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I’ve been a fan of crepe myrtles since childhood. I’m sure there were a few of them scattered around our farming community back then, but the only ones I recall were at my grandmother’s house. Grandmama Hill had several in her back yard that were loaded each summer with colorful blooms.

There’s a lot to like about crepe myrtles. They’re not temperamental nor demanding of our attention. They even seem to thrive when completely ignored. Evidence of their self-sufficiency is found in hedge rows and along roadsides. On rare occasions we can still find them at old homesites, standing guard over an empty house or keeping company with a lonely chimney.

Crepe myrtles are sturdy too, one of the hardest woods there is. If you want to put a chain saw to a test, they are a worthy opponent. A few incisions and the chain will need sharpening or adding to the scrap iron pile. That’s firsthand information and not hearsay.

My guitar-picking buddy Gary Mixon says their wood was used to make ball bearings before metal became the standard. Whoever whittled those bearings probably went through a lot of knives, nicked fingers, and frustration. It wasn’t a good idea, I would think, to sneak up behind an intense carver trying to make quota and tap him on the shoulder.

A wide variety of trees, shrubs, and flowers reward us splendidly for our efforts, but crepe myrtles get my vote for the top spot. They offer exceptional beauty and expect almost nothing in return except space and a little pruning if one is so inclined.

On a July drive down US Highway 41 south of Vienna, I noticed two rows of crepe myrtles in full bloom lining the long driveway of some friends. I’ve driven by their home countless times over the years, but I don’t remember ever seeing such an impressive display of color.

What was especially captivating was the dark red hue of the flowers. I wondered if they were a hybrid variety or maybe a special fertilizer deserved some credit. I made a mental note to ask later but didn’t think about them again for a few days. While working in our yard one afternoon, a smile unexpectedly surfaced when I realized our crepe myrtles were adorned with the same red blossoms.

It reminded me of how easy it is to overlook the beauty and blessings which are already ours to enjoy. Sometimes we get so used to seeing what’s nearby that we take it for granted. Mickey Gilley had a hit song with a memorable line, “I overlooked an orchid while searching for a rose.” He was singing about love, but the same holds true for many things and probably always has.

Twenty or so years ago our son, Seth, was a freshman at Georgia Tech. A couple of his friends from Atlanta came with him to our part of Georgia for a weekend visit. They drove out to my parents’ home in the country late one night and were mesmerized by the quiet darkness. A black canvas sprinkled with a million twinkling stars was something I had unknowingly grown accustomed to. Familiarity had displaced my childhood awe. It took someone who lived under bright city lights to help me see what I had stopped looking for.  

Sometimes it’s tempting to think in terms of what’s lacking in our lives rather than counting the blessings we already have. The Apostle Paul said, “I have learned therefore to be content in whatsoever state I am.” Contentment begins with gratitude, I believe, or at least it’s an essential part.   

When I realized the gorgeous flowers down the road are the same as those growing in our yard, I found it quite amusing. I didn’t laugh out loud but came rather close. Now I will appreciate that beautiful scene even more each time I drive by. Those stunning red blooms are a lovely reminder not to overlook the blessings all around us. Some we can even reach out and touch.

There’s a lot to like about crepe myrtles, and that’s not something I recently decided. I’ve been a fan since childhood.             

It’s no secret that routine maintenance is important for almost everything we use. I’ve had multiple reminders lately, including one that’s a bit unusual. A pile of dirt is a rather unlikely thing to require attention, so I may be stretching the point a bit. Here’s what happened.

Several years ago, we needed some topsoil to fill in holes where we’d had a few trees removed. I ordered two dump-truck loads, one to use immediately and another to have when needed. We had it unloaded in a back corner of our yard where it would be out of the way. I’ve enjoyed the convenience of having my very own dirt pile. Lately, however, my shovel has begun to complain.

What was once a clean earthen mound is now covered in weeds, small trees, and vines. There’s also an impressive entryway made by a family of armadillos who built their dreamhouse in the hill.

None of that is a major challenge to deal with. I’ll use Roundup on whatever is growing and implement a relocation plan for the armadillos as soon as the zoo returns my phone calls. Those are just annoyances, but they reminded me that even dirt sometimes needs maintenance to remain useful.

A more typical example of the importance of maintenance was recently provided by my brother’s lawnmower. It was leaving a streak of uncut grass behind. That little sliver of green indicated the blades needed changing. Not all issues, however, are that easily diagnosed or resolved.

