Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Larry Walker of Perry recently introduced me to a longtime friend of his, Mr. Foster Rhodes.  Foster’s name is already familiar well beyond his home area of Houston County.  Hundreds of thousands of people have visited or passed by the Foster Rhodes Beef & Dairy Arena at the Georgia National Fairgrounds.  Many others know him through the Walker-Rhodes tractor dealership where he’s been hanging his hat since 1974.

But Larry didn’t invite me to Perry to discuss the decades that Foster has spent in business, or to talk about his commendable history of community service.  I went to Perry to hear a story that Larry knew I would enjoy, and to meet the man who tells it much better than I can write it.  If you see Foster, I don’t think he would mind giving you a first-hand account.

I published a recent column titled “A Flat Tire Memory.”  It was about a livestock show from my high school days in the late 1960’s.  Larry read it and was reminded of a story from Foster’s early career with the Extension Service of the University of Georgia.  After working a year or so in Houston County and then Soperton, Foster spent five years in Athens as the Extension’s beef cattle expert.  That was in the early 1970’s, a time when almost every county had some sort of fair or livestock show.  Foster judged cattle all over Georgia, something he had the ability to do with confidence.

The challenging part of judging often followed the main event.  There would be competitions for such things as chickens, pigeons, ducks, and rabbits.  The Extension specialists usually had no qualifications to judge these locally flavored contests, but their help was heavily solicited.  They were basically given only one option, which was to say yes.

Foster’s boss at U.G.A. advised his staff to leave as soon as the judging for their specialty was over.  He said nothing good was likely to happen after that.  His advice was sound but almost impossible to follow.  Foster did his share of judging critters that were far outside his realm of expertise, but he attributes his favorite story to a fellow worker and friend.

The late Bob McGuire was the swine specialist with the Extension Service during Foster’s tenure.  Bob told Foster about a trip he made somewhere in the north Georgia mountains for a county fair hog show.  He finished the judging, presented the awards, and thought he was about to leave for home.  He was, instead, invited to judge the Adult Division Coon Hound Show.

Bob told the local county agent that he didn’t know anything about coon hounds and absolutely could not judge the contest.  The county agent, however, prevailed.  Bob was soon joined in the show ring by seven weathered mountain men in overalls, each of them spitting tobacco and holding on to their best coon hound.  Bob quickly realized that a frivolous approach was not suitable for judging those dogs.

“Get me a yardstick!” Bob told the county agent.  Bob slapped that stick forcefully on the leg of his denim jeans as he did a visual assessment of those dogs.  He stared at those coon hounds with the same intensity as he had earlier focused on the swine.

Then he gave directions to those men, commanding their attention with his emphatically delivered instructions.  “Get him up!  Turn him sideways!  Straighten his head!”  After he had established what was expected, he turned to his trusty yardstick.  He pulled on the ears of each hound, measured them, then wrote it on a pad as he called out the results.  “Seven and one-half inches on the left,” he would say loudly, then nod his head or put his hand on his chin.  “Seven and a quarter on the right.”

Measuring their ears was followed by their tails.  “Twenty-two inches,” he would shout out.  The inflections in his voice and expressions on his face ranged unpredictably between admiration and concern.  The crowd’s respect for the judge’s prowess grew with each turn of the yardstick.

After what he deemed a reasonable time for judging a coon hound contest, Bob heartily congratulated the winner.  He headed again toward the exit gate, but one of the mountain men stepped into his path.  The man spit his tobacco, then looked Bob squarely in the eyes.  He said, “I’ve never known it to be done like that sonny, but it’s the best judging I’ve ever seen.”

Sometimes we don’t know what we’re capable of until we’re pushed into the show ring.  A confident approach can lend credibility to our efforts.  Bob McGuire disguised some subtle lessons with humor.  Those lessons are worth remembering.  We never know when our time in the ring may come.

