Welcome to Joiner's Corner

A stack of scribbled notes keeps steadily growing on a bookshelf in our home. Occasionally one becomes a column. More often they languish in obscurity.

Bobby Harman’s name is buried somewhere deep in the pile. I planned to write a column titled “Run, Bobby, Run!” but waited too late to get the full story. Robert C. Harman, II, died unexpectedly on January 22, 2025, at age 79. 

Bobby was six grades ahead of me in school, so we didn’t have much interaction. Our paths didn’t cross much as adults either. When they did, though, the light-hearted banter was predictable. I’d ask if he still had blazing speed, sometimes suggesting we stage a challenge race. He’d grin and say he might be good for ten yards.

In the spring of 1963 Bobby won the 100-yard dash at the state track meet, then placed second in the 220. Details are posted online in the archives of the Georgia High School Association. 

Unadilla High was in the smallest category of schools – Class C. Bobby’s time of 10.2 seconds was top among his peers. I was surprised to learn he also outpaced the A, AA, and AAA winners. One runner, a Class B competitor, had a 10.1 time, but if they had raced Bobby might have found another gear. He’d been clocked at ten seconds flat. Winning that race made Bobby a star in his hometown, especially perhaps to us younger kids. 

I learned from his obituary that Bobby spent four years in the Air Force, 20 in the reserves, and 45 years as a volunteer fireman. It’s odd how you can know someone for decades without really knowing much about them.

He never sought attention, but I believe Bobby would be pleased that a big moment in his life has not been forgotten. My fifth-grade eyes saw him as a friendly hero, a good guy who came in first. That never changed.  

Bobby had a connection to another scribbled note that’s been in my stack too long. I never got around to writing a column about Judy Canova. At this point there are only a few people left who remember her. Fewer still would know the radio and film star pretended “Unadilly” was her hometown.   

She was a celebrity in the days when U.S.41 was filled with travelers. As they passed through Unadilla, many stopped for gas, food, and motor courts. Some were curious and would  inquire about Judy Canova’s childhood home. Perhaps it was an enterprising merchant who first directed them to the Harman property. However it began, the mischief was heartily embraced. 

The Harman home, which burned a few years ago, was just off Highway 41. It was a lovely, three-story house with white clapboard siding and steep gables, an impressive residence for a rural town and perfect for the harmless ruse.  

My father was a fan of Judy Canova. He described her as a Minnie Pearl type character who comedically entertained her radio audience. Long after her heyday, Daddy still found it amusing that countless tourists had admired the Harman house and enjoyed taking photographs. 

I wish I had sat down with Bobby and asked if there were any family stories about interactions with Judy Canova fans. Or maybe he would have recounted that long-ago day on the track when he took top honors. Or perhaps he would have shared something from his time in the Air Force, years spent serving our country that I never thanked him for. It’s my fault that never happened. Good intentions got buried in a stack of scribbled notes.  

Once upon a time Bobby Harman gave folks in his small town something big to celebrate. Although the lustre of trophies fades over time, I’ll bet Bobby never forgot the thrill of winning that race. His good friend Bo Dolph and other teammates no doubt cheered him on. And more than 60 years later, I’d venture a guess that Bobby could close his eyes and still hear them shouting. “Run, Bobby, Run! Run, Bobby, Run.”    

“Whiter than snow, yes, whiter than snow, Now wash me and I will be whiter than snow.” We sang that refrain from the green Broadman Hymnal many Sundays during my childhood at Harmony Baptist Church. Mr. Lee Williams, song leader for our small congregation, followed tradition by announcing we would sing the first, second, and last stanzas. It’s been said that the loneliest thing on earth is the third verse of a four-verse hymn.    

We’ve not sung “Whiter Than Snow” at Vienna First Baptist in recent years, but the hymns I grew up with often come to mind. That one broke free from the cobwebs of memory on Wednesday, January 22. I was taking a slow drive on country roads, admiring a rare sight of farmland blanketed in snow.

