Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Pete Dail told a personal story at Brotherhood in November that I believe is worth passing along.  Brotherhood, in case you’re wondering, is what we call the monthly men’s breakfast at Vienna First Baptist Church. If you wake up hungry and don’t have plans, we meet on the second Sunday at 8 o’clock.

Several denominations are frequently represented and all others are welcome. If you’re in the undecided category that’s fine too. One of our renowned breakfast chefs is a dedicated Catholic. We enjoy fellowshipping with those wearing other labels and will put them to work if they’re willing.  

Our gatherings have changed a lot due to COVID-19. In November we had 13 in attendance, which is less than half of the pre-corona crowd. Paper bags of wrapped sausage and biscuits have temporarily replaced the delicious buffet we were accustomed to.

Social distancing has spread us out instead of allowing us to congregate around full tables. Handshakes have been replaced by waves, nods, and fist bumps, a wise but less fulfilling greeting. There’s no one in the group I particularly care to hug, but I miss shaking hands. I’d love to share more about Brotherhood, but if I don’t quit rambling there won’t be enough space to tell Pete’s story. 

Pete and his wife, Beverly, went to Cracker Barrel in Cordele with another couple. As they were eating, Pete noticed a young man staring at him. Pete discreetly glanced back several times, thinking it must be someone he should know. He and Beverly own a bed and breakfast, The Jewell of Vienna, so Pete thought the fellow may have been a guest at some point. The young man, however, didn’t seem at all familiar and his intense stare made Pete increasingly uncomfortable.

When the oddly behaving fellow finished his meal, he approached their table and politely explained. “I apologize for staring,” he said. “I realize this sounds peculiar, but you look almost identical to my late father.” Pete was surprised but quite relieved to hear his unexpected explanation.

“My father abandoned our family when I was three,” he continued. “I have no memory of him, but my mother kept an old picture of Dad in her Bible. She used to show it to me and tell me not to hold grudges, that he was still my father. I hope you’ll forgive me if I was rude, but seeing you reminded me of the man I never knew.”

With a heartrending smile the fellow then inquired, “Would it be asking too much to have someone take our picture together? I’d like a photo to show my mother.”

Pete agreed and the young man hailed a passing waitress to assist. “Thanks, Dad,” he said to Pete with a warm smile as the waitress returned his phone. He shook Pete’s hand firmly and walked away, struggling it seemed to hold back tears.

A few minutes later the waitress returned to their table. “Here you go, Dad,” she said while handing him a ticket. “Your sweet son said you insisted on paying. I’ll bet you’re a wonderful father.”

Pete hustled out the door and looked around the parking lot where he saw the young man hurriedly approaching his vehicle. As the car door closed Pete yanked it open and ordered him to get out. When he refused Pete grasped him by the arm. The young man jerked away then fell back across the seat and began kicking and shouting.

With a burst of adrenaline and a racing heart Pete grabbed one of the fellow’s legs and tried to pull him out of the car. “I don’t know what I was thinking by confronting that guy,” Pete shared with us in Brotherhood. “It was a very foolish thing to do. But I want you to understand that I pulled that young man’s leg as hard as I could, just like I’m pulling your legs now.”

After the scattered laughter of uncertainty subsided, Pete reminded our group that Jesus calls each of us to tell a different kind of story, one that’s true and important. Sharing the gospel story is often seen by Christians as optional or something best left to others. I wish I could claim to have learned that somewhere other than personal experience. The truth is I often look more for excuses than opportunities. I wait for the perfect time instead of using the time I have.

Witnessing about our faith can be intimidating. The fear of rejection is strong. But I was reminded at Brotherhood it’s not complicated. It doesn’t require a theology degree or holding an official position at church. All we need is our own personal experience of God’s grace and be willing to tell it. And that’s the reason I believe Pete’s story is worth passing along.

Today’s column will hopefully tie up some loose ends about China which have been dangling in my mind. I’m almost positive everything can be covered, but probably should disclose that loose ends may in my case be a permanent condition.  

One thing I’ve never understood is why the people of China use chopsticks instead of forks. When my wife and I first married we ate with chopsticks a few times, although I don’t remember what prompted us to do so. They worked okay for rice and bite-sized pieces of chicken, but not so well for creamed potatoes, pork chops, or banana pudding. Perhaps chopsticks are used in your country to teach patience?

