Welcome to Joiner's Corner

It seems to me when a person reaches the 100-year mark it warrants a special title.  That’s why I’m bestowing the prestigious designation “Matriarch of Metcalfe” on Janet (pronounced Ja-net’) Horne Lanier McLendon.  I’m a tad late getting around to it, but I think she’ll be okay with that.

Janet, who turned 100 on July 13^th, is a first cousin of my late father-in-law Bennett Horne.  They were born in the small south-Georgia town of Metcalfe and both ended up living in nearby Thomasville.  I got to know Janet a few years before I married into the Horne family in 1974.  She’s celebrated some milestone birthdays since we first met, but her sweet demeanor and spunky attitude are unchanged.

Jane and I went to the nursing home to see her in early August.  The first thing she said was, “I’m so glad you brought that good-looking man with you!”  I know she’s exaggerating, but it’s the same greeting I’ve loved hearing many times before.  Then she asked me if I was still painting.

Several years ago, I gave her a little book titled “Lessons From The Ladder.”  It was about painting our house and some of the thoughts I had while perched on the ladder.  She’s asked me on multiple occasions if I’ve finished that project.  We laughed once again as I confided I still lack the front door.  “But I have it on my list of things to do,” I said.  “It could happen at any time.”

It was probably a decade ago when Jane and I visited in her home and saw a pink Daisy BB gun propped by the door.  “You must be in charge of the Neighborhood Watch,” I surmised.  She laughed and told me it was her squirrel gun.  “It stings them enough to run them off, but they come right back.  That’s about all I can do,” she coyly lamented.  “The police don’t like to hear gunfire.”

She was still working in her yard during her early nineties, enjoying gardening and growing blueberries and figs.  Her house was in town, but she’s always been a country girl at heart.

I think she moved to Southern Pines assisted living about five years ago.  She was around 95 when she decided to let someone else do the cooking.  The first time Jane and I went there to visit, I asked if she still had her squirrel gun.

“Don’t tell anybody,” she whispered.  “I’m not supposed to have a gun or an electric blanket, but I’ve got both hidden where no one can find them.”

Jane and I made several trips to her apartment.  We’d look to see if her car was there before getting out, knowing she drove across town every day to see her brother Olin.  Though ten years younger than her, their roles were reversed.  He was in the nursing home and she was the visitor.

One day Jane and I saw a different vehicle where Janet usually parked.  We were surprised to learn she’d bought a new car.  She was 96, I think, and was tickled about its excellent mileage.  She enjoyed knowing that a gallon of gas per week would take her everywhere she wanted to go.

When Jane and I visited her in August, her room at the nursing home had a fresh look.  For her centennial celebration a granddaughter had decorated the cream-colored walls from floor to ceiling with colorful flowers.  She showed us her favorite and told us how much she enjoys looking at them.  She asked Jane about our yard, knowing they share a love for working outdoors.

The Thomasville Times was by her chair. “I read it every morning, and I enjoy the sale papers too,” she said with a smile.  “I look at what I could buy if I had a car and some money.”

She reads her Bible daily and misses her late pastor, Milton Gardener.  He used to stop by her house on his way to work.  He drank coffee with Janet and her late husband, Claude, five mornings a week.  He kept on visiting long after his retirement.  Jane commented how much Milton loved Claude and her.  She modestly replied, “I think Milton loved everybody.”

As we were leaving, I promised to bring her some BBs on our next trip.  I think they checked her for weapons when she moved in, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she has her pink Daisy beneath the mattress.

“Y’all be careful,” she said as we paused by the door.  “I love y’all so much.”

We love you too, Janet.  There’s a package of BBs on my desk to prove it, and a certificate showing you have been deemed the “Matriarch of Metcalfe.”  I didn’t run that by the mayor, but I’m sure it will be okay.  If not, we’ll just hide the certificate with the BB gun.

The man said he needed to talk to someone about a situation that had gotten out of hand.  All he asked of me was to listen to his story.  I sat quietly as he stared into his coffee cup and shared his troubling tale.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I said, “how did all this begin?”

He said it started in a small way that seemed harmless at the time.  “I noticed my hair was thinning on top and decided to drop my part a little.  It was hardly noticeable at first, maybe a half inch or so below the norm.  As my hair kept receding, I went lower with my part.  When my part met my ear, I began wondering if I could comb my sideburns upward.  That’s when I knew I needed help.”

“Have you thought about wearing a toupee?” I asked.

“I thought about it,” he said, “but I don’t like the idea of wearing someone else’s hair.  There’s no way of knowing where that hair came from or where it’s been.”

