Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Last week I shared a few things about the great Joe Louis. I won’t revisit his compelling story today but want to talk more about a paraphrase of his best-known quote. The popular rendering, “You can run but you can’t hide,” brought several memories to the surface.

A childhood misdemeanor first came to mind. It wasn’t my fault, of course, but irrefutable evidence placed me at the scene of the crime and indicated substantial involvement.

Larry and David, two of my cousins who lived near us, were at our house with their parents. Larry is a year older than I am and David a year younger, so we often played together as kids. Normally we would have been outside, but it was after supper on a cold moonless night.

Playing hide and seek in a small house has severe limitations. That’s probably why someone saw potential in hiding on the top shelf of a bedroom closet. Navigating between flimsy carboard boxes of Christmas decorations, including fragile red and green balls, didn’t seem problematic. It’s easy to wiggle into tight spaces during early childhood. Years later we might still be able to squeeze in, but it’s more challenging to get out. The same holds true for mischief.  

It’s escaped my memory who suggested that someone could fit on top of a shelf. It wasn’t me, of course, but when a kid sees that something daring can be done, he’s prone to want a turn. The faint sounds of ornaments shattering didn’t hamper our fun. Adrenaline took over our developing brains. 

My recollection of how our misconduct was discovered is vague. Whether Larry and David’s participation was known to their parents, I don’t recall. What I remember is going to bed quickly and turning off the light, thinking I had evaded a close call. But parents, we realize later, are not oblivious to such matters. They just choose to ignore a lot of our misdeeds.

Daddy swatted me a couple of times with his belt. It wasn’t much of a whipping as that never was his style. He took an Andy Griffith approach to discipline and lived what he taught. There’s a lot to be said for a good example, especially when it reflects a man’s true character. My punishment wasn’t traumatic by any means, but I learned at an early age, “You can run but you can’t hide.”

A track meet was the next instance that came to mind. Unadilla High was a small school where almost anyone who wanted could participate in sports. My friend, David Fullington, suggested we play football our senior year. Coach Billy Brooks, who was also our principal, welcomed us to the team. To play, however, you had to run track in the spring. So that’s how a tall skinny kid who was short on talent became a two-sport athlete for a very brief time. They even gave me a Blue Devil U-Club jacket with patches I greatly admired but knew were undeserved.

My classmate and four-sport star, Smitty, was setting a fast pace to a meet in Montezuma driving his GTO. Another classmate and short-track sensation, Wayne, was behind him. I followed Wayne in my 1964 Chevy Impala with its blue $99.95 Earl Scheib paint job. Our three cars were packed with friends as Smitty led a quick trip down Highway 230. Everything was copasetic until a Georgia State Trooper, I think his name was Griffin, passed us and pointed toward the shoulder of the road.

At the bottom of a hill, the officer stopped and Smitty pulled over. Wayne, however, took a side road, an idea which struck me and my passengers with immense appeal. We laughed all the way to Montezuma about Smitty getting a ticket while we escaped. It was hilarious until Coach Stanly Copeland called the track team together and read out some license plate information. “Whoever was driving those two cars needs to go back to Byromville,” he said. “There’s a state patrolman waiting to see you.”

The trooper was so mad his hands were shaking as he wrote the tickets. “I was planning on giving you boys a warning,” he said, “but that won’t work now.” We apologized rather sheepishly then returned to Montezuma. I was sitting on a bleacher when Coach Copeland approached.  

“Joiner,” he asked, “You want to run the mile?”

“Not all that much,” I replied. He grinned and said okay, knowing it wouldn’t affect the outcome of the race. I think he was just offering me a chance to burn some nervous energy.

I can’t say that running track changed my life. But choosing the wrong road that day was a lesson that’s stayed with me. Joe Louis was right. You can run but you can’t hide.

Joe Louis Barrow is considered one of the greatest boxers of all time. He retired in 1951, a year before my birth, so I didn’t grow up watching him and don’t know much of his story except what little I’ve read. Something I vaguely remember, however, is my father telling me about a fight between Louis and a German boxer. It happened in a time when tensions between Germany and America were high.

Details of the fight had long escaped my memory, so I did some online research. The fight Daddy referenced took place in 1938 between Joe Louis and Max Schmeling. They had met in the ring once before in 1936. Schmeling won that first match, giving Louis one of only three losses in his storied career. Louis won their second match with a technical knockout in round one.