Are chopsticks still made of wood or has plastic replaced them? Wood is more appealing than something made from petroleum, but it seems a lot of whittling and sanding would be needed to get rid of splinters. Chopsticks, however, are not the main reason for writing you today.

I may get in trouble for sharing this but feel obliged to tell you something. Your government might want to cut back on loaning our government so much money. It’s nice of you to help, but I don’t see how we can ever pay it back, especially when interest rates inevitably cycle upward.

Please understand my concern has nothing to do with our recent presidential election. Both of our major political parties, Democrats and Republicans, have long histories of spending money we don’t have. Occasionally there are prominent politicians who talk about reducing deficit spending, but no one has a credible plan for actually doing that. Spending borrowed money is much easier than making unpopular decisions. It’s a great way to get elected and stay in office for decades.  

Billy Powell, a newspaper columnist I enjoy reading, recently published a feature about America’s national debt. He explained it in a manner that got my attention. Billy said if the federal debt was divided among every man, woman, and child in America then each of us would owe about $80,000. I’ve had some restless nights since reading that column, wondering how to break such terrible news to our four grandchildren.    

I ran a small bank in a rural town for most of my adult life. We tried to help everyone, but there were times it wasn’t possible. When a person owes more than they can pay back another loan doesn’t solve the problem. It only postpones the urgency of the situation and makes the problem bigger.

That’s not just my personal opinion. I tested the premise of repayment necessity several times and can verify it won’t work. Our nation, though, is continually adding to a mountain of debt that’s already steep to climb.

Both political parties are adept at kicking the can down the road. America is borrowing money today that later generations will be paying back. None of us as individuals could in good conscience borrow money for our own use and ask our grandchildren to repay it. Our country, however, has grown comfortable doing that very thing.  

Many years ago, when I first heard that China was America’s biggest creditor, I thought someone was mistaken. It seems that America would be a lender instead of a borrower. And we’re not borrowing just for major purchases like space exploration or to buy land for national parks. We’re relying on borrowed funds to keep the lights on. We have what an old country song describes as, “too much month at the end of the money.”

Hopefully, you’re not in shock from reading this. Feel free to pass it on to whoever is in charge of making international loans. Maybe China could insist that America come up with a repayment plan. It’s a long shot but perhaps worth a try.

An idea I’ve been mulling over is to put the key leaders from both parties, Democrat and Republican, in a big windowless room. We’d seat them around a long table in straight chairs that have no cushions. The doors would be locked and no one allowed to leave until they reached a reasonable bipartisan solution to stop living beyond our means.

They’ll need some food of course. Since China has a vested interest in this matter, I hope that your country will consider providing the meal. Let’s keep it simple and serve nothing but egg drop soup. Don’t worry about the utensils. I’ll supply the chopsticks.   

My first two letters dealt with rather lighthearted matters. There is, however, something of a more serious nature which I hope you can shed some light on. I’ve been wondering if there are many Lottie Moon Christians in China today.

I don’t mean to suggest that a group of believers goes by that name, although I suppose it’s possible. My query is whether there are many Chinese Christians today who trace their faith back to Lottie Moon’s mission work in your country. Is her name widely known and revered or has time erased the memory of a diminutive lady with a giant heart? Are there Chinese Christians today whose grandparents knew Lottie Moon and passed along personal stories which are still being told?

Charlotte “Lottie” Moon was a Southern Baptist, the same Christian denomination I grew up in and remain active in today. We are, as history shows, a generally well-intentioned but highly imperfect bunch of sinners. Sometimes, however, despite our shortcomings, God’s grace allows something wonderful to happen, something like the loving example of Lottie Moon.

Born December 12, 1840, Lottie was part of an affluent Virginia family. She was smart and well educated and could, it seems, have enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. Yet she followed God’s calling to a distant land filled with hardships and challenges.

A series of revival meetings in 1858 is reportedly where a teenage Lottie Moon began having a spiritual awakening that would forever change her life. It’s been said that the source of her inspiration for mission work came from a message based on John 4:35, “the fields are white unto harvest.”

One of her six siblings, a younger sister named Edmonia, accepted a call to go to North China in 1872 as a missionary for the Southern Baptist Foreign Mission Board. Although Edmonia’s name is not widely known, her courageous decision influenced her older sister.

