Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Perhaps I had heard the idea before and dismissed it, or maybe November 22nd was my first introduction. When I read Rick Hamlin’s devotional in Daily Guideposts, alphabetical prayers at bedtime struck me as a practice worth exploring. 

Rather than counting innumerable sheep, 26 letters help Rick go to sleep. Family and friends are regularly included, but there are no rules. I’ve tested the method a few times, not to entice slumber but to facilitate praying.    

As a child I had a hard time going to sleep. I’d toss and turn and pull the covers loose. Now it only takes a minute to drift off the first time, though second and third rounds are less predictable.

Thankfully, alphabetized praying is suitable in many venues. I recently had a nine o’clock dermatology appointment in Warner Robins but arrived too soon. At 8:15 the blinds were still closed at the walk-up window. 

A notice said they would reopen that Monday morning, which followed Thanksgiving, at nine a.m. It seemed odd that no time was allowed for paperwork, but I returned to my truck to wait. My first thought was to crank up some classic country at Willie’s Roadhouse. Rick’s mention of prayer, however, interfered with the music.

Thirty minutes didn’t get me far into the alphabet, as my prayers tend to drift off course. I’m not sure what was covered in that half hour, but here are some things that come to mind now.     

Abby, our first grandchild, gets dibs on A. With my tendency to quickly fall asleep, however, I’m thinking A should be for All our grandchildren. Otherwise Melanie and Megan will usually get left out and Walt won’t stand a chance.

Initially my inclination was to stick with people, but A reminds me to pray for America, something I admittedly neglect. And when I do remember, sometimes I make suggestions how God might handle matters, rather than asking what he desires from me.    

Our nation has been divided before, severely at times, but voices of reason have traditionally prevailed. Such voices are dwindling in today’s politics. Servant leaders are often not electable. Others choose not to wade into the bitter quagmire that’s become the norm.     

B is for the Bodrey family which our daughter Carrie married into. Then C brings up Callaway which covers Erin’s household. Seth would be way down the list, so I figure it’s best to remember him along with his sisters.

My mother, who is 96, deserves an earlier spot than M would allow, so I’ll include her at this point. And it’s essential I don’t forget my wife, who now has the stress of dealing with a 70 year old husband. As Dorothy said to her dog, “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”   

D will stand for Dog today, especially for Harriet who faithfully accompanies me on each trip to the woods. Besides protecting me from squirrels, she’s an ideal confidant. Harriet listens attentively and seldom speaks.  

There are several benefits to Rick Hamlin’s approach to prayer. It can be used to quickly mention a number of people or to elaborate on a few. Or we can let our minds wander through the letters and see what happens. 

At 8:45 that Monday morning, I ambled into the lobby again, thinking the window might open early. The blind was was still closed and the waiting room empty, so I took a seat. That’s when I realized I was trying to register at Beltone Hearing Aids. 

Nearby signage pointed me down the hall to Georgia Dermatology, where a nurse and I had a good laugh. I thought the mixup might be an omen of hearing aids which Jane has suggested I need. The nurse said that was possible, or it could be pointing toward new glasses. Twelve stitches later I headed home with a two-week excuse from yard work and washing dishes.

Praying the alphabet won’t appeal to everyone and I don’t know if I’ll use it long term. But when sleep won’t come, or you’re wide awake and passing time in your truck, I believe Rick’s method is worth a try.    

After several starts, always beginning with A, I’ve not made it past D. For those of us who drift off easily, or whose minds are prone to wander, 26 letters present a challenge. In the early part of the ABCs, my prayers give way to slumbering ZZZZZZZZZs.           

In December of 1980 I began working at Bank of Dooly. Not long afterward the bank sponsored four of us to take a Dale Carnegie course in Cordele. What we learned about remembering names is gone, but a few memories survived. One of my favorites is a quote, which was probably already well known yet was new to me. 

My recollection of Ray Clemons’ brief talk is limited to his opening line. He said, “I’ve always heard the best way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.”

Desmond Tutu, the late Anglican bishop from South Africa, has been credited with a similar version of that thought. Some references say it’s an ancient African proverb. Regardless of its origin, Bishop Tutu’s global prominence surely expanded the audience, perhaps all the way to the Clemons Farm near Unadilla.

After taking some time off due to family health matters, I resumed working in the woods in late summer, mostly clipping vines and knocking down inland sea oats. And I began mulling over Ray’s advice, sometimes reciting it to Harriet, my canine assistant.

Like many jobs, the hardest part of this one was getting started. I had gotten out of the routine, then began finding reasons to stall. Snakes and ticks were the top deterrents, but unwanted oats began double-dog daring me to to take a swing with a sling.   