“But couldn’t you wash it, run it through the dryer, and spray it with Lysol?” I asked.  The man acknowledged it could be done but quickly added, “It would be like wearing someone else’s underwear.  You could wash it a hundred times but that still wouldn’t be enough.”

“What about trying a new approach to your combover?” I inquired.  “You could part it from the other side, or go from back to front, or maybe give it a swirl?”

“Tell me more about the swirl,” he said.  “That’s sounds rather promising.”

I confessed that I had only seen a full swirl done successfully one time and that regretfully I had no pictures to document it.  “It was a spring day several decades ago,” I began.  “The Chamber of Commerce was hosting a Developer’s Day in Dooly County.  We had invited 20 or so influential guests who could help us with industrial recruitment.  Most of them were from Atlanta and worked in state government or for the utility companies.”

“Who was the guy with the swirl?” asked the man.

“I’ve long forgotten his name,” I said.  “Even if I knew, I wouldn’t want to share it without his permission.”

“I understand,” he replied.  “Tell me more.”

“The developers were given three choices of how to spend the day.  They could fish in Dewel Lawrence’s pond that was loaded with bream, play a round of golf at Lake Blackshear, or take a boat ride on the Flint River.  I went with the group on the boat ride.  That’s where it happened.”

“That’s where what happened?” asked the man.

“That’s where the swirl broke loose,” I said.  “Buddy Pruett was driving his boat about twenty miles an hour straight into a noticeable breeze.  The fellow wasn’t wearing a cap.  Next thing you know he had two feet of hair flapping behind him like a flag.  It was fully extended like a car lot banner in a March wind.”

“Did you get tickled?” asked the man.

“I got tickled,” I said, “but I didn’t laugh.  I looked away and tried to think of sad occasions to help distract me.  As Buddy slowed the boat to pull up to the dock, the fellow ran his hands through his hair.  To my surprise it returned to its original position, a full wrap-around swirl that cleverly hid his baldness.”

“So, you think a swirl may be the answer to my dilemma?” asked the man.

“Absolutely not,” I said.  “I think a swirl is a terrible idea.  I told you that story to let you know just how bad it can get.  I believe you already know what you need to do.”

“You’re right,” said the man.  “But do you think I’ll look funny without my hair?”

“Probably,” I replied.  “Maybe you should first try to train your sideburns to grow upwards.”

He laughed and said he was going to get a haircut.  I hope he doesn’t change his mind.  Lowering his part had seemed harmless in the beginning, but he almost hit rock bottom at the top of his ears.

The late Stanley Gambrell was affectionately called “Stan the Man.”  He was the city manager for Vienna, Georgia, for 30 years.  He founded The Big Pig Jig, Georgia’s official barbeque contest, and left a trail of notable accomplishments.  It is, however, the humor and creativity he scattered along that trail that I recall most fondly.

Much of Stan’s career overlapped with my own.  I saw him on a regular basis at Bank of Dooly.  Sometimes we’d talk about business.  More often he’d just share something he knew I would enjoy.

Stan was involved in numerous pranks, both as an instigator and a recipient.  He’s the only person I know who had a cap that was kidnapped.  He met regularly for early morning coffee with men at the American Legion.  Those fellows were behind the cap caper and were privy to many others.

Frank Morgan, Jr. knew that Stan loved the Indianapolis Colts and their quarterback Peyton Manning.  On a business trip to Indiana he bought Stan a bright blue Colts’ cap with the horseshoe insignia.  Stan began wearing his lucky cap to the Legion and bragging about the success of his team.  He bragged too much and the cap mysteriously disappeared.  Ransom notes were sent picturing three masked men and a hostage cap.  Cryptic messages demanded that $20 be left with Frank at Forbes Drug Company.  Serious consequences were threatened if Stan didn’t comply.

Stan had suspicions of the culprits’ identities but no evidence.  He ran an ad in the local paper offering a reward, but eventually paid the ransom.  Two heavily disguised men on a borrowed golf cart returned the cap. They watched from a distance as Stan played the ninth hole at Lake Blackshear.  When he was too far from his cart to give chase, they drove past and threw the cap toward him.  Fred Walls, Derald Woods, and Andy Colter denied Stan’s accusations.  Frank Morgan, Jr. kept their secret well.

I believe it was Stan and Derald Woods who had a memorable outing while fishing at Lake Blackshear.  Two of their coffee club friends were nearby in another boat, watching in amazement as Stan casually pulled countless bream from a bed.  Their friends kept edging closer, hoping to get in on the action.  After about a half hour Stan showed them his technique.  He only had one very confused fish.  He had been lowering him over the side and bringing him back up.

