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My wife, Jane, was shopping at Belk in Warner Robins in early January.  She met a nice lady who works there named Karen Sisk.  Karen mentioned a monthly luncheon sponsored by Green Acres Baptist Church for Houston County veterans of World War II.  She invited me to attend and extended an invitation to Dooly County native Charles Speight.

Mr. Charles is a decorated WW II Navy pilot from Unadilla.  I’ve written about him before in a column titled “A Greatly Blessed Life.”  He’ll be 98 on April 2 and continues to be active in his church and community.  He’s been teaching the same men’s Sunday School Class for over 63 years.

“Some of these fellows are getting old,” said Mr. Charles spryly to the man seated across the table.  His playful comment was as usual accompanied by a disarming smile.

“I’m 97,” replied Mr. Keath Morgan with a soft laugh.  “How about yourself?”

It was delightful being a spectator in a conversation between 97-year-old war veterans.  Rusty Simpson was seated next to Mr. Morgan, a cherished friend he affectionately calls Papa.

We had soup and sandwiches and listened as two men shared glimpses of going to war long ago and the joys of coming home.  Mr. Morgan trained at Ft. Benning to become a paratrooper.  He volunteered to jump out of planes because of the extra pay.  “I went from fifty-two dollars a month to a hundred,” he said with enthusiasm, knowing his comment would generate laughter around our table.

“You fellows on the ground had it rough,” said Mr. Charles.

“It was cold in the foxholes,” replied Mr. Morgan.  “If you raised your head to look out someone would try to shoot it off.”   Freezing weather, canned rations, and dodging bullets were part of his regular routine.  When shrapnel hit his leg, he wrapped a shirt around it and kept fighting.

Mr. Morgan was featured on the program which followed lunch.  He’s the only known survivor of The Battle of the Bulge living in Houston County.  There were two of them until a couple of weeks earlier.  Now it’s just him.

He pulled a folded piece of paper from a front pocket on his pants to review some scribbled notes.  Rusty asked to look over them, then smiled as he pointed to one of the topics.  Rusty gently reminded him they had agreed it was best not to talk about that incident.

Mr. Charles, with his incurable penchant for mischief, said he sure would love to hear the story.  An old soldier’s grin gave evidence of a humorous memory, a rare moment no doubt much needed in a time of war.  I found out later that two women were involved.  That’s all I know and I’m not asking any questions.

There were eight WW II veterans at the luncheon and about that many other guests.  A dozen or so more people joined us for the one o’clock discussion.  Mr. Morgan and Rusty sat in folding chairs facing the small group which had gathered.  Rusty posed questions to facilitate the conversation.  “Papa, do you remember your service number?”

Mr. Morgan recited it without hesitation, then called out the serial number of his rifle.  He smiled and said, “I knew that M1 rifle inside and out, but when I got to Germany they took it away and gave me a 30-caliber machine gun.”

General Eisenhower shook his hand in Mourmelon, France, a moment he recalled with obvious appreciation.  Then he noted with amusement what Eisenhower said to the troops that day: “I know you boys are looking for some action and I’m going to see that you get it!”

Cheri Adams with the Houston Home Journal was at the luncheon.  The HHJ recently published a magazine highlighting 18 WW II veterans of Houston County.  Cheri, Karen, and a few volunteers are helping preserve bits of history while offering a platform for some voices that deserve to be heard.

I don’t know anything about war except what I’ve learned from others.  I’m thankful for soldiers who were willing to go, and for people who are now helping them share their stories.  The luncheon for veterans at Green Acres Baptist Church is a good ministry model for all of us.

Our short time together gave me a greater appreciation for the costs of freedom, and a renewed gratitude for a dwindling group of aging heroes.  There’s a lot we can learn by having soup with old soldiers.

I’m not sure how most people store their warranty information for household items.  I keep ours in a box on a closet shelf, just like my mother does.  Her plastic container is nicer than mine made of cardboard, but I’m sort of attached to the Reebok carton which once held a pair of men’s size eight athletic shoes.

My feet were size 13 when I was born, so the Reeboks must have been for our son, Seth, in kindergarten.  Big feet run in our family, which is great in windstorms as we don’t tilt over easily.    According to a scribbled notation the box once contained our 1990 tax records, which dates it around 30 years old.  There’s probably an antique shoebox collector somewhere that will be thrilled to learn of this rare jewel, but it’s not for sale.  I’m not even telling which closet it’s in.