Wild oats would have been a minor problem if contained when they first appeared. These, however, had roamed freely for years. Each stalk produces dozens of seeds which adeptly ride the slightest breeze or float atop rivulets of rainwater. Their territory had been expanding without disruption. 

I cringed at the thought of not seeing where I was putting my feet. The oats, however, were a growing problem, plus Harriet, a once homeless blue heeler, loves having company. So I sprayed for ticks, prayed for safety, watched for snakes, and began weedeating. 

Seeds were already on the stalk when I renewed my efforts, and were probably mature enough to survive the thrashing. I won’t know for sure until next spring. Either way, my plans are to get an early start whacking and spraying before they produce another crop.

Unwanted vines have been another recent focus. There are climbing briars and several I can’t identify. The most prolific, however, are bullis vines. I have no idea how many I’ve cut, but it’s in the hundreds and the party is not over.

Some are small enough for garden shears. Others can be clipped with a lopper and some leverage. For the biggest ones a chainsaw works best. I’ve cut a few large vines by hand with a pruning saw, but nixed that strategy due to concern the blade might overheat. 

The largest bullis vine I’ve sawed through measured eight inches in diameter. That may not be a world record, but it’s bigger than anything I’ve seen in the wild. Quite notably, it had required no special attention to flourish and entangle several trees. All it needed was to be ignored.

Last year, I cut dozens of the bullis vines back to the base. My hope was they would produce fruit on that new growth rather than high and out of reach. What I’ve learned, however, is offshoots continue to relentlessly spread, often on the ground and hidden under fallen leaves.

Trees are enjoying relief from the clinging vines that have been clipped, but eradication will require more than severe prunings. The root of the problem must be addressed. 

While trying to eliminate the bullis vines and wild oats, I’ve been pondering Ray’s comment from long ago. I’ve gained a greater appreciation for its humorous and profound message, but what strikes me as more significant is the wisdom of that approach in facing life’s challenges.

There’s an endless list of situations which can be overwhelming. It might be health issues, family matters, strained finances, or divisive politics to name a few. It can be an ominous feeling we can’t explain because we don’t fully understand it. Sometimes even the Christmas season is accompanied by feelings of anxiety which temper our joy.

Everyone’s circumstances are unique. Some have a clear path forward while others face difficulties that almost defy solutions. Whether it’s manual labor, like clearing vines and oats, or overwhelming  problems which seem impossible to resolve, Ray shared a solid idea. 

Harriet and I have found Ray’s advice helpful, so maybe someone else will too. It doesn’t matter how big the elephant is. “The best way to eat an elephant is one bite at a time.”       

In the woods near my mother’s childhood home, dozens of trees are noticeably leaning, a few almost parallel to the ground. Some were bent when another tree or heavy limb fell across. Others have been slowly pulled down by climbing vines which show no mercy.

I’ve cut a few such trees with my chainsaw, but usually leave them alone if they show even slight potential. Several I’ve freed from bondage, giving them a second chance to reach toward heaven. Most are unremarkable in terms of aesthetics, but two deserve inclusion in The Leaning Tree Hall of Fame.  

Native Americans are said to have tied trees down to alter their natural growth. The same sapling would sometimes be manipulated in multiple directions for various reasons, like marking a trail or boundary. Tree bending was probably sometimes done to impress neighbors or young ladies. Whitewall tires weren’t available to line driveways.

Daddy told me that during his youth boys would use a rope to pull a limber sapling over then ride the spring-loaded top. One kid would cling tightly as the others released and launched him skyward. It wasn’t as fun as a trip to the fair but the price was great.

A leaning tree I find especially lovely is a birch whose long roots are mostly exposed. I would guess it’s only a few decades old. During the past several years, as we’ve spent more time in those woods, I’ve gained an increasing appreciation for that tree which refuses to surrender to gravity.

Years ago it was steadily secured on the bank of the stream, but passing water has eroded the soil from its base. The birch is about 30 feet tall yet its top is almost within my reach. A barren trunk is tethered by a mass of open-air roots which eventually pass through shallow water and grab the earth.  

The tree’s tenacity is inspiring and its peculiarity endearing, plus it’s useful. When our grandson, Walt, was looking for crawdads, those twisted roots turned out to be their favorite hiding place. That day’s catch was cooked for Walt’s supper, but now we leave them undisturbed. Even crawdads need a place to call home.  

My other favorite leaning tree is firmly grounded, but suffered an unknown trauma long ago. It’s on a tiny peninsula which has been patiently carved by years of flowing water. The tulip poplar offers an ideal setting for taking photos or escaping from alligators.

