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July 14, 2022. Dude finally stopped barking. Or maybe he’s just too far away for us to hear. I’m hoping his all-night howls earned him a spot in the canine choir. He was a baritone but had a tremendous range with two octave slides as smooth as George Jones. 

His bass voice was for growling, a menacing sound which belied his gentle nature. Occasionally he growled for no reason, offering a guttural snarl that meant as little as a campaign promise.      

When Dude moved here from California, it took a few weeks for us to understand each other. He never showed much expression, so it was hard to know what he was thinking. With a deep throaty growl, massive jaws, and a poker face I was a bit wary. Eventually, however, I saw a hint of a smile.  

Baritone was for sustained barking. He loved alerting us to delivery trucks, loud mufflers, and boom boxes, but trains and thunderstorms were his specialties. He told us when they were coming then monitored them until they crossed the county line. 

Dude’s tenor was solid but reserved for harmonizing with sirens. His distinctive whines told us whether an ambulance or deputy was heading our way. He also would indicate the direction, which sounds impressive but the only options were north or south.    

Jane achieved some limited success in training him to bark responsibly over the past six months or so. We had bought a collar but neither of us liked the idea of shocking him. Plus we didn’t want to zap him with something we hadn’t tested and Jane refused to put it on. I had another idea but found out she’s a light sleeper.

That’s why we ordered a training whistle, one that dogs can hear but humans can’t. Barney Fife once used that technique on The Andy Griffith Show, so I had confidence in the plan. I gave it a test run and couldn’t hear a thing so knew it was working.

The whistle was used sparingly as we kept cutting Dude additional slack. We made a deal that he could bark all he wanted until ten p.m. There were times he ignored the curfew, taking advantage of tender enforcement. As his days grew shorter our patience grew longer.  

On December 8, 2020, our vet had found a large mass in Dude’s abdomen plus internal bleeding. She said he might not live two weeks, that we might get up one morning and it would be over. But the bleeding stopped and the mass grew at a slow pace. 

Lately he’d changed his napping habits and was acting a bit peculiar. Rather than stretching out on the cool concrete floor or in the hole he’d dug near the back porch, he began squeezing himself between two shrubs. Maybe the pressure felt good but that’s just a guess.

Seth and Jane had a talk about Dude’s outlook. He had been taking  medicine for a long time and was about to need an exam for a refill. We all had the same question that had no clear answer. How do you know when it’s time?

No one wants a pet to suffer, but it’s hard to know where they are in that process. With Dude’s stoic nature, there was no way to tell if he was miserable or still enjoying life. He wasn’t interested in taking walks anymore, but his appetite never waned.

Some people measure their dog’s food and keep them at a precise weight where ribs can be counted. We take the other approach with an open buffet. When Dude got sick the menu was further enhanced. Besides unlimited dry food and a few table scraps, he enjoyed a big can of something sumptuous every night. A dog on a short leash shouldn’t worry about being a little pudgy or managing his cholesterol.                        

Thankfully, he died peacefully in his sleep as we had hoped. I wasn’t home when Jane found him lying motionless between the shrubs. Something about that spot must have helped him feel better. Or maybe it was his way of letting us know he would soon be moving on.

There were some frustrating nights when that aggravating rascal wouldn’t let us get a decent amount of sleep. I threatened him severely on multiple occasions, but he knew my threats were on par with his growls. 

Now there’s an emptiness and an unsettling quiet left by another good dog who stole our hearts. It was a sad day when Dude finally stopped barking, but maybe it’s not over. I’m hoping he’s just too far away for us to hear.         

Fishermen are sometimes prone to stretch the truth, but my claim of snagging a mighty big fish in the Gulf of Mexico is no exaggeration. Captain Frank estimated the old boy weighed around 300 pounds. I would have guessed 500 but he spoke first in front of witnesses.

Four generations of our family, ages 8 to 95, spent a week at St. George Island in early June. Our youngest grandchild, Walt, loves to fish and his sister, Melanie, wanted to take a deep sea excursion. A friend of Melanie’s dates Captain Frank, a young but extremely capable guide in Apalachicola.

Our daughter, Carrie, and husband, Clay, were also aboard, plus Seth, our favorite son. Cason, another young fellow, served as deckhand. He and Frank took us on a splendid tour of a red snapper honeyhole. 

We were fishing a 100 foot bottom using heavy leads. It takes a stout fish to get your attention at that depth, and some of them are adept at stealing bait. That happened to me several times while others were filling the cooler. Once I got a belated hit, however, there was little doubt about the poundage trophy.