Handwritten numbers indicate the shoes were priced at $74.99.  Buying pricey footwear doesn’t sound like something I would have willingly done.  I’m guessing Jane found them at a 40 percent discount.  It will help me feel better to embrace that line of thinking.

One reason I like the shoebox is its patriotic colors.  A blue base is decorated with red and white stripes which look like ribbons wrapped around a gift package.  I don’t know how the shoes fared, but the box has been amazingly durable after its long journey here from Taiwan.

A Saturday in January is when I decided to review the contents.  I had tried to add a warranty book to the top of the stack, but it made the box too full for the lid to properly fit.  The shortage of sufficient document storage motivated me to check for papers that could be discarded.

I found warranties for appliances of long ago.  Harvest Gold was our laundry room theme color in the seventies.  Harvest Gold and English Pea Green were once heartedly embraced by a nation anxious for color choices.  Now everything we own is white like the machines of my childhood.

There was a warranty for a light-duty vacuum cleaner enticingly named Dirt Devil.  Its red color seemed appropriate, probably since I grew up near the Red Devils of Hawkinsville, a mascot which has endured for decades.  We were the Blue Devils in Unadilla, a mascot whose origin is unknown to me.  Maybe it’s because blue flames are hotter than red, but I’m just guessing.

I don’t know how well the Dirt Devil performed, but it’s an awesome name for marketing purposes.  Although I much prefer angels to devils, I’ll admit that Dirt Angel doesn’t excite me.  It connotes a gentle approach toward dirt which is not what America’s housewives are looking for.

Instructions for a metal detector reminded me of a disheartening quest for buried treasure.  The detector was a gift from our daughter, Carrie, who learned that searching for silver appealed to me as a potential hobby.  I scattered ten dimes in the yard yet only found 30 cents.  That cured my itch.

The warranty book for our Char-Broil gas grill is a definite keeper.  Our daughter, Erin, assembled it when she was 14.  She’s good with that kind of thing and I was delighted when she put it together.  It’s under our carport and still works fine except for the ignitor.  I tried to repair it years ago and learned it’s best not to hold the sparkplug while pushing the button.  It’s like using a defibrillator on yourself and apparently leads to memory loss.  The shock was severe all three times.

The glass window on the grill allows me to see if what I’m cooking is on fire.  It is with sadness I report the folks at Char-Broil recently told me they don’t offer viewing windows anymore.  I didn’t ask why because I don’t want to learn something that might force me to retire my old friend.

I kept the assembly instructions for three Jenny Lind baby beds we began using 41 years ago.  One day our children may wonder why I held on to such unnecessary items, or maybe they’ll understand.  It’s nice to have things that unexpectedly revive fond moments almost forgotten.

I’m not going to quiz Jane about the cost of those Reeboks.  The statute of limitations has expired and the exceptional box they came in is still quite useful.  With four inches of prime storage now available at the top, there’s room to collect a few more memories.

Four inches should be enough space for a couple of decades or more.  And if by then my cardboard box has fallen apart, I’ll probably buy one made of plastic.

I got busted by the Georgia State Patrol on New Year’s Day.  It was entirely my fault, so I have no reason to complain.  Earlier that afternoon I had decided to vacuum the spider webs from under our garage.  I moved some items from the top of a corner shelf and found a five-inch piece of wood shaped much like the number eight.  It took me a while to remember where it came from.

I recalled my father having one of these on the dash of his pickup truck.  He died in 2007 and the purpose of the peculiar item had long since escaped my memory bank.  From the dusty files of my recollection department the answer finally surfaced.

A column from August of 2017, “The Casket Man,” was about Mr. O. T. Spradley, Jr.  When I visited with Mr. Junior in his woodworking shop, he held up one of these mystery pieces and asked if I knew what it was.  “Daddy had one,” I said, “but I don’t remember what it was for.”

“It’s a twiddler,” explained Mr. Junior.  “It’s for twiddling your thumbs when you don’t have anything else to do.”  He put a thumb through each hole to make sure I understood the concept, then he gave me a hand-carved twiddler to take home.  I was glad to find it on New Year’s Day, and I’ll be glad when somewhere in the future I’ll probably find it again.