We’ve only seen one alligator along the branch. To his credit, he didn’t sneak up on us. We unknowingly walked within a few feet of him before being unexpectedly greeted. 

Jimmy, my late brother, first spotted the huge gator submerged and resting on the bottom near the spring. Apparently he had traveled upstream from a pond on an adjoining property. The big fellow visited a few weeks then left, presumably returning home. We didn’t know he stopped halfway there. 

Megan and our daughter, Erin, were with Jimmy and me taking a relaxed walk along the branch. We were unaware the gator was quietly perched on the bank of the stream. He startled us with a four-foot belly flop into knee-deep water. Megan shimmied up the leaning tree as the rest of us scampered away. I ran because my license for gator wrestling had expired. 

That ancient poplar’s massive base is heavily tilted and grew into two trunks of about the same size. One goes straight up, but the other slopes about eight feet before making a turn toward twelve o’clock. The oddly shaped tree reminds me that neither beauty nor purpose require perfection. 

If I needed timber for sawing into boards, I’d want trees with exemplary posture. For a walk in the woods, however, I love those which are charmingly blemished, which have flourished despite their setbacks. 

Imperfect trees are not so different from life when plans go awry. It may be from self-inflicted wounds or due to things beyond our control. Either way, the weight of burdens can bend us so badly it’s hard to look up. And climbing vines of every kind can steal the sunlight and overshadow our dreams.

Two oddly-shaped trees beside the stream remind me that blessings sometimes come in unorthodox forms. When life doesn’t turn out as expected it can be hard to accept and even harder to embrace. But the leaning trees in my favorite woods show that challenging circumstances can lead to new opportunities. One gave Megan a lasting memory. The other found an uncommon purpose. Even crawdads need a place to call home.       

As we wrap up this series, don’t expect any grand revelations. Today’s lesson is one from childhood which has been seasoned by experience. Maybe that’s a topic for another time, how seeds planted in spring are harvested in later seasons. 

Two ladies recently had a minor collision in my mother’s driveway. One was backing up as the other was pulling in. Their accident reminded me of something my father told me as a teenager or perhaps earlier. He said, “Don’t ever back up if you can go forward.”

Daddy’s point was that we don’t know what’s behind us. He encouraged us to park so we didn’t have to use reverse when possible. That’s not always an option, but a somber moment from youth still reminds me of what can happen.  

Bags of peanut seeds were stacked high in the bed of Daddy’s pickup for the next day’s planting. His truck was parked under the shelter to keep them dry overnight. When I slid under the steering wheel the following morning, I had no idea our chihuahua was nearby. 

Granddaddy Hill had given Skip to me when I was in the fourth grade. Chihuahuas were thought by some to help with asthma, a problem which severely affected me at times. That’s why my grandfather paid fifty dollars, a lot of money in 1960, for an unproven remedy. 

Medical science probably doesn’t support the reputed health benefits of those little dogs. Rumors of healing may have come from an innovative chihuahua salesman. All I know is I stopped having asthmatic episodes after Skip came. Whether he deserves any credit I can’t say. Either way it was a relief from the panicky feeling of struggling to breathe. 

Most challenges have a silver lining and I guess asthma did for me. Dr. Ted Coleman in Hawkinsville made a wry comment that got my attention. He said, “Neil, if you want to keep having trouble getting your breath, you should take up smoking.” That convinced me not to ride beside The Marlboro Man.              

Skip was twice as big as most chihuahuas, so probably came from mixed parentage. He lived inside for a few months, until unacceptable bathroom habits led to his ouster. We knew when he’d been naughty because he stayed out of sight.

Like Adam and Eve, Skip tried to hide, except he used furniture as his cover. Thankfully the outdoor lifestyle suited him fine. He got along great with Trixie, a collie mix who was smarter than Lassie. Rather than going for help, Trixie never let us fall into a well. A heat lamp warmed their cozy bed in winter. 

There’s an old saying that could be applied to Skip. “It’s not the size of the dog in the fight that matters. It’s the size of the fight in the dog.” Chihuahuas are known for bravado and Skip had more than his share. He was friendly toward people but didn’t cater to canines he thought were trespassing.

A neighbor’s dog, belonging to the Homer Todd family, was trotting by our house one day minding its own business. Although the road was public, Skip’s domain extended beyond our lawn. He ran toward that much bigger dog, which I nervously assumed would stand its ground. The dog fled instead with Skip chasing after.

If Skip had caught him, it would not have ended well for the home team. I’m not sure if going after a bigger dog is an example of courage or foolishness. Skip’s fearless attitude was admirable, but I don’t think he realized we can catch things that won’t turn us loose. 