On July 7, 1873, 32-year-old Lottie Moon was appointed by Southern Baptists as a missionary to China. For twelve years she taught school, an assignment typical of what women were expected to do at that time. Evangelism was deemed more appropriate for men in that era, while ladies were considered best suited to be helpers. Lottie, however, along with the wives of other missionaries knew that women were better able to minister to other women. So, a persistent young single lady made numerous appeals to serve in an evangelistic role. She asked for that regularly through her letters and published writings.

In 1885, when she was 45 years old, Lottie’s request was finally honored. She discontinued her teaching responsibilities and began full time evangelizing. She moved to China’s interior near P’ingtu and Hwangshien where she is said to have led hundreds of people to Christ.

Lottie pleaded desperately for more missionaries to be sent, but there were never enough resources to meet the needs. Those unmet needs led her to encourage women in America to organize in support of mission work abroad. In 1888 the first Christmas offering for foreign missions collected $3,315, funds which were used to send three additional missionaries to China. What she began long ago has continued and has grown far beyond its small start. The 2020 goal for the Lottie Moon Christmas Offering is $175 million dollars, 100% of which goes to support international missionaries in countries around the globe.              

Lottie Moon was four feet three inches tall. When she died December 24, 1912, at age 72, she weighed only 50 pounds. Lottie’s health was tragically failing due to her unselfish sharing of food. She was on her way back to America to try and recuperate but didn’t make it home. Because of her untimely death we are no doubt more inspired by her noble life. One who had little helped those who had less. And that small lady with a big heart still gently prods my conscience, reminding me that giving only from my abundance falls short of what God expects.         

It’s once again time for the annual mission offering which bears her name. That’s what caused me to wonder about Lottie Moon Christians in China today. I trust the seeds of faith she planted continue to produce fruit, and that her compassionate spirit will not be forgotten in your country nor in my own. May Lottie Moon’s sacrificial example inspire us to do more, for China and America have a great opportunity in common. Our fields are white unto harvest.

I’m writing another letter to you because I remembered a story which I thought you might enjoy. First though, I should note that my blog recently had two views from China in a single day. I’m thankful my readership in your country has doubled and hope some untapped potential remains. Thanks for any help you can offer. Here’s the story.

A cherished memory from long-ago took place at a Chinese restaurant in San Francisco. My wife and I were in California for a bank convention of the Community Bankers Association of Georgia. We visited Chinatown one night with our good friends, George and Kathy Leverett. We bought gifts to take home to our children and strolled by a cleverly named take-out restaurant, “TA KE OUT E.”

That amusing signage has stayed with me, but we wanted a sit-down dinner so kept walking down the busy street. We found a nice restaurant, the name of which has long escaped me, and had an amazing meal. The food was splendid and the hospitality exceptional.

An elderly Chinese gentleman, who I assumed was the owner, came to our table several times to check on us. He was a gracious host, as was the young lady who served us. As we were finishing our meal he asked if there was anything else we might want. I have an incurable addiction to sweets but had not seen anything listed on their extensive menu, so I asked if they offered any desserts.

“Lychee nut ice cream,” he responded with a smile. “Very good.”

“Lychee nut ice cream?” I asked, having never heard of it before.

“Yes,” he affirmed. “Lychee nut ice cream. Very good.”  

I am a devoted fan of butter pecan ice cream and would commit certain misdemeanor crimes for a pint of the highly elusive black walnut. I was introduced to home-churned peanut butter ice cream in 1975 by Mr. Shelton Colson in Valdosta, Georgia. A hand-crafted version of that unique flavor from Leaping Cow Ice Cream in Atlanta is one of my present-day favorites. My expectations for lychee nut ice cream were, therefore, heavily influenced by a history of marvelous nut-infused varieties.

Our bowls of creamy vanilla were topped with large almond-sized lychee nuts. The nuts, however, did not look firm and were not sliced into small bites as we expected. Their appearance suggested a kinship with albino grapes which had been peeled and left to shrivel on a hot sidewalk.

“You got us into this,” said a skeptical George. “You should go first.”

As I bit into the rubbery tissue of a lychee nut I was unsure if I could continue but even more determined my friend George should be subjected to the strange taste and texture. So, I lied as convincingly as possible for a nonpolitician and told him it was the most exhilarating burst of flavor I’d ever had. George may have been suspicious, but curiosity easily overcame caution.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as he contemplated whether to keep chewing or swallow it like a raw oyster. There was a moment of uncertainty as he placed his napkin over his mouth, but he finally managed to get it down. Then he spoke in his usual low-key manner.