Their 1938 rematch attracted worldwide attention. Schmeling was viewed as representing the politics of Adolph Hitler and the Nazi Party. Louis was seen as fighting for the United States and the free world. It was an era of strict segregation, well before issues of civil rights were common headlines. But when The Brown Bomber punched his way to victory, people of every color and a wide-range of political persuasions rejoiced. He landed a blow for freedom that was felt around the globe. 

Although Schmeling served as an elite paratrooper in the German Air Force in World War II, it was revealed long after the war that he risked his life in 1938 to save two young Jewish children. There were probably other young German soldiers with guns in their hands but no malice in their hearts. Doing the right thing often comes at a heavy cost. Choices, even when clear, are not always simple.       

The two boxers became friends and remained so until Louis’ death in 1981 at age 66. Schmeling served as a pallbearer for his earlier competitor. He died at age 99 in 2005.

These first paragraphs are just a short introduction to the legacy of Joe Louis, and a reminder of an event that helped unite our country. Disagreements are mostly what make the news and understandably so. Joe Louis, however, delivered something Americans could cheer for together. Those moments don’t come often, or maybe we don’t look closely enough for them.

A quote widely attributed to Joe Louis is what I want to focus on today: “He can run but he can’t hide.” It’s generally accepted that Louis made this statement prior to a title fight with Billy Conn in 1941. Conn was the world light-heavyweight champion and Louis the heavyweight title holder. Someone suggested that the lighter and more nimble Conn might adopt a hit-and-run strategy to avoid Louis’ powerful fists. That’s when the now famous response was reportedly uttered.

As predicted, the fight evolved with Conn hitting Louis then retreating beyond his reach. At the end of 12 rounds, Conn’s technique appeared to be working. He was ahead on two of the three judges’ scorecards. True to what he’d said, though, Louis caught up with Conn in round 13 and knocked him out.

It may seem out of place to switch gears here and talk about a world-class roach infestation, but Louis’ oft-repeated quote is what reminded me of the great fighter. I shared earlier about an old house our family owns. The tenants had moved but apparently forgot to take their food, clothes, and trash with them. A legion of roaches with defiant attitudes had greeted us at the back door.

When sparring with those detestable critters, I’ve been paraphrasing the great Joe Louis. I recently learned these are German roaches, so they may not understand my southern brand of the King’s English. But it makes me feel better to look into their beady eyes and warn them, “You can run but you can’t hide.”

The battle isn’t over, but their troops are looking haggard. Maybe I can’t eliminate the entire roach population, but their lives won’t be easy with food stored securely and fresh caulk in every crack. And if the spray doesn’t eventually overwhelm them, perhaps they’ll leave when they read the sign I’m posting above the mantle: Sie konnen ausfuhren, aber nicht sich verstekien.

That’s a rough approximation, according to my multi-lingual friend Eddie Hightower. I don’t know how long these German roaches have been here, so I’ll also provide the English version to make sure they get the message. Joe Louis wasn’t kidding, and I’m not either. You can run but you can’t hide.

Back-to-back stories on candy weren’t in my plans, but I found the idea too sweet to resist. Please forgive me for such an elementary pun. Sometimes, I can’t help myself. At other times I don’t try.

While writing last week’s column, a number of candy-related childhood memories came to mind. One I especially treasure was when our family visited in a home about a mile south of us.

Mr. Henry McWhorter and his wife, Miss Jewel, were a nice elderly couple, somewhat older than my parents. His brother and sister-in-law, Joe and Eunice, lived next door to them. All the McWhorters were friends of our family and had been since well before I was born. We saw them each Sunday at Harmony Baptist Church, and during the week at Joiner’s Store or passing along the road.

The McWhorter families lived in modest homes on their small family farm. The two brothers and their wives, who were sisters, were good-natured folks. Mr. Henry, who I saw most often, had a warm and ever-present smile. Perhaps it reflected his contentment with simple living, but I gave little thought to such things back then.  

Only once do I recall visiting with Mr. Henry and Miss Jewel in their home. Maybe we went there on other occasions, but one night stands out for two reasons – peanut brittle and Cremora.

My mother is a wonderful cook and has baked her share of pound cakes and lemon pies. Peanut brittle, however, has never been in her regular lineup. Miss Jewel McWhorter, on the other hand, made peanut brittle that was hard to keep a lid on.    

A friend and former co-worker of mine, Judy Daniels, makes marvelous peanut brittle using her Grandma Powers’ recipe. It’s perfect, like Miss Jewels’ was, perhaps because its origins date back to the same era. Judy’s brittle is packed with peanuts and doesn’t stick to your teeth. Stuck brittle isn’t a major problem if you’re eating at home, but it’s tough to handle in a crowd. It can be dislodged but your wife will be annoyed, and you’re likely to be struck from future guest lists. Word gets around.