Jane and I had an expensive lesson years ago courtesy of a brown Chevrolet sedan. We had bought a 1978 Caprice from my parents when they got a new car. Our triplets were a few years old at the time, so Jane had her hands full at home. Between work, church, and community involvement I didn’t have much spare time either. Apparently, we were both too busy to check the oil.

My wife called me from Cordele one day to tell me the warning light had come on. She had immediately pulled off the road and turned the engine off. I don’t know about today’s vehicles, but back then when an oil light came on it served as an obituary notice for the motor. Our negligence was rewarded with seventeen hundred reminders of the importance of maintenance.

Checking the oil was something we understood was important, but somehow in the hectic pace of ordinary life it was overlooked. Rather than occasionally spending a few minutes taking care of the car, we had to sell our kids on the thrill of Santa bringing a new engine.

In April of 2020 I published a column titled “Cleaning Out Gutters.” It was about debris that had accumulated over a period of years in the gutters on the back of our home. The trash was out of sight, so I had a flimsy excuse. In early July of this year, we had a hard daytime rain. That same gutter was spilling water over the sides rather than through the drainpipe. The debris wasn’t as deep as before but it was bad enough to cause a problem.

Just about everything we use needs ongoing maintenance. Otherwise, it tends to become less functional and may reach the point where repairs are complicated and costly.

The same is true of faith. Our spiritual health is heavily influenced by our commitment to making it a priority. I don’t have any new ideas to share. It’s basic practices like Bible study, prayer, and being involved with a fellowship of believers. Plus being willing to serve God by serving others.   

There’s not a formula for how much time or effort should be devoted to such aspects, but I believe we know when we fall short. What’s most important is our approach. Attitude is critical when it comes to matters of faith. 2 Corinthians 9:7 says, “God loves a cheerful giver.” That’s not just about money. It’s true for everything.       

When I write about faith, it’s often prompted from knowing there are areas in my life which need improvement. So, I put it on paper with hopes it will inspire me to do better. For others who share that feeling, I invite you to consider what spiritual matters in your life may warrant attention.

Evidence of neglect may be out of sight, like leaves in the gutter. Or it can be as obvious as a streak of uncut grass. The solution is the same. Faith needs routine maintenance, not just the kind measured by time but that which begins in our hearts. If a pile of dirt can lose its usefulness, so can we.

In a recent column I explained how my wife became the proud owner-operator of our first riding mower. That was many years ago, but I still get emotional when I visualize her taking that little 30-inch Snapper on its debut outing. The morning sun illuminated a perfectly blue sky as she tenderly manicured our lawn, carefully trimming patches of grass and weeds to a precise height of 1.75 inches. It was a touching moment to know my days of walking behind a push mower had come to an end.   

Jane says she doesn’t mind mowing our lawn and I’m not about to question her sincerity. I think it bothers her less to cut the grass than to look at the shredded pinecones which are my trademark. Her commitment to picking up pinecones and sticks is much stronger than mine. My inclination is to mulch everything, even litter if it’s biodegradable and in the back yard. This approach is based on my commitment to the environmental benefits of mulching, something I am extremely passionate about.     

My wife has taken good care of our lawn for years and I’m grateful. Recently, however, I’ve discovered something she’s never mentioned and to which I’ve been oblivious. I was unexpectedly exposed to the joys of mowing. Jane had not told me how much fun it can be.  

Our Snapper was in a rehab program at Russ Bowden’s Home for Wayward Mowers, so I borrowed my brother’s John Deere. His knee was hurting from a fall, so I cut the grass at the farm before taking his mower to our house. I sheared about six acres in a single day, five more than my old record.

During those few hours of mowing, I found that zipping around on a zero-turn machine is more sport than work. It combines the thrills and skills of driving a go-cart with riding a horse in a barrel race. One minute I was flying down the straightaway with the wind in my face. The next moment I was spinning around a tree, seeing how close I could get without knocking my hat off.

The joys of mowing have been kept somewhat of a secret by my wife and many others. Their reasons may be valid, but it seems to me that everyone should be invited to the party. That’s why I’ve decided to organize the first ever Southeastern Lawnmower Rodeo. Lawnmower racing has been around for a while, but this takes it a step further where grass is cut in a supervised competition. Fortunately, we have a big yard so the event can be conveniently held right here on U.S. Highway 41 in Dooly County.