“It’s hard to understand,” said a knowing George, “how your lychee nut could have been so delicious yet mine was barely edible. What do you think could have caused that difference?”

“I don’t understand that either,” I replied. “Yours must have come from an old lychee.”

We hid the remaining lychee nuts so our kind host would not see them, then enjoyed vanilla ice cream topped only with humor. We laughed late into the night and over many years as we retold that story. The most special moments, I’ve learned, are often unplanned.

My friend George died of cancer in the spring of 2010 at age 58. I don’t guess he reads my column, but just in case I want him to know I still think about him sometimes. I still miss him.

Lychee, I discovered later, is an Asian fruit that when dried is referred to as a nut. Although I can’t claim an affinity for their distinctive taste, I’m thankful for the sweet memory they helped create. And should I ever see lychee nut ice cream on a menu, I will warmly remember my good friend George. Then I will order the plain vanilla.

Thanks again for reading Joiner’s Corner in China. That goes for both of you.       

Most of my readers come by way of a handful of Georgia newspapers which are gracious enough to carry my column. A few, however, read it on my blog at joinerscorner.com. An interesting aspect of the blog is that it shows the country where views originate.

America is the source of almost every view, but there are occasional readers from various nations. China is frequently listed but with only one view per day. China is apparently a tough market for unknown authors based in rural Georgia. Today’s column is intended to thank my lone reader in China for his or her support, and to mention a few other things that are on my mind.

Growing Georgia, an online agricultural publication, carried a story on October 19^th titled “China Purchases More U.S. Corn.” According to the article China is buying millions of tons of corn from America this year. I want you and the people of China to know we appreciate your purchases, and we hope you’ll think of us first for other products you may need.

Please be assured we’re trying to be fair about trading goods between us. The day after that article was published, I helped my son put up a digital antenna that was made in China. The instruction manual listed the company as Pingbingding. I know that sounds like a name I made up, but I checked the spelling twice to be sure. For a $50 purchase he now gets 15 television channels. That’s such a good deal I am inclined to send you an extra bushel of corn.

For the sake of honest conversation, I need to confess that in the second grade my good friend Rudy Maples made me laugh quite often with his repertoire of “Confucius Say” lines. That’s probably not politically correct humor, but I assure you neither of us meant to be disrespectful of Confucius or your fine country. If amends need to be made feel free to tell some jokes about Southern folks. The ones about Alabama are the funniest, but I hope you’ll refrain from using punch lines about their small gene pool. They are quite sensitive about that subject and understandably so.

COVID-19 is a tough problem for all of us. It reportedly started at an outdoor food market in your country where bats were being sold. Maybe Chinese bats are different from American bats, but I believe you would do well to take them off the menu. If there’s a shortage of meat, try raising rabbits. You can start with a single pair and before the wok gets hot you’ll have more drumsticks than chopsticks. I’ve never had a bite of bat, but I’m confident rabbit has a better taste and feel certain they are easier to catch.

Speaking of Chinese food, I want to thank you for adding such wonderful diversity to our American tables. We have an excellent Chinese restaurant in our small town of Vienna, Georgia. The hard-working family who owns it does an exceptional job of serving delicious food at reasonable prices. My favorite fare is General Tso’s Chicken with vegetable fried rice. Your General Tso and our Colonel Sanders would no doubt have enjoyed comparing secret herbs and spices.

When I attended Valdosta State College in the early 1970s, there was an exchange student from China named Robin Kwong who lived on our dorm hall for a while. Robin was a very pleasant fellow and was the first person from China I’d ever been around for a substantial amount of time.

The most distinct memory I have of Robin is when he brought his guitar into my dorm room one night. He sang a popular Glen Campbell song, “Galveston,” for my roommate and me. It was an impromptu lesson in why the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow called music the universal language.

Robin confidently belted out a soulful rendition of that challenging tune. My roommate, Don, and I awarded him with hearty applause. And I realized something about Robin in that moment which I never shared with him. I knew beyond any doubt his destiny did not lie in country music. If you see Robin, tell him I’m just kidding about his singing, and let him know I hope life has been good to him.          

There’s one thing that’s weighing heavily on my mind. It’s a little embarrassing to have only one reader in a country of 1.4 billion people. If you can help me get a dozen or so more that would be great, but if you can’t, I will still appreciate your solo views.

On a serious note, I do hope you’re enjoying the corn. In case you’ve never tried it, cornmeal hoecakes go splendidly with fried rabbit. You may want to bat that idea around.

