Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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 Repeated warnings said access to the site would be denied due to an outdated TLS.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.

Simple songs are what I like best, the ones played with three chords or less and having lyrics that don’t need interpretation. An old tune that fits my preferences well is The Crawdad Song. Although its origins are uncertain, some think it was born on the levees of the Mississippi River as they were being built. I don’t know if that’s the case but spelling Mississippi just reminded me of something from childhood.    

Daddy taught me a couple of ways to spell Mississippi. Speed was essential to both. “M-I-Double S–I-Double S–I-Double P-I. His other version substituted “crooked letter” for each s and “humpback” for each p. That’s just bonus information and not the main story today.        

The Crawdad Song, also known as The Crawdad Hole, has multiple versions with verses that are considerably different. The chorus, however, is common to all with only minor changes. “You get a line and I’ll get a pole, honey. You get a line and I’ll get a pole, babe. You get a line and I’ll get a pole. We’ll go down to the crawdad hole, honey, oh baby mine.”

Sheriff Andy Taylor let me sing along on that song when I visited him and Opie in Mayberry. He had exceptional taste in music. Others have also performed it quite admirably. Woody Guthrie made a nice recording as did The Foggy Mountain Boys. They featured a banjo and a fiddle, perfect instruments for a toe-tapping tune.

Although I’ve been singing that chorus since I was a kid, only recently did I learn what a crawdad hole is. I always thought those two lovebirds were going to a pond to catch a mess of catfish or bream.

In the woods where Jane and I love to walk, there are holes all along the banks of the stream. Mama calls them snake holes and sometimes they are, but snakes don’t dig them. The holes are about an inch across and have a mound of dirt which forms an open-top steeple. I had figured they were dug by giant worms, overgrown cousins of the nightcrawlers which decorate our yard with their castings.

It was late April when I took a picture of one of those holes with its mud chimney and showed it to Dennis Cross. He’s a longtime friend who’s been rambling through woods and wading creeks since before he could say the alphabet. He only needed a quick glimpse to identify them as crawdad holes. That had never crossed my mind, partly because it’s rare to see any of those shrimp-like critters in that stream.

Some online research showed a video of a man fishing for a crawdad out of one of those little holes. He had tied a small weight and a piece of bacon on a string, then lowered it down and waited for a tug. Ever so gently he pulled the line upward. A crawdad was clinging tenaciously to that strip of meat with both claws. He didn’t care where he was going or who was driving. It must have been thick-sliced bacon.  

Our youngest grandchild, Walt, came for a visit and we gave crawdad fishing a quick try. His Uncle Seth dropped a line down several holes, but nothing took the bait. He and Walt started looking under rocks in the stream and found a few crawdads hiding. They could have caught them with a net, but we were sport fishing and had other plans for supper.

When Walt came back for another visit, we tried again using short sticks with strings. Fishing the holes didn’t work that time either, so we lowered our pieces of hotdog near rocks and roots in the flowing water. Two hours later we had 20 crawdads in our bucket. 

Seth boiled them that night. He had one and Walt ate the other 19. Our crawdads are too small to fill the belly of a growing boy, plus we like having them in the branch. We’ll probably go with a catch and release program in the future. And maybe next time I’ll take my guitar and teach Walt an old song that Andy taught me. 

Crawdad fishing isn’t for everyone, but it reminded me of something that is. It’s often the simple things which make the best memories. Walt will likely remember catching those crawdads for a long time, maybe even when he gets to be as old as his Papa is now.

I can’t say for sure that will be the case, but I have my reasons for believing it. Although I’m a little out of practice, I can still spell Mississippi just like my Daddy did. 

Several decades ago, one of my hobbies was songwriting. My small collection is aptly titled “Songs You Won’t Hear on the Radio.” Most had a country flavor with a touch of humor, the kind of novelty recordings which Ray Stevens, Roger Miller, and Tom T. Hall were known for at the time. I would have sent those fellows some demo tapes, but they were doing okay without my help.

One of my favorite lines posed a question from a distraught young suitor to the lady of his dreams. He asked his impassive girlfriend, “If this is only puppy love why am I crying like a dog?”

I thought about that song when Jane and I were recently granted temporary custody of a five-week-old long-haired Dachshund. We knew she would be staying inside, a major event for people who are not accustomed to house-dwelling canines. We’ve loved a series of dogs, but they have lived where God first put their kind – in the great outdoors. Our four-legged friends have been fine with that arrangement and quite appreciative of their five-star accommodations and world-class buffet.  