Rather than have hundreds of mowers show up the same day, I plan to conduct preliminary individual trials. The careful assessment of each entrant will determine eligibility for the post season clipoffs. A nominal processing fee of ten dollars is required but may be waived for hardship cases. An eight-hour period will be allowed to complete the mowing of our yard between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m.

Judging will be based on overall lawn appearance, time expended, adherence to safety protocols, and other factors as may later be determined. There are no limitations as to how many trial runs an entrant may make. Each ten-dollar fee assures you that only your best score will be used in the rankings.

Trial runs will be limited to one per week during the summer, or two if the grass is growing especially fast. After they are concluded, we’ll narrow the field to the top 40 and schedule group competitions in four divisions of ten each with a wild card possibility.

Grand prize will be a free subscription to joinerscorner.com, 5000 points, and a tee-shirt that says, “I’M A WINNER!” All prizes for top ten finishers are guaranteed to be of inconsequential value.

It may take some time to work out the official rules of the competition. Meanwhile, unscored practice runs can be made through the end of September. No fee is required, and these won’t affect rankings in any way. Just let me know when you can mow.

Mowing can be great fun, but it took years for me to find that out. That’s why I’m dedicating my efforts and offering our yard toward promoting the rodeo. So, call now to reserve a practice time while choice slots are available. Our phone lines are open and the grass is growing. The joys of mowing await.

My father told me a story a long time ago about two farmers who lived in our community during his childhood. Daddy was born in 1923, so the setting would have been in the days when agriculture relied heavily on mules, hand tools, and hard work. I’ve forgotten the names of the men or where they lived, which is probably for the best. I’ll just call the main character Shade because that seems to fit.   

Shade had a stellar reputation for consistency in his lackadaisical approach to farming. The abundant weeds in his crops each year may have bothered him a tad, but not enough to overcome his aversion to sweat. One summer when his cotton was losing a wrestling match with nutgrass, a neighbor was passing by and saw him on his porch. He took a seat in the other rocking chair and made small talk, intrigued at how meticulously Shade was whittling a stick which would serve no purpose.  

The neighbor was hoping to say something inspirational, words of wisdom that might lead his friend to make a better effort in the fields. “Shade,” he finally said as politely as possible, “I’m not trying to tend to your business, but I believe that nutgrass is going to eat you up.”

After a thin shaving of curled cedar fell to the floor, Shade stopped rocking and laid his knife aside. He took his hat off and held it above his eyes as he squinted into the afternoon sun and gazed across his one-horse farm. “You just might be right about that,” he replied with an agreeable nod. “But it’ll have to come up here and get me.”

Whether that’s a true story or not I don’t know. It could have happened, or it may be one of those tales of unknown origin that were commonly shared at country stores. Besides offering groceries, hardware, kerosene, and S.S.S. Tonic, country stores were a primary incubator of homespun humor. Factual or fictional, either way it seems fitting to introduce today’s short primer on weeds.

There are two things about weeds that are troublesome. The first is they compete with what’s being grown. That works the same whether it’s a thousand acres of peanuts or a few tomatoes in the back yard. Weeds compete with desirable plants for everything – nutrients, water, sunshine, and even space. If they go unchecked, they’ll diminish the yield of whatever is being grown. A crop might still be made, but it won’t be what it could have been.

Another major problem with weeds is they go to seed. They love reproducing and some are more prolific than others. Palmer amaranth is the rabbit of the weed world. Pigweed, as it’s commonly known, reportedly produces up to 35,000 seeds per plant. That’s higher than even Jethro Bodine can cipher, so I won’t attempt to verify the data. If you take a close look at a mature pigweed, however, that seems about right.

Obviously, it’s critical to keep weeds out of fields and gardens in order to produce the best crop possible. But what about the weeds in our spiritual gardens? Although we understand they hinder us from producing the fruits of a vibrant faith, they are easily ignored. They compete with God for space in our hearts and lives, and like those in the plant world they spread if we don’t get rid of them. Spiritual weeds love company so much that one often opens the door for another. King David, for example, had a fling with Bathsheba then covered it up by having her husband, Uriah, killed. (2 Samuel 11)

Weeds in our spiritual gardens come in all shapes and sizes and a rainbow of colors. Some are on display for all to see while others are hidden, unknown we think, except to God. And sometimes we try to convince ourselves that He won’t take notice.

