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I don’t know when Willie Nelson will sing his final song. One that I just heard makes me think it won’t be long.

Willie was born April 29, 1933. He’s had a remarkable career and at 92 is still touring the country in his bus. He shuffles slowly across stages now then takes a seat to perform. The strong, clear voice of earlier days has lost its luster. That’s all to be expected, I suppose, but a song I heard in early March left me wondering if he was saying goodbye.

The red-headed stranger has brought us some melancholy classics, like “Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain” and “Ain’t it Funny How Time Slips Away.” But it seemed a personal plea as I listened to him singing “Keep Me In Your Heart.” 

Willie’s wrinkled whisper caused me to question why he would release this late-in-life recording. I figured maybe he wanted to let folks know he’s getting close to leaving the stage.    

Thousands of songs have been written by Willie, so I thought this was probably another one. I found out later it was by Warren Devon, a rock singer and songwriter who died in 2003. Devon wrote and recorded it after being told he was dying. That helps explain its most touching line, “Keep me in your heart for a while.” 

Death has been called the great equalizer, an acknowledgment that whatever we accumulate can’t be taken with us. It’s been aptly stated, “You never see a U-Haul behind a hearse.” The point is valid, although I can testify to an exception.

It was probably ten or more years ago. I was going through Pinehurst and stopped where Fullington Avenue intersects with US Highway 41. A hearse passed by going south and right behind it was a U-Haul Truck. The timing may have been an amusing coincidence, but my guess was they were moving furniture, family heirlooms perhaps. That scene came to mind as I pondered Devon’s compelling line.

A few days after I first heard “Keep Me in Your Heart” some men from our church cleaned up an abandoned cemetery. It had been out of view for ages and only has four graves with markers. In the 1800s it was the site of Mt. Bezor, a Baptist congregation that was later renamed Providence and relocated to Vienna as First Baptist Church.

James Stallings Beale was a member of that early congregation. Mr. Beale donated land for First Baptist as well as for our Methodist neighbors. He also gave $150 towards the new church building and collected funds from others. Most contributed small amounts. One of my ancestors, Rev. Larkin Joiner, gave a single dollar and had lots of company.

Mr. Beale’s granite monument is 15 feet tall. I’d love to know what it cost, where it came from, and how they managed to transport it to the cemetery in 1858. It’s very impressive, yet for decades was hidden by the bushes, trees, and vines that claim untended places. It reminded me of how easily people, even prominent ones, can be forgotten. And it caused me to once again reflect on that lovely, somber line.

I don’t know if Willie Nelson was saying goodbye or not. It could be that he felt others needed to hear that tender appeal. Warren Devon expressed what most of us hope for but rarely put into words. Sometimes we don’t know how. Or we wait too long and time slips away.

Here’s what I do know. It’s not monuments that really matter or how full the U-Haul may be. What we hope for, I believe, is to be warmly remembered after our final song. So I’ll close with a borrowed plea that says it rather perfectly. “Keep me in your heart for a while.” 

Man cave is a relatively new expression. A 1992 edition of The Toronto Star has been credited with its first published use. Generally it refers to an enclosed space where a man’s routines are not unduly influenced by his wife’s input. The previous word for that was grave.

The nuances of cave life are many, so I’m not claiming to have found the perfect man cave for everyone. From a country boy’s view, however, I’ve seen a place that comes real close.  

Al Willis, a friend for many years, transformed an old storage shed into a side-yard haven. It’s a place to work, visit with a neighbor, or just do some pondering.

My purpose in going to see Al had nothing to do with man caves. I didn’t know he had one. What I went to see was a shallow well he dug unconventionally. Our family enjoys going to a picnic area in the woods near my mother’s childhood home. A working hand pump would be a splendid addition. Unlike some of my projects, I sought advice before beginning. 