I don’t have room to name all the renowned candy makers in Dooly County, but I can’t write about peanut brittle without mentioning one of my favorite high school teachers, Mrs. Ruth Cross. Someone, I don’t recall who, told me a few years ago about the bidding wars for Miss Ruth’s peanut brittle at an annual church auction. Her brittle brings top dollar for Lottie Moon Christmas Offerings at Unadilla First Baptist. Lottie would be pleased, I believe, to know homemade candy from Dooly County is helping send missionaries to share the gospel all over the world.          

Miss Jewel’s peanut brittle was memorable enough I never forgot it. Plus, there was the thrill of being introduced to Cremora. That was my first experience with a powdered non-dairy creamer. Seeing it on TV was as close as I’d ever been. Our cow, Star, was from the old school and only gave liquid milk.       

The coffee I drank during early childhood was loaded with sugar and cream. I don’t remember drinking it except at breakfast. The option of Cremora, however, left no doubt in my mind I was having coffee with Miss Jewel. The thought of living on the edge was too tempting to resist.     

There’s no telling how much white powder and sugar I added to my cup. I kept shaking and stirring, transitioning my black coffee toward milkshake status. Whether I enjoyed it more than usual or not, I can’t say. What I remember is experiencing something new. It’s an odd memory, I suppose, to have stayed with me for sixty or so years, but sometimes little moments seem to last the longest.

Nothing special was going on that night at the McWhorter’s, just our family of four and the two of them spending time together. I think they had a wood-burning stove to heat the room, but that detail may belong to another place. Their home wasn’t fancy and there was not anything about the evening that seemed remarkable. Yet somehow that memory surfaces every now and then. And each time it does, I’m tenderly reminded of a lovely couple from long ago.

Cremora, I’ve often thought, is why I’ve continued to remember that night, and to some extent it is. But what I’ve grown to value most is a reminder that good fellowship doesn’t require an elaborate setting or extensive planning. It can be as simple as sharing a cup of coffee and peanut brittle. And sometimes we get an extra blessing from a memory that grows sweeter with time. No pun intended.

Today.com recently carried an article which rated eight name-brand candies according to how they impact our health. Only one of them is in our candy bowl, so the information wasn’t devastating. A last place finish for Snickers, however, is rather troubling.

On our kitchen counter is a lovely wooden bowl that was hand carved by Matt Stephens, a former pastor at Vienna First Baptist Church. Filled with a variety of bite-size sweets, Snickers is well represented. I should disclose, however, that dark chocolate Dove requires the most restocking. Several years ago, Jane read that moderate consumption of dark chocolate has been credited with minor health benefits. If benefits are proportionate to consumption, I’m in the best shape of my life.          

Much to my chagrin, the author noted that potential advantages of dark chocolate are adversely affected by significant sugar content. I tend to disagree based on reverse analysis. I’ve had unsweetened chocolate. The taste was bitter and I felt no better. Maybe I should have swallowed.

Snickers apparently provide major health benefits. It was the official snack of the 1984 Olympics in which our country won a record 83 gold medals. Perhaps athletes need a little sugar in their fuel to reach the top spot on the podium. When peanuts, chocolate, and caramel merge, good things happen.

My affinity for Snickers began in childhood at Joiner’s Store. Uncle Emmet kept several choices of candy bars in a glass case on the left-hand side as you walked in. Snickers was my preference with an occasional Milky Way or Baby Ruth for nutritional balance. Since I was family, I could wait on myself. For most customers my uncle would slide open one of the little wooden doors on the back, get the candy out, then ring up the sale, which usually included an ice-cold drink in a glass bottle like God intended.

The store didn’t have air conditioning, just a big fan on a sturdy metal pole that stirred the warm air of summer. Hot weather is when we had to be careful. If candy stayed in the case too long, little white worms would appear. I used to wonder how they got through the wrappers. In summertime, I’d break my candy bars in half to make sure nothing was moving, then check again after taking a bite.

At some point it occurred to me there could be worms which were too tiny to wiggle. So, in July and August, I was mostly a Moon Pie man. Two options were displayed on a rack straight in front as you as you walked in. I rotated between vanilla, to compliment my personality, and chocolate for when I felt adventuresome.