About six inches of snow accumulated in Dooly County the night before. Although I have no desire to live where that’s common, it was a charming oddity for South Georgia. Majestic beauty was enhanced by its temporary condition.  

I cautiously drove to my mother’s childhood home that morning, wanting to see the spring-fed stream and woods. It was an enchanting scene with snow clinging to trees and covering the tops of large rocks as water trickled by.   

What impressed me the most that day, though, were the open fields along the nearly abandoned roads, fields where cotton and peanuts had been harvested and everything was now hidden. The sun’s reflection off the snowy expanses was almost blinding. It caused me to ponder the chorus of that old hymn.

I’ve never thought much about those lyrics. They just seemed a poetic description of a white that’s beyond ordinary. Looking across those fields, though, I decided it might be more than that. I don’t know the story behind the hymn. Maybe it simply reflects King David’s plea in Psalm 51:7 to be made whiter than snow. But I wondered if James Nicholson had perhaps seen snow at its brightest, snow illuminated by reflecting the sun.

Several fields revealed no hint of what was below the white fluff. Everything was concealed. Then I rode past a farm where the stubble of decaying cotton stalks protruded a few inches above the pillowly layer. It reminded me of unconfessed sin.

My understanding is that salvation comes with a snow-white cleansing. Unfortunately that doesn’t stop us from sinning. The unconfessed sin in our lives is sort of like those cotton stalks, decaying matter which blemishes a perfect state.

Sin comes in many forms. Some we mostly agree are unacceptable and should always be avoided. Others are less obvious but just as serious, like seeing a brother in need and ignoring him. Or maybe our choices aren’t really bad, but they could be better.

Jimmy Carter wrote a book titled Why Not The Best? That’s a good question to ask ourselves in all life situations – work, home, and other areas. It’s a great question for examining our relationship with God. If we’re consistently giving him our best, we’ll be whiter than snow by reflecting the light of the Son. 

James Nicholson might be surprised to know his third verse has moved up a notch. The Baptist Hymnal, 1991 edition, omitted the original second stanza and put the third in its place. Perhaps someone thought it had been lonely too long. Or maybe a rogue congregation was caught flaunting the unwritten rules of Baptist hymnody by singing all four verses. Both stanzas are worthwhile, so I’ll close without showing favoritism.

“Lord Jesus, look down from Thy throne in the skies, And help me to make a complete sacrifice; I give up myself and whatever I know – Now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”

“Lord Jesus, for this I most humbly entreat, I wait, blessed Lord, at Thy crucified feet; By faith for my cleansing I see Thy blood flow – Now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Amen.

In the latter part of 2022 a Blue Heeler of unknown origin joined our family. She found the porch at the vacant house where my mother grew up, then charmed her way into our hearts. 

Harriet loved roaming the nearby woods, but paid no attention to property lines. A shotgun blast sent her limping home. That’s why she’s confined by a fence in our back yard.

It’s a nice setup with shade trees and a garage apartment, but a major downgrade from chasing deer and splashing through streams. That’s why I couldn’t refuse when she begged to wallow on an armadillo carcass. 

There are multiple theories why dogs love reprehensible matter. The most plausible seems they are masking their scent, a throwback to wolf ancestors who hunted for survival. Masking helped them sneak up on dinner. First though, here’s some background.

Armadillos relentlessly dig holes in our yard, so for much of the year I set traps, the humane kind of course. Captives are mercifully ushered into the hereafter with a long-barrel 22 pistol. I’m no Matt Dillon but have an almost perfect record from eight inches. The only exception is when I fired four blanks.

Some loose cartridges had been left in an abandoned house on our farm. I didn’t realize they were lead free until that armadillo began doing the hokey pokey. Later I used the faux ammo to scare pigeons from roosting under our farm shelter, but that didn’t work for long. Birdbrains may be underrated.     

I haul the dead armadillos down a makeshift road through planted pines and toss them in a small clearing. It’s like a food truck for coyotes. When I return after consecutive nights of successful trapping, nothing remains except the shell. There have not been enough leftovers to attract buzzards.

