Welcome to Joiner's Corner

“Not Enough Aprons” was written on a scribbled note as a column idea. Sean Dietrich, my favorite columnist, had mentioned aprons in his daily musings on January 9, 2021. His reflections caused me to do some pondering. I’m thinking today’s homes need more aprons. 

“Understanding God” was another column idea. I’ve touched on it before, so I’ll limit this to a couple of thoughts. I’ll confess to being dismayed that I don’t have a better understanding of God. But when the suffering of innocents causes me to ask why, it’s helpful to consider what Steve Sanders said in our Sunday School class.

Steve was quoting a preacher he’d heard on television, possibly T. D. Jakes. The pastor posed a question that I’d never really considered. “What kind of a God would he be if we could understand him?” 

A red-headed theologian from Texas summed it up nicely in a song. Willie Nelson’s lyrics begin with questions for God then end with the answer. “Now when I pray my prayer is one. I pray his will not mine be done. After all, I’m just a man. And it’s not for me to understand.”

An email from Jim Hamrick was printed and added to my stack of notes in April of 2021. Jim, like his late father Harry Hamrick, has a knack for subtle humor. He posed an interesting question that seems worth considering. “Why is abbreviated such a long word?”

Two ideas for devotionals were in my scribbled notes. I’ve written about them before so I’ll limit this to a quick mention. My brother, Jimmy, had given an unproductive pear tree a severe trim with a chain saw in 2019. Our mother, who is addicted to pear preserves, was shocked at how much he had cut. To our surprise, however, the next summer that tree yielded the best pear crop in a long time. It reminded me that sometimes people need pruning too. The unpleasant process can make us more productive. 

The other devotional idea mentioned Mr. John Bonner, a fine Christian gentleman who taught Sunday School for decades. He had a remarkable knowledge of scripture and a gift for explaining how to apply it. There was an occasion at Vienna First Baptist, perhaps a teacher’s meeting, where Rev. Ellis Taff told us he had visited with Mr. John that past Monday.

Ellis asked the group, “What do y’all think John Bonner was doing?” We didn’t know so we waited for him to tell us. “He was studying his Sunday School lesson,” Ellis said with a knowing smile. Then he shared some advice I’ve found helpful. “If John Bonner needs to begin studying his lesson on Monday, that might be a good idea for some others.”

“Schandenfreude” was a word I was introduced to in an article by Dr. Jim Denison. l wrote the odd term down because of its definition: “The pleasure we derive from another person’s misfortune.” We’ve probably all had some, “He had it coming,” moments. But Christ said to, “Pray for your enemies,” and to, “bless those who persecute you.” We can’t have it both ways.

It’s hard to know how to end such a rambling column, so I’ll just close with two thoughts. First, I don’t want a God I can understand. He wouldn’t be worthy of worship. And secondly, even though I don’t understand God, I believe he understands me. That’s what really matters.

My scribbled notes about “Silver Linings” mentioned Burroughs Corporation. They gave me a wonderful career opportunity right out of college. It only took 18 months to fail, an embarrassing outcome I was not prepared for. 

Life was easy growing up with loving parents and good friends in rural Georgia. After that came Valdosta State College, four years which I sometimes enjoyed too much. I apologize if the next part sounds boastful, but it’s integral to an honest story.

As a freshman I won the Mr. V.S.C. contest. Delta Chi fraternity sponsored me because I could play piano. The girls in the audience would have crowned someone else, but gray-haired judges enjoyed my medley. It was rather comedic as 15 guys paraded across stage in tennis attire holding rackets, then in rented tuxedos. Talents were widely diverse. Terry Fields, superb shortstop on the V.S.C. baseball team, recited “Casey at the Bat.” Tommy Whiddon played a classical piece on the organ. The only other contestant I remember is Denny Clark. I don’t recall Denny’s talent, but swooning young ladies applauded him for just smiling.

