Welcome to Joiner's Corner

I was standing at the counter in Forbes Drug Store a while back and noticed a small stack of Grier’s Almanacs.  Steve Morgan, who owns the pharmacy with his brother Frank, told me I was welcome to take one.  I was glad that he offered it for free, greatly relieved that I wouldn’t have to make the stressful decision of whether to part with a dollar.  Even if I hadn’t wanted an Almanac, I would probably have taken it anyway.

The late Miller Lawson was a beloved friend to our family and a fountain of common sense.  He told me that when somebody offers you something for free, it’s usually best to take it.  Miller said that he had hauled off some things that weren’t even good enough to throw in the trash.  But he had smiled and said thank you, and kept the door open for better possibilities.

Grier’s Almanac was a staple in farm households during the days of my youth.  I don’t remember where ours came from.  Maybe it was from nearby Joiner’s Store, or maybe from somewhere in Unadilla.  We kept it on the kitchen counter, right next to the phone book.

Farmers and other folks with vegetable gardens faithfully consulted the Almanac to decide when to plant.  Daddy didn’t use it for that.  Our Almanac seemed more for entertainment than agriculture.  Before smart phones, 24-hour television, and social media, people read things from printed pages and then had what we called conversations.  It might be good for someone to do a documentary on that sort of thing.

I was kind of excited that day in Forbes to be taking the 2018 Almanac home.  It had been a long time since I had seen one.  It brought back childhood memories of flipping through the pages, wondering what life changing information that year’s edition might offer.

According to the cover this is the 212^th annual issue, having been published every year since its debut in 1807.  With that kind of track record, I figured it must be loaded with valuable information.

It didn’t surprise me to find a deal on hearing aids.  Those ads seem to be everywhere.  Sometimes my wife turns down the corner of a page, so that I’ll take notice.  Not long ago, Jane suggested I should get my hearing checked.  But the thing is, if I get hearing aids I won’t have an excuse that now allows me to slyly ignore some of what she says.  Clear hearing is convenient, but it comes with a cost.

There were ads for fatigue remedies, walk-in bathtubs, Zoysia lawn plugs, and poultry products, plus some canine antiseptic powder that’s been relieving itchy pups for 1,022 dog years.  I don’t know if it’s safe for humans, but I’m thinking about ordering a bottle for a friend of mine.  My buddy Chris Kauffman taught me that referencing, “a friend of mine,” is how to buy something when you don’t want people thinking it’s for you.

What I found most exciting were the numerous ways to improve health, wealth, and luck for a nominal price.  There’s a Fast Money Candle for eight dollars or Love Draw Oil for only five.  Lucky Mojo Bags are priced to sell at fifteen bucks, or for ten more dollars you can get the extra strength version.  Shipping and handling is only another $7.50.

If you don’t want to wait by the mailbox, you can call one of the reverends, psychics, or spiritual advisors.  One lady is available to help change your bad luck to good, plus provide you with some lucky numbers.  The ad shows a picture of Jesus, but it’s possible that picture was used without His approval.

There’s Snake Oil to destroy all sorts of evil and Holy Water for money blessings.  Some of the products are guaranteed to be the most powerful available.

For those of you who prefer to shop locally, here’s something I’m sharing but asking that you keep in strict confidence.  I have access to a limited supply of lucky chinaberries.  It’s a pick your own orchard that is available only by invitation.

I can point you right to it during berry season or give you directions by phone.  If I’m not home just put ten dollars in our mailbox and help yourself to the berries.  If you’ll leave that ten dollars with me, I can just about guarantee that someone is going to get a blessing.

I met a man named Mingenback at a midday meeting in the month of May.  If you can say that tongue twister three times in ten seconds you’ll be eligible for a drawing.  I haven’t yet decided what I plan to draw, probably a stick figure or a rabbit.

My wife, Jane, and I attended a lunch program at Vinings Bank on May 1^st.  We were there to help celebrate the 50^th anniversary of the Community Bankers Association of Georgia.  Dan Oliver, president of Vinings Bank, was hosting the event in their spacious community room.

As we took our place in the food line, we spoke to a young man that we had not met before.  We shook hands and exchanged introductions.  I read his name tag to make sure that I had understood him correctly.

“Matt Mingenback,” I said aloud.  “Are you related to the Mingenbacks in Dooly County?”

“Dooly County?” he asked, inquiring as to its location.

