Welcome to Joiner's Corner

When I was a youngster my parents took my brother, Jimmy, and me to the Georgia State Fair in Macon each October.  There are two of those short trips I remember more clearly than the rest.

One time was when my cousin, David Dunaway, joined us.  David counted Fords while I kept tabs on Chevys going up I-75.  We bet on the outcome but there was no money involved, so I think it was okay even for young Baptists.

David and I tag-teamed the other challengers in bumper car battles, then we rocked our Ferris wheel seat with reckless abandon.  Everything was copasetic until the tilt-a-whirl ride where my stomach began spinning faster than our coupe.  I spread fair food all over our floorboard then ran for the exit ramp, hoping to escape the tattooed operator I assumed would slice me with his switchblade or sell me to the gypsies.   I’ve never returned to the tilt-a-whirl, just in case he’s still there.

It’s possible I had eaten too much cotton candy or too many foot-long hotdogs that night.  Cotton candy it seems would be a good source of fiber, but it’s never mentioned in articles about healthy eating.  A few years back there was a rumor that it’s not made from real cotton.  It’s amazing how a crazy story can get told so many times that people believe it.

I don’t know why the foot-long hotdogs were so appealing.  We had hotdogs at home, and if we ran out Uncle Emmet kept some in the little upright refrigerator at Joiner’s Store.  They came loosely packed in a cardboard box of 50.  He would count out however many someone requested then wrap them in white butcher paper.  That was before the days of using disposable rubber gloves.  I guess that’s why Mama boiled our hotdogs until they split wide open.  Even the strongest germs can only stand so much heat.

The other fair trip I best recall from childhood is when I saw Miss Chili Pepper.  I was probably eight or nine, but I can’t say for sure.  Mama, Daddy, Jimmy, and I walked by the stage where she was smiling seductively at potential patrons.  She was gorgeous in her sparkling gold cape and flowing blonde hair.  The man with the microphone invited the crowd to see a lot more of her by purchasing a ticket for admittance inside the canvas tent.

We kept walking and I pretended not to notice her.  I knew a direct stare could lead to blindness or maybe being transformed into a pillar of salt, but even as a child my peripheral vision sometimes worked too well.  I was old enough to know her profession was unseemly, but young enough to think Chili Pepper could be her real name.  “Miss Chili Pepper” was emblazoned in big letters on the lighted marquee.  She had a perfect name for a star of an imperfect occupation.

I’ve sometimes wondered why she chose that kind of life, or if the choice was hers to make.  And I’ve wondered if she danced until wrinkles overtook her, or if she changed her ways and donned the clothes of a nurse, teacher, or a stay-at-home mom.  I hadn’t thought about her in a long time, but that moment at the fair came back to me during halftime of Super Bowl 54.

Two famous women in skimpy outfits danced provocatively for millions.  It’s not always clear where the line between risqué and vulgar routines is but they clearly crossed it.  Shakira goes by one name and I don’t blame her.  Maybe her folks made that suggestion.  And it seems that Jennifer Lopez, age 50 and a mother herself, would have higher standards.  A lot of young people look up to her.  She’s known for generosity and is a professing Christian.   It’s hard for me to believe that lewd performances define the example she wants to set.

A column by a small-town writer isn’t likely to make a difference in next year’s halftime show.  But if enough people let Pepsi and the National Football League know how we feel, then maybe there’s a chance for change.  The Super Bowl should be a family friendly event, not an arena for suggestive gyrations so graphic they would make Miss Chili Pepper blush.

There’s probably a more effective way to combat trashy television than contacting Pepsi or the NFL, but I have no idea what it is.  Too often I neglect to pray before I plan, or I pray without pausing to listen.  That’s where I need to start.  After that I’ll give this matter more thought.  And if the weather is hot while I’m thinking, I plan to be sipping on a cold bottle of Coca Cola.

It’s not often that I go to a concert, but I couldn’t resist the urge to hear a group called 3 Redneck Tenors this past January.  They were featured at The Rylander, a historical theatre in downtown Americus.  It’s an outstanding venue, and with today’s low gas prices is only a ten dollar round trip from home.  The tickets were reasonable at twenty-four dollars each, so I invited Jane to go with me.

The newspaper ad got my attention because the concept of tenors as rednecks seemed so improbable.  In our choir at First Baptist of Vienna the tenors have long been known for their sophistication and suave demeanor.

The bass section, which I pretend to be qualified for, is clearly better suited to wear the redneck label.  I believe that’s the case with most choirs, but I was unable to find credible research to support my opinion.