We all have some weeds to deal with, yet we tend to think the worst ones are those of someone else. The bar is set too low when we compare our gardens with those of friends or the norms of society. Those standards, however, are gaining momentum as biblical guidance loses favor.

Many times I’ve behaved like Shade and had a lack of concern about the weeds in my spiritual garden. I’ve settled for fruits which looked okay to the world perhaps, but didn’t reflect my best efforts. My prayer today is simply that I’ll do better. I’m not sure what the results will be, but here’s what I do know. It’s time to stop whittling and get off the porch.

One of the most heartrending disasters of late happened in Surfside, Florida, where a 12-story condominium collapsed on June 24th. The last information I saw reported that 98 deaths have been confirmed. What began as a rescue attempt was declared a recovery mission on July 7th.  

Every death from that horrific disaster is a tragedy, but the loss of children is always especially painful. A single casket with two sisters is not easily forgotten, nor should it be. The grief for Surfside is further compounded by a particularly agonizing factor. It could have been prevented.

There will be inquiries, investigations, accusations, and countless lawsuits for months or years. Hopefully, some of the measures taken will help prevent such catastrophes in the future. It’s too late, however, for the casualties of June 24th, and for those left to grieve.

Sometimes when death comes there’s no way it could have been avoided. That doesn’t diminish the pain of losing a loved one, but maybe it allows us to better accept it. The most troubling aspect of the Surfside tragedy is knowing it didn’t have to happen. A lack of structural integrity had been documented in 2018. The foundation was failing, but warnings were ignored.

I hope I’m wrong, but I believe as Americans we have a critical problem with our foundation. Instead of structural issues, ours is a lack of spiritual integrity. The tenets of our democracy have long reflected commonly held values of faith in a righteous God. Judeo-Christian principals were once widely embraced by most citizens and political leaders, even those not inclined toward organized religion.

That’s been changing for a while and seems destined to continue a treacherous downhill slide. The closer we get to the bottom the faster we travel and the harder it is to stop. We’ve swapped Holy Words for Hollywood as celebrities have gained idol-like status. The characters they play often promote hedonistic lifestyles and their offscreen examples are not much different. We are constantly enticed to choose temporary pleasures over eternal treasures. 

Sadly, such influence is not targeted only to adults or even to impressionable teenagers. Young children are now being swayed through innocent looking cartoon characters. Lucifer deserves to be listed in many of the production credits, but his best work is often done sublimely.   

I shouldn’t single out Hollywood, though. Entertainers of all sorts, from singers to professional athletes, offer a steady diet of coarse language, vulgarity, and live for the moment lifestyles. If someone is courageous enough to take a stand for biblical values, they’re likely to get shunned or sued or labeled a bigot. It’s become acceptable to advocate for almost anything except what’s written in God’s Word.

The entertainment industry doesn’t deserve all the credit for our shift from biblical values toward unrestrained licentiousness. Entertainers can’t lead us where we are unwilling to go. I mention them, however, because they are highly visible on the road toward low morality.  

Admittedly, our country has an imperfect past in many areas. But even during the lowest points in America’s history, there seemed to have been some threads of faith that helped bind us together. Those threads are wearing thin now and harder to find. The stitching in our collective fabric of basic decency is coming apart at the seams.

Dr. Jerry Pickard, a retired Baptist pastor and longtime friend, brought a July 4^th message at Vienna First Baptist Church about the spiritual condition of America. He referenced Exodus 32:1-14 where the prayer of one man, Moses, resulted in God sparing the Israelite people despite their corruption and disobedience. If the prayer of one man caused God to spare a nation, imagine what the earnest prayers of many could do.

We can pray and walk boldly where God leads us, or we can travel the path of token efforts to avoid ruffling any feathers and subjecting ourselves to criticism. I’ve taken the easy route many times, but I’ve found some new inspiration in a sobering lesson from Surfside, Florida.

A foundation was crumbling yet warnings were ignored. And a million tears are now salted with the bitter regret of what we know. It could have been prevented.

I went fishing with our grandson, Walt, and some other family members one afternoon in May. A bass that would have likely become the new state record broke my line and my heart. Even with the tragic loss of a trophy fish, it was a splendid outing until my wife called.