My thoughts went back to a 1968 fishing trip near Panama City. My parents, brother, and I were on vacation as were several others from our farming community. Jimmy and I joined Gene and Johnny Paul Deloach, J. T. Sparrow, and Larry Dunaway on Captain Mutt Wallace’s charter boat.          

Jimmy hung a pole bender that got everyone’s attention. Captain Mutt, a weathered veteran of the seas, even got excited. He expertly maneuvered his boat as Jimmy kept reeling. A half hour later he landed a nice anchor someone had lost.        

It didn’t take long to realize that whatever was on my hook had no intentions of cooperating. I reeled for a while, expecting the line to break or get bitten in two. Even with the drag set tightly the fish would pull out almost as much line as I could reel in.

Captain Frank took my rod to see if we might need a bigger boat. I think his real concern was the monster might pull me overboard, which would require tons of paperwork. He predicted I’d hooked a goliath grouper as he tussled with him for ten minutes or so. 

Cason followed Frank manning the reel, saying he’d never caught a goliath grouper and had that on his bucket list. Then Clay took over and brought him to the surface. With three assistants I only claim partial credit for the catch, but full credit for getting him to take the bait.

Just as he surfaced the big fish rolled over on his back, which made me wish I hadn’t been quite as successful. It’s illegal to keep goliath grouper so it looked like his final moments might come while floating upside down waiting for a shark to end his misery. It struck me as a sad ending for a giant with a long history. 

Frank explained the swim bladder fills with air when a fish is pulled up from the deep. It’s similar to divers getting the bends from pressure changes if they ascend too quickly. Once the fish got near the surface he was helpless as air buoyed him up.

Much to my surprise, Cason jumped in the water to have his picture made with Goliath. After he climbed up the ladder Melanie took a turn, a daring feat I applauded with considerable reluctance. Cason’s plunge provided excitement, but having a granddaughter swimming near shark bait in blue water with no life jacket was concerning. I knew if we lost Mel the fishing trip would be over.

After the photo shoot, Captain Frank used a long knife to bleed the air from the grouper, a painful procedure perhaps, but necessary to give him a fighting chance. I felt sorry for Goliath as he made weak, sporadic attempts to right himself. He seemed to be giving up, but after about 30 minutes managed to flip over and return home with a story of his own.  

It was a great outing, followed by all 13 family members enjoying fried red snapper that night. I probably won’t ever catch another fish that size and I’m not sure I want to. But there was a warm satisfaction in helping create a memory which I trust will outlast me.

Most of my fishing tales would need considerable exaggeration to impress anyone. But even those of us with no special skills sometimes get lucky. That’s what  happened to me on the Gulf of Mexico. It was a mighty big fish that came up from the deep.      

I’m an occasional fisherman with a casual approach and no special skills, but sometimes a fellow gets lucky. That’s what happened on a family vacation in early June off the shores of Apalachicola. It was a mighty big fish that came up from the deep blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico.      

My earliest memory of a family vacation is the Seahorse Motel in Jacksonville. My parents, grandmothers, brother, and I squeezed into our 1957 Chevrolet in the predawn hours. Our four-door sedan had two-tone paint with a snazzy combination of light and dark blue. The model designation, Two-Ten, was printed on the steering wheel.  

Daddy had packed the trunk with whatever luggage Mama deemed necessary for three nights and four days. Plus he took a couple of retired innertubes to use as floats. The tubes had too many patches to be roadworthy but were safe enough for kids to ride ocean waves.

The early morning departure allowed us to enjoy a couple hours of cool air coming through the rolled-down windows. Our vacations were taken during July’s heat, a slower time on the farm as crops were being laid by and nothing was ready for harvest.

Another reason we left before sunup was to have a lot of daylight once we reached our Florida destination. Traveling two-lane roads at speeds approaching 55 miles per hour could have us on the beach in time to get blistered the first afternoon. 

We switched from Jacksonville to Panama City somewhere during early childhood.  Daddy would pull into a motel and Mama would ask to see a room. They usually passed inspection, but sometimes she’d offer a few pointers to management and we’d drive on. I would have sacrificed cleanliness for swim time, but lodging was clearly my mother’s domain. 

Eventually we began staying at The Port of Call, a family owned establishment  whose owners my parents enjoyed getting to know. It was maintained well and had a seldom-used shuffleboard court. Before beginning a multi-year run there, we stayed at a variety of places, all with air conditioning sufficient to create arctic-like conditions.