In my sophomore year I was elected president of Delta Chi fraternity, which prospered despite my leadership. Then came a term as president of the Student Government Association. After my junior year I spent the summer in Washington, D.C. in Senator Herman Talmadge’s office. Each intern made a cameo appearance on the televised Watergate Hearings. We thought we were famous. None of those were big accomplishments, but I was on a good roll and expected it to keep getting better.  

When Richard Gaddy interviewed me for a sales position with Burroughs he was impressed by my resume. Quite honestly, I was too. I patted myself on the back as I moved to Tallahassee to sell computers. Life was sweet and getting sweeter as wedding bells would soon be ringing.

Tallahassee was a great town and Burroughs a fine company. Richard was an exceptional boss and mentor. There was only one problem. I was terrible at sales.

Burroughs had a tremendous training program. Eight weeks of classroom instruction in Philadelphia and Tampa were interspersed over six months. Between sessions I went on sales calls with Richard and other experienced marketing reps like Bob Abernathy and Mike McClain. In Philadelphia I won the award for best product demonstration. Classroom performance, however, didn’t translate to real-world success. 

I dreaded telling Richard I was leaving, knowing he had placed his confidence in me. When I met with him and Doyle Perry, our Branch Manager, I expected them to bemoan their wasted time and resources. Instead they told me I was welcome to stay if I had any doubts. I had no doubts, but their compassionate gesture brought tears to my eyes.

Years went by before I began to understand how valuable the Burroughs training had been. Sales techniques, such as overcoming objections and dealing with irate customers, came in handy during five years of selling cars and 35 years in banking. It took me a while to realize the bumpy road at Burroughs helped smooth my career path. Decades later than I should have, I called Richard to thank him. 

A couple of good lessons came from that humbling experience. One was realizing that failing is not the same as being a failure. The best lesson though is something I still tend to forget. Even in the darkest clouds, there’s almost always a silver lining. It’s up to us to find it.

I found a scribbled note with “Silver Linings” written at the top. Below that I’d mentioned a long-ago example – a vehicle mishap involving David Fullington. We’ll get to that after covering a little background. 

David’s been a good friend since first grade at Pinehurst Elementary. He helped create some lasting memories there, like the gopher turtle he brought to school. The big fellow, who lived in David’s yard, was the star of recess. If we’d had “Show and Tell” David would have won. 

Another Pinehurst memory is from third-grade when I was the preacher in “A Tom Thumb Wedding.” Two second graders, Debra Peavy and Alex Everett, were the lucky couple. I don’t remember the play, just David’s unscripted line during our one rehearsal.

Debra was cute as pie and David had aspirations of becoming her boyfriend. Rehearsal was going fine until it was time for me to say, “You may kiss the bride.” David became the worst best man ever. “You better not kiss her,” he warned Alex. I guess our teacher overheard. The kissing scene was deleted. 

One more memory, then we’ll get to the main event. David and I were sophomores at Unadilla High School when we went on a double date in his 1958 Ford Galaxie. His Uncle, Tommy Davis, dealt in used cars and had sold him what seemed a fine ride for a country boy of sixteen.   

The black paint was shiny and the interior spotless. Even the engine was sparkling clean. David wanted to make a big impression on the gorgeous young lady and that’s what he did. She gasped when hot water spewed from under the dash onto her ankles. The burn wasn’t serious, but Cupid’s arrow was no match for a faulty heater core. Their first date was also their last.   

Now to the vehicle mishap. One afternoon during our senior year, David and I were in my 1964 Chevy Impala on the way to his house. As I turned off the highway onto the unpaved Lonesome Pine Road, the front end slid into the ditch. We laughed, thinking my careless driving had gotten us stuck in the sand.

We walked to David’s house to get a chain but only found a short rope in his father’s shop. David tied it to his car bumper and pulled on mine, which accomplished nothing except to destroy the rope. His father came home from work and saw that a tie rod had come loose on my car, which had rendered the steering wheel useless. Mr. John, a professional mechanic, adeptly fixed the problem. He then noticed the shredded strands on the shop floor.