Opera is not something I find appealing, yet I knew there was a possibility that genre might be a part of the 3 Redneck Tenors’ program.  It was a chance I was willing to take, even though our entire entertainment budget for the first quarter of 2020 was at risk.  I’m pleased to report both our time and money were well spent.

They sang a few classical songs from various operas, but thankfully they were in English which I find to be quite helpful.  I’m not opposed to listening to various styles of music if I can understand the words, and if the words are worth understanding.  That’s a challenge with much of today’s music, but part of the problem may be my hearing which is increasingly unreliable.

That reminds me of a story Johnny Cumbus told me not long ago.  It was about a man who was frustrated by his wife’s poor hearing and decided to run a little test without telling her.  He was walking about 20 feet behind her and asked with normal volume, “Can you hear me?”

She kept walking and he kept easing closer.  Every five feet he would repeat the question, “Can you hear me?”  Finally, he walked up beside her and asked with frustration, “Can you hear me?”

She said, “Yes dear.  For the fifth time, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, I can hear you!”

Most of the songs were showtunes like “Tomorrow” from the Broadway musical Annie.  I enjoyed hearing “Tomorrow,” partly because it’s a good song and partly because it reminded me of Daddy reading the Little Orphan Annie comic strip to me as a child.  He had read it when he was growing up and introduced me to something I might otherwise have ignored.

I always wondered why Annie had blank white circles where her eyes should be, and where she kept the dog food for her faithful pet Sandy.  Punjab and The Asp added a bit of mystery when they would occasionally appear.  I once asked Daddy which of them would win if they got in a fight.  He thought The Asp might be victorious but said that would be some fight and he really wasn’t sure.

It always seemed to me that Daddy Warbucks could have been a bit more proactive in giving Annie a permanent home, but I guess that would have ended the comic strip.

The 3 Redneck Tenors have exceptional voices, and they did something which is rare among performers.  They kept the sound at a comfortable level.  It was loud enough to hear but never to the point I wanted to cover my ears.  I’ve found that a lack of talent is sometimes disguised with extra volume.  These guys were good enough they didn’t have to shake the floor to rock the crowd.

I don’t think those three fellows are really rednecks.  My guess is they were pretending just to see if rednecks would come to a concert where the music wasn’t country.  The audience enthusiastically sang along on several songs, but the voices I heard most clearly were the basses.  I’m not saying you have to be a redneck to sing bass, but it probably doesn’t hurt.

The music was great, the humor clean, and the crowd cheerful.  That’s a good combination for an evening out.  It made me glad I had bought a ticket for Jane.  She enjoyed the concert, and I enjoyed having her beside me.  Twenty-four dollars to get her a comfortable seat was money well spent, because there’s one thing I know for certain.  She would not have been happy waiting in the truck.

Waiting room protocol is something I’m never sure about.  Is it polite to ask how someone in a doctor’s office is doing?  It’s fine, perhaps, if they’re having a routine physical, but what if their wraparound sunglasses are meant to deter unwanted inquiries?

Smartphones have changed the rules of etiquette.  Conversation was once considered courteous.  Now, though, it seems intrusive to interrupt someone staring intently at a screen.

There was a time when I would peruse through layers of magazines to see what I had missed from two years earlier.  That was before my wife convinced me that old magazines in doctors’ offices are breeding grounds for bacteria.  Before I approach the display rack now, I ask the receptionist for disposable rubber gloves and a mask, then I request a copy of the furniture sanitization schedule.

Occasionally there are still opportunities to meet people you don’t know.  I enjoyed a recent chat with two longtime senior citizens named John and Matt.  I was in Macon with my mother who was having a CT scan.  She had been called to the back when the two men ambled in.  They stopped by the front desk then settled into chairs across the room from me, maybe 15 feet away.

I don’t know much about them other than John is 84, Matt is 83, and they’ve been friends for 40 years.  John’s a tall wiry fellow with thick gray hair and the tan of an outdoorsman. Matt’s a big guy with a reddish beard who looks like he could put a charging bear in a full nelson.  He wore a flannel shirt with blue jeans held up by red suspenders.  It was like seeing Geritol’s version of Grizzly Adams.

John’s vision isn’t good, so Matt helped him fill out some paperwork.  He took the forms back to the receptionist and said, “We can’t pronounce some of these words, so I just answered no.”  As Matt walked back toward his seat John called out to him, “Slow down!  You’re making me look bad!”

I was amused at their lighthearted banter but too far away to comment without shouting.  That’s when John walked over near me to look out a window or maybe examine a painting on the wall.