“Our side yard is on fire,” she said, more calmly than I would have expected. “I’ve been trying to wet it down, but there’s hardly any pressure. Water is pouring out from where a PVC pipe melted. I don’t think the fire will keep spreading, so you don’t have to come home.” Despite her assurances it was fine for me to keep fishing, my keen perception suggested that might not be a good idea. It was an easy decision because I knew that largemouth bass would have his lips sealed for a while.   

When I got home, Jane was in our side yard flower garden with a hose which was only yielding a trickle of water. The garden is about one third of an acre, a tree-shaded place where my wife has spent untold hours planting, pruning, and weeding. It’s full of azaleas, ferns, daylilies, and a variety of plants I can’t name. There are also some comfortable wrought iron chairs beneath an oak tree that make a great place for sipping lemonade and counting blessings.

The back half of the garden is still lovely. Looking at the scorched front though, it’s hard to believe such devastation came from what once had seemed nothing more than a little smoke.

Several days earlier, I’d gotten a burn permit. A massive sweetgum tree had toppled into the edge of the garden when Hurricane Michael came through in October of 2018. Rather than taking a conventional approach by sawing it into short pieces and hauling them off, I had an epiphany – The tree can be burned where it fell. We had added limbs, leaves, and other yard debris on top of it for two years. Most of the huge trunk lay outside the heavily strawed flower beds. It seemed like a solid plan. 

As the sun went down on the day of the burn, the fire was almost out and there wasn’t much remaining of the debris that had been piled. The sweetgum, however, still had a long way to go. There were no visible flames, only a little smoke from its smoldering underside. The source of the smoke was about eight feet from the pine straw, so I left it alone rather than drenching it with water.

Two more days went by as the sweetgum kept slowly sizzling. I watched it carefully, thinking I might add some fallen limbs and rekindle the fire. Jane and I checked it several times each day and nothing much changed. When I looked at the tree before going fishing, there were no obvious sparks or floating cinders, nothing except a hint of smoke.  

Jane went to Cordele for a couple of hours. When she returned, fire was spreading through her beloved garden. The worst loss was twenty years’ worth of plants and hard work. Incidentals included a melted water line, two hoses, and the tire on her favorite wheelbarrow.

On a personal note, if anyone has a good used tire, please get in touch with me as soon as possible. With nothing but steel to roll on, the wheelbarrow is hard to push. If Jane gets behind with her yardwork, I’m concerned it could adversely affect the kitchen.

Nothing has been lost that can’t be replaced. Another positive note is we now have excellent access to some pesky Smilax vines that were inextricably intertwined with flowers and shrubs. Hopefully, we can dig up the tubers and get rid of them.

We have a lot to be thankful for, but it makes me wince to see the burned shrubs and flowers and know I could have easily prevented it. Prevention is almost always preferable to fixing what’s broken. And some things when broken can’t be mended.  

That smoldering log became a problem because of my carelessness. Temptation often works the same way. It can evolve if ignored. Most temptations begin with a wisp of smoke that appears to be rather harmless and perhaps somewhat intriguing. We see no urgency in quenching a tiny spark.    

                The charred plants in our flower garden, however, remind me that unseen embers can subtly transition into fire. Something that was beautiful is now badly scarred. And the devastation came from what once had seemed nothing more than a little smoke.     

I may have to finish this column later. Jane is working in what was left of her flower garden after the fire, a fiasco which yours truly was allegedly involved in. That’s a story for another day if I don’t forget. Fortunately, the toasted azalea leaves will help remind me. After the leaves drop, I’ll rely on the charred, barren limbs of about 20 bushes. 

My plant-loving wife is immersed in a salvage operation this morning, but apparently her breakfast ran out before our next major feeding period. She doesn’t usually eat much between meals. Today, however, for reasons unknown to me, she must be extremely hungry at 10 am. Her voice had a sense of urgency.

“Hurry! she said, “Snack! Bring the gum!” Then she hung up, although it’s perhaps incorrect to say “hung up” regarding a cell phone. Maybe I should say she ended the call or hit the red button. Either way, she stopped talking before telling me what kind of snack she wanted. If she doesn’t call back soon, I’ll probably take her a bowl of watermelon since it’s about to be too ripe.

 It’s unlike her to be impatient about anything, and she’s never that way about food. I’m a bit puzzled by her frantic request for a snack and even more so about the gum. I don’t even remember the last time she chewed gum, but that’s what she said. I’m absolutely positive that’s what she said.   