Walking into a freezing room while wearing a wet bathing suit offered a pleasurable misery we could not resist. We knew the opportunity to be chilled to the bone would not come again until the next summer.      

The Bikini is the only name I recall in the pre-Port days. Perhaps I remember it because the marquis featured the silhouette of a bikini-clad woman. I only glanced a few times and kept one eye closed, which may explain why my vision today is better on the left.

Staying at The Bikini was a bit of a stretch for staunch Southern Baptists, but we’d passed several no-vacancy signs and I’d been asking, “How much farther?” for six hours. “We’ll be there before you know it,” Mama would say, then change the subject. 

One motel had a mynah bird. “Are you cold?” he’d ask repeatedly. Grandmama Hill would laughingly respond, “No, I’m not cold. Are you?” Mama Joiner took a different approach and tried to teach the bird the 23rd Psalm. He didn’t show much interest and had a rather foul attitude. She probably should have started with, “Jesus wept.”    

On one trip to Florida we stopped at a place offering free, freshly-squeezed orange juice. I had planned to fill my tank but flies in the packing shed guarding an open pitcher diminished my appetite. A small luke-warm serving in a paper cup was disappointing. That may be my first time realizing advertisements sometimes embellish the truth. I guess that’s okay because it works fine in politics.  

A glass of orange juice is how I start each day. That’s a habit I began in childhood when the lovely Anita Bryant said, “Breakfast without orange juice is like a day without sunshine,” She was a delightful spokesperson for the industry until taking a stand for biblical values got her canned. 

I was almost grown before I found out Daddy was adding extra water to our frozen orange juice concentrate. We had many good laughs after discovering his secret dilution. It’s not critical with juice, but sadly we’re following a similar plan with faith these days. It’s unpopular to embrace biblical values in society, so we water them down to avoid being offensive.

Maybe we can finish my fish tale next week. I got sidetracked reminiscing about family vacations. Our trips were short but led to long-lasting memories, and now I’ve added another. What came up from the deep blue water wasn’t quite large enough to swallow Jonah, but it was a mighty big fish.   

It took a while, but I finally joined the ranks of those with COVID. Thankfully, it came during a time when most cases don’t have severe consequences. My bout shouldn’t have any major implications, unless I pass it on to my wife.         

Lauren, a wonderful nurse practitioner in Dr. Ricky Stevens’ office, gave me a good report after a curbside checkup. As a bonus she agreed that yard work is out of the question until cool weather comes. I was glad to get a positive health assessment, especially since Willie Nelson had just reminded me of life’s uncertainty. “Live every day like it was your last one,” sang Willie, “and one day you’re gonna be right.”   

My longtime friend and neighbor, Jimmy Langford, was the first COVID casualty I heard about in Dooly County. That was early in the pandemic, before much was known about diagnosis or treatment. Jimmy’s sudden and unexpected death was a shock to his family and friends. Statistics are more sobering when they have a familiar face. Numbers aren’t as important until you start counting tears.  

I’ve written about Jimmy before, so I’ll try not to be too repetitive. We began first grade together at Pinehurst Elementary, grew up two miles apart, worshiped at the same church as adults, and lived within sight of each other when COVID took him away. 

There’s an old saying, not often heard or deserved, which perfectly describes him: “He didn’t have a mean bone in his body.” For most of us that would be an exaggeration, but Jimmy personified a gentle spirit. He lived the way he was raised, to love others like Jesus loves us.

A childhood memory I’ve long cherished is of a very informal Sunday afternoon sing-along at his parents’ home. Jimmy was the youngest of five children which included some gifted singers. He never claimed to be musically inclined, but enjoyed being surrounded by those who were.

It was the summer after eighth grade, I believe, when a group of young people met at the Langford home. I was there with The Harmony Gospel Singers, five teenagers from our church plus me on piano. Elaine Mashburn and Tony Lewis were four grades ahead of me. June Prince, Diane Dunaway, and Michael Sullivan were two years my senior.   

Because I was the youngest member, Diane nicknamed me Baby. When three gorgeous young ladies called me Baby in public it was flattering. Most people realized it was said in humor, but I figured a few might assume it had romantic connotations. A skinny kid with freckles needed all the help he could get.   

We spent a couple of hours in a jam-packed den with folks gathered around the piano. It’s probably for the best that no one had a tape recorder. Time tends to enhance sweet memories which evidence sometimes brutally contradicts.