“That’s a good line I overheard when you told your friend to slow down,” I said.

Matt was within earshot and spoke before John had a chance.  “He says that to me all the time.  He’s jealous because of my youthfulness.”  We shook hands and introduced ourselves.  That’s when I learned their age difference is measured by months.

“I was in good shape a few years ago,” said John.  “At 76 I climbed up an old sugarberry tree with ropes so I could take it down from the top.  People a lot older than me remembered the tree being there when they were young.”

John talked about sawing his way down until he was about 25 feet off the ground.  “It was rotten at the bottom,” he said, “but there was a small green part inside that kept the top of the tree alive.”  He finished the job without a hitch, but his tree climbing days were winding down.

Matt told me he used to deliver chickens to grocery stores in Dooly County.  He fondly remembered Mr. Smith Dennard in Unadilla.  “I hauled chickens there before he built the new store,” he said.  “I wore a cowboy hat back then.  He liked it so much he asked me to get him two just like it.”  Matt paused for a second, then dryly added, “He wanted one for a chamber pot and one for a cover.”

“I can’t see well out of my right eye,” said John.  When I asked what happened, Matt explained that John’s wife hit him with a frying pan.   John laughed and corrected him: “Nope, that was my other eye.” Then he said, “Tell me your name again.  My memory doesn’t work as well as it used to.”

“He had his mouth open when you told him before,” Matt responded.  “When John’s mouth is open everything that goes in his ears passes on through.”  I confessed I often have that same problem.

If you see two weathered old men in a Macon waiting room, you might want to find a nearby chair.  I’m glad I wasn’t staring at my phone that day.  I would have missed a charming portrait of friendship that’s still being painted with strokes of gentle humor.

If you know John Barron or Matt Evans, tell them a young guy from Dooly County said hello.  And if I don’t have their story exactly right, it’s probably because I was listening with my mouth open.

My wife, Jane, was shopping at Belk in Warner Robins in early January.  She met a nice lady who works there named Karen Sisk.  Karen mentioned a monthly luncheon sponsored by Green Acres Baptist Church for Houston County veterans of World War II.  She invited me to attend and extended an invitation to Dooly County native Charles Speight.

Mr. Charles is a decorated WW II Navy pilot from Unadilla.  I’ve written about him before in a column titled “A Greatly Blessed Life.”  He’ll be 98 on April 2 and continues to be active in his church and community.  He’s been teaching the same men’s Sunday School Class for over 63 years.

“Some of these fellows are getting old,” said Mr. Charles spryly to the man seated across the table.  His playful comment was as usual accompanied by a disarming smile.

“I’m 97,” replied Mr. Keath Morgan with a soft laugh.  “How about yourself?”

It was delightful being a spectator in a conversation between 97-year-old war veterans.  Rusty Simpson was seated next to Mr. Morgan, a cherished friend he affectionately calls Papa.

We had soup and sandwiches and listened as two men shared glimpses of going to war long ago and the joys of coming home.  Mr. Morgan trained at Ft. Benning to become a paratrooper.  He volunteered to jump out of planes because of the extra pay.  “I went from fifty-two dollars a month to a hundred,” he said with enthusiasm, knowing his comment would generate laughter around our table.

“You fellows on the ground had it rough,” said Mr. Charles.

“It was cold in the foxholes,” replied Mr. Morgan.  “If you raised your head to look out someone would try to shoot it off.”   Freezing weather, canned rations, and dodging bullets were part of his regular routine.  When shrapnel hit his leg, he wrapped a shirt around it and kept fighting.

Mr. Morgan was featured on the program which followed lunch.  He’s the only known survivor of The Battle of the Bulge living in Houston County.  There were two of them until a couple of weeks earlier.  Now it’s just him.

He pulled a folded piece of paper from a front pocket on his pants to review some scribbled notes.  Rusty asked to look over them, then smiled as he pointed to one of the topics.  Rusty gently reminded him they had agreed it was best not to talk about that incident.

Mr. Charles, with his incurable penchant for mischief, said he sure would love to hear the story.  An old soldier’s grin gave evidence of a humorous memory, a rare moment no doubt much needed in a time of war.  I found out later that two women were involved.  That’s all I know and I’m not asking any questions.

There were eight WW II veterans at the luncheon and about that many other guests.  A dozen or so more people joined us for the one o’clock discussion.  Mr. Morgan and Rusty sat in folding chairs facing the small group which had gathered.  Rusty posed questions to facilitate the conversation.  “Papa, do you remember your service number?”