With a mischievous grin he said to Daivd, “You little s.o.b. – You broke my favorite rope.” His colorful words were spoken with affection and tickled two teenage boys. That oddly tender moment still reminds me that love is sometimes expressed in unconventional ways. 

Over the years David and I have shared multiple laughs about that afternoon. A lot of time passed, though, before I saw a silver lining. If that tie rod had come loose in a different place or time, it could have been a sad occasion instead of a humorous one.

I don’t know if God regularly intervenes in everyday matters or lets things work out in the natural order of his creation. What I do know is this. I treasure good memories made with old friends, and I’m thankful for silver linings, even those I fail to see. 

I kept a handwritten note in March of 2020 from an older gentleman who had read “Lessons From the Ladder.” Although we’d never met, he instantly attained favored status by saying nice things about the author.

In a world of electronic communications, it was nice to get an old-style letter. Hopefully, pen and paper won’t become extinct, although I have reservations about cursive writing. It sounds inappropriate for a Baptist.

A newspaper clipping from April of 2021 announced that Daybreak Pregnancy Care Center was holding an open house in their new location. The leading cause of deaths in America is reportedly abortions, followed by heart-related issues. I suppose the two are intertwined. Matters of the heart lead to all sorts of problems.

Jane and I went to Lake Eufaula in Alabama on April 16th. I drove as she made notes about sights along the road.    

“Lions in a Pasture” is another of my unwritten columns. Two large concrete lions guard a pasture on Highway 280 in Sumter County. I seldom pass that way, but when I do Isaiah 11:6 comes to mind. “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and young lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.”

I don’t know if scripture inspired someone to place those unusual sentries among their cattle, but that’s the thought I ponder when going by. If anyone knows their story, I’d love to hear it.

The Rooster Hotel is near Smithville, Georgia. I made up that name and know nothing about the place except what can be seen from the road. Dozens of 55-gallon barrels with small openings at the bottom house what I’m guessing are roosters. Each bird was tethered with a light line to his private quarters. Some patrolled their yards while others perched atop their cylindrical homes. I’m guessing the hotel is pet friendly despite fowl service.

Fading white letters, D. M. Dismuke Co., are still legible on a vacant red-brick building. I read online that it was once a thriving business in a vibrant community of Terrell County. Although the structure is more elaborate than the country stores of my childhood, it reminds me of that era.

Eight country stores, including Joiner’s Store, were within five miles of our home. Original owners included my grandfather, Jim Joiner, along with Tap Owen, El Sparrow, Bivins Calhoun, J. H. Love, Dee Mashburn, Doc Mashburn, and Harold Nutt, who opened his place in the 1960s. Mr. Harold had severe physical challenges, yet wore a constant smile to compliment exceptional determination.

Those stores were all long gone when much to my surprise a new one came along. Carver’s Country Store was opened a few years ago in a farming community near Mock Springs, a Pulaski County landmark. While there are plenty of good reasons to stop by, my favorite is a chili dog topped with onions and mustard and washed down with Dr. Pepper.

The hands of time only go in one direction, but I’m learning that the turns offer a blessing – good memories get sweeter with age. As a country store with fading white letters pleasantly reminded me of childhood, I realized that quiet rewards are getting easier to find in sights along the road. That may sound odd to some, but one thing I am certain of. Old men who write handwritten letters will understand.

My scribbled notes from 2021 named two friends I planned to visit. I waited too long for one. Viewing doesn’t count.

I kept a newspaper column by Lanier Roberts about an experience from his youth. He and a cousin were playing on a sawdust pile when a man with a knife startled them. They fled, never knowing if the stranger meant them harm or just wanted to scare them away. It reminded me of a local story that circulated during my childhood.

Sheriff Johnny Johnson made headlines in Dooly County after finding a moonshine still inside a sawdust pile. The ingenious setup had a gas cooker and a hidden entrance. Sheriff Johnson had earlier caught a bootlegger and noticed wood shavings in his car trunk. It didn’t take him long to find the pile. 