I can’t attest to the quality of the music as I really don’t remember, but the atmosphere was exceptional. Toes were tapping and hands were clapping as songs and laughter bounced off the wooden walls. A good time was had by all.    

Larry Langford, one of Jimmy’s older brothers, led the singing with contagious enthusiasm. Their sister, Brenda, played piano and some others probably did too. When Larry invited me to take a turn on the bench I was hesitant, but secretly glad the masses pushed me forward. It wasn’t like being on stage at the Grand Ole Opry, but I didn’t know that at the time.

Those rambling thoughts of yesterday don’t have much to do with COVID, I suppose. But when I tested positive it reminded me of an old friend who left us too soon, a man whose humble faith and good nature inspire me each time I pass his house. There wasn’t a mean bone in his body.       

COVID is still around and there’s no telling what the future holds. A lot of people think some form of it is here to stay. I have no idea where we’re headed or how we’ll get there. It may be a bumpy ride for a while and that’s concerning. But my confidence in the long term comes through knowing where I’m going when the ride is over. 

Meanwhile I’ll keep remembering JImmy’s good example and singing along with Willie on a song which ends just like it begins. “Live every day like it was your last one, and one day you’re gonna be right.”       

“An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” The possibilities for applying that tidbit of wisdom are endless, so we’ll just briefly look at three more examples then move on. A lot of today’s problematic issues would have benefited from better preventive measures. 

First, however, I admit to being living proof of another old maxim – “A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.” The most dangerous aspect of these columns is they document how little I know. Some people were already suspicious.         

In 1736 Ben Franklin succinctly encouraged the people of Philadelphia to be diligent in preventing house fires. If he saw the annual scorchings of thousands of acres in California, he’d no doubt ask why it keeps happening.

My understanding is that fires in such dry conditions are hard to contain because of the Santa Ana winds. It seems like clearing large spaces of timber and brush might be a good start. If the winds are as strong as reported, perhaps turbines could convert them to electricity. Maybe enough revenue could be generated to pay for ongoing fire prevention measures.        

There seems to be a lack of innovative discussions on what is obviously a hot topic. Someone said, “The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.” Perhaps the root of California’s problems is insanity.  

COVID-19 has changed the world. It also caused me to recall a conversation with a friend that took place a decade or so ago. Al Willis, a native of Thomasville, has spent most of his adult life in Dooly County. He was serving on our local Board of Health when he mentioned what struck me as a rather mundane topic.

Al offered to speak at our monthly men’s breakfast at First Baptist Church about preparing for pandemics. Swine flu was a concern at the time and preparations to deal with potential devastation were being addressed. I had no idea what a pandemic was until Al explained it. I invited him to the meeting, but figured the possibility of such a catastrophe was remote. Thank goodness I politely kept my opinion to myself.  

A sobering wake-up call was provided by COVID. We tend to prepare for obvious threats, but preparation for theoretical problems lacks a sense of urgency. I don’t know if or when there will be another pandemic, but wisdom dictates planning for the unexpected is essential. COVID shows it would be rather insane not to.  

Government spending is the final area I’ll touch on. Most of my career was at a small bank in rural Georgia, so I’m not qualified to address national economic issues with mind-boggling complications. There is, however, one simple tenant of finance I know to be true: It’s prudent to spend less than we make.

That’s almost impossible for some people, many through no fault of their own. “Too much month at the end of the money” is a common struggle. Living on credit, however, is not a solution. It’s a postponement of addressing the problem.  

Rev. R. G. Lee preached a notable sermon titled  “Payday Someday.” He was referring to spiritual matters but the same is true of finances. It doesn’t matter if we’re talking about a few dollars or trillions. A man making $100 a week and spending $101 will wind up in trouble. So will a government spending megabucks more than it’s taking in.

President Ronald Reagan appointed a committee from the private sector in 1982 to address government waste and inefficiency. The Grace Commission, named for its chairman, J.Peter Grace, was comprised of highly-qualified business leaders. In 1984, after months of putting together a commonsense approach toward fiscal responsibility, their report was submitted to our elected officials in Washington, D.C. Most of it was ignored.  

It’s easier to get elected by telling people what we’re going to give them rather than what needs to be taken away. So, here we are 40 years later, too deep in debt to see a way out with politicians blaming others instead of fixing what’s broken. California may not be the only place with an insanity problem.

 If a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, I’m living smack dab in the middle of the danger zone. These opinions touch on matters in which I have no expertise. 