Stan and his wife, Ann, had S&R Shell Station and Restaurant near I-75 in the 1980s.  The Stanburger, a homemade hamburger with a delicious chili topping, was their highly acclaimed specialty.  The chili recipe was, according to Stan, kept in a safety deposit box at Bank of Dooly.  He figured if Coca Cola needed to protect their prized formula, he should do the same for his.

The station’s marquee gave Stan an outlet for his creativity.  One of his most enduring slogans was, “TWO KIDS IN COLLEGE- PLEASE STOP.”  His creative talents also included song writing.  He planned to title an album, “The Road Signs of Life.”  The lead song was, “Sharp Curves and Soft Shoulders Made a Wreck Out of Me.”  Stan the Man was full of ideas.

Stan also used his creative talents in his role as city manager.  Years ago, when Cargill decided to build a poultry processing plant in Vienna, Stan told me about a problem that threatened to sidetrack the project.  A small area of wetlands had been identified as a potential site for Carolina Gopher Frogs, a federally protected species.  Cassette tape recordings of such frogs were provided to the city.  They were instructed to play the tapes on seven consecutive nights during the summer mating season.  If the frogs were in the area, their distinctive croaking response could be expected.

Rather than hiring an outside firm, Stan asked the Vienna Police Department to assist.  After receiving the required training, the VPD was scheduled to begin the week-long process later that week.  I asked Stan what would happen if the police heard the croak of a Carolina Gopher Frog.

“Three officers, spaced 20 feet apart, will each fire five rounds of buckshot toward the sound,” he said.  “They’ll wait 30 minutes then play the tape again.”

I ran out of space before I ran out of stories, but there are plenty of people around who’ll gladly share some more if you ask.  To honor Stan’s memory I have one request of the readers:  If you ever hear a Carolina Gopher Frog in Vienna, please don’t say anything about it.

Stanley Gambrell – November 25, 1939 – October 12, 2010

I once had an idea I considered brilliant for a book to be titled “Dare to be Average.” I envisioned a lighthearted parody of the motivational program “Dare to be Great.”  A Google search, however, determined my proposed title had already been taken.  I’ve not read the book by David Martin, but per the brief description his concept seems to be in sync with my own.

Jimmy Collins is a friend and a member of our men’s Sunday School class at Vienna First Baptist.  I told him about my initial excitement for such an undertaking and related the unexpected transition toward disappointment.  He suggested an alternative title, “Aspirations of Mediocrity.”  Jimmy thought my inspiration to cover a topic that had already been addressed further validated the project.

Since then I’ve learned that book titles aren’t protected by copyright, so if I want to title my book “Dare to be Average” then legally I can.  Copying a title seems like a good beginning for a book which heralds the celebration of coming in second in a three-man race.

I don’t remember ever hearing a squad of cheerleaders enthusiastically chanting, “We’re Number Two!”  That wouldn’t resonate with most crowds.  And parents never boast to their friends, “Just look at my kid!  He’s about average!”  But maybe we should rethink some of those things.

I doubt I will ever write such a book.  That would take a lot more than an average effort.   But I hope this column will encourage others to celebrate life in the middle of the pack.  I should probably clarify that a bit.  I’m not saying our goal should be to secure a spot near the middle.  We should, instead, fervently try to excel.  But there’s no shame in average results if we’ve made our best efforts.

I’m an average piano player, better than some but not as good as many others.  With a lot of practice, I might be able to move up a notch or two on the list, but I’d still fall into that group of folks with mid-level talent.  There’s nothing wrong with that.  I enjoy playing and I play well enough to help out at church.  I’ve been to a few nursing homes recently and so far no one has complained.  If I aspired to greatness on the piano, I would have become frustrated long ago and probably quit playing.

My wife enjoys sewing, but it takes her a long time to complete a detailed project.  She is an unlikely candidate to win Seamstress of the Year, but that doesn’t diminish her pleasure.  Our grandchildren don’t check to see if the stitching is perfect.  They thank her with a big hug.  Average talents can produce exceptional results.

One area, however, that is tempting to settle too easily for being average is our faith.  Our churches have plenty of empty pews to prove it.  We tend to give our best efforts to our jobs, hobbies, and hopefully our families.  But giving our best to God can be a lot more challenging.  His reward system is a long-term plan.  It doesn’t promise a paycheck at the end of each week.