Behind the Moon Pies was the bread rack. Little Miss Sunbeam was quite convincing when she held up a slice of bread and said, “Look Ma, no holes.” Then came the catchy jingle, “There’re no holes in Sunbeam bread.” At home I’d sometimes check to see if the inspectors remained diligent. I don’t remember ever finding any holes, and reporting them to the breadman didn’t seem like a good idea, so I gradually stopped looking.      

Honeybuns were on the bread rack and were one of my regular treats. Thinking about them now makes me wish I had one stashed in the kitchen.  I’m talking about the original size, not one of those two-bite mini-buns that won’t fill up a chihuahua.    

A long counter on the right side of the store had a big glass jar filled with cookies. They were a penny each until inflation hit. Uncle Emmet got the cookies out of the jar for his customers. He’d drop them into a little brown paper bag and roll the top down. There wasn’t any handwashing involved, no tongs or rubber gloves. Cookie germs, it seems, are rarely fatal.  

Uncle Emmett only carried one snack that I didn’t care for, which was Stage Planks. Jerry Clower, the late comedian, told a story about a fellow enjoying Stage Planks topped with sardines at a country store. Like the man observing him said, “Bully done flung a craving on me.” I satisfied my curiosity one afternoon by having that same combination sitting on the porch of Joiner’s Store. My position since then is that ginger flavored cookies with pink icing don’t pair well with oily fish.

The recent report about Snickers won’t affect our candy bowl. We’ll keep filling it with a few of our favorites. Contrary to some research, mine clearly indicates there are advantages to consuming the sweets we enjoy most. That must be right, because every time I eat a Snickers or a Dove dark chocolate, I always feel a little bit better.

I’m not much of a sports fan and lack the patience to sit through a whole game of almost anything. Women’s beach volleyball in the Olympics has been an occasional exception. We’ll save that skimpy discussion for a potential future column and stick with the bare facts today. 

Baseball is an especially slow process. Six innings or ten p.m., whichever comes first, is my customary limit. And that’s only in the post season if the Atlanta Braves are playing. I didn’t stay awake past the seventh inning stretch during the 2021 World Series in which Atlanta defeated the Houston Astros. But I’ll have to say it sure feels good to win.

Jane and I watched baseball with some regularity when the Braves were perennial contenders in the 1990s. We saw the Hall of Fame pitching trio of John Smoltz, Tom Glavine, and Greg Maddux put on some amazing performances.

We pulled for Chipper Jones, Javy Lopez, Fred McGriff, and a roster of players who became part of our extended family. We knew Bobby Cox’s calm demeanor could get disrupted by a bad call from an umpire. Sometimes he got a warning. At other times he earned another check mark on his ejection tally.

My memory isn’t reliable enough to mention specific moments in those playoff games or the World Series they won in 1995. What I do recall, however, is the optimism which Braves fans had for a long time. Some seasons were better than others, but for a number of years it always seemed possible that America’s Team could get another set of rings.

Sports writers have covered every angle of this year’s World Series, so I don’t have much to add. Diehard fans can tell you a lot more about their road to victory than I can. But even for those of us who boarded the train near the end of the line, it sure feels good to win.

It’s hard to say what the best storyline is from the Braves’ recent accomplishment. There were many, but I only have room to mention a few. Let’s begin with the manager.

Brian Snitker is one of the finest examples of persistence I’ve ever seen. He’s been with the Braves’ organization 44 years, most of it in roles that go largely unnoticed. If he got a headline, it was by a hometown paper covering a minor league game.

He made a decent living, I assume, and apparently enjoyed his work. But being named manager late in his career, then leading the team to a championship at age 66, was too far-fetched to even dream about.

Other men and women have had notable accomplishments during their senior years in various fields. Next time I see a list, I’ll pencil in Brian Snitker. And I’ll reflect on how a man past his prime by some standards, quietly and steadily led a group of young men on a trip they will never forget.

Freddie Freeman, the team’s smiling first baseman, has to be mentioned. He’s been called “the face of the Braves” because of his long tenure, steady performance, and good disposition. The Braves had a six to nothing lead in that final game when Freddie hit a solo homer. The seventh run he contributed wasn’t essential, just icing on the cake.

Having Freddie circle the bases at that point was, I thought, as good as it gets. In the top of the ninth, however, Houston was down seven to zip and only had one out left to try and stage a miracle comeback. Dansby Swanson, another fine fellow and native son of Marietta, Georgia, fielded a ground ball and threw it to first base. Freddie Freeman made the catch, and the Braves were once again champions. A better ending could not have been written.

The tribute to Hank Aaron was touching. I can’t help but believe the Good Lord allowed number 44 to enjoy the World Series. Maybe Hank should get some credit for the hot bats of game six, but I can’t say either way. If it’s not okay to pray for a Braves win, I’m already in trouble. 