A longtime friend of mine, Mike Chason, taught his grandson how to ride a bicycle in June of this year.  In July they took the training wheels off and practiced on an empty tennis court.  Brody found his confidence amid his grandfather’s encouraging cheers to, “Keep pedaling.”  Now they ride together often.  On Labor Day they spent the morning exploring the bike trails of St. Simons Island.  But Mike and Brody weren’t just riding their bikes.  They were in Mike’s words, “making memories.”

Mike suggested that “Keep Pedaling” might be a good title for a column.  I didn’t know where it would lead, but his idea had instant appeal.  It’s a compelling little phrase that kept resurfacing in my thoughts.  Part of its charm is found in contemplating how such a simple expression can address complicated situations.  “Keep Pedaling” needs no explanation, but it seems deserving of its own story.

When I learned to ride a bicycle, our family lived on a sandy dirt road surrounded by Dooly County farm land.  The only thing I remember about my first bike is that it had been hand painted bright red.  I don’t know if the previous owner did that or if Daddy tried to make it look a little better.  The brush painted lines were visible, so it clearly wasn’t a factory job.

I don’t recall the actual process of learning how to ride.  Daddy, or Mama, or my brother Jimmy probably taught me how.  I don’t remember anyone shouting out for me to keep pedaling, but it’s almost a certainty that came with the coaching.  Keep pedaling is a line that many of us have heard or said at some point.  It’s what keeps us upright and moving forward.  It’s what helps us navigate the sandy spots on roads where the tires sink into the soft dirt.  It’s what helps us get up the steep hills, like the one just north of Joiner’s Store.

A cold Coca Cola never tasted better than after a July trip up that hill.  Even after the county paved the road with gravel, it still took a lot of effort to reach the store.  The downhill trip coasting toward Mr. Tom Sangster’s farm was splendid.  The ride back up to the store, however, was a challenge.  I understood it was a necessary part of the journey, that the fleeting thrill of downhill rides came with a price.  It’s a lesson that I’ve never forgotten, but have at times admittedly ignored.

Pedaling up that hill would sometimes get the best of me.  I’d hop off my bike and push it for a while.  Then I would get back on and pedal some more.  I knew it was best to keep pedaling but taking a break from the tiring routine was sometimes too tempting.

Maybe someone already sells t-shirts, bumper stickers, or cards featuring a “Keep Pedaling” theme.  If not, it sure seems like a good idea.  Most of us have been on some hills that seemed unbearably steep.  Or we’ve traveled sandy roads where it took standing up on the pedals to keep going.  Perhaps our bikes have even tipped over at times because we pedaled too slowly.

Alyssa Wehunt is a sweet little girl who lives a few miles outside of Vienna.  She’ll be six on December 18th.  She’s spent about half of her young life courageously dealing with Metastatic Pilocytic Astrocytoma.  She has inoperable tumors on her brain and spine.  Since her January 2016 diagnosis Alyssa has had countless hospital stays.  She’s had chemotherapy, radiation, and all sorts of unpleasant procedures.  She’s had pain, and nausea, and felt the sting of too many needles.  But she keeps smiling and bravely dealing with her illness one day at a time.

Alyssa loves getting mail.  She finds encouragement in knowing that others are thinking about her and praying for her.  Cards won’t cure Alyssa’s illness, but the medicine’s not quite as bitter when you know people care.  It’s inspiring to have cheerleaders lining the sides of the road.

I’m inviting all my readers to be cheerleaders for Alyssa.  I’m asking you to take a few minutes and write her a note.  And somewhere in your message tell her to, “Keep Pedaling.”  The hills don’t seem nearly as steep nor the sand quite as deep when others are cheering us on.

I think Mike Chason had a really good idea for a column title.  I hope you feel that way too.  You can write to Alyssa Wehunt at 677 Pleasant Valley Road, Vienna, GA  31092.

Keep pedaling, Alyssa.  Keep pedaling.  Always, always, always, keep pedaling.