The truck was barely moving, still under the shelter when I heard Skip’s yelp. It was a heartbreaking scene, but hard lessons can at least help prevent future mistakes.

Daddy’s comment years ago was made for safety reasons and nothing more. The principle, however, can be applied to many areas, including spiritual matters. The direction we’re heading is a good way to assess our daily walks of faith. Backsliding often affects more than the driver and leads to unintended casualties.     

Sometimes I ignore what I know is best, even with things that are important. But the seeds my father planted in springtime are better appreciated with each passing season.

I don’t have any grand revelations, just simple advice from a wise and godly man. I’m glad I can still hear my father’s voice. “Don’t ever back up when you can go forward.”                     

Reflecting on things I learned while growing older keeps taking me back to childhood. One such memory concerns fences, a lesson I appreciate more now than then.  

I’ve been weed eating in the woods at my mother’s childhood home lately. Rusted page wire, flattened by time, is camouflaged by limbs, leaves, and vines. I’ve found yesteryear’s remnants with my feet several times and once with a chainsaw. It reminded me of Daddy’s tongue-in-cheek comparison of my grandfathers’ approaches to putting up fences.  

Papa Joiner, he’d say with a slight grin, would reuse old wire and homemade cypress posts that were cut off the farm. He’d sometimes flip the posts over and put the top in the ground, giving them a fresh start. His fences lacked glamor, but were tightly stretched and followed straight lines.  

Grandaddy Hill, on the other hand, favored new wire and creosote posts, and took a casual approach toward alignment. Trees, even if a little off course, were enlisted into service. Evidence of that practice remains in trees which gradually swallowed sections of wire. 

Sharing their contrasting philosophies was Daddy’s subtle way of advocating conservative living. My father was born in 1923 and grew up plowing a mule. He was still farming that way in 1947 when Mama said, “I do.” Cora was replaced with a Big M Farmall before I came along in 1952. Big exaggerates the tractor’s size, but perhaps described the huge improvement over walking.  

Daddy’s frugal nature was reinforced by a drought in 1954. That was the first year he was unable to repay his crop loan at Exchange Bank of Unadilla. Mr. Tom Woodruff let him carry his debt over and loaned him more operating money. His appreciation for Mr. Tom never waned, nor did the unsettling experience of a crop failure.    

My father didn’t give lectures. He taught by making observations and through example. With current talk of a recession, Daddy’s philosophy toward finances is worth revisiting. Frugality won’t solve every financial problem, but it’s a start.  

A similar view was perfectly expressed years ago in a wry comment made by Mr. Rufus Collins, a man ten years older than my father. I met Mr. Rufus after Jane and I moved to Vienna in 1975. He had retired from farming by the time I began working at Bank of Dooly in 1980. That’s where I would usually see him.  

As he was leaving one day, I followed him outside to visit for a few minutes. Mr. Rufus was driving a well-worn 1974 Chevy pickup with faded green and white paint. Knowing that was by choice and not necessity, I teased him about being overdue for an upgrade.

 “Mr. Rufus,” I said, “The bank will be glad to help you get a new truck if you’re about ready.” He smiled as he opened a dusty door and shared a pearl of wisdom. He said, “Son, save the meat that hangs closest to the door.”

He was referring to the days when most farms had a smokehouse, a place to cure and store hams and such. It was probably tempting at times to grab what was convenient rather than going to the back corner to get the oldest.

Larry Collins recently told me another saying of his father, a response to his loving wife when she wanted to do something he didn’t consider essential. He’d tenderly say, “Vera, we’re comfortable. We’re doing okay. I want to save so the young’uns won’t have to go through what I did.”

Born in 1913, Mr. Rufus had a firsthand look at hard times. The cracks between the floorboards of his childhood home were wide enough that wind would move the bed covers. Most of us don’t have that perspective, but we can learn from those who do.        

Economic problems are likely to present increasingly painful challenges. I have no idea what the future holds, but here’s what I’m certain of. Two men who understood lean times would recommend getting prepared.     

Stumbling across those fallen fences reminded me of how Daddy described my grandfathers. And that led me to a treasured memory of Mr. Rufus Collins. Conservative living has mostly gone out of style, but it might be a good time to bring it back.

Rusty wire and reused posts may not impress the people who ride by, but that’s not important. A better approach is to ask if the fence will keep the cows in.

Decisions can be viewed from multiple angles, and old material is not always the best choice. But there’s one thing about cattle and fences that’s become more clear as I’ve grown older. Cows don’t care if the wire is new.       