I originally thought this series would end after part two, but I found some more notes which I made while painting the interior of our home. Here are three additional tips that have a slight possibility of usefulness.

First, a good painter keeps within the lines. That’s the same way it worked with paint-by-number pictures which were popular decades ago. My brother, Jimmy, completed a paint-by-number picture of a ship at sea when we were little. He’s five years older than me and his steady hand was obvious.

On the other end of the spectrum, I never mastered paint-by-number or even using color crayons. Filling in the elephant at the circus outline was beyond my meager level of talent. The pictures I colored had an aura of disarray because I didn’t stay within the lines.

There are several important lines in painting, such as where the wall meets the baseboard, crown molding, and window trim. Keeping within the lines in those and other areas can be challenging, but our home project turned out well. I know that’s true because it came straight from the lady of the house. Patience helped me stay within the lines as I learned to paint with smooth strokes instead of dabbing.

Dabbing is sometimes needed but not often. A television ad for Brylcreem, a hair product for men, aired in the 1950s and included a catchy song. “Brylcreem – a little dab’ll do ya. Brycreem – you look so debonair. Brylcreem – the girls will all pursue ya. They love to get their fingers in your hair.”

I tried Brylcreem for a while, but not a single girl ever ran her fingers through my hair or gave the slightest hint she wanted to. Perhaps I didn’t use a big enough dab, or maybe those little dabs of Brylcreem were rendered ineffective by residual traces of Butch Wax and Vaseline Hair Tonic. Sometimes I had enough grease on my scalp we could have had a fish fry.

Eventually I switched to Vitalis in a quest to be noticeably suave, then The Beatles came along and slicked-down hair went out of style. Anyway, dabbing paint is occasionally appropriate, but a little dab should do you. Smooth strokes keep paint within the lines where it’s supposed to be.

A second tip is to spend time on your knees when painting near the baseboard. My legs aren’t as flexible as they once were and staying on my knees isn’t comfortable, so I tried sitting on a low stool to paint. It didn’t take but a few misdirected strokes of the brush to realize that wasn’t working. A cushion made painting on my knees tolerable enough that I scored an A minus on the final exam. That’s not perfect, but if I had not spent time on my knees, my grade would have likely been a low C.

The third point, with which I’ll close, is the importance of painting in good light. I painted without enough light a few times, thinking it would be fine. And it was until the next day. Sunlight exposes flaws which darkness conceals. Good light revealed my errantly placed paint or those spots where a thin coat didn’t fully hide the previous color.

My trusty assistant offered to bring me a lamp on multiple occasions, but for a while I declined. It’s easy to grow accustomed to the dark, painting in the shadows while ignoring the need for good light.

I’ve now shared everything I know and then some about interior painting. The only thing left to cover would be to elaborate on our stairwell, a story I’m not sure I’ll get around to. Covering those high walls with paint was a task I approached with trepidation and finished with a sigh of relief.

Countless online videos are available for those who want to learn more about painting. A lot of them, in contrast to the author of this column, were done by people who know what they are doing. I don’t claim to have any expertise, but I heartily recommend the ideas mentioned today for making interior improvements. My tripod of suggestions has three legs: keep within the lines, spend some time on your knees, and be sure to stay in the light.

And if that’s too much to remember, then focus on the last point, staying in the light. All other means of interior improvement will fall into place, if we faithfully stay within The Light.   

After honing my painting skills in our closet, I felt ready for the big time. With swelling confidence and unfathomable enthusiasm, I cheerfully began painting our bedroom and bath. Jane may not remember it exactly like that, but my standard for column facts has some flexibility.      

The paint fell steadily for forty days and forty nights as I jotted down tips for beginning painters and level three amateurs. If you’ve already advanced to level one or two, you likely won’t benefit from this information. If you’re at level four you should not paint indoors without supervision. Level fives should generally avoid painting, driving motorized vehicles, or operating heavy equipment.

Somewhere back in elementary school we read a short story titled, “Clothes Make the Man.” Why I remember that I have no idea, nor do I recall any details other than it was about the significance of how we dress. That title came to mind as I made notes about the importance of proper attire for painting.

My recommendation for warm weather indoor painting is to wear a 100 percent cotton tee-shirt with a pair of cotton shorts. I’m wondering, though, if shorts should have an s on the end. It seems a reference to one pair should be short. And I’m not sure a single short should be referred to as a pair. Maybe a pair of shorts should be called shortses to avoid confusion. Either way, wear cotton.