I told him that we were about two hours south of Atlanta on I-75, and that we had a lot of Mingenbacks in our rural part of middle Georgia.  He was immensely pleased to learn of a southern connection.  Matt grew up in Kansas and now lives in Texas.  Stumbling upon the Georgia Mingenbacks was a complete surprise.

Matt is Director of Sales for a company called Fitech Payments.  I suppose it was his sales experience in reading expressions that gave away my ploy.  We all had a good laugh as I confessed that he was the only Mingenback I had ever met.  Matt said that he planned to pull that name prank himself one day.

I told him to be careful, that there was once an occasion when I felt a tinge of regret for playing that game.  I don’t recall the young man’s name.   We’ll just say Robonoski, because I think it was something along those lines.  All I remember is that it was an R word with four or maybe five syllables.

He was only a few years out of college and was working in the correspondent department for a large bank in Alabama.  He was traveling the southeastern circuit calling on small banks in search of potential business opportunities.  He stopped by Bank of Dooly in Vienna, Georgia, where I was the bank president.

I had never played that particular name game before, or even thought about it that I recall.  But when that young fellow came into my office and introduced himself, it just came to me on the spur of the moment to ask if he was related to the Robonoskis in our area.

He was a nice young man, very polite and personable.  He was excited beyond my expectations to find a pocket of Georgia folks that shared his uncommon name.  He said rather wistfully, “I’ve traveled all over several states with my job, but this is the first place I’ve found any family.”

The thing about a prank is that once you pull the plug there’s no putting it back in the drain.  The only thing I could do was tell him the sad truth.  I don’t think he suffered any long term emotional damage, but I sure did hate to disappoint him.

Speaking of disappointment, I realize that not everyone will be able to say that tongue twister in the first sentence in ten seconds or less.   I’ve decided to offer some consolation prizes for those who don’t qualify for the drawing.

If you can say that sentence clearly in 12 seconds, then you are entitled to a free blog subscription at joinerscorner.com.  If you can say it in 15 seconds, you will be awarded 200 points.

It may require more than 15 seconds for some folks to say it three times.  Regretfully, there is no formal recognition planned for that group.  I had to draw the line somewhere. Drawing the line is probably the thing that I draw best, so I think I’ll also let that serve as first prize.  I hope that the winners will enjoy it.  Good lines are hard to come by _______________________.

The Gettysburg Address only lasted a little over two minutes.  I won’t claim to be as efficient with my words as Abraham Lincoln, but if you’ll promise to listen closely, then I’ll promise not to keep you too long.  All those in favor, please signify that with a hearty, “Amen!”

Congratulations to each of you in the Senior Class of 2018 of Grace Christian Academy.  I’ll confess to being somewhat partial toward one of the graduates, but that’s part of being a grandparent.

I’d like to give those who are graduating a few simple rules that will almost guarantee you a happy, healthy, and prosperous life.  But the truth is, that’s not how it works.

What I will share with you though, are some worthwhile principles that can help you along life’s journey.  They aren’t new.  You’ve heard them all before.  But I hope to say them in a way that will help you remember them long after leaving here with your diplomas.

The first principle is, “Do your best.”  I heard a story a long time ago about an annual convention of a major dog food company.  It was a well-known national brand, one that all of you are familiar with.  There were several hundred salesmen gathered in the large banquet hall.  The company president was rallying the troops as he enthusiastically shouted out a series of rhetorical questions.

“Who has the best production facilities of any dog food company in America?” he yelled.  “We do!” the sales force shouted back.

“Who has the best distribution system of any dog food company in America?  he asked.  “We do!” they replied with vigor.

“And who has the best sales force of any dog food company in America?” he inquired.  “We do!” they responded.  The room was quickly filled with the thunderous sounds of spontaneous applause.

When the applause subsided, the company president spoke in a low and serious tone.  “If we have the best production facilities, the best distribution system, and the best sales force of any dog food company in America, then why,” he asked, “are the sales of our dog food ranked way down in fourth place?”  The room became uncomfortably quiet.

“Will someone please tell me,” he pleaded, “why aren’t we selling more dog food?”

A man in the back reluctantly stood up and gave a simple answer.  He said, “Because the dogs won’t eat it.”