Sometimes, though, my hearing is not as reliable as it needs to be. At a recent worship service our youth minister mentioned the offerings from Vacation Bible School were going to Daybreak Pregnancy Care Center. It shocked me when he said if the goal of one thousand dollars was reached, he was getting high. When the congregation laughed, I wondered if I had misunderstood. It turned out he and our pastor had agreed to get “pied” to save lives.   

Many in the Joiner lineage have some gradual hearing loss that begins around age 50. Our standard practice is to deny it’s a problem for a couple of decades. When hearing aids are eventually purchased, they are put beneath our wills in a safety deposit box in case we need them later.

One day I mentioned to a friend about the aggravation of living with poor hearing, but that the idea of wearing hearing aids was not appealing. “It seems very inconvenient,” I mused.

He told me he had needed hearing aids for fifteen years but hadn’t bought any. “I haven’t found anyone who doesn’t complain about wearing them,” he said, “so I decided to just act stupid.” I’ve been testing his system for several months and it’s working splendidly. That’s probably because I was already acting that way long before having any hearing loss. Preparation is an essential part of success.

Occasionally what I’m hearing is not what the other person is saying. That can be problematic in places such as hospitals. They say a man in California went in for an appendectomy and came out wearing lipstick. That’s not likely to happen in rural Georgia but in critical situations it’s best to have someone with you who has a good set of ears.

Most of the time I’ve found it’s not too risky to smile and nod if the other person is smiling. Or sometimes I just respond to what I think has been said. It’s like when my Cousin Joyce asked her husband, Ben, about the barn swallows who were building mud nests on their porch. He was standing at their kitchen counter when she walked by and noticed the annoying birds flying around. They had been there for weeks and were making an awful mess.    

“Do you think those birds are ever going to leave our porch?” she asked.

Ben held up a dinner knife. “I’ve already put mayonnaise on my bread,” he replied.

I may have told that story before but I’m not certain. My memory isn’t as sharp as my hearing.

Jane just called again and sounded exasperated. “If you don’t come now, it will be too late!” Her volume was above average so she must be starving. I’m concerned about her odd behavior and hope to figure out what’s causing such strange requests.

Maybe she’ll feel better when she sees this nice bowl of cold watermelon and two sticks of Juicy Fruit gum. I don’t understand how a snack and some gum can be so urgent, but that’s what she said. I’m almost pretty sure that’s what she said.   

It’s amazing how quickly a man’s perspective can change. Matters of seeming importance can suddenly be rendered inconsequential. Things taken for granted become more precious. Our family had one of those pivotal moments in June. But first let me tell you what was on my mind before then.

I was extremely frustrated over a computer issue. In May I began having a recurring problem regarding my blog at joinerscorner.com. Repeated warnings said access to the site would be denied due to an outdated TLS. After doing some research I learned that TLS stands for Transport Layer Security. Tech-savvy people understand what that is and know how to fix such things. I’m in the other group, standing near the back of the line with a blank expression.

A TLS problem, however, appeared to be something I could resolve with a little guidance. After several hours of online chat with a very patient lady at Microsoft everything was copasetic. We said our goodbyes as I relished the return to smooth waters. Then I heard the soundtrack from Jaws and saw the dorsal fin of skewed technology circling my desk.

My computer is still working but frequently requires going through a seven-step process. I’m bandaging a wound while searching for a cure. For a while, that nagging problem was a big part of what I focused on and even fretted about. My perspective, however, changed unexpectedly on the second day of June, early that Wednesday morning.

Jane had a text from our daughter, Carrie, with the kind of message that leaps from your eyes straight into your heart. Her husband, Clay, was in a trauma center in Tallahassee with a brain bleed. Late Tuesday afternoon he had been putting decking on a porch he was adding to the back of their home. He was alone, except for Belle, an 18-month-old German Shepherd.

Belle is a big dog and plays rough. As Clay was on the ladder, Belle climbed up too, then bit his ankle and held on. He tried to shake her loose and lost his balance. It was a nasty fall, but he thought he’d be okay, so he went inside to lie down. Their 17-year-old daughter, Melanie, got home around 8 p.m.  and had no idea anything was wrong. Carrie had not heard from Clay in a while, so she called Melanie and told her to check on him. By then he was nauseated and in severe pain.