When Harriet and I take walks in the warmer seasons we don’t go near the armadillo graveyard. It’s grassy and I have snake allergies. But after I closed the traps for winter and the grass had died back, she tugged on her leash and I followed.

The first carcass she came to was like finding the vault at Estee Lauder. She spent ten minutes rolling on her back absorbing the fragrance. She’d get up and sniff, then paw the shell lightly or tug with her teeth and return to rolling. As we ventured deeper into the graveyard, other carcasses were not quite as appealing. Harriet stuck with that routine for several weeks, sometimes testing other remains while gradually reducing her roll time. Quick sniffs are now the norm.

That’s probably more than anybody wants to know about such matters, but as Harriet was masking her scent, it occurred to me that people do a similar thing. I’m not talking about camouflaged hunters. That’s another story. I’m thinking of how as Christians we mask our faith to blend in with the world.

Mr. Emmett Stephens of Vienna was known for his clever takes on life. One of the jewels he shared in his latter years was, “I’ve finally gotten old enough to stop setting a bad example and start giving good advice.” Among the many ways I have set a bad example, blending in may be the most common.

There’s no need for a list of how Christians mask our faith. It ranges from outrageous conduct to the silence of timidity. There’s not much benefit, however, in dwelling on yesterday’s mistakes. What’s more important is today.

Harriet loves masking her scent and that’s okay with her pretend master. Masking our faith, however, is not okay with the one, true Master. I don’t know if it makes God angry, sad, or disappointed. What I do know is that he loves us enough he’ll forgive us if we ask. 

When Peter heard the cock crow the third time, he remembered what Jesus had told him. Thankfully that wasn’t the end of his story. It was a new beginning. No matter how many times we’ve heard the cock crow, we can make a fresh start. 

Sometimes I still set a bad example, but I’m confident today that I’m giving good advice.  

The top item on my bucket list has been revised: “To write something worthwhile that will outlive me.” The “outlive me” addition is not really new, just previously undisclosed. It’s embarrassing to confess vanity.

To be clear though, I’m too slow to chase fame. My wish involves future descendants, the ones I won’t meet. I’d love to think something I wrote might connect us. 

Making a bucket list is not easy for me. Jane and I aren’t keen on traveling, so that rules out the Seven Wonders of the World. Maybe we’ll go to The Little Grand Canyon in Lumpkin. We could leave after breakfast, pack a sandwich, and get home to walk the dog before the six o’clock news. We’ll skip travel today and consider other possibilities.

Invent something simple and fun – When the Hula Hoop came along, I was amazed that plastic rings quickly encircled the world. There have been other such items: paddle balls, marbles, and balsa wood airplanes come to mind. I’m a fan of simplicity.

Expand my palate – I love to eat, but wish I enjoyed more foods. Broccoli is a good example. It is alleged to offer health benefits, but to me the smell is not appealing, plus President George H. W. Bush didn’t like it and I trusted him.  

Tomatoes on the other hand captivated me as a youngster. They looked great on a plate and my parents loved them. I began with small bites of not-quite-ripe tomato smothered in salt and became addicted. Full disclosure: Broccoli was not served at our house, nor was its less offensive cohort, asparagus.

Don Giles sometimes reminds me of the first time we saw asparagus. A lady in the cafeteria line at Valdosta State College was doling out the odd-looking fare. “What’s that?” Don asked with a dubious smile. I had no idea. My experience with exotic foods was limited to the omelets at Allstate Truck Stop in Unadilla.  

I really do want to expand my food options, but my taste buds are not adventurous. Maybe I’ll start with desserts.  

Find a cure for tinnitus – I don’t plan to delve into science. That would be like Jethro Bodeen’s quest to become a brain surgeon. I’m just hoping to learn there’s a remedy.

A month after my seventy-second birthday I began hearing high-pitched tones. It’s quite annoying and most treatments are mere distractions. If anyone submits a sure cure for tinnitus to Joiner’s Corner, you’ll be awarded the grand prize of our next major drawing. I haven’t yet decided which major to draw, perhaps Major Tom.   