Dude, the gentle mongrel who moved here from California last year, climbed over our chain-link fence multiple times when he first arrived. He would repeatedly ring our doorbell until we answered. Dude had been accustomed to living indoors in Los Angeles, but that was by necessity. His neighbors didn’t appreciate the charm of a dog who barks the same tune for hours without taking a break.   

Once Dude realized how good his situation in rural Georgia is, he stopped climbing. Now there are days he doesn’t even want to leave his shady yard to take a walk. We have to promise extra treats to get him through the gate. That’s partly because Dude is concerned he may miss a FedEx or UPS delivery. Weed eaters, gun shots, and motorcycles also rank high on his list of excuses for incessant barking.

Jane had a look of concern when she told me a tiny bundle of fur would be living in our dog-free zone for a few days. The upside, however, was that Honey was bringing a grandchild with her. A dog in the house is more palatable when the deal is properly packaged.

Hardly a day goes by that I don’t pet several dogs, scratch behind their ears, and tell them how good they are. But it had been a while since I’d held a puppy in my lap. I had forgotten there aren’t many things in life that can compete with such a simple pleasure.

Like a billion other puppies, Honey is irresistibly affectionate. She’d just been separated from her mother and siblings and we knew that had to be traumatic. Her mom had stopped feeding Honey, but I don’t blame her. A full set of sharp pegs had caused a sore spot in their relationship.

That reminds me of something the late Mr. Emmett “Pa” Stephens said about his childhood. Mr. Emmett was Vienna’s resident comedian with his quick wit and easy smile. One of his memorable stories was about being raised as the youngest of eleven children. With a mischievous grin he’d say that his mother weaned him so he could start school. I think he was kidding but I was afraid to ask.            

Honey missed her mother. I guess that’s why she chewed on my fingers hard enough to make me wonder if I’d still be able to play the piano. More than once I was tempted to stop her, but I couldn’t refuse her pleading brown eyes. She nibbled her way right into my heart.   

There’s something magical about taking care of a puppy. It provides a respite from pandemics, politics, and all sorts of trouble. For a while there was nothing more important than helping that sweet little critter know she was loved. People need the same thing but don’t always know how to ask. Or they may not know that anyone cares unless we tell them.                        

We didn’t shed any tears when Honey looked through the car window as she was leaving. I’ll admit, though, it wasn’t easy saying goodbye. Puppy love is a lot more powerful than it sounds.    

My thinking is we’ll probably always have a door between us and our dogs and hide the key where they can’t find it. But it did feel good getting a close-up view of such tender innocence.

Honey will be coming back for a visit before long and we’ll be glad to see her. Meanwhile I’ll keep humming a simple tune while pondering a question that’s not easily answered. If this is only puppy love, why am I crying like a dog?

Governor Brian Kemp signed legislation in April to make Daylight Savings Time permanent in Georgia. Federal action, however, is now required for implementation.

One of my regular readers suggested I encourage our elected officials in Washington, D.C. to get busy and make it happen. My other regular reader said he doesn’t care which time we use but he’s tired of resetting his clocks twice a year. That’s my feeling too, so I’ve decided to support the push toward DST, unless there’s an option to split the difference.       

First, however, I should acknowledge the strong possibility that not a single person in our nation’s capital reads my column. There is a high probability that none of the power brokers along the Potomac are interested in my opinions. I shouldn’t complain though, as I feel the same way about them.

I’m kidding of course, except when I’m not. The truth is my confidence in people on either side of the aisle is at an all-time low. There’s a huge leadership void in both parties. Partisan politics have become the norm. The days of eloquent statesmen engaged in meaningful debate toward negotiated solutions are gone. A good referee would throw both teams out of the game. Or maybe he wouldn’t if he saw who’s waiting to play. The benches are full but sorely lacking in talent.   

I don’t know all the pros and cons of DST. Before I retired from banking, I enjoyed having that extra hour of daylight after getting home in the afternoon. It concerned me, however, that small children were waiting for buses in darkness or needed flashlights for their walks to school.   

Someone, I assume, has asked the kids what they think. It might be worth polling their parents too, but the youngest among us give the most honest answers. It takes a while for children to learn that truth has consequences. But they eventually learn by watching us that it’s easier to keep quiet.       