It was inspiring to see every player standing respectfully for the National Anthem, caps over their hearts as the giant flags waved. And sportsmanship seemed to be in vogue at each game. It’s uplifting when professional athletes set good examples for kids of all ages who admire them.    

There’s no doubt I’ve left out some important aspects of the Braves’ enchanted season, but I hope you’ll excuse me. I only saw the early innings and next day highlights. I don’t claim to be an expert on baseball or America’s Team, but there’s one thing I can say with certainty. It sure feels good to win.

An October column, “Dude The Barking Dog,” described a pet-induced sleep deprivation issue in our household. I asked readers for suggestions and received a number of splendid responses. Dude is still barking, but I’m happy to report a little bit of progress.

Lanier suggested Dude attend a dog training school, or that we return him to our son who granted us custody. I talked to Dude about school, but he showed no interest. Unless his attitude changes, more education would be a waste of money. Plus, he doesn’t like to be away from home at night. I’m a homebody too, so I’m sympathetic to Dude’s preference for his own bed.

Seth could take him to the country, but there aren’t any fences to keep him out of the highway and he doesn’t seem to understand the concept of traffic. When we walk the dirt road beside our house, Dude can be stubborn about letting vehicles or farm equipment go by. Eventually he’ll allow them to pass, but not until they slow down enough he can sniff their tires.

Judy said his barking shows he’s protecting us, something I had not considered. Now when Dude gets cranked up, I’m unsure whether to fuss or give him a treat. She also mentioned a medication prescribed by her vet because of her Callie Belle’s incessant barking during thunderstorms. We tried it for a week and slept much better but the taste was awful.

Smitty explained that the barking doesn’t mean our dog is afraid of trains. Dude is letting us know he wants to take a ride. Smitty suggested I buy Dude an engineer’s cap and put him on the SAM Shortline for a trip to Plains. Having immense confidence in my friend’s advice, I called to buy a ticket. Dogs and small children, I learned, must be accompanied by a responsible adult. I’ve been trying to think of one.

The other issue with a train ride is that only service animals are allowed in first class. When the nice lady asked if Dude was a service dog, I wasn’t about to lie. “No mam,” I said, “He’s never been in the military. I was going to send him to Camp Safety Patrol for a week, but it’s closed and I don’t think they plan to reopen.”

Marlene shared advice that got my attention. She had a problem with her Siamese cat chewing computer wires. After trying multiple deterrents without success, she found that blowing a party horn did the trick. Now she only has to show the horn to the cat to prevent a relapse.  

As I was looking online for party horns, thinking I’d need a supersized one, I ran across a little silver whistle. It seemed like a logical option, plus it came with a decorative chain to hang around my neck. The whistle I ordered, however, was stuck on a cargo ship out from California, so the seller gave me an upgrade for a few dollars more.

It came with two triple-A batteries and a button to press. Kids sure have it easy these days. When I was a boy, we had to blow our whistles. Now it can be done with a thumb. Dude stopped barking the first time I used it, but it has too many decibels and no volume control. The high-pitched tweets shattered a light bulb and caused the garage door to go up.

We asked our neighbor, Ken, if Dude’s antics ever wake him. He says he doesn’t hear him unless he goes outside for a smoke. If Dude is barking, Ken howls like a coyote and says the night becomes quiet. We tried that same approach, but apparently Jane needs to work on her howl. I’d go myself, but my CPAP machine is too much trouble to take off and put back on.

Jane came up with a plan that began with great promise. Dude doesn’t like water, so she hung a hose on the fence and had a talk with him. For a week or so, when he barked excessively, she pointed the nozzle and pulled the trigger. Being tenderhearted, however, she didn’t spray him. She just hit the aluminum downspout to the gutter. It made some noise and got his attention, but he caught on quickly.

So, I’m back to shining the flashlight through the bedroom windows in exchange for brief periods of calm. I am, however, resting exceptionally well between barks, now that I understand the barking is for our protection. Some mornings I’m quite sleepy, but I’ve never felt safer in my life. Dude is still barking, but that’s okay. We’re making a little bit of progress.

Randy Travis, country singer extraordinaire, had a monster hit in 1986 titled “Diggin’ Up Bones.” The chorus went like this: “I’m diggin’ up bones. I’m diggin’ up bones. Exhuming things that are better left alone. I’m resurrecting memories of a love that’s dead and gone. Yeah tonight I’m sittin’ alone diggin’ up bones.”