Years ago, a couple came to my office at Bank of Dooly for some financial counseling.  They had, as the country song says, “too much month at the end of the money.”  When I reviewed their checking account it surprised me they faithfully tithed.  I mentioned it, not sure where the conversation was headed.  The husband said, “We write our check to the church the first of every month.  We might not have the money to tithe if we waited.”

I don’t know if I helped them with their budget, but they helped me with my perspective.  If we only give from our abundance, then we’re settling for being average.  That’s true of everything, including our time, talents, money, and attitude.  The greeting that Christians hope for one day is, “Well done thou good and faithful servant.” (Matthew 25:21) It sure would be disappointing to hear Jesus say, “It looks like you were about average.”

There are a lot of days when the average line is the one I would be asked to stand it, but that’s not what Jesus wants for any of us.  He can use average talents, but he expects our efforts to be the best.  Maybe a better title for a book would be “Dare To Be Our Best.”  I think I’ll check Google to see if it’s already been written, but that can wait until tomorrow.  I’ve already made an average effort today.

I’ve written three columns about the same country graveyard: “Finding Walter Nutt,” “Whiskey, Guns, & Horses,” and “Wallace Cemetery – An Unsolved Murder.”   Walter Nutt was killed in a tragic accident on his wedding day January 1, 1919.  The other columns are about three men who died from gunshots.  Two of those men, John and Will Joiner, were brothers to my grandfather, Jim Joiner.

The stories of John and Will’s deaths are recorded in the Joiner, Mashburn, & Allied Families History Book.  It was written by Mary Joiner Pearce, a first cousin to my father.  Her versions are the same as those told to me on visits to Wallace Cemetery with my father and Uncle Murray.  It surprised me to recently learn that the facts are quite different from what I had long believed.

When I ran the column about John Joiner’s unsolved murder, I had no idea it would lead to any answers.  It always struck me as odd that an unknown man on a horse would shoot him as he walked home with friends from a dance.  That vague account begged for an explanation.  Edward Benns, from Taylor County, gave me one.  He called and told me what he’d found on a website for Georgie Historic Newspapers, then mailed copies of three articles.

Bill Giles, who grew up near Unadilla, emailed what he discovered online, then helped me navigate my own search.  Thanks to Edward and Bill I can now give a more accurate account of some ancient family lore.

A headline in The Vienna Progress, December 22, 1898, edition read, “KILLED AT A DANCE.”   “At a country dance near Singletary’s Mill, five miles from Unadilla, Bose Turner and John Joiner, two young men in that community, became involved in a dispute which ended in a duel, the result of which Joiner is in his grave and Turner is not expected to live.  The young men, previous to the difficulty, were the best of friends and went to the dance together.  It seems that both were drinking and the trouble was provoked without cause.  They quarreled in the house about a young lady and after the dance renewed the difficulty outside the house.  Both were armed with pistols and began firing about the same time.  Joiner was shot through the heart and Turner over the heart but the ball glanced and did not pierce his vitals.”

The Tifton Gazette and The Macon Telegraph referred to John Joiner and Bose Turner as cousins.  John’s father, W. G. Joiner, was married three times, outliving his first two wives.  John’s mother was Mary Ellen Turner, which probably accounts for John and Bose’s kinship.  I don’t know why the reports of his death in multiple newspapers are so different from what was told in our family.  Maybe it was less painful for his parents to blame an unknown man rather than explain the sad truth.

John’s mother died in September of 1899, nine months after his death and seven months before the death of another of her sons on April 24, 1900.  The April 26^th edition of The Vienna Progress states that Dr. Will Joiner died from a gunshot wound inflicted a week earlier by Bud Downing.  Their trouble started at Singletary’s Store when, “Joiner spoke to Downing about some ill treatment to a horse that Downing was training for Joiner.”  Downing followed him home and they exchanged fire.  A man named J. C. Spradley held the reins of the horse and was charged as an accessory.

The October 4, 1900, edition of that same paper reports O. L. Downing returned home after fleeing to Texas, where he had lived with some cowboys.  He and Mr. Spradley were in jail at the time awaiting trial.  Mr. Spradley was acquitted.  Mr. Downing was convicted of murder and sentenced to “life on the gang.”

I’ve learned more about our family history than I ever expected.  John Joiner and Bose Turner made foolish choices.  One died from it and the other had to live with it.  Bud Downing’s sentence left his wife to raise several children without a father.  The youngest, a son born while Mr. Downing was in Texas, was blind from birth.  Will Joiner’s son never saw his father for a different reason.  He was born four months after Will died.  The death of one man affected the lives of many.