I was surprised to recently learn that Don Giles, a friend since fourth grade, usually wears white socks six days a week. It’s not for style. He says they’re better for your feet. Enlightened by his example, I’m considering a gradual shift from black as toe holes mature.  

Socks are not something Don and I normally discuss. The subject came up in a text with him and our pal Mike Chason on my 70th birthday. Mike shared some memories from our time at Valdosta State College. He recalled my innovative pairing of black socks with white tennis shoes on the basketball court.

To be clear, I wasn’t on the college team. Coach Jim Melvin preferred players with high-school experience and talent. The same was true when James Dominey of Vienna took over. The gym, however, was open to students on weekends and was a gathering place for guys to shoot hoops. We tried to attract cheerleaders but none jumped at the chance. 

Don, Mike, and I were members of Delta Chi fraternity, which consistently excelled in intramurals. I wasn’t a prospect for that roster either. Mike, a high-school basketball star, played with Delta Chi but polished his game with us outliers on weekends. 

Several fraternity brothers, including Don and me, decided to form an intramural team just for fun. The Delta Flyers were sort of a low-talent version of the Globetrotters except for our special strategy – ignore the score. 

We didn’t fly very high so I saw no need to change socks for our games. I wore the black ones I’d begun the day with, thereby avoiding unnecessary additions to a smoldering laundry pile. 

Black socks fit perfectly in my pursuit of roundball mediocrity until our coach pulled rank. Danny Chadwick, another fraternity brother, was a Physical Education major and took his leadership role seriously. He decided we should dress like a real team.

Danny politely suggested I wear white socks on a couple of occasions, then finally delivered an ultimatum. “Joiner,” he said, “if you show up with black socks again I’m benching you!” Not wanting to jeopardize a three-game, two-point scoring streak I complied.  

Mike’s mention of my unique attire prompted Don to suggest a column: “White socks and other things I’ve learned as I’ve grown older.” I can’t promise anything exceptional, but the best place to start is perhaps the beginning. 

One of my earliest lessons came because of our dog, Mug. I followed her into the wheat field until she left me behind. Having no idea how to get home, I sat on the ground and cried until Mama found me. Daddy explained later that looking up could have helped me find the way back. He said to look for a tree top or something high and walk straight toward it. 

Since then I’ve discovered there are thousands of ways to get lost. Some are minor detours while others lead to dead ends. Regardless of how far we’ve strayed, though, the best path forward comes through looking up.

Captain Kangaroo deserves credit for another early lesson, one that’s essential. He taught me to sing the ABCs, a tune that still readily comes to mind. Mr. Green Jeans, Dancing Bear, and Grandfather Clock were regulars on his show. I don’t remember much about the series except that Grandfather Clock slept a lot. He was probably tired from having too much time on his hands.    

A third thing I learned early is to keep a salt shaker in the truck during summer. Daddy and I loved wild plums and both preferred the half-ripened stage. Each year we’d stop on the roadside at volunteer orchards. We’d sprinkle salt in our palms then lick each plum before rolling, chewing, and spitting the seed out. 

Pomegranates were another seasonal favorite of ours. Mrs. Dora Rogers had a big bush from which she generously shared. My earliest memory of eating a pomegranate is of sitting at our breakfast table as Daddy separated the fruit from the bitter pulp.

When I asked if the President of the United States had someone who prepared his pomegranates, Daddy said he didn’t know. We put a few in the freezer one year but they were mushy when thawed. Some things are intended for the moment and not much use later on. 

Hopefully, that won’t be the case if I make a belated transition to white socks. Switching colors fifty years ago kept me from being sentenced to the sidelines, but making a change now may be even more important. If white socks are good for the feet, they’re bound to be good for the sole.              

Harriet, a blue heeler who charmed her way into our hearts, made life miserable for an unnamed young feline I’ll call Persie. That’s short for perseverance, the defining trait of a little cat who kept trying.

Persie’s story is not as spectacular as some. She’s living proof, however, it pays not to give up too easily.

In November of 2021 I published a column titled “Dirty Jobs” about my mother’s childhood home. Renters had moved out and gifted us with two grown cats.

Alger and Benjamin were named for my late grandfather, A. B. Hill. Benjamin, however, turned out to be a girl. We never settled on a new name, so I’ll use Benja for today’s column.          

Living at a vacant house near critter-filled woods was not ideal, but we fed the pair daily and hoped for the best. Alger looked tough enough to take care of himself. Benja’s demeanor suggested she could also. 