With the spider webs down I was tempted to do some serious twiddling, but I remembered what my late cousin, Rooney Bowen, had told me about New Year’s Day.  He said, “Whatever you do on the first day of the year is what you’ll be doing all year long.”  The scientific evidence on that premise is sketchy, but I didn’t want to take a chance.  A man can only twiddle for so long and enjoy it.  So, I put the twiddler down and went to the Pilot station at Exit 109 in my old farm truck.

After filling three cans with gas for the lawnmower, I headed toward home.  The traffic light at the overpass turned yellow as I approached.  Rather than scooting on through, I stopped, then eased slowly ahead when the green light was fully illuminated.  With untethered gas cans and a ladder sticking out the back of my truck, I gradually accelerated until I hit 25 miles per hour.

That’s when the blue flashing lights filled my rearview mirror.  I moved toward the side of the highway to let the trooper pass, assuming there must be an emergency down the road.  But he stayed behind me as revolving beams highlighted a windshield whose cleaning was six months in arrears.

I pulled into an empty parking lot, thinking I must have been picked for one of those programs where surprised drivers get rewarded with thank-you citations for following the rules.  I hoped I would be given a Georgia On My Mind tee-shirt or a Get Out of Jail Free card for later use.

The young man was polite and professional, qualities which are common among the law enforcement officers of Middle Georgia.  “I pulled you over for a seatbelt violation Mr. Joiner.  Is there any particular reason you’re not wearing yours today?”

“I don’t know of one,“ I said, “but my thinking is sort of foggy right now.  Will I have to take a sobriety test?”  That response, I should clarify, was not made audibly.  Sometimes clever thoughts are best left unspoken.

The situation reminded me of a fellow from long ago I’ll call Sam.  He was a good man but had a checkered record with the patrol.  They had a difference of opinion about drinking and driving.

Sam was involved in a one vehicle accident.   He was dazed by the collision and stretched out on the ground while waiting for an ambulance.  The patrolman asked to see his license.  “Y’all are supposed to already have it,” said Sam.  “I sure hope you haven’t lost it.”

I was pleasantly surprised to learn from an online search that the penalty for a seatbelt violation is a manageable 15 dollars.  I don’t know how many hours of community service it will take for me to work that off, but it’s a small price to encourage a simple practice that’s proven to help keep us safe.  From now on I’ll protect my ticker by being a clicker.  I hope you will too.

I cleaned the garage, twiddled my thumbs, and got busted by the law on New Year’s Day.  If Rooney was right, it’s going to be an interesting year.  I’m a little concerned about one of those things in particular.  Jane is threatening to hide my twiddler

I’ll only share a small part of J. B. McWhorter’s testimony.  His journey is told best by him.  It was, however, the public sharing of his faith that brought us together.

JB’s grandfather, Bland Brooks, was a fellow student and friend of mine at Unadilla High School in the 1960s.  Bland’s father, the late Billy Brooks, was our principal and coached various sports.

I saw Bland recently and he told me about his grandson’s testimony being shared at a Fields of Grace event.  I learned that JB’s life and faith have been shaped through 15 plus years of cerebral palsy, and I asked if I could meet him.

It’s a struggle for JB to speak, so a friend read what he had written for the occasion.  When I visited in his home, JB’s mother, Lacey, helped relate their compelling story.

JB was born in Macon on March 2, 2004, and weighed only two pounds, one ounce.  He had a brain bleed and multiple complications.  A month later he was transferred to Children’s Healthcare in Atlanta due to a severe stomach infection.  Lacey said, “We prayed for life and God answered our prayers.”  She’s still praying and gives God credit for guiding them on a path more difficult than most.

When I arrived at their Rochelle home, JB was lying flat on a rubber mat rolled out on the floor.  Stretching will always be a part of his necessary daily routines.  He soon joined me on the sofa along with Christy, a sweet-tempered service dog who graciously welcomed me into their den.

Bland nodded admiringly toward his grandson.  He said, “I’ve learned more from that man than anyone on this earth.”  That’s a high compliment coming from a seasoned teacher.  Bland was an exceptional athlete in high school and made a career in education and coaching.  Yet I had no doubt that what he has learned from JB goes beyond the scope of traditional lessons.