Maybe today’s musings indicate that insanity has taken a toll on me. Thankfully, that won’t have much effect beyond my driveway, but there is something I find quite troubling. I believe insanity is spreading across our country. I hope I’m wrong, but it may be a pandemic.         

Last week we looked at a Ben Franklin quote, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Once I began exploring how that jewel of wisdom might apply to current issues, it was hard to find an off ramp. Here’s another example.  

Roe vs. Wade has been in the news lately with people on both sides expressing their opinions, some with more civility than others. Shouting is a poor way to solve a problem. Maybe a respectful conversation about prevention would be more productive.

Although the original Supreme Court ruling was overturned on June 24th, that won’t end abortion and may not significantly decrease it. Instead it will shift such procedures to states with pro-choice politics. Major corporations are adding out-of-state abortion coverage and mail-order pharmaceutical options already provide “Here today – Gone tomorrow” convenience.   

The Macon Telegraph ran a feature in May about seven women who had opted for abortions. I may not be remembering the facts precisely, but a couple of stories especially got my attention. 

One lady terminated two pregnancies because of severe health complications. The first child was missing vital organs and doctors said there was no way the baby could survive. The second time was due to toxemia, a condition described as deadly for the mother.

She and her husband already had children and wanted more. Abortion for her was a heartrending choice made in the belief it was the right thing to do. Some will disagree, but I can’t say she was wrong.     

On the other end of the spectrum was a single woman who had opted for three abortions due to timing and economics. That could be a dilemma, but I’d suggest she consider Ben Franklin’s advice. Prevention for her may necessitate a lifestyle change, like taking up a new hobby. Abortion as a backup plan for failed birth control seems callous at best. At worst it seems akin to child sacrifice. Some will disagree, but I can’t see how it’s right.   

Regarding prevention, sex education needs to emphasize responsible behavior. It would be of tremendous value if the entertainment industry would help solve a problem it has been a leader in creating and fostering.         

During my childhood, television shows were almost always family friendly. That gradually shifted over time, however, with storylines glamorizing multiple partners in pursuit of recreational sex. The more the merrier has become a running theme while those on the sidelines are generally portrayed as clueless losers. 

Popular comedies like Cheers, Seinfeld, and Friends often equate trysts with success and celibacy as a personal shortcoming. I’m guilty of laughing along with millions of others, but morality has taken a big hit through such humor. Today’s prevalent message in television, movies, music, and the real-life examples of many celebrities is that happiness comes by sleeping around.   

I saw a TV ad in May featuring a handsome man and voluptuous woman somewhere in the wild. The announcer asked, “Will they find love in the jungle?” Most grownups understand it’s not love they are likely to find, but kids and young people are being indoctrinated with false definitions as words are increasingly misappropriated. And adults are not immune. 

Years ago a fellow bank employee loaned me a movie titled “A Walk to Remember.” It was a touching story of a high-school girl who was ostracized because of her faith-based values. Eventually she gained respect from unlikely sources. Perhaps that type movie should be included in sex-education programs. It’s a small step toward prevention, but sometimes it only takes an ounce.   

But what about a young woman who’s pregnant and doesn’t know where to turn? In our area there’s a free resource, Daybreak, that compassionately offers a number of services to expectant mothers. Such providers need to be accessible everywhere. It’s still prevention but  with a different purpose. 

And every expectant mother who is contemplating abortion neeeds to be aware there are loving people waiting to adopt children. When prevention of an unwanted pregnancy fails, the next opportunity is to prevent the intentional conclusion of a life just beginning.

I don’t know what happens in the hereafter to the unborn. Maybe abortion is the end and there’s nothing beyond. If, however, the God who knows us before we’re formed in the womb chooses to nurture and mature those souls, we’ll have a lot of apologizing to do.

Shouting is a poor way to solve a problem, whereas Ben Franklin’s wisdom might be a means toward a “Here today – Here tomorrow” respectful conversation. Some will disagree, but prevention in this matter could offer a higher than usual return. An ounce of prevention might be worth six to eight pounds of cure.   

Benjamin Franklin is credited with saying, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” He was talking about house fires, but it can apply to countless situations. I’ve heard that old saying since childhood but never thought much about testing it with real events until recently.

The ratio doesn’t always work, but the premise is sound. Even if it takes a pound of prevention for a pound of cure, it’s still usually the best course to pursue. Prevention is almost always preferable to repair, plus some things once broken can’t be fixed.    