Dr. Baker couldn’t tell if she had been spayed, but after several uneventful months we assumed that was the case. When three kittens surprised us, I learned that female cats arrange for their young to be born during warm weather. Some mothers make exceptions, but not Benja. Conflicting goals probably explain the strained relationship we noticed between the couple.   

Before the kittens were born their father disappeared. We don’t know whether he fell prey to something in the woods or left home because he couldn’t handle parental pressures. Benja may have kicked him out, or maybe he went looking for love. 

One morning as I was about to leave home, I saw Benja crouching under my truck. I had no idea she had hitched a ride the day before, a trip of about 16 miles. I put her in the passenger seat and slid under the wheel.

Benja had a history of peculiar behavior. She could be affectionate but at times seemed poised to attack, so sharing a cab made me a little nervous. I was hardly out of the driveway when she crawled into my lap, causing me to wish I had buckled her seatbelt.

She extended her claws a few times through my pants legs. It didn’t hurt but led to considerable anxiety about her further intentions. I’ve never spoken so tenderly to a cat. “You’re a good kitty,” I kept repeating in my most soothing voice.  

I pulled into Grandmama’s yard, opened the door, and eased her onto the ground. The rest of the morning I spent working inside the house, and wondering why Benja had become a stowaway the day before.

After making sure she wasn’t hiding in my truck, I left Grandmama’s and drove to my mother’s for dinner. I went home after the meal, parked my vehicle, and let the tailgate down to get a paintbrush out. That’s when I saw something baffling.

Under the mounted toolbox was a dark furry mass partially obscured by leaves. I was shocked to find three black kittens. Benja had apparently put them there the day before, trying to find a safe place for her babies.

The kittens and I took a fast ride back. A pet carrier, already on the screen porch, was hastily converted to a bed. It concerned me that Benja might not want me handling them, but the transfer went well. Kids and mom settled in on a soft pile of rags.

We waited until they were four months old to take the kittens and Benja to the vet. They all recovered fine from the surgeries, but eventually Persie was the only cat left. One sibling I found in the woods, several days too late.

Our young cat was living alone when Harriet showed up in September and chased her off the property. We spotted her in the area a few times but couldn’t get close and knew the prospects of survival were unlikely. One day while Harriet was visiting neighbors, Seth saw Persie and made a quick rescue. A nice family provided a safe home and put her in charge of rat patrol.

That blissful transition followed a lonely month of hiding and scavenging for food. It was probably tempting to give up at times or at least become dangerously distracted by hunger or fear. Ability and instinct surely helped her survive, but there’s no doubt attitude played a vital role. 

Persie’s story is not as spectacular as some, but her example of perseverance is worth remembering. Whether our challenges are mild or severe, temporary or enduring, Persie showed what can happen if we don’t give up too easily. Life turned out splendidly, much better than could have been expected, for a little cat who kept trying.       

D-L-R-O-W. In case no one has ever told you, that’s “world” spelled backwards. My mother began reciting that reverse sequence several years ago when she learned it’s commonly included in cognitive impairment tests. Now I’m practicing it too.

Mama’s remarkable memory has lost some reliability, but she’s still sharp with her thinking. When she tells me something important she adds, “You better write that down.”

Memory has never been a strong point of mine, plus it’s oddly selective. Some things stay with me while others quickly dissipate. Nonsense is easily retained, but useful information tends to have a short lifespan. Perhaps that reflects my priorities.

Countless ads for Prevagen convinced me it might be worth a try. My confidence in its effectiveness was bolstered by knowing it contains a special ingredient replicating a protein found in jellyfish. Nothing symbolizes mental acuity like gelatinous marine blobs.

An online site ranked several products reputed to possibly have some beneficial effect on memory enhancement. I have no idea if the information is accurate, but they listed Prevagen at number five and Stonehenge Dynamic Brain at one. The prospects of having a dynamic brain were thrilling so I started at the top.

The 30-day regimen of two pills per day was planned to begin October 1st, but I forgot. Sadly, I’m not kidding, despite putting the bottle at my place on the table. I should have used a sticky note.

November 8th concluded my experiment, eight days longer than expected. Apparently there were 16 extra pills in the bottle, or I missed taking some doses. At times of uncertainty I left it off rather than risk the effects of doubling up. The idea of becoming a genius at this point in life holds little appeal. Throngs of seekers looking for advice could bring on a lot of pressure.

After the month-plus trial the results are astounding. I can now name all the capitals of states south of Georgia. Maybe I should clarify that by saying states south of and adjacent to Georgia. For the sake of full disclosure, I lived in Tallahassee 12 months, six before marriage and six afterward.