Wallace Cemetery holds ample evidence of the dangers in mixing gunpowder with alcohol.  I don’t know the location of Singletary’s Mill or Store, but if I find out I’ll travel another road.  Our family record of settling disputes that originated in that area is zero and two.  I have no interest in adding to either number.  As far as I can tell, that’s the rest of the story.

I was introduced to Bobby Ward shortly after he moved to Dooly County in 1986 to pastor Riverview Baptist Church.  He soon became my customer at Bank of Dooly as well as my friend.  He was usually wearing overalls when we visited in my office or took an occasional trip to Marise’s for fried chicken.  While pastoring a growing congregation, Bobby also drove an eighteen-wheeler.  He’s a country preacher who juggled two full time jobs and had the boundless energy to do them both well.

He was grinning mischievously the first time we met, something I quickly learned was a side effect of his incurable optimism.  When I visited him on August 29^th to talk about his diagnosis of ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis), he was still sporting that same grin.  Not everyone can smile when facing Lou Gehrig’s Disease.

Dr. Glass at Emory University Hospital gave Bobby and his wife, Teresa, the news on July 30, 2019.  It had been obvious for a while that something was wrong, but that doesn’t lessen the pain of learning it’s a problem that can’t be fixed.  Yet Bobby cheerfully responded with a slowly spoken question. “So, you’re saying I have about 20 years to live?”  It took Dr. Glass a moment to appreciate Bobby’s sense of humor.

It takes a lot of effort for Bobby to speak now, something that came easily before.  Most of his years in ministry were spent at two churches, first Riverview then later at Victory Baptist Church.  He preached twice on Sundays plus held Wednesday night prayer meetings.  He’s delivered thousands of sermons and officiated at innumerable special occasions.

Funerals are where I’ve mostly heard Bobby speak.  He would read from Luke 12:15, “For a man’s life consisteth not in the abundance of the things which he possesseth.”  Then he would remind us it’s not our possessions that are important but what we do with them.

Several times I’ve heard Bobby tell how he enjoys visiting old cemeteries.  He likes to walk among their silent guests and read inscriptions etched on weathered tombstones.  On those unhurried strolls he is reminded that the dates of our birth and death are not what’s most important.  “It’s the dash between the dates that matters,” said Bobby at countless funerals.  Then he would tenderly ask those gathered at the graveside, “What are you doing with the dash between your dates?”

It was only a few weeks ago that I mentioned Bobby in our men’s Sunday School class at First Baptist of Vienna.  I hadn’t seen him in months and didn’t know he had ALS.  I had talked about his gift for conversational witnessing.  On the job with his fellow truckers he talked about Jesus, sometimes in more detail than they wanted to hear.  Or chatting with a waitress he had met for the first time he would talk about Jesus.  Bobby has been looking for opportunities to share his faith as long as I’ve known him.

He gave me a card when I recently visited in his home.  It has the same message he’s been passing along for decades.  “If we meet and you forget me, you have lost nothing:  but if you meet JESUS CHRIST and forget Him you have lost everything.”  He knows those cards sometimes end up in the trash.  He also knows they sometimes find a place in the heart.

Bobby and Teresa were passing through Lake City, Florida years ago and stopped at a Sonny’s BBQ to eat.  A lady approached the entrance at the same time they did.  Bobby rushed to grab the door handle with the intent of having a little fun.  “I’m going to beat you inside!” he said.  The lady made no reply.  She walked past him and sat alone.

Bobby discreetly paid for the woman’s meal and left a card behind.  That was all he knew about her until five years later when she called.  He learned that her son had been buried a couple of days before their brief encounter.  She had kept Bobby’s card all that time, waiting to explain her solemn demeanor, waiting to thank him for his gesture of kindness.

ALS is a hard road to travel, but until he reaches the off-ramp Bobby plans to keep grinning and sharing what’s most important.  He’ll continue handing out cards.  And he’ll keep posing a question that he knows one day we’ll each have to answer: “What are you doing with the dash between your dates?

A pack of fleet footed runners were chasing Mike Chason in the spring of 1973, but his tenacity proved too much.  He won the gold at the intramural cross-country race at Valdosta State College.  Track coach Dave Waples was so impressed he offered Mike the first ever cross-country scholarship for VSC.

The college didn’t have a budget for a team, so a $50 stipend was an honorary gesture.  Mike declined the offer, but he appreciated Coach Waples’ encouragement.   Winning that race was as much about character as speed.  When Mike Chason starts something, he sticks with it.