Skip a rock five times – Three skips are easy with the right rock and four is attainable, but I can’t hit five even in my dreams. I’ve enjoyed skipping rocks since childhood, inspired by Opie Taylor tossing  a stone into a fishing hole. 

Learn to carve – I can already whittle a stick into something that resembles a pencil. That skill also came from watching The Andy Griffith Show and the whittling men of Mayberry. When it comes to serious carving though, I can’t make anything mantle worthy.

James Woodward recommended a good book, and gave me a carving block along with a wooden knife and an arrow he’d made. I read the book but put the block on a shelf. I may leave it there because it reminds me that life is like that block in some ways. The choices we make help shape who we are.

That’s enough bucket list items for now. I’m earnestly working on the first one, but don’t know if I’ll ever write something worthwhile that will outlive me. Here’s something I do know. The carving block of life always needs attention.

If we whittle without divine guidance we’ll eventually fail. Even our best efforts will only yield temporary satisfaction. The shaping strokes which offer lasting rewards are those where God holds the knife and we don’t interfere.

Perhaps a bigger blessing is that no matter how bad we mangle our blocks, God can turn them into something beautiful. Each new day we have choices to make. He leaves it up to us who will hold the knife.   

It’s Christmastime in Georgia. An old man walks alone.

Somehow the man reminds me of someone I have known.

He picks a can from the roadside and puts it in his sack.

It takes a lot of effort to straighten up his back.

I wonder what to say to him, or even should I speak.

Unless I turn the other way in a moment we will meet.

Silently I walk along, staring at the ground.

Perhaps if I ignore him, he’ll just walk around.

I can tell that he’s a beggar, probably drifting through.

The stranger needs some help, but that’s not mine to do.

I almost make it past him, when much to my surprise,

the old man says, “Hello son, may I give you some advice?”

“If you want to please The Shepherd, you have to feed His sheep,

give water to the thirsty, and wash your brothers’ feet.

And at Christmastime in Georgia, if a haggard man walks slow,

remember son, he may be one you’re supposed to know.” 

His voice was filled with kindness, so I took no offense.

I wished that I could help him, but had nothing left unspent.

He turned and walked away, before I could even speak.

That’s when I saw his tattered bag, resting at my feet.

“Hey Mister,” I called out, “you forgot to take your sack.”

“Keep it,” he said cheerfully, briefly looking back.

There were gifts for all our children, my wife, and dearest friends.

The last box had a tag with my name written in.

We placed the newfound star atop our tree that night

to tenderly remind us of The Blessed Christmas Light.  

A note came with the star, a scripture proven true.

“Merry Christmas,” it was signed. “Hebrews 13:2.”       

“Be not forgetful to entertain strangers:

 for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.”

Three homegrown heroes were the focus of this year’s Unadilla Lions Club’s Veterans Day Program. The Dooly County natives distinguished themselves in World War II, and much later joined the centenarian club. For a county of 12,000 people, that’s beyond ordinary.

I felt honored to share some comments at the observance. Here’s a condensed version of my inadequate, though heartfelt, tribute.

During childhood it escaped me that real-life heroes were living quiet lives in Dooly County. I knew some locals had served in the military, but it didn’t occur to me they were heroes. It didn’t occur to me to thank them or perhaps listen to their stories. 

Bo Dolph deserves credit for helping preserve Mrs. Lucille Welch’s wartime experience. He visited the 101-year-old Pinehurst resident not long before her death on July 16, 2024. Her husband, Frank Welch, was stationed at Pearl Harbor as a civil servant. She was a telephone operator.

December 6, 1941. The young couple went to the dock that evening where the Navy vessels were anchored. She commented how pretty and white the neatly aligned ships looked.  

The following morning, December 7th, her next-door neighbor told her Pearl Harbor was being bombed and the Navy was asking for medical assistance. Dr. Zane, a Chinese physician, didn’t have a pass to go on base, so she went with him.