During the bachelor phase of being a Floridian, Jane was staying with her parents in Thomasville, only a 35 minute drive away. I would leave Tallahassee on Friday afternoons and spend two nights at the Horne residence, then return to my apartment at 2600 Miccosukee Road late on Sundays.

On Friday nights during football season, Mr. Horne and I would walk the short distance from their home to watch the Thomasville Bulldogs. Running back William Andrews was in his senior year, breaking tackles and records each week, leading them toward a state title. It was an exciting time to be a fan.

My clearest memory, however, doesn’t relate to Andrews’ magnificent runs or anything that happened on the field. Those highlights faded long ago. The most distinct recollection I have involves peanuts. Jane’s father loved peanuts and took plenty of boiled ones for us to snack on. His were dug with a shovel, picked off by hand, and of impeccable quality.

Milton Callaway was superintendent of schools at the time and routinely sat a few rows behind us on the top row. I didn’t know him well but we’d met at First Baptist Church and exchanged greetings a few times. He was a member there and I attended on Sunday mornings with my future wife and in-laws. 

Mr. Callaway brought a generous amount of parched peanuts to one of the games and passed them around our section. His brown paper bag was identical to ours, so I decided to make a switch for the return trip.

He stuck his hand in the bag and pulled out a boiled peanut which he curiously examined. He grabbed a few more and had a rather bewildered look on his face until he spotted me grinning. We shared several laughs over that small caper, so maybe that’s why I haven’t forgotten it. Even nonsense sometimes has lasting value. 

For a brief moment I expect he questioned his memory. That’s kind of where I am today, hoping my increasing lapses are a natural part of the aging process. If this dynamic brain boost doesn’t pan out, I may try Prevagen. I used to want a memory like an elephant. Watered-down aspirations are now represented by jellyfish. 

If memory pills don’t lead to substantial improvement, I’ll resume practicing reverse spelling and hope they don’t change the test. D-L-R-O-W. In case no one has ever told you, that’s “world” spelled backwards.           

Seventy came much sooner than expected. It doesn’t seem that long ago a freckled-faced kid was pedaling his bike through sinking sand. When our country road was paved with gravel a good life got even better. Standing on the pedals became an option for speed rather than a necessity to stay upright.

But life in the fast lane can be tricky. When the road was dirt it took considerable effort to make the short trip to Joiner’s Store. With a hard surface, however, the downslope beyond beckoned me onward. The ease of coasting downhill felt marvelous until the chain grabbed my pants and tossed me into the ditch.  

With scrapes and a slightly sprained ankle, I slowly pushed my bike up the hill to the store. Uncle Emmett knew just what to do. He took the padlock off the kerosene tank and turned the crank enough to dispense a few ounces. Medical science may not be able to explain my sudden improvement, but kerosene dabbed on the wounds and a cold drink in my belly relieved the pain. 

I don’t remember what kind of soda it was. A strawberry Nehi would be my guess. I thought they were exceptional back then but my taste buds changed over time. What once seemed perfect lost its appeal long ago. Or maybe I abandoned the sweet bottled treat when I decided it was for kids. Real men drank Coke or something akin.  

It doesn’t seem that long ago Joe Sanders and I made a ramp for launching bikes. Joe was an innovator, always figuring out how to do things beyond the ordinary. He pedaled the one mile trip from his house to ours where we used an old board and some cement blocks to construct an incline. That was before Evel Knievel’s motorcycle jumps, so I don’t know where Joe got the idea.

It doesn’t seem that long ago I used clothespins to clip cardboard to my bike fenders so the wheel spokes would slap out a tune. The bike seemed faster with its subdued roar and perhaps it was. Maybe the rhythmic sound quickened my approach to the pedals. Immediate reward is a strong incentive. Ask any dog who will sit on command.    

It doesn’t seem that long ago I parked my bike and began riding a used Moped. Sears sold them new, but I don’t remember where Daddy found this one. Red paint was severely faded but the moped would still hit 31 miles per hour as originally advertised. New paint, I’ve come to realize, is often overrated. 

A year or two later Uncle Emmett gave me an upgrade with a second-hand Allstate Compact scooter. He bought it from Mr. Bruce Poole, who delivered the mail on Route One, Unadilla. There were no road names, box numbers, or zip codes back then, just three rural routes which Mr. Bruce faithfully navigated. Uncle Emmett was his assistant and I was Uncle Emmett’s assistant. He drove and I put mail in the boxes.   

The scooter was a major step up from the moped, even though first gear didn’t work. With a little push it took off fine in second. Shifting to third allowed it to reach its full potential of 42 mph. That was before we knew it was unsafe for youngsters with no licenses or helmets to drive motorcycles.        