Mr. Morgan recited it without hesitation, then called out the serial number of his rifle.  He smiled and said, “I knew that M1 rifle inside and out, but when I got to Germany they took it away and gave me a 30-caliber machine gun.”

General Eisenhower shook his hand in Mourmelon, France, a moment he recalled with obvious appreciation.  Then he noted with amusement what Eisenhower said to the troops that day: “I know you boys are looking for some action and I’m going to see that you get it!”

Cheri Adams with the Houston Home Journal was at the luncheon.  The HHJ recently published a magazine highlighting 18 WW II veterans of Houston County.  Cheri, Karen, and a few volunteers are helping preserve bits of history while offering a platform for some voices that deserve to be heard.

I don’t know anything about war except what I’ve learned from others.  I’m thankful for soldiers who were willing to go, and for people who are now helping them share their stories.  The luncheon for veterans at Green Acres Baptist Church is a good ministry model for all of us.

Our short time together gave me a greater appreciation for the costs of freedom, and a renewed gratitude for a dwindling group of aging heroes.  There’s a lot we can learn by having soup with old soldiers.

I’m not sure how most people store their warranty information for household items.  I keep ours in a box on a closet shelf, just like my mother does.  Her plastic container is nicer than mine made of cardboard, but I’m sort of attached to the Reebok carton which once held a pair of men’s size eight athletic shoes.

My feet were size 13 when I was born, so the Reeboks must have been for our son, Seth, in kindergarten.  Big feet run in our family, which is great in windstorms as we don’t tilt over easily.    According to a scribbled notation the box once contained our 1990 tax records, which dates it around 30 years old.  There’s probably an antique shoebox collector somewhere that will be thrilled to learn of this rare jewel, but it’s not for sale.  I’m not even telling which closet it’s in.

Handwritten numbers indicate the shoes were priced at $74.99.  Buying pricey footwear doesn’t sound like something I would have willingly done.  I’m guessing Jane found them at a 40 percent discount.  It will help me feel better to embrace that line of thinking.

One reason I like the shoebox is its patriotic colors.  A blue base is decorated with red and white stripes which look like ribbons wrapped around a gift package.  I don’t know how the shoes fared, but the box has been amazingly durable after its long journey here from Taiwan.

A Saturday in January is when I decided to review the contents.  I had tried to add a warranty book to the top of the stack, but it made the box too full for the lid to properly fit.  The shortage of sufficient document storage motivated me to check for papers that could be discarded.

I found warranties for appliances of long ago.  Harvest Gold was our laundry room theme color in the seventies.  Harvest Gold and English Pea Green were once heartedly embraced by a nation anxious for color choices.  Now everything we own is white like the machines of my childhood.

There was a warranty for a light-duty vacuum cleaner enticingly named Dirt Devil.  Its red color seemed appropriate, probably since I grew up near the Red Devils of Hawkinsville, a mascot which has endured for decades.  We were the Blue Devils in Unadilla, a mascot whose origin is unknown to me.  Maybe it’s because blue flames are hotter than red, but I’m just guessing.

I don’t know how well the Dirt Devil performed, but it’s an awesome name for marketing purposes.  Although I much prefer angels to devils, I’ll admit that Dirt Angel doesn’t excite me.  It connotes a gentle approach toward dirt which is not what America’s housewives are looking for.

Instructions for a metal detector reminded me of a disheartening quest for buried treasure.  The detector was a gift from our daughter, Carrie, who learned that searching for silver appealed to me as a potential hobby.  I scattered ten dimes in the yard yet only found 30 cents.  That cured my itch.

The warranty book for our Char-Broil gas grill is a definite keeper.  Our daughter, Erin, assembled it when she was 14.  She’s good with that kind of thing and I was delighted when she put it together.  It’s under our carport and still works fine except for the ignitor.  I tried to repair it years ago and learned it’s best not to hold the sparkplug while pushing the button.  It’s like using a defibrillator on yourself and apparently leads to memory loss.  The shock was severe all three times.

The glass window on the grill allows me to see if what I’m cooking is on fire.  It is with sadness I report the folks at Char-Broil recently told me they don’t offer viewing windows anymore.  I didn’t ask why because I don’t want to learn something that might force me to retire my old friend.

I kept the assembly instructions for three Jenny Lind baby beds we began using 41 years ago.  One day our children may wonder why I held on to such unnecessary items, or maybe they’ll understand.  It’s nice to have things that unexpectedly revive fond moments almost forgotten.

I’m not going to quiz Jane about the cost of those Reeboks.  The statute of limitations has expired and the exceptional box they came in is still quite useful.  With four inches of prime storage now available at the top, there’s room to collect a few more memories.