Lacey grinned and added, “I’ve learned from JB too.  He’s taught me patience!”  She and Bland both laughed as they acknowledged that patience is not a strong trait in the Brooks family.  Bland and I sidetracked the conversation when I mentioned his dad’s renowned folding chair.

One of the sports coached by Billy Brooks was girls’ basketball.  His usual calm demeanor was easily disrupted by a low tolerance for poor officiating.  The temptation to step onto the court was often overwhelming.  Men in striped shirts would point him toward the sidelines as they routinely awarded him with technical fouls.

Coach Brooks asked Mr. Ottis Beard, Unadilla’s ag teacher, to attach a seat belt to a folding chair.  It seemed like a good plan for restraint, but it failed before halftime in its debut game.  Coach didn’t waste time with the buckle.  He ran out on the court with the chair swinging back and forth behind him.  As the referee blew his whistle the students cheered wildly in fervent admiration.  That moment cemented the legacy of Billy Brooks in the hearts and history of Unadilla High.

If Coach Brooks were alive today, he’d be cheering for JB now.  That’s what Lacey does, and Bland, and other family members and friends.  Every day is a challenge.  JB moved to a metal stand as I was leaving.  Bland lifted him into an upright position as Lacey secured the straps to help support him.  It’s a change of pace that’s also good for his circulation.

JB attends public school and joins Lacey when she teaches classes at the Wilcox Christian Learning Center.  They are faithful members at First Baptist Church in Rochelle, plus Lacey hosts a Monday night Bible Study in her home.  JB is a celebrity at local ballgames where he’s been recognized as the number one fan of the Wilcox County Patriots.  He’s a sociable young man who enjoys getting out in the community and loves having friends stop by his home.

I wish that writing a column could somehow make JB’s life a little easier, but I realize that’s not the case.   What I want JB to know, however, is that my life is richer from meeting him.  JB helped me understand that we can be thankful in all circumstances.  He helped remind me not to take even small blessings for granted.  When I tied my shoelaces the next morning, I felt a gratitude I’d not had before.

Lessons of faith sometimes come unexpectedly.  God’s perfect love can shine through imperfect situations if we let it.  I know that to be true, because it’s the testimony of my friend JB McWhorter

My 93-year-old mother and her 19-year-old great-grandchild, Abby, planned a family trip to Disney World last year.  We went two weeks before Christmas and found that some other people had the same idea.

The Tuesday night crowd was not overwhelming due to a consistent forecast of inclement weather.  Others, including us, optimistically ventured to The Magic Kingdom, refusing to believe it would rain on our parade.  But a lot of our thrill-seeking companions didn’t stay long.

I’m not sure if it was the rain, wind, or lightning that sent them scampering.  A loud clap of thunder made me thankful the metal wheelchair Mama had reluctantly agreed to ride in was equipped with rubber tires and handles.

As the rain began to steadily fall, we took shelter under a shop awning that quickly became too crowded.  Raindrops transitioned into sheets of water which were blown at unpredictable angles by gusting winds.  As more people magically maneuvered into make believe spaces, I wondered if claustrophobia could be fatal.  I was glad to be tall enough to see above the crowd where I could dream about breathing fresh air from the empty street only a few steps away.

It was a pleasant assembly of slippery folks under the awning, but I decided to trust my water-resistant jacket and run to a picnic table just a few feet away.  By moving a chair and hugging the sturdy umbrella pole I was able to stay dry from the knees up.

A polite young couple I assumed had traveled from Japan soon joined me.

“Where are you from?” I asked with extra volume supplemented with clarifying hand gestures.

“Philadelphia,” said the man.  “How about you?”

“South Georgia” I replied.  Then I told him about a life changing experience I had in his city in 1975 when I tasted my first Philly Club Cheese Sandwich.  We were discussing Philadelphia’s notable culinary contribution when a bolt of lightning sent the two of them scurrying for better quarters.

That’s when a nice lady of maybe 70 or so walked up.  She was tired, so she sat down in a chair although it exposed her back to the rain.  By leaning forward her long poncho kept her pretty dry.  She patiently waited in hopes the weather would break enough for her to make a run for the monorail.