She had no medical training and he had no equipment. They didn’t even have water for the wounded or blankets to cover the dead, but spent 36 hours at a makeshift station near the USS Arizona doing what they could. They watched the Arizona as it sank. She wasn’t a veteran, but aided those in need with uncommon valor.

Mr. George W. Jordan of Vienna, age 105, drove trucks in Okinawa. Transportation was a common assignment for black soldiers in a segregated military.

On September 23, 1942, he was inducted into the Army. Basic training was at Ft. Benning, Georgia, where he was assigned to a Service Battalion. From there he went to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, and trained for Truck Transportation.

Ft. Lewis, Washington, was his last stop before Hawaii. In Hawaii he learned to swim, then boarded one of 65 ships bound for Japan. During the Battle of Okinawa he served with the Quartermaster Truck Company which moved supplies, fuel, and munitions to the front line. Standing orders were to abandon a vehicle quickly if it broke down. Japanese soldiers were adept at hiding and seizing opportunities. Hesitation could have grave consequences.

For nine months he drove twelve-hour shifts daily. Except for refueling and maintenance, the trucks ran day and night. That tidbit of history gave me a greater appreciation for those in supporting roles which often garner little recognition.

Honorably discharged on February 29, 1946, George Jordan achieved the rank of Technical Five (Corporal) and earned four medals; the Good Conduct Medal, Asiastic Pacific Medal, American Service Medal, and the World War II Victory Medal.

Mr. Charles Speight, 102, spent two years at the University of Georgia, then took a year off before joining the Naval Air Corps. He reported for duty in January of 1943. World War II was in progress and would later claim the life of his brother, Amory Speight, Jr., who died in France. 

Flight training lasted eight months in Corpus Christi, Texas. He left there for Melbourn, Florida, but stopped by Unailla and married his sweetheart, Patsy Holliman, on July 2, 1944.

The pilot training he received only included one practice launch of his F6F Hellcat Fighter. His second launch was from the USS Lexington aircraft carrier. It was the first of 72 missions he flew over Japan and the first time fighter planes were sent to Tokyo. He received two Distinguished Flying Crosses, five Air Medals, and two Presidential Unit Citations.

As a child I had no idea there were heroes living quiet lives in Dooly County. These belated attempts to thank them are inadequate, but infused with heartfelt appreciation. Thank you for going when our country called, and thank you for coming back home.

May God bless our veterans and others who serve our country. May God bless America.    

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth.” Genesis 1:1 is a foundational scripture for Christianity. Regardless of denomination, we share a consensus as to the Who of creation. The how and when, however, are subject to debate, even within each group.

Scripture and science are sometimes challenging to reconcile, so the Christian position has often been one of silence. Perhaps, however, such avoidance has contributed to the decline of today’s church. Kids with unanswered questions eventually stop asking, or they seek answers elsewhere. 

My opinion, which is admittedly fallible, is that Christians should not shy away from respectful discussion on such topics. I believe it’s a disservice to fellow believers and potential believers if we refuse to acknowledge there is room for differing views. When it comes to creation one thing is certain. We don’t know what we don’t know.

In 1 Timothy 4:7 Paul cautions against arguing over things which don’t matter. My intent is not to promote useless debate nor to pretend I have insightful explanations. I believe, however, there are benefits to having honest and amicable conversations.

Creation is something I’ve long considered writing about but have been hesitant to address. I’m not qualified to explain theology or science, so I encourage you to make your own prayerful examination. Here is a sampling of things to ponder. 

An article in The Macon Telegraph prompted this column. The story was about Ocmulgee Mounds, a settlement of Native Americans considered to be 12,000 to 18,000 years old. If those dates are correct, how does that fit in with Genesis’ account of mankind which totals roughly 6,000 years and occurred in another part of the world? 

As Christians I believe it’s important we don’t shy away from questions such as, “How old is man?” Artifacts, presumably man-made, have been dated to tens of thousands of years ago. Human fossils have been discovered from much earlier periods. I have no idea as to the accuracy of such dating, but it’s a discussion people of faith should participate in rather than shun.