Mike and I have been friends since meeting at Valdosta State College in 1970.  I asked him recently about that memorable run from yesteryear.  It was a nominal accomplishment by worldly standards, but a defining moment on a personal level.  At Lanier High School Mike ran the half mile in track.  He didn’t consider himself a distance runner when he entered the Valdosta race.

He was surprised when he passed John Trimnell, an outstanding athlete and a starter on the VSC basketball team.  As Mike went by John shouted out, “Go on and win this thing!”  Those words of encouragement helped inspire Mike to keep up a demanding pace.  It’s been a lasting reminder of the importance of encouraging others, something Mike is passionate about.

Mike has run a good race in many areas of life and he’s still going strong.  When I asked him about some of the accomplishments I knew he had attained, he first went in a different direction.  He said the most important day of his 67 years is when he accepted Christ at First Baptist Church in Lakeland, Georgia.  He was ten years old when he embraced a personal faith that he readily shares.

He’s begun countless speeches by enthusiastically saying, “It’s a great day to be alive!”  It’s not a quote from the Bible but its message is consistent with scripture.  It helps him focus on positive thinking as he cheers others along.

Mike was a sportswriter for The Valdosta Daily Times right after college, then was promoted to sports editor.  On May 15, 1979, he became the Public Relations Director for Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College.  That was his full-time job for 32 years and has been his part time position since 2012.  It’s not often you hear someone with a 40-year career in anything say, “I love this job.”  Mike gets a lot out of his work because he puts a lot into it.

Shortly after he joined the ABAC staff Mike took a Dale Carnegie course.  Ralph Edwards, owner of Tifton AM radio station WWGS, was in the class and asked Mike to help him put ABAC basketball games on the air.  When Mike told him he didn’t have any experience calling games, Mr. Edwards said, “I know you Mike.  You can do it!”  He called every play and had another 12 minutes to fill during halftimes.  That experience helped develop his speaking voice and style.  Mike fondly recalls Mr. Edwards’ encouragement and he keeps paying it forward.

He was the voice of Tift County High School football for 27 years on Friday nights and called the Valdosta State football games on Saturdays for five overlapping years.  In November he’ll begin his thirtieth year announcing VSU basketball games.  With ladies and men both now playing he’s sometimes on the air for five straight hours.  When I asked how he can manage such a demanding role, he credited his Creator.  “God’s given me the energy and enthusiasm to do a lot of things,” he said.

In May of 2019 Mike called out the names of over 400 graduating seniors from Tift County High School.  This was his thirtieth year, another record he’s still adding to.  They have one practice, during which Mike makes phonetic notations to use as a pronunciation guide.  “Some of these kids may never have their name called again from a stage,” he said.  “I do my best to get it right.”

It would take another column to list Mike’s accomplishments.  He’s set the bar high in multiple pursuits that are unlikely to ever be equaled.  But if he should hear the footsteps of those who follow him getting close, there’s no doubt he would shout out, “Go on and win this thing!  You can do it!”  Even if you’re chasing Mike Chason, he wants you to run your best race.

“It’s a great day to be alive,” he said as we ended our conversation.  Mike knows I sometimes need to be reminded of things I already know.  I’m passing it on in case you need reminding too.

Wallace Cemetery is a small country graveyard which rarely has a visitor.  An old headstone marks the spot where the young victim of an unsolved murder is buried.  I learned about it on childhood visits there with my father and Uncle Murray.  Sometimes I still wonder about the glaring absence of details.  It seems there would have been more evidence when it happened and perhaps a front-page story in a local paper.

John Larkin Joiner was born April 25, 1876, five years before his brother, Jim, who was my grandfather.  He was killed December 15, 1898, at the age of 22.  John had received his license to practice law a short time before his death.  He was single and lived, I believe, on the farm where he grew up.  It was just a short walk from the homeplace to the cemetery where he is buried.

The Joiner, Mashburn and Allied Families history book includes the sketchy details of his murder.  It’s the same story that my father told me, the same story that his father told him.

John was said to have been among a group of friends who were walking home at night from a dance.  A man on horseback, who was reported to have been drinking, approached the group and asked if John Joiner was among them.  When John stepped forward the man fired a gun and killed him.  Someone told John’s family that he had refused to dance earlier.  It’s not clear if that had anything to do with his murder, but it’s an intriguing bit of information that begs for conjecture.

The witnesses from that night in 1898 are long gone.  It’s possible though that someone is still living who heard whispered stories at family gatherings years ago.  It seems odd that no one knew the man on the horse or his motive.  And it seems the circumstances of John’s refusal to dance would have been shared with his family.  The account of John Joiner’s murder is inexplicably vague.