A couple in their late fifties pushing an empty stroller then checked in at the front desk.

“If there’s supposed to be a baby in there, you folks may want to retrace your steps,” I suggested.

The man said he had noticed the stroller seemed lighter than it should be.  The lady assured me the baby was with their daughter elsewhere in the kingdom.  They were from Mobile, Alabama, so I told them we have a granddaughter who is a student at Auburn.  “I’m sorry,” said the man.  “We have some good friends that happened to.”

I didn’t want to get in a scuffle as I was wearing my best khakis, so I looked for common ground.  I said, “Being from Alabama, I’ll bet you folks like cornbread dressing.”  And that’s when we became temporary friends.  We discovered our families rely on the same style recipes that have endured for several generations.  It’s basic dressing like God intended with no bell peppers or hunks of celery.

The rain subsided so we said goodbye with Merry Christmas wishes.  “Don’t forget your baby,” I said, “nor the one born long ago in Bethlehem.”  I doubt I’ll ever spend a holiday in Mobile, Alabama, but it’s comforting, for reasons I can’t explain, to know that people there share my love for simple cornbread dressing.  It won’t guarantee peace on earth, but I think it’s a small step in that direction.

I made a temporary friend, whose name I’ll never know.

It happens every now and then, when someone says hello

A man named Ben, who lives in Lee County, sent me an email in early December of 2019.  He said he planned to retire at year end and wanted to know if I had any advice.  I told him to stay off ladders and don’t tell his wife he’s retiring.  She’ll eventually find out, but by then he should have been able to establish a routine that’s unblemished by spousal coercion.

The advice I gave him seemed potentially beneficial to others, so I decided to put it in a column with some other ideas.  As I began writing, a few comments I’ve heard about retirement came to mind.

Buddy Mashburn and his wife, Donna, owned The Clothing Carnival in Unadilla for many years.  After they sold their business and moved to Florida a mutual friend of ours went to visit them.  When he asked Donna how she liked retirement, she didn’t hesitate.

“I have half the money and twice the husband,” she said.  “What do you think?”

Another quote I heard was attributed to Mr. John Ransom, a former postmaster in Unadilla.  Not long after he quit canceling stamps someone asked him how things were going.  “It’s been rough,” he said.  “I don’t get any holidays, sick leave, or vacation.”

Pete and Laura are friends of ours who live in Tennessee.  Pete has retired but Laura is still working.  When she came home from her job one afternoon, she asked Pete, “What did you do today?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

“I thought that’s what you did yesterday,” she responded.

“I did,” said Pete, “but I didn’t get finished.”

Those three stories give evidence that a good sense of humor helps in almost every retirement situation, but I thought this column should also include a few ideas of substance.  I’m no expert on retirement, but with four years of practice I’ll share three suggestions.  The triple tenets, which I believe are essential for a healthy retirement, are to stay busy, have some fun, and do something worthwhile.

There are plenty of ways to stay busy.  It may be a longtime hobby like gardening, woodworking, fishing, or sewing.  Or it may be something entirely new.  I know a lady on the other side of the 70-mile marker who is learning to play guitar.  She’s stretching her fingers and mind at the same time.

In an assisted living facility, which I recently visited, a gentleman was working on a massive jigsaw puzzle.  Hanging in the hallways were other pictures he had completed.  There’s a satisfaction that comes from putting jumbled pieces together.  That’s true of more than cardboard puzzles.

Having fun can be as simple as pouring salted peanuts into a bottled Coke while reminiscing with an old friend on a porch.  Or a short drive to Lumpkin to see The Little Grand Canyon and have a picnic lunch below sea level might be a nice outing.  Or maybe boarding a cruise ship headed somewhere we’ve never been should be on our calendar.  Fun happens if we let it.

Doing something worthwhile is perhaps the most important part of retirement.  When we do nice things for others there’s a satisfaction not found if our focus is on ourselves.

You won’t see much litter on the streets of Pinehurst, and none that’s been there very long.  Mr. Raymond Davis is a senior citizen who faithfully walks the roads with a trash bag and a litter stick.  Mayor Connie Christmas told me he follows a regular schedule to make sure the town stays clean.  I drive through Pinehurst several days a week.  When I see Mr. Raymond in his lime green vest on the side of the road, it reminds me that humble service is the most noble of aspirations.  That’s not an original thought on my part.  I’m paraphrasing what Jesus said on multiple occasions.