Cushman scooters were common in our area. There must have been a dozen or so in the community. They had an open area for your legs and feet and no gears to shift. The driver just gave it the gas so it would steadily putter away. Cushmans weren’t flashy but were very dependable, a good quality in things as well as people.

David Dunaway and I, on a Cushman and a Compact, took an unapproved ride to Tippettville one Sunday afternoon. We didn’t know where we were going, just answered the call of the open road. The main thing I remember is running over a rattlesnake. The snake was too close to dodge so I held my legs up hoping he wouldn’t catch a ride on a tire.  

It doesn’t seem that long ago our bathroom mirror could reveal a hint of that young boy who loved rambling country roads. But the glass no longer offers childhood reflections. The only way to see that kid now is to close my eyes and be still. And even then he’s harder to find.

I don’t understand why reaching three score and ten caught me off guard, but somehow it did. There’s only one thing about this milestone I can say with certainty. Seventy came much sooner than expected.          

After losing Dude, our beloved mongrel, we had no intentions of acquiring another dog, at least not for a while. A blue heeler, however, changed our plans. Harriet didn’t realize we weren’t in the market, just wagged her tail and flashed a million dollar smile.

I pulled into the yard of my mother’s childhood home to feed a young black cat that was homesteading on the porch. My truck was still rolling when a strange looking critter pushed the screen door open and scampered down the steps. Despite her innocent face, I suspected this was not good news for the unnamed feline.

Seth and I spotted the cat on the edge of the woods a few times and left food hoping she would find it. She ventured into the yard twice recently but Harriet wouldn’t let her stay. As I was about to submit this column, however, the kitty landed on her feet, a story for later perhaps.               

Except for chasing cats, Harriet is ideal. We don’t know where she came from but hope she’ll stick around. Harriet had no collar and the vet didn’t find an identification chip. Her name is courtesy of our grandson, Walt, who noticed her resemblance to a character in a children’s book, Harry the Dirty Dog.   

She seems to have been well cared for and has shown no signs of being mistreated. It’s possible she wasn’t abandoned but jumped out of a passing truck. Either way, her timing was perfect.

Life has been a bit unsettling this year. Dude joined the canine choir as my brother’s health was sharply declining. Shortly after Jimmy’s unexpected death a fractured sacrum put my mother in the hospital then rehab. And COVID caught up with several in our family including me.     

I’m not complaining and hope it doesn’t sound that way. Countless others have long-term situations that are far more challenging. I know I’ve been blessed beyond measure, but some days it didn’t feel like it. Then Harriet came along and helped me sort things out.  

It had been several months since I’d worked in the woods. Harriet was lonely, though, so I returned to clearing underbrush and vines with hand tools. The exercise helps me and having company thrills her. 

There’s a small stream on the property which Harriet loves. I’ve never seen a dog who enjoys running through water so much. She especially likes pools which are deep enough to swim in or take a quick bath. Besides her affinity for cleanliness, she’s exceptionally smart.

The first time we met I discovered she had been taught to sit. Since then I’ve trained her to jump up on me with both paws and to shake water on my pants. That may not sound impressive but Harriet and I have an understanding. Our friendship doesn’t require obedience from either party. 

Snakes are one thing she’s clueless about which concerns me. In mid-September I was walking toward the branch while she ran ahead. As she splashed through the water, I was watching her instead of my feet and stopped just short of what appeared to be a moccasin. Its raised triangular head and thick body sent a chill up my spine. The situation became complicated when Harriet came to investigate.  

My warnings were ignored as she inched closer, so I took a hearty swing with my hoe. After flipping the monster over, a partly-white belly revealed it probably wasn’t poisonous. In my defense, the snake passed up a chance to swim away, unaware I suppose that consequences of impersonating a moccasin can be severe. It’s best not to pretend to be something we aren’t.

Our gentle-natured blue heeler has made friends with the neighbors, which was quite a relief. They have a chicken coop so I was a bit nervous when I saw her in their yard. Not only is she tolerant of their hens but the couple’s young son, still a toddler, adores her. There’s a lot to be said for a child having a dog in his life.        

Spending time with Harriet has been good for both of us. She needed a home and I guess I needed a dog. I can’t explain it, but somehow it’s become easier to count my blessings again. Maybe it’s because Harriet is grateful for every little thing, like a pat on the head, a bite of leftovers, or a walk in the woods.     

We guessed at Harriet’s breed based on her peculiar coloring and coyote-like features, but my thinking is she’s a slight variant, a descendant of dogs with a special purpose. I can’t find anything to document that opinion, but my heart says Harriet is a blue healer.