If your career path leads you to a company that makes dog food, then make the best dog food you can.  Make it so good that the dogs will fight over the scraps.  If you become a school teacher, then be that teacher that makes a difference.  Be that teacher that inspires students to excel both academically and personally.  If you become a surgeon, then keep your scalpel razor sharp.  And live in such a way that your hands are steady, and that your mind is clear.  Ecclesiastes 9:10 perhaps says it best.  “Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”

Secondly, “Get up on the right side of the bed.”  Two men were said to have been engaged in a rather unpleasant breakfast conversation.  One of them had a reputation for being ornery.  The nicer fellow asked him, “Do you always wake up grouchy?” to which the man replied, “No.  Sometimes I let her sleep.”

Never underestimate the value of a positive attitude.  We can’t always control our circumstances, but we can control how we respond to those circumstances.  Rev. A. B. Hosea was the pastor many years ago at Harmony Baptist Church, the little country church of my youth.  He began every morning by looking out his bedroom window while reciting Psalms 118:24, “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Quoting that scripture didn’t guarantee Brother Hosea a wonderful day, but it helped him to approach each day with a wonderful attitude.

Finally, ”Brush your teeth and say your prayers.”  That’s what Andy told Opie in Mayberry, and it’s still timely advice.  I remember a bedtime scene where Andy asked his young son if he had brushed his teeth.  Opie fibbed.  He told his father that he had, then he offered for Andy to feel his wet toothbrush as proof.  Don’t ever be tempted to just run water over your toothbrush.  That won’t help prevent cavities.  Take good care of your body.  It’s the only one you’ll ever have.

And nurture your faith.  Every ship needs a rudder to give it direction.  Faith is like the rudder of life.  It keeps us on a course that’s worthwhile, a journey where we serve God by serving our fellow man.  II Timothy 2:15 says, “Study to shew thyself approved unto God a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.”  Our faith doesn’t grow by accident.  It grows by our intentional efforts to become closer to God.  If we excel at everything else we undertake but fail to nurture our faith, we’ve missed out on what’s most important.

I’ve given you four things to think about.  Do your best, get up on the right side of the bed, brush your teeth, and say your prayers.  Following those principles won’t magically give you a storybook kind of life.  It will, however, help you to write a better story for the life that you’ve been given.

Good night, and God bless you.

Snow United Methodist Church is a short drive west of Unadilla on Highway 230.  I was there in November of 2017 for the funeral of a long-time friend, Charles Jones.  Charles and I were in the Unadilla F.F.A. String Band together in the late 1960’s.  He mostly played bass guitar, but sometimes took a turn on piano, or plucked a bluegrass classic on his mandolin.  Like his father, Horace Jones, Charles could play just about anything with strings on it.

Jerry Pickard was one of our fellow band members.  He played “Last Date” on the keyboard at Charles’ service.  Jerry and I then played a duet of “Down Yonder.”  Jerry made a lighthearted comment that “Down Yonder” seemed like an odd title for a funeral song.  The congregation laughed, knowing that Charles had a long history with that old country standard.  He had played it countless times in duets, first with Jerry, then later with me.  He would grin comically and bounce along the piano bench as he pounded out the rhythm on the lower keys.

I can’t help but wonder if Charles nudged Saint Peter and said, “Pete, I’ll bet you haven’t heard that at a funeral before!”  Charles had a contagiously joyful approach to life.

Deidre and John Hibberd have been attending Snow UMC since 1974.  At Charles’ service Deidre invited me to come back in the spring to celebrate Homecoming and the 175^th anniversary of the church.  She knows that I am easily tempted by a combination of good friends and fried chicken.  They were both plentiful that Sunday in April.

I learned that a nearby spring once bubbled with sand as white as snow, hence the name of Snow Springs.  James Ray Irwin has been around Unadilla for over eight decades and has a gift for remembering details.  I had seen him a few weeks earlier and asked him about those springs.  He said that in his youth it was like quicksand, just like the bottomless pits depicted in movies of yesteryear.

Johnny Moore was born in 1952 and grew up attending Snow UMC.  He’s heard old tales of people tying a rope around themselves and venturing into the swirling sand and water.  Johnny and I graduated together from Unadilla High School in 1970.  If he had been born a few years earlier, he would no doubt have been on the end of one of those ropes.

Brush arbor meetings were held outdoors before the church was officially chartered in 1843.  The site was chosen because it had ample water for the people and their horses.  The preaching, singing, and visiting often lasted for several weeks.  A log church was built but lost in a fire.  The current white frame building has been there since 1902, and remarkably still has the original stained-glass windows.