There are countless resources that offer detailed retirement ideas for those who need help, but simply focusing on three foundations can be a good start.  Stay busy.  Have some fun.   Do something worthwhile.

P.S. to Ben:  I apologize for part of the advice I gave you earlier.  I realized belatedly that one of those recommendations may be questionable.  If you’ll be careful and follow the safety rules, sometimes it’s okay to use a ladder.

In early December of 2019 I had my first ever experience of attending a book club meeting.  I had been invited by a friend, Sallie Sangster, to speak to the club she belongs to.  It was a lunchtime affair, so Jane went with me to make sure I used the right fork, put my napkin in my lap, and didn’t sigh a long, “Ahhh,” after taking a drink of iced tea.  In childhood I learned from my Granddaddy Hill how to accentuate a good sip.  I still find that it somehow makes the tea a little sweeter.

My food preferences tilt heavily toward basic things whose origins are obvious, southern staples like butterbeans, creamed potatoes, and fried chicken for example.  But I’ll have to admit those seven ladies performed salad magic beyond what I had believed to be possible.  The meal was as delicious as the company and was capped off with a unique chocolate pie so good that Jane asked for the recipe.

Sallie had told me I could talk about anything, but Jane had told me I couldn’t.  She knows I sometimes need a filter.  I had no idea what I should say to a book club, as I don’t read many books and don’t remember much of what I have read.  My high school English teacher, Mrs. Sadie Collins, told me in the late 1960s that I had reached my limit of reports on The Old Man and The Sea.  Admittedly, I chose the book for its brevity, but I still believe it to be worthy of more than two essays.

The lovely center piece on the dinner table was surrounded by books which the club had recently read.  Call of the Wild by Jack London was not among them, but several of the ladies readily agreed it was a worthwhile read.  I knew at some point one of the club members was likely to ask me what good book I had read lately, so I decided to be proactive.

“I’ve just finished reading the book of Ephesians,” I said.  Without hesitation our hostess, Kay Peebles, graciously responded that would certainly count.  Although it may not be a book in the typical sense, I figured it almost had to be considered an acceptable answer.  No one wants to be remembered as the person who said Ephesians isn’t a real book.

My use of Ephesians as a book reference reminded me of the children’s messages that Matt Stephens, a former pastor at Vienna First Baptist, used to give.  Matt would invite the young children to join him at the front of our sanctuary.  Before he shared a mini sermon, he would casually visit with the children and ask them what they had talked about in Sunday School.  The most consistent response became, “Jesus,” which Matt said was always a good answer.  Then he would dig a little deeper and usually find out more about their lesson.

That’s similar perhaps to what the book club does.  They casually visit while digging a little deeper into what they’ve read.  And somehow between the coffee and the conversation a bond is formed that makes their common effort of learning a time of joy.

It surprised me how much frivolity there was at the book club meeting.  It may not be true of all clubs and probably depends a lot on what topic is being discussed.  Chocolate pie always puts me in a good mood so maybe that had an effect.  And my impression is those ladies don’t just drift aimlessly across a sea of literature.  The books they discuss are like hoisting sails on a ship of friendship.

It was such a good experience that I’m inviting any men who are interested to join me at a book club meeting in Vienna.  We’ll be in George Chapel at First Baptist on Sundays at 10 am.  We’re presently reading the book of Numbers to be followed by the book of Deuteronomy.  If Vienna is not a convenient location, there are countless other book clubs which welcome new members.

I didn’t think I should end my short talk at Sallie’s club meeting without sharing something of a literary nature.  Thankfully I recalled an original poem titled “The Lonely Buzzard.”  That recitation is how I concluded my talk, so maybe the last few lines will work for ending this column.

Lonely buzzard with a roadkill diet, no matter how it smells he’s always glad to try it. Lonely buzzard with a quirky appetite, we shouldn’t criticize unless we’ve had a bite.

If you’re not in a book club that meets on Sunday mornings, I hope you’ll join one soon.  Topics vary, but the tie that binds us together never changes.  We always read from The Good Book.