Genesis includes the story of Cain being punished for taking his brother Abel’s life. As God sends him away from his presence, Cain expresses fear of being killed by those he would encounter. We’re not given details about who Cain was afraid of, so it’s reasonable to ask how and when they got there. 

The Nephilim, mentioned in the sixth chapter of Genesis, are an intriguing group. Verse 4 reads, “The Nephilim were on earth in those days – and also afterward – when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them.” Some believe the Nephilim were fallen angels. I don’t know if that’s the case, but they apparently had human traits. The Nephilim don’t tie in with the biblical story of creation, but could they account for archaeological finds dated to earlier times?

Dinosaurs are another timeline enigma. Scholars generally agree they roamed the earth from 66 to 245 million years ago, which doesn’t align with a creation measured in thousands of years. When Christians maintain it does, I believe it damages our credibility. Faith is not dependent on what is provable, but should never be dismissive of what is factual.    

I’m not trying to change anyone’s beliefs about creation. The point I’m hoping to make is that Christians should engage in constructive dialogue rather than avoiding it, or giving defensive responses which don’t invite further discussion. 

My personal view is that Genesis is entirely reliable, but was not intended to be a complete account of what God has done over eons of time. Otherwise we have archaeological findings which are inexplicable, plus the rather untenable situation of brothers and sisters having children together. 

I believe God is the creator and sustainer of everything – past, present, and future. I consider it an immeasurable blessing that Genesis reveals man was made in God’s image. My full confidence and faith are in The Who of creation. If, however, we consider the how and when of creation with open minds along with open Bibles, there is one thing that is certain. We don’t know what we don’t know.        

Although I spent 35 years in banking, I’ve refrained from using this column to expound upon the world of high finance. That’s mostly because I don’t know much about it. It’s also because my interest in such matters has declined, an attitude shift slyly predicted in a tee shirt pun from long ago. We’ll get to the tee shirt later, but first here are a few thoughts on something I do know a little about – the not-so-high world of personal finance. 

One rule you can bank on is jewelry is rarely a good investment. I’m not anti-jewelry, unless it’s stuck through your face, nose, tongue, or such. I’m just saying if you pay retail then try to resale you won’t do well. A loan request made at Bank of Dooly several decades ago illustrates the point.

A chipper young man came in with a diamond ring he’d purchased at a chain jewelry store. He wanted to pledge it as collateral, leave it with me, and borrow half its worth. An appraisal from the seller showed a $6000 value. As I politely explained that we didn’t loan money on jewelry, he insisted there was no way the bank could lose.

Thinking it might be a teachable moment, I told him if he’d get a letter stating how much the jewelry store would pay the bank in the event of default I would reconsider. He returned after being told their company policy didn’t allow them to repurchase jewelry they had sold. The appraisal reflected what they might allow as a trade-in on an upgrade. 

There’s nothing wrong with buying jewelry if you can afford it. It is, however, generally a terrible investment. The folks who said, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” were selling diamonds.  

Another reliable rule of personal finance is an old one – “A penny saved is a penny earned.” The Macon Telegraph recently reminded me of that axiom. 

I grew up reading The Telegraph and have subscribed to it for almost 50 years. We switched to the online version in 2023 to save money, but the monthly premium kept creeping up. When it reached $38.99 per month Jane and I discussed discontinuing it.

Our smart phones must have been listening to us. I began getting emails offering a one-year subscription for $79.99, which equates to $6.67 per month. I logged onto their website, but the best rate for an existing subscriber was $26.80 per month. I opted for the reduced rate, then complained to my wife their pricing seemed unfair. 

She agreed and called their toll-free number to ask about the $79.99 offer. The fellow said that rate was for new customers only. It wasn’t available to loyal subscribers who had paid full retail for five decades. He did, however, agree to a promotional rate of $19.99 per month. Her persistence led to a second offer of $15.99 per month. They finally settled on $12.99.