A scribbled note from June of 2021 demonstrated Mr. Emmett Stephens’ quickness in finding clever lines. His son, Charles, told me a story about a Vienna City Council meeting that Mr. Emmett attended decades ago.

Charles said his father wasn’t involved in politics, but he felt strongly about some proposal scheduled for discussion. After Mr. Emmett expressed his opposition, a member of the council asked, “Emmett, who pulled your string?” Mr. Emmett said, “Nobody. I’m a self starter.”

A. J. Jarvis, a former banker in Vienna, was mentioned in a note. He had suggested I write a column about old comics. Examples he gave included Smiley Jack, which I’m not familiar with, plus Dick Tracey and Snuffy Smith. As a longtime comic reader, I liked his idea. Liking without effort, though, doesn’t get things done.  

My favorites are gone from what Daddy called the funny papers, but I still read a few comics each day. When I was little Daddy would read them to me on Sundays and add bits of commentary. Snuffy Smith, Lil’ Abner, Beetle Bailey, and Little Orphan Annie were among his regulars. I don’t know how much reading the comics has impacted my life, but memories of sitting in my father’s lap are still a blessing.

A memo from April suggested Paul Harvey would be a good column topic. Years ago I was an ardent fan of his immensely popular radio program. I never wrote about him, but I do have a short personal story.

When Paul Harvey came to Valdosta State College in 1973 to make a speech, I was the Student Government President and had a chance to meet him. It surprised me when he asked if I knew Deke DeLoach and had I seen him. Deke soon joined us and was warmly greeted. I was impressed that Deke had never mentioned his family’s friendship with Mr. Harvey. It was a good lesson in choosing modesty.

After Mr. Harvey’s talk, he opened the floor for questions. A guy who was part hippie asked, “Do you think marijuana should be legalized?” Mr. Harvey flashed a huge grin. “I don’t think cigarettes should be legal!” he said. “Next question.” The audience, including a few aspiring hippies, laughed heartily. It was a splendid example of disagreeing without being disagreeable.

Deke DeLoach was a laid-back guy with an understated confidence. He had sort of a Peter Fonda vibe like in Easy Rider. I hadn’t thought about Deke in ages. Now I’m wondering what all roads he may have travelled. I’d love to know the rest of the story, but may have waited too long to ask. A scribbled note just became a sober reminder. Viewing doesn’t count.

My stack of scribbled notes is shorter, but still has a precarious tilt. I’ve grown a bit weary of sifting through papers, but recently found fresh motivation. We’ll get to that later.

I kept a sample letter of a common scam – trying to buy land for less than it’s worth. Legitimate buyers sometimes make unsolicited offers at decent prices. There are, however, countless solicitations which are far below market value.

Gazillions of unscrupulous proposals are made, knowing a few recipients will take the bait. Financial predators don’t mind taking advantage of people who can be manipulated. They also exploit very capable people who get careless. So be careful. If you’re leaning toward making a quick decision, it’s usually best to slow down.  

Another scribbled note contained several questions I had been pondering. Can a dog have a cat scan? Can a cat be dog-eared? Is a doggone cat gone because of the dog? It’s hard to sleep while searching for answers.

A newspaper clipping had a picture of Sonny and SuSu Burt announcing the sale of Daphne Lodge. I intended to write a story about them but never got around to it. Besides the excellent food and charming atmosphere, the lovely couple made customers feel like family. Like the bar on Cheers, it was a place where everybody knows your name.

One slip of paper had a potential column title, “Shadow Finds a Home.” My mother’s yard dog is 93 pounds of affection. He’s too friendly to be a protector but will knock you down if you’re carrying food. Here’s some background on that unwritten column. 

Shadow is the last survivor of three similar-looking stray dogs that found their way to my mother’s rural home. His ribs were showing when he came and he was afraid of people, as were Spot and Spottie before him. All three dogs, in different years, were apparently dropped off at the wet-weather creek near Mama’s home. Three strays went looking for mercy and found it. Perhaps there’s a lesson in their stories.