I’ve been pondering how Uncle Ben’s wisdom might apply to troubling headlines of today. A national shortage of infant formula is a good example. It’s hard to believe that neither the Food and Drug Administration nor a company the size of Abbott Labs could work out a better plan on how to handle what has evolved into a critical health issue.

My understanding is the formula was potentially being tainted in the manufacturing process. That’s a serious condition which certainly warranted prompt attention. What I’ve gleaned from news coverage, however, indicates one problem was solved by creating a much bigger one.

A slight safety risk was eliminated by taking formula off the shelves. Now babies are crying, mothers are frantically searching, and hospitals are struggling. I hope I’m wrong, but I’m beginning to have suspicions there’s a shortage of deep thinkers in key government positions and corporate leadership. Impressive job titles aren’t proof of ability or common sense.   

Uvalde, Texas, is an especially heartbreaking example of the importance of prevention. I don’t profess to have a solution to mass shootings but based on what’s been reported two things stand out. First, the shooter walked through a door that should have been locked. Secondly, the school resource officer was not present.

There may be reasonable explanations for the unlocked door and the absence of a security person. Regardless of the cause, however, with minimal prevention perhaps 19 children and two adults would be enjoying summer vacations instead of being mourned by loved ones.

Ukraine is another tragic case of failing to take adequate preventive measures. I have no expertise in such matters, but when Russia began amassing military troops on the Ukrainian border, it struck me that Ukraine needed to be able to line up a comparable show of force. They didn’t have that kind of weaponry, however, and we were afraid to provide it. So, we threatened Mr. Putin with sanctions. When that didn’t work, we added heavier sanctions and light artillery.         

Four months later the Russians have decimated a peaceful democracy. They’ve slaughtered thousands, displaced millions, and demolished towns along with the people. We’re sending better weapons now, based on Ukraine’s promise they won’t fire across the border. If Russia is firing into Ukraine, it seems to me Ukraine is entitled to return the favor.   

Finally, we get to monkeypox, which hopefully won’t become the next pandemic. The World Health Organization says it’s believed to have been initially spread at two raves for men in Europe. I had no idea what a rave was, so I did an online search. It’s an organized party with five common elements: alcohol, drugs, sex, dancing, and music. Raves usually start late at night and run until daybreak. That begs a question that perhaps was not fully considered, “What could go wrong?”     

I wonder if it occurred to any of those fellows that a rave might not be a good idea. I don’t know what kind of music was featured, but they should have played Chuck Berry’s, “Too Much Monkey Business.” The details of the monkey’s involvement in transmitting the pox to humans have not been disclosed and I’m not sure I want to know. Maybe an organ grinder took his pet to the dance.  

The opinion of a small time columnist won’t cure an infant formula shortage, soothe Uvalde’s heartbreak, or restore peace in Ukraine. There’s no way to turn back the clock on tragedy. 

We can, however, learn from our mistakes and embrace the wisdom of a founding father – “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.” Common sense dictates prevention is preferable to repair, but that’s unlikely to become the norm. We’re too busy monkeying around.

I drove to Bainbridge in May for a high-school graduation ceremony. Our granddaughter, Melanie, was celebrating the conclusion of a wonderful experience at Grace Christian Academy. Expressions of faith were common among participants, which gave a much-needed boost to my confidence in the future of our country.

Maggie Bridges Kearney, Miss Georgia of 2014, delivered the graduation address. The former beauty queen is now a wife, mother, and medical student. A lovely young lady with a charmed life was my immediate impression, so I expected her to rally the troops with a pep talk on attaining stellar goals.

Instead, she gave a touching account of personal failures and encouraged the graduates to look beyond situations that can rob us of joy. Such an accomplished woman seemed an unlikely candidate to understand failure so well. Her poignant, first-hand experiences, however, reminded me that assumptions are often unreliable.

Jane and I took separate vehicles to Bainbridge, so I spent two hours singing old country songs with the folks at Willie’s Roadhouse. Willie calls those tunes of yesterday classics. That strikes me as a perfect term for a growing number of friends, but that’s a story for another day.

A classic of another kind, though slowly disappearing, can still be found on two-lane roads. An abandoned brick building with D. M. DISMUKE CO. painted on the wall left me wondering what stories it might tell. It was a thriving store back when the area was more populous than evidence now indicates. I found a picture of the building online, noting it was part of the Graves community. That name seems somberly appropriate for a settlement where tombstones now outnumber residents.