Four inches should be enough space for a couple of decades or more.  And if by then my cardboard box has fallen apart, I’ll probably buy one made of plastic.

I got busted by the Georgia State Patrol on New Year’s Day.  It was entirely my fault, so I have no reason to complain.  Earlier that afternoon I had decided to vacuum the spider webs from under our garage.  I moved some items from the top of a corner shelf and found a five-inch piece of wood shaped much like the number eight.  It took me a while to remember where it came from.

I recalled my father having one of these on the dash of his pickup truck.  He died in 2007 and the purpose of the peculiar item had long since escaped my memory bank.  From the dusty files of my recollection department the answer finally surfaced.

A column from August of 2017, “The Casket Man,” was about Mr. O. T. Spradley, Jr.  When I visited with Mr. Junior in his woodworking shop, he held up one of these mystery pieces and asked if I knew what it was.  “Daddy had one,” I said, “but I don’t remember what it was for.”

“It’s a twiddler,” explained Mr. Junior.  “It’s for twiddling your thumbs when you don’t have anything else to do.”  He put a thumb through each hole to make sure I understood the concept, then he gave me a hand-carved twiddler to take home.  I was glad to find it on New Year’s Day, and I’ll be glad when somewhere in the future I’ll probably find it again.

With the spider webs down I was tempted to do some serious twiddling, but I remembered what my late cousin, Rooney Bowen, had told me about New Year’s Day.  He said, “Whatever you do on the first day of the year is what you’ll be doing all year long.”  The scientific evidence on that premise is sketchy, but I didn’t want to take a chance.  A man can only twiddle for so long and enjoy it.  So, I put the twiddler down and went to the Pilot station at Exit 109 in my old farm truck.

After filling three cans with gas for the lawnmower, I headed toward home.  The traffic light at the overpass turned yellow as I approached.  Rather than scooting on through, I stopped, then eased slowly ahead when the green light was fully illuminated.  With untethered gas cans and a ladder sticking out the back of my truck, I gradually accelerated until I hit 25 miles per hour.

That’s when the blue flashing lights filled my rearview mirror.  I moved toward the side of the highway to let the trooper pass, assuming there must be an emergency down the road.  But he stayed behind me as revolving beams highlighted a windshield whose cleaning was six months in arrears.

I pulled into an empty parking lot, thinking I must have been picked for one of those programs where surprised drivers get rewarded with thank-you citations for following the rules.  I hoped I would be given a Georgia On My Mind tee-shirt or a Get Out of Jail Free card for later use.

The young man was polite and professional, qualities which are common among the law enforcement officers of Middle Georgia.  “I pulled you over for a seatbelt violation Mr. Joiner.  Is there any particular reason you’re not wearing yours today?”

“I don’t know of one,“ I said, “but my thinking is sort of foggy right now.  Will I have to take a sobriety test?”  That response, I should clarify, was not made audibly.  Sometimes clever thoughts are best left unspoken.

The situation reminded me of a fellow from long ago I’ll call Sam.  He was a good man but had a checkered record with the patrol.  They had a difference of opinion about drinking and driving.

Sam was involved in a one vehicle accident.   He was dazed by the collision and stretched out on the ground while waiting for an ambulance.  The patrolman asked to see his license.  “Y’all are supposed to already have it,” said Sam.  “I sure hope you haven’t lost it.”

I was pleasantly surprised to learn from an online search that the penalty for a seatbelt violation is a manageable 15 dollars.  I don’t know how many hours of community service it will take for me to work that off, but it’s a small price to encourage a simple practice that’s proven to help keep us safe.  From now on I’ll protect my ticker by being a clicker.  I hope you will too.

I cleaned the garage, twiddled my thumbs, and got busted by the law on New Year’s Day.  If Rooney was right, it’s going to be an interesting year.  I’m a little concerned about one of those things in particular.  Jane is threatening to hide my twiddler

I’ll only share a small part of J. B. McWhorter’s testimony.  His journey is told best by him.  It was, however, the public sharing of his faith that brought us together.

JB’s grandfather, Bland Brooks, was a fellow student and friend of mine at Unadilla High School in the 1960s.  Bland’s father, the late Billy Brooks, was our principal and coached various sports.

I saw Bland recently and he told me about his grandson’s testimony being shared at a Fields of Grace event.  I learned that JB’s life and faith have been shaped through 15 plus years of cerebral palsy, and I asked if I could meet him.