There are stories from years ago about revivals where the church was overflowing with people.  Buckboards were positioned near the open windows for additional seating.  I guess the preachers in those days needed strong voices, or maybe the people listened more closely.

Mrs. Marjorie Moore is 88 years old.  She’s heard her share of sermons and Sunday School lessons at Snow UMC, but faithfully attends every service.  Her good friend, Mrs. Alvarez Hudson, will be 100 on December 9^th.  She moved to Perry a few years ago but came as usual to Homecoming.          The Moore and Hudson families have a long history at Snow UMC.  Miss Alvarez said that her late husband, Vaude, was one of nine children.  Eight of them are buried in the cemetery behind the church.  In an era when big families were common, Snow UMC was surrounded by prospects.

Homecoming has been observed at Snow UMC on the fourth Sunday in April for over sixty years.  This was the first time that Charles Jones wasn’t there.  We sang his favorite hymn, “Victory in Jesus.”  I’d like to think that he sang along, but I don’t want to ask him about it yet.

There was a good turnout for this special occasion. Like many rural churches though, the regular Sunday crowd is a lot smaller than it used to be.  The days of big families have passed, and a lot of folks left the farm to live and work elsewhere.  The list of potential new members is not very long.

The white sand is long gone from the spring.  There are more members in the cemetery now than in the pews.  That’s a sobering fact in some respects, but it’s also a good reminder that Snow UMC has been around for a lot of folks who needed it.  Over the past 175 years they’ve helped quench the thirst for countless souls.  The living water they offer is free to all who will receive it.  It comes from a spring that will never run dry, a spring where the sand is much whiter than snow.

Boss Hogg was the scheming but lovable political kingpin on The Dukes of Hazzard television series.  Bo and Luke Duke repeatedly foiled his poorly conceived and sometimes illegal plans.

Unadilla has its own version of Boss Hogg.  But the nickname was given to Clint Shugart with great affection, and with a tip of the hat to his fun-loving nature.  He was a longtime Mayor of Unadilla and is one of the most colorful politicians to hail from this part of Georgia.

Mr. Clint turned 89 on May 10th.  I went to his home in early April to talk about a men’s Sunday School class that was formed in 1955.  Mr. Clint is the only original member still living.  Charles Speight and James Ray Irwin went with me on the visit.  Mr. Charles is 96 and has taught the class since 1956.  James Ray, the youngster in the group at 84, is a longtime class member and a first cousin to Mr. Clint.

We talked about church, then briefly discussed the 65 years he drove a school bus in Dooly County.  That’s a state record for Georgia and most likely for all of America.  I rode his bus a few times back in the 1960’s.  He was as popular with the children as he was with his constituents, always smiling and welcoming us aboard.  He didn’t just drive the bus, he hosted a daily social event for his young riders.

The conversation during our visit naturally shifted to politics.  Mr. Clint’s countless trips to the state capital were unconventional but highly effective.  His political savviness was honed during an era when friendship and camaraderie were the best tools of the trade.

Mr. Clint would gather all kinds of produce from local gardens.  He’d head for Atlanta with corn, peas, butterbeans, and watermelons.  He once asked Mr. Charles about getting a few pears from a tree in his yard.  Mr. Clint didn’t leave enough pears on the tree to make a cobbler.

Joe Frank Harris ran for governor in 1982.  A lot of folks didn’t know who he was when Mr. Clint started putting up signs.  But we all knew who he was by election day, and Governor Harris knew who Clint Shugart was.  Those were eight good years for Unadilla and Dooly County.

James Ray asked me with a big grin, “Do you know where Clint parked when he went to see the governor?” I nodded that I didn’t.  “In the Governor’s spot!” he said.  “They would move the Governor’s car and motion for Clint to pull in.”

Mr. Clint and his helpers would unload the produce, hams, or whatever they were carrying.  When a question was posed about regulations, Mr. Clint told his group of friends to just leave everything on the sidewalk.  He said he would let somebody know there might be some abandoned items that needed to be moved.  He embraced results over orthodoxy and had a knack for getting things done.

The waiting room to see Governor Harris was always filled with men wearing tailored suits.  Mr. Clint wore his coveralls, the same ones he had on when he had picked the pears from Charles Speight’s tree.  The Governor would slip out the back door and welcome his good friend into his office.