The song portrays a man spending a sleepless night as he sadly reminisces about a wife no longer there. He talks to her picture, reads old love letters, and flings her wedding ring across the room. Why she left or who’s to blame we’re not told. We only know that he’s miserable without her.

I should give a disclaimer at this point that my love for traditional country music is perhaps a character flaw. If not for the cheating and drinking songs, there’d be a lot of dead time on the radio. And I’ll admit to being more than a passive listener. I sing along with Randy, Willie, Johnny, and George, although none of them need my help.   

Randy’s soulful ballad came to mind recently and keeps hanging around. I was doing some much-needed work on the house my mother grew up in, when our daughter, Carrie, walked through. I asked what she thought. “It has good bones,” she said. That’s when I started singing that tune.    

My grandparents’ house was built in the 1930s, after their first home burned down. Mama was 11 or 12 when they moved in, which dates it to around 1937. A man named Charlton Locke did the carpentry. I guess Granddaddy and others helped as Mr. Locke didn’t have a crew.

Mama’s older brothers, Emmett and Jack, probably pitched in. Bose Frederick, who worked on the farm back then, most likely lent a hand. But those are just guesses. None of them are around to ask and I didn’t think about inquiring when they were. It seems the older I get the more questions I have. I wonder about things now I didn’t take notice of earlier.

Mr. Locke may have slept on site during construction or found a vacant bed in the neighborhood. My mother doesn’t know where he stayed at night, but says he bathed in the nearby spring on weekends. Those seem rather austere conditions, but at the time a bath in clean running water was surely a step above a washtub, except maybe in cold weather. No telling what the fish downstream thought, but fish seldom complain.

Jimmy and I have spent a month or so tearing out wall paneling, ceiling tiles, and three layers of flooring that were added in the past, some of it 60 plus years ago. What we’ve uncovered is a structure that’s sound and octogenarian lumber which time has hardened like a rock.   

“Good bones” is probably a term Carrie heard on a home-improvement show. It seems quite appropriate for describing an old building with plenty of wear and tear but a sturdy frame under its ragged skin. 

Like the man in the song, I’ve been reminiscing too, except mine is thankfully the pleasant kind. I vaguely remember Granddaddy building a crackling fire when I spent a night there in early childhood. It felt great to wait in bed under the quilts, then warm in front of the hearth. I was too young to realize that tending fires was a regular part of Granddaddy’s day. It makes me appreciate him a bit more now.

Their four fireplaces were sealed long ago, the smokestacks removed when a metal roof was installed. With a little work, however, we’ll have a nice place for some gas logs. Artificial firewood won’t compare to oak lit with kindling, but there’s something mesmerizing about gazing into flames. Gentle flickers of orange can warm a body and soothe a soul. 

There are more memories in my grandparents’ home than a column will hold, but I’ve written about them before, so I’ll only mention the fireplace today. Rather than elaborate on my recollections, I want to suggest we’re all better off by digging for the good bones in our past.

Sometimes, that’s almost impossible. The heartbroken man in the song knows that too well. But it’s mostly our choice which memories we resurrect. We can focus on those that make us sad or embrace the ones that make us glad. I’ve tried it both ways and found the latter is better.

I’ve been digging up bones lately and feel good about it. So, I hope you’ll look for some of your own today. If the weather is cool enough, you may want to sit by a fire and see where it takes you.

Where is Mike Rowe when you need him? It’s been several years since he worked those “Dirty Jobs” on the Discovery Channel. Mike has been neck-deep in stuff most of us hope never to touch or go near. He’s spent hours in places I wouldn’t drive past even with the windows rolled up.

Nothing was too nasty for Mike. He just smiled and put on his armor, hoping it might keep him out of the germ ward at the hospital. I needed his help recently, but his number must be unlisted. Thankfully, the worst is behind us. Or maybe I should say the worst is in the past to avoid confusion.

My mother grew up just across the Dooly County line in the edge of Pulaski. The first house she lived in burned when a log rolled out of the fireplace. Nothing was saved except for two rocking chairs off the front porch and a butter knife found in the ashes. She still uses that little knife and is rather fond of it. If I knew how many biscuits it’s buttered, I’d call the folks at Guiness.

Granddaddy had a new house built, which they moved into when Mama was 11 or 12. It’s nothing fancy, a small frame dwelling made from green lumber sawed off the family farm. Some fine people and good friends have rented it since Grandmama’s death in 1978. They took good care of it and left it in better shape than they had found it.