YouTube videos show various ways of digging shallow wells. One man added extensions to a hand-turned auger to drill through the earth. If I start tomorrow we might hit water during my lifetime. Another fellow drove a pointed pipe into the ground with a sledge hammer. That could work, depending on how big a hammer Jane can swing.   

Another method placed a water hose in a pipe and let the faucet wallow out a hole. That was okay in Florida’s sandy soil but I’m dealing with limerock. Al’s technique was similar but more forceful. He used an air compressor along with a pressure washer to boil the dirt up. But wells are a deep subject and incidental for today’s column. What impressed me more than the well was his man cave.

It was my first time drinking coffee made on a wood-burning stove. I figured Al was boiling water for instant fare, but he brews old-style with a cobalt blue percolator. The dual-purpose stove also warms the room on wintry days.

His man cave is big enough for a work space and a couple of chairs. The walls are filled with things he likes to collect. Nothing is fancy. Decor is based on an earlier era. The antique irons are the kind that were heated in fireplaces, heavy black irons which outlived the women who used them. They blend nicely with cast iron skillets and pans, one of which his grandmother made cornbread in. Tender memories, seasoned with love, still simmer in the sturdy cookware.  

He has utensils, sausage grinders, wooden bowls, and such. An old item which was new to me was a round emery rock with a hand-crank, designed for sharpening blades of farm implements. The portable sharpener can be clamped to a flat surface for field use. 

Not far from the building is a 1946 Farmall tractor used for mowing grass plus tilling his garden. It doesn’t have a three-point hitch so he customized a plow. Just behind his hideaway is a red hand pump that’s mounted atop his self-dug well.  

Al and I had a great visit and he invited me to come again. I hope to do that before long. The coffee was smooth, the atmosphere welcoming, and the conversation easy. I suppose there’s no such thing as the perfect man cave for everyone, but from a country boy’s view I’d say Al Willis has a place that comes real close.

Other men might change it a tad. That’s not necessarily good or bad. But all would concede that a simple man cave is far more appealing than the finest of graves. Most wives, I believe, would surely agree, but with a smile some would say, “May he rest in peace.”

My last column focused on wayward spiritual steps. Today we’ll consider more down to earth matters. These are just three of many possibilities. Steps to nowhere are all around us.

Let’s begin with the wasted steps of going in circles. Mable, a brown mare from early childhood, is a good example. The aged horse had retired from the circus but not her circular routines.

Mable treated the pasture like a show ring. Riding her was like being on a merry-go-round. The only exception was when she had company. When Bryce Bledsoe rode his horse over to our place one day, Mable pleasantly surprised me by running beside Red. As soon as Red left, however, Mable corralled my dreams of becoming a cowboy. 

Albert Einstein reportedly said, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results.” That seems akin to going in circles. Mable and I could have enjoyed countryside romps, but she refused to change. Sometimes it’s easier to do the same thing rather than the sane thing.  

Laziness is another set of wasted steps. Once again, a horse from childhood helped teach me a lesson. Chief was a fine-looking Appaloosa, but noticeably pudgy when he came to our farm. His sagging belly should have tipped us off that he wasn’t a fan of running. Chief was slower than an old opossum on a midnight stroll.

After weeks of trying to coax him to hasten his pace, I braided orange baler twine into a homemade riding whip. I was determined to establish who was in charge and that’s sort of what happened. Thankfully I jumped off as he dropped to his knees, just before he rolled on to his side. That followed an attempt to crush my leg against a tree. He was not intimidated by soft twine.

Years ago Daddy told me a story about laziness that dates back to the early days of farming, the era of mules and hand tools. A local fellow, whose name I’ve long forgotten, was relaxing on his front porch in a rocking chair, unconcerned about the abundant weeds competing with his young cotton. 

A well-intentioned neighbor stopped by, hoping to encourage some much-needed effort. “I believe that nutgrass is going to eat you up,” he said to his friend. “It may,” replied the man, “but it’ll have to come up here on the porch and get me.” The level steps of laziness require little effort and offer commensurate rewards.           