It’s possible the mysterious man on horseback was a character invented to cover up a quarrel that took a deadly turn.  That’s speculation on my part.  Daddy never hinted that might be the case.

If refusing to dance stirred up such heated emotions, it seems that someone would have known those involved.  It’s possible that John embarrassed a young lady by declining her request and that someone settled the score for her.  It’s more likely that he may have angered a jealous suitor of the woman, a drunken man bitterly riled that John had attracted her attention.

There’s a picture of John in our family history book that was made not long before he was killed.  He was a handsome man who was embarking on a rather prestigious career.  It’s easy to imagine how jealousy could have played a part in his murder.

I’ve always wondered who was in the group that night when they were walking home together.  I would think that John’s parents and siblings knew, yet none of that information was passed on to my father’s generation.  I wonder where the dance was held and if anyone there may have noticed something out of the ordinary.  And I wonder if the man on the horse ever confided to his family or maybe even bragged to a friend about what he had done.

It’s a long shot that mentioning an ancient unsolved murder in a weekly column will lead to any answers.  But it’s like a lot of other things in life, all we can do is the best we know how then leave it alone.  If I don’t find the answers now, I think I’ll have a chance to fill in the blanks later.

There’s an interesting headstone in Wallace Cemetery for Susan E. Carr.  She was born September 4, 1861, died September 21, 1881, and was the wife of Alexander S. Carr.  Her concrete marker tells everything that I know about her.  Its long inscription reads, “Susan we know how precious you were on this green earth but how can we envy heaven of so bright a juel.  She shoutingly exclaimed that she could see her loved ones who had gone before.”  It’s a captivating etching with a sense of promise, a modern-day reminder that death opens the door to another life.

It’s unlikely I’ll learn the rest of John Joiner’s story anytime soon, but one day I hope to get a firsthand account.  If he doesn’t want to talk about it, I may ask Susan Carr.  I’d love to hear more about her short life and final moments.  She died 17 years before John Joiner when she was only 20.  Her crumbling marker is a mere 50 feet from his.  It’s possible she knows his story too.

I’ve been playing the piano since childhood, but it was only a few years ago that I learned the alma mater of Unadilla High School.  I didn’t have the sheet music and I’m limited as to what I’m able to play by ear.  It took a while, but I ended up with a simple rendition that suits my audience of one.

I’m not sure what prompted me to learn it at this late point.  I graduated in 1970 and Unadilla High School is long gone except for a brick building and the gym.  I began playing the alma mater after one of several UHS reunions that Dale Rackley organized.  I guess walking down memory lane with friends and classmates reminded me of that familiar song.

Our alma mater was a common tune, the same tender melody used by a thousand other schools.  When we sang it at basketball games it evoked a sense of unity and gratitude.  From young girls in pigtails to old men smoking Camels, it was the tie that helped bind our shared loyalty.

Someone told me that one of our teachers, Mrs. Irene Daniels, wrote the lyrics.  Whether that’s true I don’t know, but it elevated her to a revered status in my young eyes.  It never occurred to me to ask her about it.  Maybe it was a competition or perhaps she was simply asked to do the honors.  Its history is not important, I suppose, but I wish I knew more of the story.  Sometimes we wait too long to ask questions.

It may seem an odd song to enjoy playing, but it takes me down roads I still like to travel.  The surfaces weren’t perfect, but they were smooth enough to enjoy the ride.  I realize now that I learned a few things by dodging some potholes.  The best lessons sometimes come from the bumpy sections on the highway of life.

It seems that a few big events would be what stand out in long term recollections, but that’s often not the case with me.  There are instead assorted remembrances which are rather insignificant yet cling to a memory bank whose vault door is slightly ajar.

Sometimes I think about Paul McIntyre.  We were in the F.F.A. string band together for a couple of years.  Paul played the drums and bass guitar.  He was talented enough to later make a living in the music business. But the time I recall most clearly was our close encounter with fame.

At some point during high school Paul and I were in a wrestling class.  I think it was taught by Coach Stanley Copeland but that’s more of a guess than a fact.  It was part of the required Physical Education program.  We learned the proper techniques and rules of wrestling.  We didn’t have ropes to jump from or throw people over, just a big padded mat on the gym floor.

Paul and I were tall and skinny, appropriately matched as opponents.  Coach Copeland offered us a chance to compete at halftime of a boys’ basketball game.  The gymnasium was always packed with excited fans.  We were intrigued with the idea of being featured as the entertainment, but we faced an insurmountable problem.  Neither of us wanted to be the kid who got pinned in front of hundreds of witnesses.