There have also been a few tenants who trashed it to some extent. The bar has recently been lowered, however, setting a new standard. Mr. Clean begged me not to take him inside until the roaches were gone. He’s the one who suggested I ask Mike Rowe to help.

Those of you who have been reading Joiner’s Corner for a while know I don’t mind exaggerating to make a point. But I’m sticking with facts when I tell you that my brother and I have hauled off 57 bags of trash. The first thirteen came from an outside burn pile.

Apparently, the folks had an aversion toward dumpsters. We filled 13 bags with broken glass, cans, bottles, and things I’m probably glad I couldn’t identify. The other 44 bags mostly came from inside. The filth was so bad I apologized to my rubber gloves and offered them early retirement.

 If the woman had been asked to get out quickly, I might have more empathy. But that wasn’t the case. “Take your time,” I said. “Don’t worry about the rent. Maybe a few months off will help you with the moving expenses.” I didn’t mention about leaving it clean, unaware there was any need to.

She left some things in the yard and on the porch that I figured would be picked up later, so we didn’t go in the house for about a month after it was vacated. Opening the back door changed my life. I didn’t realize how many roaches could fit on top of a door. Maybe they were looking for a way out.      

A lot of the piled and partially bagged clothing could have been used by someone. But when cloth is comingled with unrefrigerated food, milk, pudding, and such, it tends to deteriorate. The roaches were thrilled with the cloth and food combination and delicately aged toilet water.  

After four insect foggers, three gallons of Ortho Home Defense, two quarts of roach powder, and several cans of various sprays, I’m excited to report some progress. The roach population has been reduced from the hundreds to merely dozens. Or they’re hiding in places I’ve not yet discovered.

We’ve torn the paneling off the walls and Celotex off the ceiling. Now we’re spraying the original wood with Clorox and industrial strength cleaners. After another month or so of scrubbing and disinfecting, I’ll take my paintbrush out of its holster and give the old house a shot of fresh relief.

It’s tempting to be angry, but that’s not what I’m feeling. I’m sad, instead, because three young children have been given a terrible example. Lessons of childhood are hard to unteach.

Jesus gave us wonderful instructions in Matthew 7:12. “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” So, to the lady that trashed my grandmother’s home, I want you to know I’m not mad. But I hope and pray you’ll reflect on what your children are learning. The Golden Rule would be a good place to begin some discussions.  

P.S. I almost forgot to thank you for the cats and fully stocked litter box. Alger and Benjamin are doing fine and gaining weight, but they sure do miss living inside.

Weather doesn’t always take heed when calendars announce the first day of fall. This year, however, their synchronization was exceptional. Remnants of summer have predictably returned at times, but September 22^nd was a lovely start of a new season.

Three pm that afternoon was the official beginning, but I can’t say whether autumn came precisely then or not. I didn’t really notice its arrival until Jane and I took a late afternoon walk. Around seven, just after Lester Holt reminded us to, “Please take care of yourselves and each other,” we headed down Coley Crossing toward the railroad tracks.

The air was not the same as the evening before. A slight breeze provided a comfortable coolness. And September’s sky was more stunning than I recalled summer having offered.

It’s hard to say which season has the best clouds, but I’m inclined to vote for fall. Summer is too hot, humid, and gnatty to spend time gazing upward. Winter clouds can be delightful but sometimes the grays dull the blues too severely. Spring is nice but emerging blooms and chirping birds compete with the clouds for our attention. So, fall is arguably the best time for clouds. 

As we began our walk the sky was filled with seventy shades of blue and a thousand intriguing characters. There were the ever-present poodles, who flourish in fluffy cumulus formations. I guess the soft clouds compliment their curly hair and fondness for pillowy beds. Over the years I’ve occasionally spotted a German shepherd on patrol, but poodles are the most populous of the canines.   

A wrinkled old man with a craggy nose and big belly was on his back napping and appeared to be snoring. Thankfully, he was a safe distance from the monstrous alligator sunning on the creek bank. I was glad the man didn’t need a dog for protection. You never see poodles getting out of police cars.

Road Runner, the cartoon character, had assumed a memorable pose. He was in a racing stance with a fake arrow stuck through his neck. His grin indicated he was about to say, “beep beep,” and scamper away. Why he was running toward a dolphin is a mystery I don’t expect to solve.

On the road back home, the view was even more magnificent. Jane tried to capture it in a photo, but there’s no way to condense splendor of that scale. As the fading sun dipped out of sight, a couple of cloud groupings were brightly illuminated. We saw the evidence of light although its source was hidden.