The recent mention of DST reminded me of a lady named Ida Mae Sanders who was dear to our family. She helped my wife keep our home tidy when our triplets were in their formative years. That was several decades ago, but it’s still easy to hear her laugher when she referred to DST as “that fast time.”

“I’ll take you home whenever you’re ready,” I would say. “I got to hurry up,” she’d laughingly respond. “We’re on that fast time now!” Her running comment was funny to both of us although I’m not sure why. Thankfully, laughter between good friends seldom needs an explanation.

“Time is sure flying by,” I’d heartily agree. My affirmation didn’t really mean anything. It was simply a way to extend our grins for a moment longer.

Ida Mae didn’t drive, so Jane or I would usually pick her up and take her home. Sometimes, however, she rode with Mr. Willie “Taxi” Green. Although well into his senior years, he owned and operated Vienna’s sole transportation service. His unmarked car was easy to spot around town at places like Stephens Super Foods and Forbes Drugs. For three dollars more he’d take you to Cordele. Another three bills would get you home.   

Rather than having a meter on his dashboard Mr. Willie used the one affixed to the top of his neck. When I once asked how long he’d been in the taxi business he abruptly replied, “I don’t have a taxi!” Then he spoke with soft caution although the two of us were alone. “I just haul people,” he said.

Having a taxi would have required a permit, extra insurance, upgraded driver’s license, standardized meter, and adherence to regulations written by people who had never driven a cab. Riding in a taxi would have cost folks a lot more than his standard fares. His business model may not have been quite legal, but he took a lot of people where they wanted to go and didn’t charge much to get them there.  

My rambling recollections don’t have anything to do with whether Daylight Savings Time should last all year long or not, but that topic reminded me of Ida Mae’s cheerful disposition. And reminiscing about her led me to think about Mr. Willie’s practical approach to getting things done.

I hope the officials in Washington, D.C. will allow DST for Georgia. But what I wish for most is that they would act more like Ida Mae and Mr. Willie. Cheerful demeanors are in short supply among our nation’s leaders. And practical solutions now seem impractical. If that doesn’t change soon it may be too late because I believe Ida Mae was right. “We’re on that fast time now.”  

I’ve always thought it would be thrilling to find buried treasure. The odds of unearthing a concealed cache, however, are markedly slim. That’s why I’ve never been inspired to do any serious digging. Confucius was right – “Man who seeks buried treasure needs good shovel.”    

Shoveling has never been my strong suit, a limitation I’ve accepted with remarkable ease. Thankfully, some treasures don’t require moving dirt. We only need to take a close look around.

In early March, Jane and I began clearing some underbrush and vines in our favorite woods. A small spring-fed stream runs continuously. Two other branches merge into it but go dry during the summer. Winter and early spring are ideal for leisurely strolls by the gently flowing brooks.  

We love to walk along the bank and see how trickling water gradually reshapes fragments of fallen trees. Nature’s slow chisel can transform common wood into works of art when man doesn’t interfere. No one carves as meticulously as God.

Nandinas, palmettos, and assorted vines are what we’ve been trying to get under control. There’s no telling how the first nandina took root in those woods. Perhaps it was an offspring from a nearby yard since nandinas were once a favored plant. Their bright red berries add a nice touch to flower beds. When little nandinas go play in the forest, however, they tend to run wild.

Years ago, we noticed an increasing number of them growing along the streams. We talked about the need to get rid of them, but our efforts were modest and sporadic. They took advantage of being ignored and now cover acres of land. Some are taller than me and rather intimidating.

We’ve been using hedge clippers, hoping to prevent another crop of berries from drifting downstream. Our plan is to keep cutting, then spray a heavy dose of Nomo Nandina as soon as it’s invented. The challenge is trying to save the wild trillium and rain lilies that keep the culprits company. It’s problematic when good plants and bad plants share a bed. Bad plants won’t leave unless they get a better offer. It’s best not to ever let them in.          

Palmettos are also an invasive species. When there were only a few of them scattered along the streams, their sharp fronds added a Floridian flavor to the forest. But now they are steadily expanding their prickly domain and intent on sticking around.

The vines we’re cutting have been somewhat of a surprise. There’s kudzu around the edges of the woods and occasional runners from poison ivy or oak. The most prolific, however, are the bullises. In my childhood they were already big enough for Tarzan to swing across the stream. Their twisted trunks are now massive and admittedly have a certain charm.