Melanie drove him to Miller County Hospital where a nursing friend met them in the emergency room. Carrie, and their seven-year-old son Walt, headed there from Lake Eufaula, where they had spent the afternoon. Clay, along with Carrie, was taken by helicopter from Colquitt, Georgia, to Bixler’s Trauma Center in Tallahassee, Florida.

Clay is much better now and should eventually be okay. Besides a brain bleed, he incurred multiple skull and facial fractures, a fractured neck, and a ruptured eardrum. After 48 hours in a hectic trauma center, there were no beds available in the hospital, so the doctor sent Clay home. He said a quiet, dark room was vital for the healing process.

On the morning we learned of his accident it didn’t take long to realize my computer issue isn’t really a problem. When a wife wonders if the man she loves will be coming home, that’s a problem. When children see their parents leave on a life-flight ride, that’s a problem. Clay is still on the mend, but we expect this chapter of his story to have a happy ending. Not everyone is that fortunate.

The uncertainty of those two days caused me to reflect on what’s most important. At the top of that list, I believe, is being prepared for eternity. Whether we’re young or old or somewhere in between, none of us know the future. Tragedy often strikes without warning.

Precautions aren’t always enough. I wrote a little book about ladder safety, but it never crossed my mind to include a section about climbing dogs. We don’t know what tomorrow brings, or even the next second. What scripture tells us, however, is that we’ll spend eternity somewhere and that God allows us to choose our destination.

John 3:16 expresses it simply. “For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life.” How much time remains for each of us between here and the hereafter is unknown. But when that time comes, it will be amazing how quickly a man’s perspective can change.

Today’s subject matter was suggested by a friend and fellow church member named Marion. He’s been amazed and amused for several years that my wife mows our lawn. Recently he suggested I elaborate on how that arrangement was worked out. Marion was not asking for himself. He thought such advice might be helpful to others. Before I share the secret though, let’s take a side road.   

Last week’s column ended by mentioning a guarantee. That reminded me of another story I heard from Mr. Emmett Stephens, something I believe is pertinent to today’s column.

Although I heartily embrace a flexible approach toward column accuracy, I asked Charles Stephens to check my recollection. He had a front-row seat on a long-ago adventure with his father. Charles was about ten years old at the time, which dates the story to the late 1940s.

Mr. Emmett and two friends, Rupert Drawhorn and Luther Gilbert, reserved a rental house in the Blue Ridge Mountains of north Georgia. The men and their three families made the long drive to Glassy Mountain for a weeklong vacation on the crystal-clear waters of Lake Burton.

Money was tight so they were hoping to catch fish for most of their meals. As a backup plan, however, Mr. Emmett tied some live chickens to the top of his 1941 Plymouth. The chickens had the most thrilling ride of their lives, which was fitting since the fish didn’t cooperate. Someone finally caught a nice bass, but it wasn’t big enough to save the hens.

On their way up from Vienna as the Stephens family neared their destination, Mr. Emmett pulled into a country store to ask directions. Some men were drinking soda pop and smoking Prince Albert. They had the look of seasoned farmers who might sell their corn by the quart.

A big man wearing faded overalls pointed down the road and told Mr. Emmett to turn right when he got to the schoolhouse. “Schoolhouse?” asked Mr. Emmett with feigned surprise. “You mean to tell me y’all have schools up here in these mountains?” Mr. Emmett didn’t hear the laughter he expected. His attempt at humor among folks he didn’t know had not been well received.

“Now look here, fellows,” he said apologetically, “Back home I’m known as the village idiot and people know not to take me too seriously. I was just funning with y’all and didn’t mean to offend anyone. And furthermore, I want you gentlemen to know that everything I say comes with a guarantee. If I say something you don’t like, I’ll be more than glad to take it back.”

The rugged old men of Glassy Mountain had a good laugh and Mr. Emmett parted on friendly terms. It’s probably hard to stay mad at a man who’s traveling with his family and has chickens tied to the top of an aging Plymouth. I’m telling that story to let my readers know that Joiner’s Corner adheres to The Emmett Stephens’ Guarantee Program. We’ll stand by our advice until you tell us to sit down.

As to the question about enticing a man’s wife to mow the lawn, it goes back to a conversation a few years ago at Sunday School. A little before Christmas I mentioned the possibility of giving Jane a new mower. When Marion asked how I got her to cut the grass, I told him the main thing was to be firm. I may, however, have neglected to provide complete information, so here’s the rest of the story.