We’ll close with indecision as a third step to nowhere. I heard a story at a bank convention years ago that illustrates the point.

When a car ran out of gas on a busy California freeway the driver coasted to the roadside. He saw a nearby station but there were 16 lanes of traffic to navigate. The fellow nervously tried to cross the busy highway several times, but kept retreating as vehicles approached. 

A long, black Cadillac pulled over to the side of the road. Its heavily-tinted driver’s window was slowly lowered. Much to the man’s surprise a giant squirrel was behind the steering wheel. The squirrel peered over the top of his sunglasses and looked the man in the eyes. “It’s not as easy as it looks is it?” The steps of indecision mostly go back and forth, keeping us right where we are.

I’m out of space and unsure how to end this column. Maybe that’s evidence of indecision. Or perhaps my inclination to close without more effort suggests a lazy approach to writing. Whatever the case may be, I feel like I’m going in circles. 

As a former pastor, Al Cadenhead, often said as he concluded his sermons, “That brings us back to where we started.” Whether the matters are spiritual or more down to earth, one thing is for certain. Steps to nowhere are all around us.  

For several years I’ve been driving down US Highway 41 to Cordele on Friday mornings. Since the purpose of my trips is to get allergy shots, there’s a road sign just north of town I find amusing – CONGESTED AREA. 

Another scene on those short outings inspires more serious ponderings. A small lot on 5th Street North has enough paving for five vehicles, plus cement bumpers to mark the spaces. What draws my attention, however, is a set of concrete steps with a handrail beside them. I call them the steps to nowhere.   

An office was once there, I assume, then moved or torn down. The steps no longer serve their intended purpose, but I find them useful. They remind me of the importance of choosing our steps wisely.

Multiple lessons could be considered, but today’s musings are about taking spiritual steps in the wrong direction. Let’s focus on envy, a wayward step which gets little attention. That thought surfaced as our men’s Sunday School class was studying Genesis. It had never occurred to me that envy is a repetitive storyline in the first book of the Bible.

Envy was an initial step toward the original sin, or maybe it is the original sin. Satan convinced Eve that eating the forbidden fruit would make her like God. Being envious of God led to the next errant step, disobedience. And disobedience caused the first couple to be cast out of the Garden of Eden into the land of gnats, rats, and pigweed. Envy can be costly.        

In mankind’s second generation, Cain was envious of his brother Abel. Cain was angry that his sibling’s offering found favor with God while his was unacceptable. Envy led to anger, which led to murder, which led to foolishly trying to deceive God. “Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked, pretending he didn’t know Abel’s whereabouts.   

Joseph is notable as a target of envy in early scripture. His ten brothers were so resentful of Joseph’s favorite-son status most of them wanted to kill him. He was sold into slavery by his brothers, then taken to Egypt where God miraculously elevated him to a place of power. Joseph’s position allowed him to later rescue his family, including his once conniving brothers, from famine. If not for divine intervention, however, Joseph would have been a tragic casualty of envy.   

Genesis has multiple accounts of envious behavior, but one of the best-known biblical examples is found in Psalms. King David’s affair with Bathsheba shows the common occurrence of envy leading to additional sinful steps. David coveted another man’s wife, so he sent for Bathsheba and slept with her. When David learned she was pregnant, he tried to hide his sin by having her husband, Uriah, killed on the battlefield. Envy led to adultery then to murder.

Envy is just one example of the dangers of taking a wayward step on our spiritual journeys. One sinful step often leads to another. The longer we stay on the broad path of disobedience, the less likely we are to seek the narrow path of redemption.

Temptation comes in many forms. Envy just seemed a good thought starter to prompt some individual reflection. The steps we take reflect the choices we make.      

Wayward steps don’t seem all that risky at first. The handrail beside them is deceptively assuring. But they all lead toward a CONGESTED AREA, a place where nothing is amusing.

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.