Until this spring, I had not realized what type vines they are. Or maybe what I once knew had been forgotten. Some have reached fifty feet or more in their upward journey on century old trees. Most of the shoots and green leaves are so high they are out of sight. Their tangled canopies are thick enough to block much of the sunlight. I guess we had grown accustomed to walking in the shadows.     

I’ve cut dozens of bullis vines by hand this spring. Others were so big I used a chainsaw. My plan is to give them a second chance. A severe pruning will hopefully result in fruit low enough to pick if we get there before the deer and bears. If we overlap, the bears can go first. Or my wife if she wants to.

As we were working along the stream one April day, I saw an outline of a large wheel in a pool of slow-moving water. Even submerged in silt and barely visible, Jane knew it would be ideal for an outdoor table. I understood my role when she said, “Please don’t hurt your back.”

So, I pretended snakes were not yet in season and waded into knee-deep water. The wheel is solid iron, three feet across, has six spokes, and weighs more than I do. It’s value in dollars is not much but measured in sentiment it’s immense. Moments of joy don’t wear price tags.

Things of great worth are sometimes found by digging. Others are lying in shallow streams or walking beside us yet not always seen. We don’t have to go far to find life’s finest treasures. We only need to take a close look around. No one carves as meticulously as God.                    

Kinfolk, a word commonly employed during my youth, is seldom heard in conversations of today. I don’t guess it matters when an old term slides gently toward obscurity, but that one landed on a soft spot in my heart a few weeks ago. It reminded me of something important.      

My 94-year-old mother has a great-niece, Angela, who lives in Florida. She called Mama in late March to ask about coming to Georgia for a visit. Covid has put a damper on seeing family as well as friends, so it had been too long since we had “laid eyes on her” as people used to say. Armed with two shots of Moderna, we were delighted that Angela and her husband, Jack, wanted to make a trip north.

Jack, we found out later, had asked Angela what she’d like to do on her birthday. She had said, “Go see my kinfolk!” She’s seven years younger than me, too young I would have thought to appreciate such an ancient word. Maybe that’s why it triggered a smile that stretched from my lips to my liver.

Mama’s nieces, Ann and Priscilla, joined us for a small version of a family reunion. With my brother, Jimmy, there were only seven of us, but we laughed enough for thirty-five people. That’s about how many family members used to pack into Grandmama Hill’s house in the fifties and sixties.

Every seat was filled as well as the porch chairs and sometimes the steps, yet my grandmother never seemed flustered by the commotion. She was so busy counting her blessings there wasn’t time for worry. I don’t know who deserves credit for the maxim, “Let gratitude be your attitude,” but I was blessed to be a grandson of someone who had those words etched into her heart.       

At our recent gathering we all marveled at how Grandmama could magically squeeze folks into her modest home. The house was literally overflowing yet never felt crowded. I didn’t fully appreciate back then that love easily trumps practicality.     

Mrs. Ethel Nelson, a wonderful neighbor and tremendous cook, was often in charge of the small kitchen. After we were too full to think about taking another bite of anything, she’d bring out some warm egg custard pies. Miss Ethel’s pies were so good it led me to sympathize with Adam and Eve.

When gnats would attack me in the cotton field, I’d become aggravated with that first couple for getting kicked out of Eden. Those egg custard pies, however, helped me understand some things are irresistible unless we have a Helper.   

The seven of us talked and laughed about Angela’s sweet, sassy, beautiful mother, Sara. And we reminisced about Mama’s brothers, Emmett and Jack, plus other family members no longer with us. Someone mentioned the metal pipe which was wedged between two trees in Grandmama’s back yard. Mama’s nephew, Ray, used to grip it and swing all the way around like an Olympic gymnast.     

Ray, almost ten years my senior, let me tag along on some of his adventures. I was with him when he went to get his first car. It was old and Grandaddy pulled it home with a chain behind his truck while Ray steered and braked. A few weeks later, Ray took me on a really fast ride toward Pinehurst that remained our secret until now. He was a hero in my young eyes and still was when leukemia took him away too soon.      

Jackie, Ray’s older brother, raced cars on a Cochran track. Jackie could have been the next Fireball Roberts if he’d had more horses under the hood. His need for speed may be why Uncle Sam found him a ride in the skies. He landed his helicopter in Mama’s yard a few times. That was against Army rules, but the promise of hot biscuits made the risk worth taking. Jackie’s rulebook allowed exceptions for family.      