It’s a struggle for JB to speak, so a friend read what he had written for the occasion.  When I visited in his home, JB’s mother, Lacey, helped relate their compelling story.

JB was born in Macon on March 2, 2004, and weighed only two pounds, one ounce.  He had a brain bleed and multiple complications.  A month later he was transferred to Children’s Healthcare in Atlanta due to a severe stomach infection.  Lacey said, “We prayed for life and God answered our prayers.”  She’s still praying and gives God credit for guiding them on a path more difficult than most.

When I arrived at their Rochelle home, JB was lying flat on a rubber mat rolled out on the floor.  Stretching will always be a part of his necessary daily routines.  He soon joined me on the sofa along with Christy, a sweet-tempered service dog who graciously welcomed me into their den.

Bland nodded admiringly toward his grandson.  He said, “I’ve learned more from that man than anyone on this earth.”  That’s a high compliment coming from a seasoned teacher.  Bland was an exceptional athlete in high school and made a career in education and coaching.  Yet I had no doubt that what he has learned from JB goes beyond the scope of traditional lessons.

Lacey grinned and added, “I’ve learned from JB too.  He’s taught me patience!”  She and Bland both laughed as they acknowledged that patience is not a strong trait in the Brooks family.  Bland and I sidetracked the conversation when I mentioned his dad’s renowned folding chair.

One of the sports coached by Billy Brooks was girls’ basketball.  His usual calm demeanor was easily disrupted by a low tolerance for poor officiating.  The temptation to step onto the court was often overwhelming.  Men in striped shirts would point him toward the sidelines as they routinely awarded him with technical fouls.

Coach Brooks asked Mr. Ottis Beard, Unadilla’s ag teacher, to attach a seat belt to a folding chair.  It seemed like a good plan for restraint, but it failed before halftime in its debut game.  Coach didn’t waste time with the buckle.  He ran out on the court with the chair swinging back and forth behind him.  As the referee blew his whistle the students cheered wildly in fervent admiration.  That moment cemented the legacy of Billy Brooks in the hearts and history of Unadilla High.

If Coach Brooks were alive today, he’d be cheering for JB now.  That’s what Lacey does, and Bland, and other family members and friends.  Every day is a challenge.  JB moved to a metal stand as I was leaving.  Bland lifted him into an upright position as Lacey secured the straps to help support him.  It’s a change of pace that’s also good for his circulation.

JB attends public school and joins Lacey when she teaches classes at the Wilcox Christian Learning Center.  They are faithful members at First Baptist Church in Rochelle, plus Lacey hosts a Monday night Bible Study in her home.  JB is a celebrity at local ballgames where he’s been recognized as the number one fan of the Wilcox County Patriots.  He’s a sociable young man who enjoys getting out in the community and loves having friends stop by his home.

I wish that writing a column could somehow make JB’s life a little easier, but I realize that’s not the case.   What I want JB to know, however, is that my life is richer from meeting him.  JB helped me understand that we can be thankful in all circumstances.  He helped remind me not to take even small blessings for granted.  When I tied my shoelaces the next morning, I felt a gratitude I’d not had before.

Lessons of faith sometimes come unexpectedly.  God’s perfect love can shine through imperfect situations if we let it.  I know that to be true, because it’s the testimony of my friend JB McWhorter

My 93-year-old mother and her 19-year-old great-grandchild, Abby, planned a family trip to Disney World last year.  We went two weeks before Christmas and found that some other people had the same idea.

The Tuesday night crowd was not overwhelming due to a consistent forecast of inclement weather.  Others, including us, optimistically ventured to The Magic Kingdom, refusing to believe it would rain on our parade.  But a lot of our thrill-seeking companions didn’t stay long.

I’m not sure if it was the rain, wind, or lightning that sent them scampering.  A loud clap of thunder made me thankful the metal wheelchair Mama had reluctantly agreed to ride in was equipped with rubber tires and handles.

As the rain began to steadily fall, we took shelter under a shop awning that quickly became too crowded.  Raindrops transitioned into sheets of water which were blown at unpredictable angles by gusting winds.  As more people magically maneuvered into make believe spaces, I wondered if claustrophobia could be fatal.  I was glad to be tall enough to see above the crowd where I could dream about breathing fresh air from the empty street only a few steps away.

It was a pleasant assembly of slippery folks under the awning, but I decided to trust my water-resistant jacket and run to a picnic table just a few feet away.  By moving a chair and hugging the sturdy umbrella pole I was able to stay dry from the knees up.

A polite young couple I assumed had traveled from Japan soon joined me.