In the spring of 1974 I was close to graduating from Valdosta State College and only six months away from a December wedding.  I figured it might be a good idea to get a job.

The economy wasn’t great but there were some companies that came on campus to recruit employees.  Richard Gaddy drove over from Tallahassee to represent Burroughs Corporation.  It was a national company whose main product was computers.

Richard was manager of the sales team of eight or ten guys.  That was in the days before someone discovered that women could sell too.  The salary was more than most companies paid, and I could tell that Richard would be a great boss.  A few weeks later I was renting an apartment at 2600 Miccosukee Road and had my own business cards.

Burroughs had a great training program that lasted almost a year.  It included two weeks in Philadelphia, four weeks in Tampa, then another two weeks in Philadelphia.  The intense classroom training was interspersed between periods of going on calls with Richard and other veteran salesmen like Bob Abernathy.

When I gave my final sales presentation in Philadelphia, I drew hearty applause from the 20 or so young men in the room.  Back in the real world in Tallahassee, however, I was terrible.  I’ve often told people that my best line was, “I don’t guess y’all want to buy anything today do you?”  That wasn’t something that I actually said, but it’s a pretty good representation of my approach.

I was 22 years old and making cold calls on crusty old guys who were often in their fifties or beyond.  None of them were enthusiastic about some kid explaining how a computer could help them cut back on staff.  The staff weren’t always real excited about that either.  The company training on how to overcome objections was seldom used on my calls.  When the prospect said “No!” it was like a fire drill at school.  I headed to the nearest exit.

Eighteen months after signing on I reluctantly told Richard I was leaving.  Burroughs had invested a lot of time and money in me, and I felt bad about that.  Richard suggested that I give it a little longer, but the shoes of a computer salesman were killing my feet.  I knew they would never fit.

My cousin, Rooney Bowen, asked me about working with him at his Chevy dealership in Vienna.  Rooney’s close friend, A. C. Daniels, worked there also.  Between the two of them I got some classic on-the-job sales training.  I don’t remember them ever giving me any specific pointers, but I paid close attention to what they did.

We traded in an old car that had barely escaped the junkyard.  We priced it at almost nothing, maybe $300 or so.  A fellow looked it over, cranked it up, and gave it a test ride.  When he came back he asked Rooney if it used any oil.  Rooney said, “I don’t know, but if it does it’s got a good place to put it in.”  That response remains one of the best examples of overcoming objections that I’ve ever heard.

A.C. was a master of conversational selling. He sold life insurance on the side.  One day a few men were standing around the shop visiting when A. C. started excitedly telling them about a new insurance product.  One of the fellows asked A. C. if he could help him get a policy.  A. C. told him that he would be glad to try, then he walked him to his office.  A. C. had presented his product in such a way the customer was asking if he could buy it.  That doesn’t happen often.

After five years of selling Chevrolets, I spent the next 35 years in banking.  That’s where I found the shoes that fit me best.  I found my sweet spot in selling people on the idea of trusting us with their finances, then trying to make sure we kept their trust.

Somewhere along the line I discovered a valuable lesson.  I learned that even when the shoes we are wearing are a bit uncomfortable, they can still help us to get farther down the road.  Burroughs wasn’t the place I needed to be, but it was a good stop on the trail that took me there.

I don’t know as I ever thanked Richard for putting his confidence in me, or for his kind understanding when I needed it at the end.  So, thank you Richard for everything.  I wanted to send you a nice gift certificate, but the bank says it’s best not to write checks without having funds in the account.   I’m still not a good enough salesman to know how to overcome that kind of objection.

I’ve never been a very good salesman.  The evidence goes all the way back to childhood.

At some point during my grammar school days I decided I wanted a guitar.  I couldn’t play but Chet Atkins made it look easy.  I found a flattop Silvertone in the Sears & Roebuck Catalog that looked mighty fine in the picture.  The only thing standing between me and that guitar was a lack of funds.