Cotton provides two distinct advantages for painters, the first of which is its unparalleled comfort.  Adam and Eve’s original garments were made of leaves. We don’t know what kind of leaves, but hopefully not poison ivy or Venus flytrap. My guess is they used the big leaves from an elephant ear plant, but scripture is silent on that matter. In Genesis 3:21 we learn that God later made them garments of skin. That was great in cold weather, but when summer came Eve probably asked Adam if he would like a cotton shirt. And Adam surely loved his shirt and was pleased with the woman God had created, although he remained skeptical of her fruit salad.

Another advantage of wearing cotton apparel when painting is absorbency. I’m not talking about soaking up sweat. We kept the air conditioner running along with a high-speed fan. The absorbency I found helpful was in cleaning my hands and dabbing specks of wayward paint. I kept a rag in my pocket for major catastrophes, those “Clean up on aisle three” scenarios, but cotton clothing works well for small splatters.

On a related matter regarding splatter, I strongly recommend using a drop cloth. Jane found a great bargain for twenty dollars at Sherwin Williams. She had gone there to purchase paint and on impulse bought a huge drop cloth for me as a birthday present. I had been using plastic to cover the floors, which initially seemed like a wonderful idea. A slick surface, however, is not ideal. Rather than droplets of paint being harmlessly absorbed, they patiently waited atop the impermeable plastic then discreetly attached themselves to the soles of my shoes which smeared them across the room.

The drop cloth deal got even better when I learned it’s made of duck fabric from Pakistan. I don’t know how the duck was involved and I’m not sure I want to, but it’s 100 percent cotton. Jane has a sewing machine upstairs and the heavily weaved duck cloth seems perfect for cold weather garments. Its mauve color, with specks of light blue paint which I generously added, could work for shirts or dresses.

Tip number three is, “Don’t paint past supper.” When patient, I did a pretty decent job, carefully trimming out borders and leaving paint mostly where it was intended.  A few times, however, my painting outran my patience. It happened when there was a small section to finish, or a dab of paint in the bottom of the can which I was determined to use rather than reseal. Painting past supper sometimes caused me to hit speeds faster than I could handle. Splatter happens with impatience.

The rest of my interior painting tips will have to wait until next week’s column. I need to stop writing now and go cut that drop cloth into sections which are manageable for sewing. Jane hasn’t told me what size pieces she wants, and she’s been rather evasive about garment plans. I guess she hasn’t decided on a pattern yet. Or maybe she wants to surprise me.              

In 2016 I wrote a short book titled “Lessons From The Ladder.” It’s a somewhat whimsical account of painting the outside of our house after I retired from banking, plus it includes some lessons I learned while nervously clinging to the ladder. Within those brief chapters it’s obvious I shared more than I know about exterior painting. For reasons which may never be fully understood, I felt compelled to do the same for my recent undertaking of an inside job.

Self-publishing another book would have been tempting, but our hall closet won’t hold an additional set of such boxes. So, I condensed my reflections on interior painting into three columns. Just between us, if you need advice on this subject you should skip today’s musings and talk to a real painter, a term which reminds me of a story.

A couple attended an elegant art show in a renowned New York gallery, a black-tie event which featured several highly acclaimed artists. As they paused to view a rendering of a serene landscape, the man said to his wife, “Look dear, the pastels are quite similar to our last work.” His wife nodded in agreement and noted how the faded colors of autumn’s leaves were complimented by a blue sky speckled with fluffy white clouds.

The gentleman who had painted the lovely scene was standing nearby and was intrigued by their conversation. “Did I understand correctly that the two of you paint together?” he asked.

 “We do,” said the lady, “and have for almost twenty years.”

“That’s amazing,” responded the artist. “I’ve never seen that technique. What do you paint?”     

“Whatever needs it,” said the man. “We finished a kitchen remodel on Friday. We’re starting on a doctor’s office next week.”

With that bit of nonsense out of the way, we now return to the main feature, a story which began in our bathroom closet. My experience painting sheetrock is limited and was from over a decade ago, so beginning in an inconspicuous place seemed prudent. Since our walk-in closet is not very big, I stuck with my brush after trimming it out rather than switching to a roller. Jane suggested I might want to roll the second coat on, explaining the rolled texture is what she preferred in more visible areas.

“A brush is all I need,” I assured her. “You won’t be able to tell the difference.” 