“Where are you from?” I asked with extra volume supplemented with clarifying hand gestures.

“Philadelphia,” said the man.  “How about you?”

“South Georgia” I replied.  Then I told him about a life changing experience I had in his city in 1975 when I tasted my first Philly Club Cheese Sandwich.  We were discussing Philadelphia’s notable culinary contribution when a bolt of lightning sent the two of them scurrying for better quarters.

That’s when a nice lady of maybe 70 or so walked up.  She was tired, so she sat down in a chair although it exposed her back to the rain.  By leaning forward her long poncho kept her pretty dry.  She patiently waited in hopes the weather would break enough for her to make a run for the monorail.

A couple in their late fifties pushing an empty stroller then checked in at the front desk.

“If there’s supposed to be a baby in there, you folks may want to retrace your steps,” I suggested.

The man said he had noticed the stroller seemed lighter than it should be.  The lady assured me the baby was with their daughter elsewhere in the kingdom.  They were from Mobile, Alabama, so I told them we have a granddaughter who is a student at Auburn.  “I’m sorry,” said the man.  “We have some good friends that happened to.”

I didn’t want to get in a scuffle as I was wearing my best khakis, so I looked for common ground.  I said, “Being from Alabama, I’ll bet you folks like cornbread dressing.”  And that’s when we became temporary friends.  We discovered our families rely on the same style recipes that have endured for several generations.  It’s basic dressing like God intended with no bell peppers or hunks of celery.

The rain subsided so we said goodbye with Merry Christmas wishes.  “Don’t forget your baby,” I said, “nor the one born long ago in Bethlehem.”  I doubt I’ll ever spend a holiday in Mobile, Alabama, but it’s comforting, for reasons I can’t explain, to know that people there share my love for simple cornbread dressing.  It won’t guarantee peace on earth, but I think it’s a small step in that direction.

I made a temporary friend, whose name I’ll never know.

It happens every now and then, when someone says hello

A man named Ben, who lives in Lee County, sent me an email in early December of 2019.  He said he planned to retire at year end and wanted to know if I had any advice.  I told him to stay off ladders and don’t tell his wife he’s retiring.  She’ll eventually find out, but by then he should have been able to establish a routine that’s unblemished by spousal coercion.

The advice I gave him seemed potentially beneficial to others, so I decided to put it in a column with some other ideas.  As I began writing, a few comments I’ve heard about retirement came to mind.

Buddy Mashburn and his wife, Donna, owned The Clothing Carnival in Unadilla for many years.  After they sold their business and moved to Florida a mutual friend of ours went to visit them.  When he asked Donna how she liked retirement, she didn’t hesitate.

“I have half the money and twice the husband,” she said.  “What do you think?”

Another quote I heard was attributed to Mr. John Ransom, a former postmaster in Unadilla.  Not long after he quit canceling stamps someone asked him how things were going.  “It’s been rough,” he said.  “I don’t get any holidays, sick leave, or vacation.”

Pete and Laura are friends of ours who live in Tennessee.  Pete has retired but Laura is still working.  When she came home from her job one afternoon, she asked Pete, “What did you do today?”

“Nothing,” he replied.

“I thought that’s what you did yesterday,” she responded.

“I did,” said Pete, “but I didn’t get finished.”

Those three stories give evidence that a good sense of humor helps in almost every retirement situation, but I thought this column should also include a few ideas of substance.  I’m no expert on retirement, but with four years of practice I’ll share three suggestions.  The triple tenets, which I believe are essential for a healthy retirement, are to stay busy, have some fun, and do something worthwhile.

There are plenty of ways to stay busy.  It may be a longtime hobby like gardening, woodworking, fishing, or sewing.  Or it may be something entirely new.  I know a lady on the other side of the 70-mile marker who is learning to play guitar.  She’s stretching her fingers and mind at the same time.

In an assisted living facility, which I recently visited, a gentleman was working on a massive jigsaw puzzle.  Hanging in the hallways were other pictures he had completed.  There’s a satisfaction that comes from putting jumbled pieces together.  That’s true of more than cardboard puzzles.

Having fun can be as simple as pouring salted peanuts into a bottled Coke while reminiscing with an old friend on a porch.  Or a short drive to Lumpkin to see The Little Grand Canyon and have a picnic lunch below sea level might be a nice outing.  Or maybe boarding a cruise ship headed somewhere we’ve never been should be on our calendar.  Fun happens if we let it.

Doing something worthwhile is perhaps the most important part of retirement.  When we do nice things for others there’s a satisfaction not found if our focus is on ourselves.