I’ve finished reviewing notes through 2022 and just got to one from October 3, 2021. Shannon Akin shared this high-school remembrance in our men’s Sunday School Class that Sunday. I know the date because I scribbled it on a church bulletin. It was about Mr. Hubert Yow, who taught agriculture at Vienna High School for decades.

Mr.Yow loved orange juice and kept some in a refrigerator in the ag building. Someone, however, began discretely depleting his supply. Mr. Yow spiked the juice with syrup of ipecac, a product used years ago to induce vomiting when a person swallowed poison. The mystery was solved, and Allen Cross lost his taste for orange juice.   

“Life Expectancy Plummets in U.S.” That newspaper article from September of 2021 included the 2020 chart. Men were pegged at an average of 74.5 years. I’m a bit weary of sifting through scribbled notes, but those statistics gave me new motivation. Rather than taking a break, maybe I should write a little faster. 

I’m hoping to be above average, but either way will be okay. An unwritten column, “Shadow Finds a Home,” just reminded me of three stray dogs who went looking for mercy and found it. Their good fortune probably involved some luck, but man has a sure thing if we claim it. It may not be on our terms or timetable, but mercy is ours for the asking.

Among my scribbled notes was a mention of the Beech Island Agricultural Club. Bud Trulock, a first cousin to my wife, told me long ago about a meeting he attended as a guest. I’m not sure what brought that conversation to mind more recently. I normally refrain from impolite language, as did Bud, but today I’m making an exception. 

Organized in 1856 in South Carolina, the club’s agenda for meetings includes electing a chairman for the next month and reading the minutes from 100 years earlier. Bud went because a retiring federal judge was being honored. 

When the seasoned jurist was asked to share what he had learned from his long tenure on the bench, an attentive crowd expected to hear eloquent pearls of wisdom. Instead he gave concise advice on flatulence and full bladders. “Never trust a @#$&,” he said, “and never pass up a chance to @#$.” Laughter and applause lasted longer than his talk.

A letter dated November 8, 2022, from the Georgia FFA Foundation was stashed among my scribbled notes. It was an acknowledgement of a memorial gift for my fellow Unadilla FFA String Band member Charles Jones. I kept the letter because of the inspiring signature at the bottom, Miracle Daley. I intended to ask about the story behind her name, but my intentions got buried under more scribbled notes.   

I hastily recorded a tidbit of family history in 2022. My mother had just recounted details of her mother winning the Silver Cow Evaporated Milk jingle contest. It was in the late 1950s, I think. I remember the prizes but didn’t know how she won them.

Grandmama was awarded coupons and a catalog for her first-place entry. The chrome dinette set she selected included a formica-top table plus six chairs with vinyl seats and backs. The other big item she chose was a clothes dryer, which worked great once they got electricity. 

I’m kidding about the current. The dryer was, however, an oddity at the time, the first in our community that I know of. Her clothes line was left in place, but used only slightly more than the iron dinner bell mounted near it. 

Our home also had a double clothes line, almost identical to Grandmama’s. Three galvanized pipes, with shorter pipes welded across the top to form a T, supported two strands of coated wire. A fond childhood memory is the wrinkled texture of line-dried muslin sheets. Their slight roughness made them feel cooler for a few seconds, a welcome sensation on hot summer nights.

A March 18, 2022, scribbled note described a newscast that day which showed Vladimir Putin addressing a large crowd in a Russian stadium. As he rallied support for his unwarranted invasion of Ukraine, he commended Russia’s military by quoting John 15:13, “Greater love hath no man known than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” 

It was disturbing to hear a murderous tyrant citing scripture to promote an unholy cause, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. Satan quoted scripture and his helpers still do. Other news that same day showed a Ukrainian city with a line of 110 empty strollers. Four years later the lines are much longer and still growing.

Sobering situations can feel overwhelming. Sometimes I take a frivolous detour and think about lighter moments, like Bud telling me about that old judge at Beech Island. At other times a name on a letter reminds me there’s always hope for tomorrow. If we look for it, we can find a miracle daily.

