my parents when I decided to head to Texas the summer of 1971 after my freshman year at college.  At Valdosta State College I became friends with Dick Kitchens, a Byromville native who was a few years older than me.  He had gone to Texas the summer before and sold Bibles going door to door.  He had made enough money to get my attention as well as that of my good buddy Don Giles.  Selling Bibles in Texas sounded like an adventure that was custom made for two young and world-ready fortune seekers.

I came home one weekend and told my folks about our plans to head west.  Daddy said that I was welcome to go to Texas, but he reminded me that I never did seem to enjoy sales.  He said it was fine to spend the summer selling Bibles, but that he didn’t want to get a call asking for money for a bus ticket home.  That sound advice came with a smile and with the kindness of a loving father.  Don and I made the wise decision to stay in Georgia and work at Bluebird Body Company in Fort Valley.

Given that background, it was quite unexpected that my first job out of college would be in sales.  With Burroughs Corporation in Tallahassee, Florida, I developed my go-to line, “I don’t guess y’all want to buy anything today, do you?”  It was a highly efficient time management technique.  I set a company record for prospect declinations per hour.  Next week I’ll tell you more about how I did that.

I published a column in January of 2018 titled “In Search of Walter Nutt.”  That story evolved from a visit to Wallace Cemetery, an almost forgotten burial place of several families including my own.  While doing research for that story, I found some information in the Dooly County Library that was compiled in 2006 by Davine V. Campbell and Helen S. Hudson.

There were several items in their documentation of cemeteries that I found interesting.  One that particularly attracted my attention was about James M. Lindsey, who they listed as being buried at Wallace.  I’ve not found a marker for him, but there’s a headstone for James L. M. Lindsey, a child who died March 12, 1892, on his sixth birthday.  The inscription says he is the son of J. M. and E. E. Lindsey.  I expect his father is nearby, close enough perhaps to touch the concrete lamb that adorns his grave.

The library material referenced a story from The Hawkinsville Dispatch dated March 22, 1888, at which time the Lindsey child would have just turned two.  According to the story, James M. Lindsey was shot and killed by a relative, Crawford Lindsey, who worked for him on his farm.  Crawford was reportedly drinking and drove some mules too hard.  James reprimanded him, then they went their separate ways.

Two witnesses said that James spoke to Crawford again the following day about his mistreatment of the mules, and that Crawford then cursed him.  James threatened to knock him in the head with a gun, at which point Crawford “sprang upon him,” pulled his pistol, and shot James in the face.  The newspaper reported that Crawford was arrested and placed in a Macon jail.  James was born June 18, 1857, and died February 28, 1888, only thirty years old.

The Lindsey story intrigues me because of its similarity to an event in our family.  William Washington Joiner was born September 25, 1871.  He was the oldest sibling of my grandfather, James Vanderbilt Joiner, who came along ten years later.

Will practiced medicine but also farmed by having an overseer, Mr. Turner, who he considered a friend.  Returning home from a medical call one night, Will met his overseer, each of them on horseback.  Mr. Turner had been drinking.  His horse was exhausted.  Will offered to swap horses, but an argument ensued.  Harsh words were exchanged.  Mr. Turner told Will that he was going to kill him.

As Will was putting his horse in the barn, he told his wife, Annie Calhoun, what had happened.  She tried to persuade him to hide but he refused, thinking it would make him appear cowardly.  Mr. Turner came to the barn and shot Will in the chest.  Quickly sobered by what he had done, he went for help.  He told his wife, “I shot the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Will died of gangrene April 24, 1900, at age 28.  Exactly four months later, on August 24^th, Annie would bear the child she was carrying, Willie James Joiner.  Years later a friend of our family reported that Mr. Turner had lived with remorse, that his wife said he never got another good night’s rest.  Annie Joiner was probably awake on a lot of those same nights.

Wallace is a small cemetery.  It’s odd that it’s connected to two tragic deaths having parallel themes.  There are several lessons we can take from their stories.  It’s clearly best to not let a drinking man ride your horse.  But if you do and he conducts himself poorly, then wait until he’s sober to talk about it.  Or maybe instead of a scolding, just don’t let him ride your horse again.

There’s no way of knowing what will happen when whiskey, guns, and horses share the same trail.  The silent testimony of Wallace Cemetery shows how badly it can end.  Two young men are buried less than 50 feet apart.  They each left a widow behind, one with a small child, the other with a baby on the way.  Whiskey, guns, and horses don’t mix well together.  It’s a proven recipe for grave mistakes.