Jane was fine with those two brushed-on coats since it was a closet, but even I could not deny it was a bit splotchy. During my voluntary third trip around the room with a roller, I saw what she meant about the difference in texture. It also occurred to me – and please keep this in confidence – there’s a slight possibility I don’t always know as much as I think I do.  

There are several lessons that came from painting our closet. My first suggestion for those whose rusty skills need honing, is to begin interior projects in a low visibility area. Bumping the white ceiling with peach colored paint is far more acceptable in the closet than the den. Trust me.

A second point is that a roller is much faster than a brush. I thought sticking with the brush was saving me the aggravation of switching back and forth between tools, but rolling the walls was a lot easier than brushing. And I found that tightly wrapping my brush or roller in a plastic bag for later use works fine for a day or two. Wrapping is more efficient than the frequent washings I’m prone to do. It’s possible I’m obsessive about cleaning the bristles. My paint therapist is doing an analysis.     

Lesson number three was a little about texture, but mostly about listening. Things I know and things I think I know sometimes get comingled and solidify into opinions. That’s not a big deal when painting a closet, but it’s a good reminder of the value of listening with an open mind and of being respectful toward those whose opinions may differ from our own.

The benefits of listening come not only through what we learn but also by opening the door to civil conversation. There seems to be a shortage today of dialogue which is honest and amicable. Maybe that’s because it’s hard to listen with so much shouting going on. But I don’t claim to be an expert on such matters. I’m just a man who now better understands the texture of rolled-on paint.

Bill Horne, a native and longtime resident of Pinehurst, Georgia, told me something several years ago that I found amusing enough to remember. He had once asked his mother, the late Mrs. Sara Horne, what was the biggest thing that ever happened in their little hometown.

Miss Sara was known for her quick wit and answered without hesitation. “The biggest thing that ever happened in Pinehurst,” she said, “was when Cab Calloway’s sister, Blanche, came to Americus. Everybody left town to go see her. The streets here were empty!”

That mass outing to Americus was in the 1930s when Pinehurst was booming. Blanche Calloway was a popular jazz singer and bandleader of the era, a lady who paved the way for many others.

In September of 2020 Pinehurst had another big day, one that brought people in instead of taking them out. Miss Sara would be pleased that one of her descendants played a key role.

Luke Horne, 16-year-old great-grandson of Miss Sara, lives on their family’s farm just outside the city limits. His uncle, Dewel Lawrence, called me a few weeks ago to ask if I’d heard about his nephew winning 40 vehicles to give away. I wondered for a moment if Dewel’s cough syrup had fermented, but he sounded believable enough that I kept listening.

That conversation with Dewel was the first time I’d ever heard of MrBeast, a 22-year-old YouTube sensation. Now I’m hoping he’ll come this way on a regular basis.

Due to COVID-19, Luke and his family have spent more time than usual at home this year and have often relied on the internet for entertainment. Luke’s younger brother, Ben, is a fan of MrBeast, an energetic fellow who loves spreading money around. Ben convinced Luke to subscribe but had no idea he would hit the magic 40 million mark. When you’re the 40 millionth subscriber to a show which gives things away, you know something good is likely to happen. And it did.

Jimmy “MrBeast” Donaldson got in touch with Luke to congratulate him. He told him there would be a celebration but offered no details. MrBeast brought five car-haulers of vehicles to Luke’s home, had them parked on the lawn, then presented Luke with a challenge. He told him if he could give all 40 vehicles away in 24 hours, a 2019 Tesla Model 3 would belong to him.

Family and some friends got cars as did a few people Luke had never met. A young man from Surcheros in Cordele made a food delivery to Luke’s home and left with the best tip of his career. One of the happiest recipients was a fellow who was driving by and had no idea why a crowd had gathered. They flagged him down and gave him a yellow Ford Ranger.

MrBeast and Luke pulled into the drive-through window at Zaxby’s and surprised a youthful fast-food worker with a Nissan. A man walking through the parking lot at Walmart was given an Infiniti Q50. The day after her sixteenth birthday, a classmate of Luke’s celebrated with a Kia Forte. One of Luke’s football coaches got a Chevy Cruze to replace a vehicle he had wrecked.

When I asked Luke which car was the most fun to give away, he told me how much he enjoyed surprising his grandparents, Bill and Grada Horne, with a 2019 Nissan Sentra. It’s not often a grandchild gives a grandparent a vehicle. That’s a wonderful idea which I hope catches on quickly.