The quest continues to shorten my stack of scribbled notes. I started at the top with aspirations of hitting bottom.  

After he read “Round Tuit” Jim Hamrick sent me a real one, plus its cousin the stick tuit. Jim suggested it might be fodder for another column, noting, “It’s not every day you get a chance to use the word fodder.” That sounds like something his father, Mr. Harry Hamrick, would have said in his weekly feature Whatcha Callit.

Earl Nightingale was referenced on scribblings from 2023. I was reminded of him that day by an article at Denison’s Forum. Mr. Nightingale’s syndicated radio program of decades ago encouraged high moral and ethical standards. Maybe it’s time for reruns.    

A memo from March 2023 was about a chance meeting with Dooly County farmer Ronnie Bledsoe. During our short visit he reminisced about playing basketball barefooted on a dirt court at Sandy Mount School. At a Vienna game the country boys learned shoes were required on the wooden floor. Ronnie and a teammate shared a pair as they rotated hoops play.

Ronnie also talked about the role Hispanics played in cotton harvesting before mechanical pickers came along. His father and Mr. Ed Chancy went to Mexico in 1952 in a big truck with benches and brought back 70 workers. I didn’t pick much cotton, but it was enough to help me appreciate the people who did. Hand picking on our farm ended when Daddy bought a tractor-mounted rig. My elation has been kept secret until now.

I used to help Daddy weigh hand-picked cotton in the field. Burlap sheets, tied at their corners, were hooked to a scale attached to a seven-foot sapling pole. Two people would lift the cotton off the ground.  Daddy would write the weight and the name of who picked it so he could settle up. The cotton was then hauled on a four-wheel wagon to Mr. Earnest Taylor’s gin. If nobody was ahead of us we’d unload it under the suck pipe.

Only a few farmers from Ronnie’s generation are still active in local agriculture. They are the ones who experienced the full evolution from hard manual labor to six-row machines. Harvesting technology may have peaked, but there’s no telling. As Bobby Bare said in a song, “Things change.”

We’ll close with a mention of Luther Story. I crossed the Flint River for decades without knowing why a bridge was named after him. In April of 2023 I saw an Associated Press release with some history and a new development. Nearly 73 years after the young soldier went missing in the Korean War, his remains had been identified. A memorial service was scheduled that May for Andersonville National Cemetery, not far from his Americus home.  

Story was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor in 1951. With personal injuries that would have hindered his fellow soldiers’ escape, the wounded corporal sent them on as he stayed behind to fight. I’d love to know how his selfless courage impacted the lives of those he helped save. I hope they had a chance to thank his family. Crossing Luther Story Bridge feels differently now than it did before. He was 19 years old. 

My stack of scribbled notes didn’t go down enough today to measure, but I’m confident one day I’ll hit bottom. I don’t know how to wrap up such a rambling column, so I’ll borrow a clever line from JIm Hamrick’s letter. “It’s not every day you get a chance to use the word fodder.”

I’m not sure when I first noticed a patch of nandinas in the woods near my mother’s childhood home. It may have been decades ago, or could have been more recently. Either way, I was seduced by the charm of red berries. The misplaced shrubs seemed a welcome novelty, their splashes of color brightening a rather bland landscape. They have, however, grown into a problem which is not easily resolved.   

After I retired from banking, Jane and I began walking in the woods quite often. Leisurely hikes are not as physically beneficial as rigorous workouts but are a lot more fun. We’re not inclined toward structured exercise, and are better suited for woodland walks.

Perhaps I lack motivation for gym routines because of a sketchy track record. A notable example is when I took weight-lifting at Valdosta State College under Coach Arnold. In the 1970s we were required to have six credits of Physical Education. I decided to use one quarter to develop a Charles Atlas physique.

As the sessions began I was five feet seventeen inches tall and weighed 165 pounds. After three months of rigorous training I was six feet five and weighed the same. My pencil shape remained unchanged.

Some P.E. classes were fun, such as tennis and bowling. The one I found most physically challenging was Life Saving. Colonel Veatch had a military background and carried herself in an authoritative manner. When she said jump in the pool we cleared the deck.