Thanks to my wife’s call we should save $312 over the next year. That’s enough to pay for the towable wagon I gave her for her birthday. The wagon is a fine addition to our yard equipment. It holds 15 cubic feet of pine straw and her mower easily pulls it.

It was frustrating that as a long-time Telegraph subscriber we had to jump through hoops to get a better rate. But a penny saved is a penny earned, and pennies add up to dollars.   

I’ll close with some sage financial advice of unknown origin – “Spend less than you make.” That’s not always easy and sometimes almost impossible. If you embrace that way of thinking, however, you can occasionally reward yourself with something special. 

Jane, for example, has another surprise coming. I’m building wooden side bodies from salvaged lumber for her small wagon. This will increase its carrying capacity by almost 50 percent. I may even add a secure compartment for storing her Timex and other fine jewelry.

That’s all I’ll cover for now about the world of personal finance. It’s possible I’ll share some additional thoughts later, as I hope to be around for a long time. Such longevity was noted in that tee shirt message I saw early in my career. I feel confident about it because the last half of the quip has already come true. “Old bankers never die. They just lose interest.”

It’s been almost two years since I passed the three-score and ten mark. Other milestones have not had much effect on my attitude, but the seventies unexpectedly became a more sobering mark. That’s partly because of a too-honest mirror. The kid I used to catch a glimpse of has left the building.   

I’ve had some remarkable examples of graceful aging among family and friends. For reasons I don’t fully understand, I’ve not embraced this phase of life as well as they have. I’m glad to be on the train, but wondering how it got to the station so quickly.  

One benefit of the journey, however, is that I’ve learned a few things along the way. An insight came this past spring after an inguinal hernia put a kink in my routine. As pain in the hinterlands sidelined my usual activities, the frustration of forced relaxation led to an epiphany: I was better at being young.

All hernias are not created equal, I’ve discovered. A small one developed on my right side several years ago and remained inconsequential. There was no discomfort and only a tiny bulge. It bordered a faded appendectomy scar I’ve had since the third-grade.

Dr. Baker took out my appendix at Taylor Regional Hospital in Hawkinsville. We kept it in a brown jar of alcohol under our farm shelter for a long time. It didn’t occur to me until later it would have made good fish bait. 

That childhood surgery has been mostly forgotten except for two memories. One is the smell of ether in the soaked gauze they placed over my nose.

Ether was the standard anesthesia in the 1950s and I inhaled with great appreciation. I had watched enough westerns to know the other options were a swig of whiskey or clenching a bullet with your teeth. As a Southern Baptist I would have had to bite the bullet.  

The other thing I remember about my short hospital stay is a reprimand from an elderly nurse, an ancient woman probably well into her 50s. After I was stitched up and wheeled to private quarters, I snuck out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door. An eight-year-old boy needs his privacy.

When the nurse came to check on me, she attempted a forced entry but thankfully had no key. She threatened to accompany me the next time unless I promised to leave the door unlocked. I agreed to her terms but my fingers were crossed. I’d have rather bled to death.

Medical science says the appendix is a useless organ. My thinking is it works like a book appendix and that’s why I have no sense of direction. I’ve been lost on countless highways, campuses, and even inside buildings. It’s frustrating at times, but also interesting.

In the late 1980s a meeting for Georgia bankers was held at a hotel in north Atlanta on Highway 41. Because of my directional challenges, I got off I75 south of the city and took the historic route. I ended up on a dead-end street of abandoned warehouses, waving at people who didn’t wave back. 

After a hasty U-turn, I stopped at a florist and ordered the cheapest arrangement they would deliver to the hotel. Following their pink van was a piece of cake. I would have arrived on time if they hadn’t made two other stops. 

I’m glad to report the hernia surgery worked out splendidly. Dr. Alicia Register at Crisp Regional has expertly repaired three ailing members of the John Bonner Sunday School Class at First Baptist Vienna. If you want to run faster and jump higher, visit us for two consecutive Sundays and you’ll qualify for a referral.