My mother suggested that I sell Christmas cards.  She had seen an ad explaining that you could make good money by providing this much appreciated service to your family and friends.  It sounded like a failproof plan.

We ordered a kit and hit the road with our sample cards.  Mama did the driving and I was to handle the sales.  That strategy looked good on paper, but every time we stopped at a house I would suddenly have a tinge of lockjaw.  I didn’t like the idea of putting folks on the spot to buy something they might not want.  Mama did about 95 percent of the selling.  I just wrote down the names, put their checks in the envelope, and said thank you.

Mrs. Marie Taylor placed a generous order.  That’s the only home that I still clearly remember going to.  Daddy ginned his cotton with her husband, Mr. Ernest, so maybe that influenced her purchase.  Or maybe she needed more cards than most folks.  I left there with enough money to buy that guitar and with the welcome relief that my career in Christmas card sales was winding down.

My next venture in sales came in high school.  I joined the FFA String Band in the ninth grade.  The other four guys were two years ahead of me.  The band needed some money to buy some matching outfits.  Our fundraising project was to sell ads that would be printed on the back of the Unadilla Blue Devil seat cushions.  The ads would pay for the cushions which we could then sell for our profit.

I went with Michael Sullivan to Hawkinsville, knowing that he would take the lead on the calls.  I don’t know who all we visited, but the one place that I remember was Clark Funeral Home.  That’s where we got sprinkled.

As we headed toward the front door their irrigation system came on.  It was probably on a timer, but I always wondered if they saw us coming and decided to have a bit of fun.  Funeral home folks don’t get to liven things up very often.

Michael, Jerry McIntyre, Charles Jones, and Jerry Pickard sold enough ads and cushions that we took a trip to Ferguson’s Men’s Store in Cordele.  We left there with everything from cowboy boots to string ties.  With our black pants and white shirts, we were a stage-ready band.  Not long afterward we played on a flatbed trailer for the grand opening of a Purina Store.  They gave us some red and white checked shirts, further expanding our already impressive wardrobe.

With a sketchy history in sales, it came as quite a surprise to my parents when I decided to head to Texas the summer of 1971 after my freshman year at college.  At Valdosta State College I became friends with Dick Kitchens, a Byromville native who was a few years older than me.  He had gone to Texas the summer before and sold Bibles going door to door.  He had made enough money to get my attention as well as that of my good buddy Don Giles.  Selling Bibles in Texas sounded like an adventure that was custom made for two young and world-ready fortune seekers.

I came home one weekend and told my folks about our plans to head west.  Daddy said that I was welcome to go to Texas, but he reminded me that I never did seem to enjoy sales.  He said it was fine to spend the summer selling Bibles, but that he didn’t want to get a call asking for money for a bus ticket home.  That sound advice came with a smile and with the kindness of a loving father.  Don and I made the wise decision to stay in Georgia and work at Bluebird Body Company in Fort Valley.

Given that background, it was quite unexpected that my first job out of college would be in sales.  With Burroughs Corporation in Tallahassee, Florida, I developed my go-to line, “I don’t guess y’all want to buy anything today, do you?”  It was a highly efficient time management technique.  I set a company record for prospect declinations per hour.  Next week I’ll tell you more about how I did that.

I published a column in January of 2018 titled “In Search of Walter Nutt.”  That story evolved from a visit to Wallace Cemetery, an almost forgotten burial place of several families including my own.  While doing research for that story, I found some information in the Dooly County Library that was compiled in 2006 by Davine V. Campbell and Helen S. Hudson.

There were several items in their documentation of cemeteries that I found interesting.  One that particularly attracted my attention was about James M. Lindsey, who they listed as being buried at Wallace.  I’ve not found a marker for him, but there’s a headstone for James L. M. Lindsey, a child who died March 12, 1892, on his sixth birthday.  The inscription says he is the son of J. M. and E. E. Lindsey.  I expect his father is nearby, close enough perhaps to touch the concrete lamb that adorns his grave.