We declined the offer, choosing instead the safety of the bleachers.  I don’t remember who Coach picked for the match, but when the crowd cheered and clapped we knew we’d made a mistake.  We had focused on the embarrassment of losing rather than the joy of competing.

I can’t say that experience cured me of the fear of failure, but it helped a bit.  Paul and I sat together and watched from the sidelines.  We regretted saying no to opportunity.

As long as memories like that are stored within the alma mater, I’ll keep playing it a while longer.  That simple song is like a vessel that’s overflowing with treasured faces, places, and times.  If you want to join in, you’re more than welcome.  The memories are even sweeter when others sing along.

“In the midst of Georgia’s southland looms a school so fair.  Unadilla through the ages we your treasures share.  UHS our alma mater true we’ll ever be.  Blue and white our loving colors ever hail to thee.”

My wife’s sister, Ellen, recently mentioned that a lot of my columns revolve around food.  I hadn’t thought about it, but I believe she’s on to something.  I have a thousand memories that involve food, and I can’t think of a single one that isn’t pleasant.  One of my favorites goes back to college days when four friends took a low budget weekend outing to Lake Blackshear.

It was the spring of 1971 when Don Giles, Dennis Mills, Mike Chason, and I pooled our resources for a two-night road trip.  We left the campus of Valdosta State College on a warm Friday afternoon, waiting of course until we had finished our homework assignments and returned any library books that were due.  We had seventeen dollars in the kitty, enough to buy gas for Dennis’ white Dodge Challenger and some grocery money.

Don’s parents owned a cabin at Lake Blackshear and had a ski boat that was begging for young riders.  We stopped in Cordele and purchased boloney, cheese, bread, mustard, and eggs, all the essentials for a wonderful weekend.  The baloney provided variety through tasty cold sandwiches or having it fried for breakfast.

We ate like kings until Sunday morning when our supplies were depleted.  Thankfully we still had four eggs and four slices of bread.  We reasoned it was enough to sustain us until we could make it to the V.S.C. cafeteria in time for supper.  Dennis buttered the toast while Mike ceremoniously distributed a single egg to each of us, cautioning that we handle them with care.

Don’s egg survived the transfer but soon met disaster.  It fell from his open palm and splattered like Humpty Dumpty amidst shouts of, “Scoop it up!  Scoop it up!”   We had postponed sweeping the floors that weekend, so Don refrained from what could have been a tempting situation.

As Don covered his egg with old newspaper, Mike began frying the other three.  Our memories differ as to what happened after that, and every time this story is told it changes a bit.  My three friends are not fully committed to factual recollections.

My remembrance is that I generously suggested we each share one third of an egg with our host and good friend, but Dennis strongly objected.  He was disturbed that Don would end up with a whole egg, leaving us with only two thirds.  I counter offered that we could each allot one fourth of an egg, noting that would provide an equal portion to everyone.

Dennis was silent.  He was struggling to check my math while anxiously searching for a somewhat honorable way out of his dilemma.  During that brief pause in the conversation, Mike seized the opportunity of a teachable moment.  He held up the spatula to indicate he had something important to say.  “If we share our eggs with Don,” he said, “he won’t learn from his carelessness.  But if we keep our eggs for ourselves, Don will understand that reckless behavior has consequences.”

Don and I had been good friends since the fourth grade at Unadilla Elementary School.  The thought of him having nothing but a slice of bread for breakfast tugged at my heart.  I realized, however, that Mike’s proposal was for Don’s long-term benefit.  And so it came to pass that three of us enjoyed our sumptuous breakfast, while Don nibbled at thin toast that once had been the end of a loaf.

We’ve laughed about that weekend much longer than could have been predicted.  Two years from now will mark its 50^th anniversary, a milestone that’s significant only to the four of us.

I guess Mike was right about teaching Don a lesson.  He hasn’t dropped a raw egg since then that we know of.  But there was a bigger lesson for all of us.  We were given a lasting reminder that special moments can surface without warning among friends.  If Don hadn’t dropped that egg, our weekend would have been far less memorable.  It’s a blessing when four aging friends can laugh about a little thing from their long-gone youth.  That’s reason enough to get together when we can.

We’re planning a reunion in Valdosta for 2020.  To be on the safe side, I’m taking an extra carton of eggs.  I can’t bear the thought of seeing Don’s hungry look again.  Sometimes that image still tugs at my heart.