We had to tread water for fifteen minutes, which took a lot of paddling to keep my skinny frame afloat. I felt sorry for a guy whose ship was sinking and whose girlfriend swam like a fish. When he waded toward the harbor, obviously embarrassed, she went ashore with him. I don’t know if they stayed together, but her kind gesture impressed me.

The next step toward lifeguard certification was to rescue a fellow student from the deep end of the pool. A big guy named Rick Hastings was my assignment. With my elbow under his chin, I belaboredly pulled him to safety. I had no idea his head was submerged. 

Col. Veatch called me to the side of the pool. “Joiner,” she said, “if I promise to give you a C will you promise to never come back to my class?” 

“I’m out of here, Colonel,” I replied with a smile and a salute. It was a good deal for both of us, plus I knew Rick would soon get a chance to rescue me.   

That’s all just bonus information to explain why I prefer nature walks over gym routines. Now let’s get back to the berries.

My knowledge of nandinas was quite limited when I first noticed them in the woods. I had no idea they would become too dense to walk through and would keep claiming more territory. Untamed bushes are now taller than me and still expanding their reach along a stream.

I’ve cut them to ground level and treated some with chemicals, but they don’t give up easily. I hope to eventually get rid of them, even if it means buying Jane a bigger shovel.

The nandinas could have been easily dealt with when they first came on the scene, but bright colors enhanced the woods which I thought were rather plain. Acres of shrubs now remind me that seductive things are not always as harmless as they seem. The charm of red berries sometimes comes with a cost.

Several months ago a younger relative of mine, Wiley Kimbrough, was sore after returning from a hiking adventure that lasted several days. His mother, LeSan, said he was “all stoved up.” That phrase is one of the dying expressions which are fading from conversation.

Being stoved up probably has no connection to stove pipes, but it reminds me of a story my cousin, Rooney Bowen, told me long ago. He got the first-hand account from Mr. Buford Carr, who owned Vienna Hardware Company.

Mr. Buford said a stranger came into the store and asked to buy a half joint of stove pipe. Despite the unusual request, he walked to a workbench in the back and began sawing through the short pipe with a hacksaw. An employee’s bewildered look caused Mr. Buford to vent his frustration. “Some s.o.b. up front wants to buy a half joint of stove pipe!” he said, before noticing the man was standing behind him. “And this fine gentleman,” he added, “wants to buy the other half.” 

Another dying expression is, “till the cows come home.” It was a popular saying in the days when the countryside was dotted with small farms and most of them had a few cows.   

Daddy called our small herd to the barn with a word that sounded like ‘Ho-ick.” He’d emphasize the first syllable as in “Hoooooo-ick.” After a few beckoning shouts, Star, his beloved milk cow, would lead the others up the lane.

I don’t know if hoick was a common term or not. A Valdosta friend, Eddie Hightower, said his grandmother called their cows with a similar sounding “Ho-ey.” If anyone is familiar with the origin of  cow-calling words I’d like to know more. Such mysteries sometime keep me awake at night. 

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat,” used to be in the regular lineup of expressions. I’ve never understood why anyone would want to skin a cat. Maybe it refers to catfish.

I skinned a few catfish growing up, first nailing their head to a fence post like Daddy taught me. He’d cut the skin just below the head and pull it off with pliers. That process is not patented so you’re welcome to use it. 

“He’d rather climb a tree and tell a lie than stand on the ground and tell the truth.” A family friend made that comment to me years ago about a young fellow who was working for him. That expression was mostly grounded when kids stopped climbing trees. 

During my childhood we climbed trees for entertainment, but also for economic benefits. Jimmy and I would scale the pecan trees in our yard then kick the limbs so the nuts would fall. It’s not as efficient as a mechanical shaker but the price was right and the thrill was free.

Once upon a time I could climb trees till the cows came home. Now it would leave me all stoved up. And I guess kicking those pecan limbs to shake the nuts loose proves at least one dying expression is true. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.