Near the end of our walk, the serene radiance of a sun just below the horizon testified to that same distant glow. An alluring blend of red, orange, and blue highlighted the westward edge of a darkening canvas. There’s only one word I can think of to describe such beauty. Holy.

That first night of fall stayed on course as temperatures dropped into the fifties, a place they had not ventured in a while. A delightfully cool daybreak was greeted by clear skies and sunshine, further affirming autumn’s arrival. And a few leaves were wearing brighter colors as they slowly descended from their summer perches.

Lord willing, there will be more walks with enchanting scenes and the same lovely company. But this walk is one I’ll remember for a while. Headlines in the evening news were quite troubling that day. Sadly, that seems likely to continue. The first sunset of fall, however, helped remind me of who’s in control.

Hebrews 11:1 says, “Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.” That scripture has been expounded on by people more capable than me. But those clouds at dusk, aglow because of a hidden sun, caused me to think about that verse in a refreshing manner.

Although the sun was out of sight, I knew it was the source of light. That seems worth pondering during times which are increasingly challenging. Rather than being discouraged by all the wrong we see, faith allows us to embrace what is right even when it can’t be seen. Faith allows us to know God will prevail on His terms and time, not on yours or mine.

My confidence in the future had needed a boost and still does at times. But it’s better than in the summer past. The air felt much different on our walk down Coley Crossing. It was a perfect fall day.

I don’t know how long pear trees live or remain productive, but the one in my mother’s yard has been there as far back as I remember. There’s no telling how many preserves we’ve enjoyed from a tree slightly older than me.    

That old tree has made three score and ten and maybe a few years beyond. I’m not quite at that milestone but I’m knocking on the door. Both of us are showing our age, a bit more than I expected for myself at this point. Willie Nelson was right – “Ain’t it funny how time slips away.”

It seems like just yesterday there was a kid staring back at me from the mirror, but It’s hard to catch a glimpse of him anymore. One minute I was wondering what I wanted to be when I grew up. The next I was thinking about Social Security and Medicare.          

For decades the tree would be loaded each summer with more pears than the limbs could support. We’d remove about a third of them or sometimes more, usually after Mama reminded us several times. Its sagging arms would rise to celebrate a lighter load, and the pears that remained thrived in their less crowded accommodations.

A few years ago, however, the tree drifted toward unreliability. The once plentiful pears gradually became fewer and eventually declined to almost nothing. In the winter of 2019, my brother decided to give it a major pruning. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but in 2020 the tree bounced back with a nice crop.

Pruning had given it a fresh start. I figured that was the end of any cutting, but last winter Jimmy decided to whittle it back a bit more. He said the tree was wasting energy putting on pears that were too high to reach, even with a ladder. So, we cut several tall limbs, many of them growing almost straight up.

The tree won’t win any beauty contests, but we’ve never had a better crop of pears than this year. Some were small, from where we didn’t thin them enough early on. Others, however, were as large as a navel orange. They are the biggest pears that tree has ever made.

As a side note, my friend Mrs. Larue Ambrose has the most amazing pear tree I’ve ever seen. She doesn’t do anything to it, yet it consistently produces pears the size of grapefruits. Whatever genetics are in that tree, need to be preserved. I’m just passing that idea on, hoping it takes root.  

Jimmy nor I have expertise in pruning fruit trees, so don’t rely on this column for advice. The path of severe pruning might not work for anyone else or even for us again. Jimmy’s reasoning was that the tree wasn’t much good as it was, so why not do something to give it a chance.

New growth gave it some long-gone vitality. Its trunk is still wrapped in wrinkled skin, but the pears are plentiful again. It’s caused me to think that a personal pruning might be a good way to approach my own senior years.

In John 15:1-2 Jesus said, “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” I find it tempting to stay the course, even when the fruit is sparse, to let longtime habits and opinions determine the path I follow.

God no doubt sees many areas in my life that need pruning but inviting Him to cut wherever He wants can be a bit unsettling. I tend to offer suggestions as to what might be work for Him while not being too challenging for me. Recently, though, I read something which improved my perspective. The author said, “Spiritual pruning is not punishment. It’s a reward.”

I’m not sure I’ve ever thought about it quite like that, but it seems the best way to interpret those verses. Spiritual pruning may be unpleasant and even painful, but the rewards come through the fruit produced. Rather than dreading the process, Christians can embrace the purpose.

Sometimes I miss the young man that used to appear in our mirror, but I hope the gray-haired fellow who stares back at me now will take a hint from an aging pear tree. A good pruning may be just what he needs.