Another site that grabbed my attention was a lovely pond just a few yards off the highway. The location was ideal, a serene setting with scattered shade trees. A white gazebo looked freshly painted as did the rails on its long walkway. The only thing missing for a Norman Rockwell scene was water. It was as dry as the bones mentioned in Ezekiel 37.

Multiple factors are essential for good ponds. Shape and landscaping are important for aesthetics. And depth is critical as shallow water leads to problems with algae. Having a sealed bottom and cored dam that don’t leak are vital. Otherwise, it’s like trying to fill a tub which has no stopper. But even if all those elements are in place, without water it’s just a dry hole.

Pond management, I admit, is a deep subject of which I have a shallow knowledge, so I’m just skimming the surface. That dry bottom, however, reminded me of something Jesus spoke of. Living water is what He called it in the fourth chapter of John.

Jesus said he’ll give us living water if we ask. He made it clear, however, we need to keep our vessels clean and ready for use. Just as a pond with a poorly sealed bottom allows water to seep out, so it is with faith if we don’t maintain it.

Spiritual seepage is often so gradual it’s hardly noticeable. We may even be able to discreetly conceal the dropping water table to those driving by. And sometimes we find comfort by the shallow puddles of others. If the water is deep enough for them, we figure it’s okay for us too.

A dry or shallow spiritual pond is no doubt a serious failure, a tragedy of immense magnitude. But Maggie Bridges Kearney encouraged us to look beyond our failures. She would no doubt tell us the solution is ours for the asking.

I don’t know what’s in store for The Class of 2022, not for today or decades down the road. I hope the disheartenment of personal failures will be temp

I hadn’t planned a sequel about early memories of my longtime friend William Cross. It occurred to me, however, I had not mentioned two things for which he is well known – fishing and hunting. Many of us have tales about the ones that got away. William’s stories are about the ones that didn’t.

The research department of Joiner’s Corner declined to provide a ranking of Dooly County’s top fishermen or hunters. So, I can’t say with any certainty what spot William holds. I have no doubt, however, he’s in the top echelon in each category and scores even higher using a combined model. If practice makes perfect, he’s perched atop the pinnacle of excellence.

It seems like only yesterday we were fishing from the banks of his Uncle Bud’s pond. I don’t remember if we walked there or hitched a ride on the back of a pickup truck. What we caught that day has also escaped my memory. The one thing that stayed with me, though, is William’s relentless pursuit of those catfish. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought Miss Helen’s freezer was empty.   

My idea of fishing has not changed much since childhood. I enjoy it if the weather is perfect, fish are occasionally biting, and the Saltines are crisp. Vienna Sausage don’t pair well with stale crackers. One-pole fishing is my preferred method, a relaxed approach for which I am extremely well suited. William, however, uses a multi-pole technique that almost seems unfair to the fish.   

On that hot summer afternoon, my plan was to sit in the shade of the pines and occasionally check my hook to see if a turtle had stolen the bait. William, however, quickly began scattering poles along the bank and setting corks at various depths. With a tempting worm at every turn, it took both of us to watch the poles and string the fish.

Another memory of yesterdays with William is of fishing behind his grandfather’s house. Mr. Charlton had a nice pond in his cow pasture and a bull we hoped we could outrun. The fish, however, weren’t cooperating, so we dropped two lines in a small overflow hole below the dam.

 I’m not sure how many we caught, but it surprised me to pull several from a puddle of water. There’s probably a lesson from that outing, perhaps not to give up too easily. Or maybe the lesson is to keep on fishing rather than waste time wishing.

William took that same approach to hunting. He was shooting like a pro before he was out of diapers. I’m kidding but not by much. While still in his youth he would bag more birds at a dove shoot than most of the men. And he’d walk for miles to find a covey of quail. He tried to teach me how to lead the birds and time the shots, but I failed the class. Doves would fly toward me just for fun.        

The only exceptional shot of my life came while standing next to William in an open field. We were about to call it a day when a high-flying dove broke the sound barrier. William chose not to waste a shot, but yours truly figured why not. For entertainment purposes, I suppose, I raised my Remington 1100 and fired.

Much to our surprise that bird fell right at our feet. It may have been a heart attack, but either way I, “killed him dead,” as William said. By risking a single shell, I gained a memory that’s served me well. It’s not safe to bet on longshots, but not wise to bet against them either.      