Maybe one day I’ll cover a few more things I’ve learned along the way. Meanwhile, feel free to offer suggestions on how to approach the aging process with more enthusiasm. I really miss that kid in the mirror. He left sooner than expected and didn’t even say goodbye. 

There’s a lot I’m unsure of about this latter phase of life, but one thing I can say with certainty: I was better at being young.

George Washington Jordan is among the most senior of World War II veterans. The 105-year-old Dooly County native drove trucks in Okinawa while serving in the Army. Transportation was a common assignment for black soldiers in a segregated military. 

Despite the sobering circumstances of war, I have no doubt Mr. George approached military service the same way he has lived – with quiet dignity and an easy smile. I’ve known him almost 50 years and can testify to his exceptional character and gracious demeanor.  

In some ways he’s unchanged from when we first met – still slender and affable. His mobility, though, is now limited and hearing loss is severe. One of his children, Nathan Jordan, offered me a small dry-erase board to write questions on.    

“That was so long ago,” said Mr. George while trying to recall wartime accounts. He remembers a lot from those days but details are fading, some of them perhaps for the best.

Born April 15, 1919, on the Morgan Farm near Vienna, a mention of childhood evoked pleasant excitement. He enjoyed talking about plowing with mules as a teenager, sharing how the mules would shift directions on commands of gee and haw. 

As a young man he joined the civil service and moved to Jonesboro, Georgia, to help build the Atlanta General Depot. That job ended when Uncle Sam gave him a new one. On September 23, 1942, he was inducted into the United States Army. Basic training was at Ft. Benning, Georgia, where he was assigned to a Service Battalion. From there he went to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, and trained in Truck Transportation.

Winter was cold in Ft. Bragg, especially when sleeping on the ground. “I like to froze to death,” he said with a grin, before relating an experience he now finds amusing. A young soldier he was sharing a tent with put his own shoes outside that night and couldn’t find them the next morning. We changed topics before I learned how that story ended.    

Ft. Lewis, Washington, was his last stop before Hawaii. In Hawaii he learned to swim, then boarded one of 65 ships bound for Japan. During the Battle of Okinawa he served with the Quartermaster Truck Company which moved supplies, fuel, and munitions to the front line. Standing orders were to abandon a vehicle quickly if it broke down. Japanese soldiers were adept at hiding and seizing opportunities. Hesitation could have grave consequences.

An ongoing challenge was a shortage of truck drivers. They were supposed to have three drivers per truck but only had two covering 24-hour shifts. Except for refueling and maintenance, they ran day and night for nine months. That tidbit of history gave me a better appreciation for supporting roles which often garner little recognition.   

Honorably discharged on February 29, 1946, Mr. George achieved the rank of Technical Five (Corporal) and earned four medals: the Good Conduct Medal, Asiatic Pacific Medal, American Service Medal, and the World War II Victory Medal.

Because his formal education ended after fifth grade, Nathan said his dad was amazed that he married a school teacher, a young lady from Miami, Florida, he met at church. Mr. George and his late wife, Leona, raised four children and lost a daughter at age two. 

Nathan volunteered for the Air Force at 17, but he’s appreciative of the sacrifices his parents made for two siblings who chose to attend college. His father sometimes held three and four jobs so their degrees would come without debt. Hard work helped pave the way for an industrial engineer and a registered nurse.

After 22 years in the Air Force, Nathan returned to Vienna. The former air-traffic controller launched a new career, still ongoing, with the City of Vienna’s Public Works Department. He excels at his job, but my deepest admiration is for the work being done on a higher plane. When his father needed more assistance with daily living, Nathan welcomed him into his home.     

Mr. George deserves accolades for serving his country, and for being a longtime blessing to his community. Perhaps his greatest accomplishment, however, is the godly example he set for his children. The tender care he now receives gives evidence of a beloved father. 

At 105 years of age a lot of things have changed, but those most important are still the same. George Washington Jordan lives as he always has, with quiet dignity and an easy smile.