When the Department of Corrections decided to put a state prison in Dooly County, they spent a full day looking at potential sites.  The last one they inspected was near Unadilla and was quickly deemed their top choice.  Mr. Clint understood that formalities and decisions are two different things.

“There were times,” said Mr. Clint, “when we couldn’t round up enough produce, and we needed some money to buy a few things.”  He said, “Charlie, that’s when I would go see Joe,” referring to Mr. Charles’ late brother.  “Joe would always help us out,” he said, speaking with a deep appreciation that’s lasted for decades.

Several times during our visit Mr. Clint laughed and said, “Charlie, we had some good times, didn’t we?”  Each time, Mr. Charles affirmed that they did.  We walked toward the door to leave and Mr. Charles paused by the chair of his old friend.  He shook his hand, held it a moment, and said, “Clint, we had some good times, didn’t we?”  We all laughed, knowing it was a question that required no answer.

Unadilla has been blessed to have its own Boss Hogg, a homegrown version that’s much improved over that fellow from Hazzard County.  Clint Shugart left town with his trunk full of produce.  He came back home with some big loads of bacon for the folks of Unadilla.  And he and his many friends had some good times all along the way.

This is a fictional story about true love.  Or maybe it’s a true story about a fictional love.  If it happened, it was before I met my future wife.  She says either way is okay, so just take your pick.

We weren’t exactly lunchroom lovers, but that title has a lot more intrigue than “My Cafeteria Friend.”  I loved seeing her behind the serving line at Valdosta State College, and I think she loved seeing me.  We enjoyed our brief exchanges as I walked by with my tray.  Our visits were often better than the food.

There was a time when I am sure I knew her name, but that was long ago.  I wouldn’t know it now, even if I heard it called.  I wouldn’t know her either.  Her face has completely faded.  That seems to happen more often lately than it used to.

I was a third quarter freshman in that spring of 1971.  She was a freshman too.  She helped in the cafeteria as part of the college’s work/study program.  She was blond and pretty and had a smile as sweet as her disposition.  She lived at home with her parents in Valdosta.

We never had a class together. Our paths seldom crossed except for those brief encounters in the cafeteria.  We flirted a bit, but mostly we just teased each other, each looking for a reason to talk, often finding something to laugh about.

I struggled in search of clever lines.  She willingly patronized my attempts.  I would ask quietly if she would get in trouble for sharing their recipe for English peas.  She would whisper back and swear me to secrecy, saying she could perhaps get me a label from a can.

I would ask if the potatoes being served had been grown in Idaho, that I much preferred Idaho potatoes.  She assured me that was the case.  She said that she had inspected the bags and found the documentation to be in order.

When we had peach cobbler, I told her I had a vitamin deficiency, that my doctor had advised I needed to eat more peaches.  She asked if he mentioned more ice cream as well.  I affirmed that he did, already knowing I would get a larger serving than the college administration had approved.   We both knew the conversation was not really about dessert.

Once we had a particularly suspicious looking entrée.  I don’t remember what the official cafeteria name of the dish was.  Maybe they didn’t identify it, giving the students a chance to think creatively.  I asked her if there had been any reported fatalities.  “No more than usual,” she casually replied.  “You can count them on your fingers for the whole week.”

The next day I told her that I thought I had food poisoning.  She said, “Maybe you should stop those late-night trips to the Royal Castle.”

“But they have a great scrambled dog for just a dollar,” I said.  “You can’t expect me to give that up.”

“I’ll never try to tell you what to do,” she responded.  “But if you sleep with dogs you’ll wake up with fleas.”

I never asked her for a date, and I’m not sure why.  Maybe she was dating someone, or maybe I was.  The shallow end of my memory pond only has a small trace of water remaining.

As spring quarter was ending, I was about to go home for the summer.  I was glad she was behind the counter that last day.  “Here’s that recipe you wanted,” she said, handing me a label from a can of English peas.

I told her I hoped that she had a good summer, that I would see her in the fall.  She made me promise to eat plenty of peaches and cream, a promise that I have faithfully kept.

She wasn’t working in the cafeteria when I returned to college.  My trips there were never quite the same.  But when I see peach cobbler on a serving line, sometimes it still reminds me of a brief but lovely friendship in a springtime long ago.

It was a special time for lunchroom lovers.  It was a wonderful season for peaches and cream.