The library material referenced a story from The Hawkinsville Dispatch dated March 22, 1888, at which time the Lindsey child would have just turned two.  According to the story, James M. Lindsey was shot and killed by a relative, Crawford Lindsey, who worked for him on his farm.  Crawford was reportedly drinking and drove some mules too hard.  James reprimanded him, then they went their separate ways.

Two witnesses said that James spoke to Crawford again the following day about his mistreatment of the mules, and that Crawford then cursed him.  James threatened to knock him in the head with a gun, at which point Crawford “sprang upon him,” pulled his pistol, and shot James in the face.  The newspaper reported that Crawford was arrested and placed in a Macon jail.  James was born June 18, 1857, and died February 28, 1888, only thirty years old.

The Lindsey story intrigues me because of its similarity to an event in our family.  William Washington Joiner was born September 25, 1871.  He was the oldest sibling of my grandfather, James Vanderbilt Joiner, who came along ten years later.

Will practiced medicine but also farmed by having an overseer, Mr. Turner, who he considered a friend.  Returning home from a medical call one night, Will met his overseer, each of them on horseback.  Mr. Turner had been drinking.  His horse was exhausted.  Will offered to swap horses, but an argument ensued.  Harsh words were exchanged.  Mr. Turner told Will that he was going to kill him.

As Will was putting his horse in the barn, he told his wife, Annie Calhoun, what had happened.  She tried to persuade him to hide but he refused, thinking it would make him appear cowardly.  Mr. Turner came to the barn and shot Will in the chest.  Quickly sobered by what he had done, he went for help.  He told his wife, “I shot the best friend I’ve ever had.”

Will died of gangrene April 24, 1900, at age 28.  Exactly four months later, on August 24^th, Annie would bear the child she was carrying, Willie James Joiner.  Years later a friend of our family reported that Mr. Turner had lived with remorse, that his wife said he never got another good night’s rest.  Annie Joiner was probably awake on a lot of those same nights.

Wallace is a small cemetery.  It’s odd that it’s connected to two tragic deaths having parallel themes.  There are several lessons we can take from their stories.  It’s clearly best to not let a drinking man ride your horse.  But if you do and he conducts himself poorly, then wait until he’s sober to talk about it.  Or maybe instead of a scolding, just don’t let him ride your horse again.

There’s no way of knowing what will happen when whiskey, guns, and horses share the same trail.  The silent testimony of Wallace Cemetery shows how badly it can end.  Two young men are buried less than 50 feet apart.  They each left a widow behind, one with a small child, the other with a baby on the way.  Whiskey, guns, and horses don’t mix well together.  It’s a proven recipe for grave mistakes.

Aaron Brown loves being on the water.  He was a professional skier in his younger days, a fearless competitor plus a master of entertainment.  He skied in delightful venues like Callaway Gardens, as well as foreboding places where alligators wistfully stared from the bank.

He skied in multiple commercials for Channel 5 in Nashville, Tennessee, while building relationships that would serve him well later.  He was involved when Channel 5 made the first episode of Hee Haw.  CBS didn’t think the concept would work, but they agreed that if enough stations signed up they would carry the show.  Aaron hit the road with the pilot and sold folks on its potential.  He was there at the beginning for something that became a staple of family friendly TV.

It was almost 20 years ago when I first met Aaron at Center Hill Lake near Nashville.  My wife, Jane, and I were visiting her brother, Rick, and his wife, Vicki.  Rick introduced us to Aaron, a man we immediately found easy to like.  He and Rick have taught two of our grandchildren to ski, and to do so with confidence.  The best way to learn is to learn from the best.  That goes for a lot more things than just water sports.

Aaron’s been dealing with Parkinson’s Disease for several years.  That’s slowed him down a bit, but it hasn’t defined him.  He doesn’t do the flips and tricks we’ve long enjoyed watching, but he’s the only 78-year old I know who still grabs a rope handle and glides swiftly across the water.