After our sumptuous dinners Grandaddy Hill would sit in his big porch rocker and relax with an oversized glass of ice water. The men would join him there, as did the boys until we headed toward the woods to follow the spring-fed streams. No one except our friend Spottie was ever bitten by a snake. I’m not sure how we missed out, but a tan dog of mixed heritage deserved much of the credit.         

I’ve rambled along today and not offered much worth remembering. I think what I’m trying to say is we need to spend time with family and friends while we can. Whether we have a full house or just a handful, either way is likely to bring about some laughter and warm our hearts a bit.

Angela helped remind me of something important that’s easy to neglect. Sometimes we need to go see our kinfolk.

This will probably be my last column about TV shows from childhood unless something later begs to be addressed. Walter Cronkite and Andy Griffith were mentioned in the first two articles. Today I’ll try to wrap things up with a brief look at some of my favorites from fifty plus years ago. It was the best of times for television worth watching.

I Love Lucy has to be on the list of great series along with The Dick Van Dyke Show. I’m not sure if those situational comedies are still available for viewing but they should be. They prove that hilarity doesn’t require vulgarity, crude language, or using “Oh my God!” as a punchline. Their scenarios were based around happily married couples whose amusing interactions gave us ample opportunities for laughter. They also helped us understand it’s okay to laugh at ourselves.

The Danny Thomas Show was another of the clean comedy genre where you didn’t have to wonder if it was okay for everyone to watch. The truth is if it’s not okay for everyone, it’s probably not okay for anyone. My Three Sons, Leave it to Beaver, and Father Knows Best, fit that same category.

A few years later The Beverly Hillbillies, Green Acres, and Gilligan’s Island captured our attention. On December 31, 2020, actress Dawn Wells died at age 82. She played Mary Ann on Gilligan’s Island, the cute and wholesome girl-next-door type that suited her perfectly. It was nice when many of television’s characters were good examples for the rest of us. If that same boat got stranded on an uncharted island in 2021, the crew would no doubt have a much different script. The theme of much of today’s fare seems to be how low can we go. As close as we are to the bottom, I don’t think we’ve hit it yet.

Perry Mason gave us the best you could find in the courtroom. Granted, the judge and the opposing attorney allowed him considerable leeway, but that was okay because the man with the gavel and those in white shirts at the other table all wanted to find the truth. My guess is there were some young men and women who became fine lawyers because they were inspired by Perry Mason’s integrity. He didn’t chase ambulances or compromise ethics. Justice seems to be steadily shifting downward on the list of motives for going to court. Money is at the top, I believe.

There were plenty of cowboy heroes like Roy Rogers, U.S. Marshal Matt Dillon, and The Lone Ranger. Roy showed us how to mount a horse with a running start. He drank coffee with Gabby Hayes instead of hanging out in the local saloon. There was a lot to like about Roy whether on screen or off.

Matt Dillon didn’t seem fast enough on the draw in the opening scene of Gunsmoke, but the other guy fell so I guess he was accurate. Matt was an excellent lawman, a man of courage and compassion. His close friendship with Miss Kitty never advanced to an upstairs bedroom in The Long Branch Saloon. That wouldn’t happen today, except for maybe in a couple of early episodes.

The Lone Ranger intrigued me by how well a hero’s identity could be disguised with a mask. Seems like someone would have figured it out and been able to answer the weekly question, “Who was that masked man?” I used to wonder where he got his silver bullets and how he earned enough money to pay for them. He was a good guy fighting bad guys and taught us to respect Native Americans, Indians as they were called then. Tonto was not only Kemosabe’s capable sidekick, he was also his best friend.

The earliest show I remember watching is The Highway Patrol starring Broderick Crawford. I don’t recall anything about it other than seeing Mr. Crawford on TV and hearing the sirens when someone was in a hurry. My main recollection is of our family going a few hundred yards up the road once a week to watch those patrolmen with my grandparents while we ate popcorn. It reminds me that watching TV can be time well spent when the storylines have value and the entertainment is clean.

It’s hard to say what the most important lesson I learned from early television is, but maybe it’s to be careful with what we watch. A lot of what I saw back then secured an enduring place in my memory bank. That would be just as true if the shows had been trashy.

Perhaps I’m being sentimental, but there’s one thing I can say with confidence about the bygone era of three-station TV. It was the best of times for television worth watching.