The 40 vehicles included some nice ones as well as several clunkers. Two that looked junkyard ready came with $5000 inside. If you want some lighthearted entertainment, you can watch Luke sharing his good fortune on YouTube’s MrBeast 40 Millionth Subscriber episode. I don’t know much about Jimmy Donaldson except he gets a kick out of making money so he can pass it on. In a world where the norm is holding tightly to all we can, it’s great to see someone who’s passionate about giving.

Luke now owns a classy gray Tesla, which I’m guessing is the first self-driving car with Pinehurst as home base. Forty other people are wearing smiles of gratitude. Millions more have enjoyed taking an amusing virtual trip to Dooly County.

I wish I could airmail this column to Miss Sara. She’d be tickled about Luke’s great adventure, but would no doubt strongly suggest he keep his hands on the steering wheel. And she’d be delighted to know there’s been another big day in Pinehurst, a day when the streets of the little town she loved dearly, were for a while busy once again.   

Entry from my private journal – “Saturday, September 5, 2020. I chased a turtle for a half mile early this morning but never caught him. It’s possible he was a ninja who found it easy to evade me. A more likely explanation is he had too much of a head start. I also realized late in my pursuit that the turtle and I were going in opposite directions. After considerable reflection I now believe that was a strategic error too significant to overcome.”

Chances are some of my friends are thinking the turtle outran me, but I assure you that wasn’t the case. For the sake of accuracy, may the record reflect I wasn’t really chasing that turtle, but merely following the longest turtle trail I’ve ever seen.

I’m not a morning person and never have been. Before I retired from banking, I awakened each workday to music from my bedside clock. Hitting the snooze button rewarded me with seven minutes of soothing melodies suitable for slumber. A second tap added seven more and took me to fourteen. A third tap continued the music, but at the fifteen-minute mark a horrendous buzzing noise seriously interrupted my tranquility. That’s when I got up.

Thanks to the effects of aging it’s gotten easier for me to wake up in the mornings. Or perhaps I should say it’s more difficult to sleep, which reminds me of a moment on our family farm from thirty or so years ago.

It was harvesting season and I had taken a week of vacation from my bank job to help pick peanuts. I decided to surprise my father, a consistently early riser, by being there when he walked out of the house that Monday morning. The surprise was mine, however, as I was too late. The next morning, I arrived fifteen minutes earlier, only to again find him already on the job.

That night I set my alarm clock so I could get to the farm well before daylight, expecting to find Daddy at the breakfast table. As I pulled into the quiet driveway, I saw the slight beam of a flashlight near the diesel tank. In the predawn darkness Daddy was filling up the tractors with fuel.

“I’ve been trying to get here before you came outside,” I confided with a grin. “But I’m giving up on that. I wish I enjoyed getting up early as much as you do.”

That’s when Daddy said something I’m just now beginning to appreciate. He said, “I don’t particularly enjoy getting up early. I just wake up and can’t go back to sleep. I’d rather get up and do something than lie there in bed and be miserable.”  

It had never crossed my mind he didn’t choose to be a morning person, but now I’m having some of those same unplanned awakenings. That’s why I was walking Dude the dog on a Saturday morning just as the sun was beginning to rise.

The two of us headed east on Coley Crossing, the dirt road beside our home. A county road-scraper had been there the day before and there had been no traffic since.  Etched into a canvas of smooth sand was the trail of a large turtle. His route was clearly defined for a half mile until it veered into a cotton field.

Dude the dog is good company but not much of a tracker. He showed little interest in leaving the road and I was already short on incentive. Jane doesn’t have a recipe for turtle soup and I’m allergic to row-crop rattlesnakes. So, we abandoned the mission and stayed on the road to our turnaround spot at the railroad track.

On our return trip home, I realized the turtle had been going west while Dude and I had been eastward bound. I could have followed that trail until my hair turned gray and would not have caught him. Although my efforts were not successful, I was reminded of a couple of old lessons.

The first lesson is that it’s best to start early. Even a slow-moving turtle is hard to catch if he gets a big lead. Secondly, it’s critical to make sure we’re going in the right direction. Speed and determination don’t help if we’re running the wrong way. Those two observations can be useful whether we’re after a turtle or chasing a dream.

There’s one other thing I’ll suggest. If you ever chase a turtle and don’t catch him, it’s probably best not to admit that or even note it in your journal. Just lay low and hope no one finds out.