Aaron is affectionately referred to as the honorary Mayor of Center Hill Lake.  It’s a beautiful place, having more than 22,000 acres of clear water from the Caney Fork River.  Aaron’s had a house there since 1971, long before it became a popular spot for the homes and cabins now perched along the tree-lined mountain sides.  It is, I suppose, not surprising that Aaron’s time on the water led to something more than skiing.

About thirty years ago Aaron and a friend, Jerry Michael, were taking an afternoon sabbatical on the lake.  They had come to relax and work on a song for country singer George Strait.  Jerry was quietly humming Rock-A-Bye Baby, a tune which unexpectedly sidetracked their conversation.

They began talking about the lyrics, “Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top, when the wind blows the cradle will rock.  When the bough breaks the cradle will fall, and down will come baby, cradle and all.”  It seemed, they thought, an odd message for a mother to sing to her precious child.

Aaron and Jerry began working on some new songs for babies that expressed the tender love of a mother, songs that would blend pleasantly into the sweetest of dreams, soothing songs you could wrap snugly in a blanket and kiss goodnight.

They could have churned out some numbers and hastily put a respectable product on store shelves.  But Aaron wanted to create something that would last.  He envisioned lullabyes and orchestration of exceptional quality, music that was pleasing to hear as well as to sing along with.

It was a three-year process in which hundreds of possible songs were narrowed down to only nine. They were included in A Child’s Gift of Lullabyes, a warmly received collection that received a Grammy nomination.

Since then Aaron has produced five more sets in the Lullabye series.  With two Grammys and eight nominations, his vision of gently flowing music for mothers and babies has been widely embraced.  The cassettes evolved to CDs and now to streaming, a term that seems appropriate for an idea conceived on a river.  Millions of fans around the world now listen to Lullabyes in six different languages.

I recently watched an interview recorded a few years back where Aaron said he wanted his life to matter.   Moments later he added a bit more insight, a subtle message of wisdom that comes with age.  He said, “The older you get the louder you hear the clock ticking.”

Aaron loves to ski, but he also finds great satisfaction in teaching others.  He loves music, but his real joy comes through sharing it.  I think his passion is not so much what he does, but why he does it.  When I think of Aaron, it’s not his proverbial clock that I hear ticking.  What I hear is the rhythmic beating of a kind heart, a steady tempo keeping perfect time with a lullabye on the lake. That’s the kind of thing that can happen when you live a life that matters.

Jane and I were on Highway 27 in late December of 2017, headed from Americus to our home near Vienna.   We drove past an abandoned white frame house in rural Sumter County.  It’s been vacant for years and is long past the point of being repairable.

Jane was using her cellphone, so I didn’t mention that the old house and I have a history together.  It’s nothing significant, just a minor event that somehow found a permanent home in my memory.

I think I was in the ninth or tenth grade, but I’m not sure.  Several guys from our Future Farmers of America chapter in Unadilla were on a trip to Americus.  Mr. Ottis Beard, our advisor and ag teacher, was driving his blue Ford pickup.  He had the side bodies on and was hauling our purebred barrows to Americus for a district competition.

A truck tire went flat, and we pulled over near that farmhouse.  Flats were rather common in those days.  This flat was surrounded by some energetic farm boys, so it quickly surrendered.  When Jane and I drove by that old house, I was reminded of that flat tire, and of the barrow show that day.

I don’t remember the name of my barrow.  I’ll just call him Bocephus, because that seems like a good name for a high caliber hog.  I felt that Bocephus had a good chance at winning one of the three ribbons to be awarded.  He carried himself with a confidence that is not often found among swine.

To develop his muscle tone, I had taken him on daily walks of 30 minutes.  Bocephus, like some of my other show hogs, enjoyed the time we spent together.  It didn’t cross my mind that his friendly demeanor might one day be a source of embarrassment.