You won’t see much litter on the streets of Pinehurst, and none that’s been there very long.  Mr. Raymond Davis is a senior citizen who faithfully walks the roads with a trash bag and a litter stick.  Mayor Connie Christmas told me he follows a regular schedule to make sure the town stays clean.  I drive through Pinehurst several days a week.  When I see Mr. Raymond in his lime green vest on the side of the road, it reminds me that humble service is the most noble of aspirations.  That’s not an original thought on my part.  I’m paraphrasing what Jesus said on multiple occasions.

There are countless resources that offer detailed retirement ideas for those who need help, but simply focusing on three foundations can be a good start.  Stay busy.  Have some fun.   Do something worthwhile.

P.S. to Ben:  I apologize for part of the advice I gave you earlier.  I realized belatedly that one of those recommendations may be questionable.  If you’ll be careful and follow the safety rules, sometimes it’s okay to use a ladder.

In early December of 2019 I had my first ever experience of attending a book club meeting.  I had been invited by a friend, Sallie Sangster, to speak to the club she belongs to.  It was a lunchtime affair, so Jane went with me to make sure I used the right fork, put my napkin in my lap, and didn’t sigh a long, “Ahhh,” after taking a drink of iced tea.  In childhood I learned from my Granddaddy Hill how to accentuate a good sip.  I still find that it somehow makes the tea a little sweeter.

My food preferences tilt heavily toward basic things whose origins are obvious, southern staples like butterbeans, creamed potatoes, and fried chicken for example.  But I’ll have to admit those seven ladies performed salad magic beyond what I had believed to be possible.  The meal was as delicious as the company and was capped off with a unique chocolate pie so good that Jane asked for the recipe.

Sallie had told me I could talk about anything, but Jane had told me I couldn’t.  She knows I sometimes need a filter.  I had no idea what I should say to a book club, as I don’t read many books and don’t remember much of what I have read.  My high school English teacher, Mrs. Sadie Collins, told me in the late 1960s that I had reached my limit of reports on The Old Man and The Sea.  Admittedly, I chose the book for its brevity, but I still believe it to be worthy of more than two essays.

The lovely center piece on the dinner table was surrounded by books which the club had recently read.  Call of the Wild by Jack London was not among them, but several of the ladies readily agreed it was a worthwhile read.  I knew at some point one of the club members was likely to ask me what good book I had read lately, so I decided to be proactive.

“I’ve just finished reading the book of Ephesians,” I said.  Without hesitation our hostess, Kay Peebles, graciously responded that would certainly count.  Although it may not be a book in the typical sense, I figured it almost had to be considered an acceptable answer.  No one wants to be remembered as the person who said Ephesians isn’t a real book.

My use of Ephesians as a book reference reminded me of the children’s messages that Matt Stephens, a former pastor at Vienna First Baptist, used to give.  Matt would invite the young children to join him at the front of our sanctuary.  Before he shared a mini sermon, he would casually visit with the children and ask them what they had talked about in Sunday School.  The most consistent response became, “Jesus,” which Matt said was always a good answer.  Then he would dig a little deeper and usually find out more about their lesson.

That’s similar perhaps to what the book club does.  They casually visit while digging a little deeper into what they’ve read.  And somehow between the coffee and the conversation a bond is formed that makes their common effort of learning a time of joy.

It surprised me how much frivolity there was at the book club meeting.  It may not be true of all clubs and probably depends a lot on what topic is being discussed.  Chocolate pie always puts me in a good mood so maybe that had an effect.  And my impression is those ladies don’t just drift aimlessly across a sea of literature.  The books they discuss are like hoisting sails on a ship of friendship.

It was such a good experience that I’m inviting any men who are interested to join me at a book club meeting in Vienna.  We’ll be in George Chapel at First Baptist on Sundays at 10 am.  We’re presently reading the book of Numbers to be followed by the book of Deuteronomy.  If Vienna is not a convenient location, there are countless other book clubs which welcome new members.

I didn’t think I should end my short talk at Sallie’s club meeting without sharing something of a literary nature.  Thankfully I recalled an original poem titled “The Lonely Buzzard.”  That recitation is how I concluded my talk, so maybe the last few lines will work for ending this column.

Lonely buzzard with a roadkill diet, no matter how it smells he’s always glad to try it. Lonely buzzard with a quirky appetite, we shouldn’t criticize unless we’ve had a bite.

If you’re not in a book club that meets on Sunday mornings, I hope you’ll join one soon.  Topics vary, but the tie that binds us together never changes.  We always read from The Good Book.