In February of this year William was alone on a pond fishing for crappie. He was using a fiberglass pole when something hit the minnow hard. He used the trolling motor to stay with the big bass, knowing it could break loose if it chose to. Just as he netted the giant fish, the hook fell from its mouth. The taxidermist measured it at 25 inches and estimated the weight at over 12 pounds. Landing a trophy bass with light tackle and no help may not be a miracle, but it’s close. That unlikely catch seems an appropriate reward for decades of casting bread upon the water.

William is greatly admired for his fishing and hunting skills, but it’s not his ability which I find most remarkable. It’s the effort he makes to excel. Whether lining the bank with poles, fishing in a puddle, or chasing a bass until it surrenders, he gives it his best shot.     

Many of us have tales about the ones that got away. William’s stories are about the ones that didn’t. I’ve learned a lot from those yesterdays with William. Maybe one day I’ll buy another pole.                                                      

William Cross, a friend since childhood, turned 70 in May. It’s a tad sobering to see kids I grew up with reaching three score and ten. No doubt it’s a blessing, but the trip was much shorter than I expected. One pleasure, though, is revisiting old memories now sweetened by time.

It seems like only yesterday William and I were on a wooden pew at Harmony Baptist Church for a Sunday afternoon singing. It was led by his grandfather, Charlton Cross, who stood at floor level rather than behind the elevated pulpit. He was using a paperback book of gospel songs, a Stamps-Baxter or something similar, not our usual green Broadman hymnal.

I don’t know how old we were, eight or nine I’d guess. Willaim and I were more focused on volume than quality in a friendly competition. To add to the excitement, Mr. Charlton introduced a celebratory applause of music I had not seen in church before.

Harmony was not a clapping congregation. There may have been special occasions which I’ve forgotten, but our worship style was reserved, as was typical of the 1950s. Mr. Charlton showed us an alternative to clapping, which I presumed was acceptably reverent. He clapped by holding his songbook in one hand and lightly slapping it with the other.

Mr. Charlton may have been doing that so he wouldn’t have to put his songbook down. Perhaps he expected we’d use a traditional two-hand technique. Either the crowd didn’t catch on or the preacher thought we might succumb to the temptation of enthusiasm. So, we slapped our books heartily after peppy renditions of “Camping in Canaan Land” and “On the Jericho Road.” Songbook clapping wouldn’t have worked with our hardback hymnals, so our flirtation with applause ended immediately following that afternoon of gospel music.

It seems like only yesterday I was on the playground at Pinehurst Elementary School holding William’s crutches so he could take a turn at bat. I don’t know if it was first grade or second, but he had a problem with one of his legs. For most of us that would have meant spending recess under the oak tree sharing Mary Ann Leaptrot’s cookies, but William has never approached life that way.

He was a good ball player and faster on one leg than many of us on two. Someone would hold his crutches, knowing he was reliable at the plate. He’d hit the ball, grab the crutches, then scamper around the bases. It’s unlikely that’s what his doctor had prescribed, but he crossed home plate that way countless times. I’m not sure the crutches always made good contact with the ground.

It seems like only yesterday we were having sword drills at Harmony. Youngsters would line up across the front for the pastor or someone to call out scriptures. The first person to find it would step forward and read the verse. William would be rapidly flipping pages while having one foot in the air, not wanting to waste a split second that might prevent a victory. He was the fastest of the fast.

There was a second tier of participants who were also adept at finding scriptures. They would consistently get to the right place in under ten seconds. The third tier, in which I secured a spot, often wondered if we should be looking in the Old Testament or New. We were the same children who were easily distracted if a wasp flew in an open window, which reminds me of something about bees.

It seems like only yesterday, while riding home on the school bus, William told me about the birds and bees. I was skeptical, as was appropriate for a young Southern Baptist. “I don’t believe that’s right,” I told him. “I don’t know,” he replied with a shrug and a grin, “but that’s what Alice said.” I’m guessing William’s mother, Miss Helen, had asked her younger sister, a jolly soul with a colorful vocabulary, to do the honors. It’s too late to ask, so that’s pure speculation.

Mr. Charlton would be tickled that clapping is now legal in all 50 states. William’s crutches still remind me to make the best of the hand we’re dealt. Sword drills were never my forte, but I eventually realized that reading not speeding is what matters. And much to my surprise, I found out Alice was right. I learned that from the second chapter of Genesis.

Revisiting old memories is nice, but a tad sobering to see the kids of my childhood turning 70. No doubt It’s a blessing, but the trip was much shorter than I expected.