Somewhere In the early 1980s we had a push mower, which I took no great pleasure in operating. My approach to improving our lawn was to let the Centipede grass go to seed before cutting, thinking it would eventually overcome the dandelions and Bahai. That plan, however, required a four-week mowing schedule, three weeks longer than my wife preferred.

One day while looking for our young triplets in the tall grass, Jane said, “If we had a riding lawnmower, I’d mow the yard myself.” A few minutes later Mr. Billy Langford changed my life by delivering a small Snapper. So, what I didn’t explain earlier to Marion is that being firm works best for chores your wife volunteers to do.

My suggestion to any of you fellows who are interested is to be firm like me when your wife will agree. Or you can be firm on your own terms if you’re up to it. A man with a bad crick once told me that a six-foot frame on a five-foot sofa is a pain in the neck. Whatever route you choose, please remember one thing. My advice is one hundred percent guaranteed. If you don’t like it, I’ll take it back.

At times I’ve thought it would be fun to write an advice column to answer personal questions. The format I envisioned was similar to Dear Abby but with answers reflecting a farcical perspective of a southern speaking country boy. Here’s an example:

Dear Neil: My husband is running around on me. How can I stop him? A Scorned Woman.

Dear Scorned Woman: Shoot him in the foot. That may not stop him, but the limp should slow him down. Please understand, however, there are places where intentional shootings are illegal even if justified. Check with your sheriff about state laws and local ordinances.

Prior to taking any such action, I also suggest you consider whether you would be happy living in a small cell with a roommate you didn’t choose while wearing matching jumpsuits. Prison attire is rather lackluster. Compliments on how nice an outfit looks are rare. If that doesn’t sound like a lifestyle you would enjoy, you might first try taping this column to your husband’s TV remote. That could help initiate a meaningful discussion about your concerns.

Another idea would be to call your local funeral home and ask about prearrangements. Make sure your spouse overhears you describe him as a “no-good, two-timing, low-down snake in the grass.” Ask the undertaker for information on the cheapest and fastest burial options. Find out if small pieces of lead would be destroyed in the cremation process. If you live near the coast you may want to inquire about burial at sea. At that point, if your husband is not visibly sweating, you might ask the funeral home manager if he is aware of any alligator farms in the area.

I hope you find this advice helpful. If you feel the need for additional suggestions, I encourage you to send ten dollars and a SASE for my pamphlet – “Treats for Cheats.” P.S. The advice I’ve offered may not be appropriate for your particular situation, but at least I gave it a shot.

A redneck flavored feature seemed like a great idea until I realized I’d need most of the space for disclaimers. If someone took me seriously that could be a disaster. I had decided not to pursue the advice column idea any further, but recently I’ve had what seems a rather urgent request.

Being asked for my advice reminded me of a moment in the distant past when I had a question for Mr. Emmett “Pa” Stephens. It involved our Chamber of Commerce planning a Developer’s Day in the early 1980s. We were expecting a substantial number of overnight guests and wanted to provide a memorable breakfast.

Mr. Emmett was the chief cook for Vienna First Baptist’s monthly Brotherhood meetings. His cathead biscuits and side meat were exceptionally fine when served with soft scrambled eggs and cheese grits. That menu seemed a perfect way to start our day if the volunteer cooking crew was agreeable. I was barely grown at the time and they were in their senior years, so I didn’t want to impose.

“Mr. Emmett,” I said politely, “I’d like to ask your opinion on something.”

“Well, Neil,” he replied with a mischievous drawl, “before I give you an opinion there’s something I want to make sure you understand. Opinions are like behinds. Everybody has one and some are shaped better than others. Now, after hearing that little spiel if you still want my opinion, I’ll be glad to give it to you.”

His response was considerably more colorful than I’ve presented but that’s the gist of it. After we shared a moment of laughter, he said he’d be glad to take care of breakfast and felt sure the cooks would be on board. We had twenty or more developers, mostly from Atlanta, who fell in love with biscuits made from scratch and lightly floured skillet-fried fatback. Mr. Emmett delightfully introduced them to the joyous path of high cholesterol. 

Introductory material has taken up so much space today that I don’t have room to properly address the recent solicitation for advice. A friend of mine wants to know how I convinced my wife to mow our grass. I’ll try to answer him next week. Or I may wait until Jane is out of town.

I don’t think it’s an urgent matter as his lawn looks freshly cut. Besides, I can almost guarantee that my advice will be just as useful next week as it is now.