There were about 20 barrows in the show ring, hailing from several middle Georgia counties.  We handled our pigs like showmen at the circus, always watching the judge and trying to attract his attention, constantly seeking to obtain eye contact, just as we had been taught.

Those hogs made multiple trips trotting around that ring, all of them following some pig who had by default assumed a leadership role.  They ran quickly back and forth from one end to the other, all of them packed neatly into an inseparable group, all of them except for Bocephus.

Despite my frantic pleas, Bocephus refused to act like a normal hog.  I had a big walking stick that Grandaddy Hill had given me.  I wanted to whack Bocephus hard enough to get his attention and make him conform, but I’d never done that at home and figured I shouldn’t start now.

I knew that Bocephus would soon be leaving on a different truck than he came in on.  It didn’t seem right that we should part on bad terms.  So, with a face as flushed as my spirit, I tapped him lightly, just like I had at home.  We walked slowly around the ring, taking whatever path Bocephus chose.

The judge called out the third, second, and first place winners.  I wasn’t surprised that Bocephus didn’t place, and I knew that my poor presentation was partly to blame.  Even worse, the two of us were still not part of the group, but were instead standing conspicuously alone.

The judge announced that there was a final award he would present, the award for showmanship.  He said there was only one person in the ring who maintained control of his barrow the entire time, whose hog remained separate from the group and could be clearly seen.  He shook my hand and handed me a new walking stick made from white oak and polished to a high gloss finish.

I knew that Bocephus deserved the award more than me, but he never was good at grasping things with his feet.  I kept that walking stick for years, but lost track of it somewhere along the line.

The late Reverend Doug Fullington shared something with me a long time ago that his grandfather had told him.  He said, “If you always follow the crowd, the crowd will never follow you.”  I think that’s the same lesson that Bocephus tried to teach me that day in Americus.  Good lessons can come from unlikely sources if we’re willing to learn.

I’m glad that flat tire memory and that old house still remind me of Bocephus, because Bocephus reminds me that following the crowd is often not the best road to take.  Lonesome roads can lead to rich rewards.  I sure wish I could find that walking stick.

Mr. Dittmore and I had a very quiet ride on the hour-long trip from Vienna to Macon.  He said nothing to me, nor I to him.  That was usually how it went when I had a passenger in the back of the hearse.

From December 1975 through the end of 1980 I worked with my father’s nephew, Rooney Bowen.  He owned a Chevy dealership and a nearby funeral home.  From cars to caskets, we had it covered.

I never met Mr. Dittmore.  He was a tourist passing through on I-75 with some of his family.  I don’t remember where he was from or where he was going.  Seems like they were on their way to Florida, but I’m no longer certain of that.

Bowen Funeral Home handled about 50 calls a year, almost all of them being local residents.  I can still name a few of the people we buried during my five years of employment.  Mr. Dittmore, however, is the only name I can recall of a person I never met.

Cremations were not common at that time, at least not in our part of rural Georgia.  On the rare occasion that we had such a request, we took the deceased person to Hart’s Mortuary in Macon.  I left Mr. Dittmore’s body at their crematory and returned to Vienna, not having any inclination to learn the details of the process.

Mr. Dittmore’s family continued on their southward route.  They planned to pick up his ashes on their return trip home.  There was no rush for us to go back to Macon.

Herschel Davis was the longtime mortician for the funeral home.  He was a big man with an easy-going disposition, greatly loved by the community and the many families he served.  His respectful approach to work was reflected in his kind manner and attention to detail.

A few days after my trip to Macon, I stopped by the funeral home.  Herschel was in the office with his feet propped up on the desk.  He was lighting another cigarette to add to an overflowing ashtray.  I picked up a small cardboard box that he had apparently seen no urgency in opening.

“What’s this?” I asked, while trying to read the label.

“Mr. Dittmore,” Herschel replied.  His knowing smile was somewhat obscured by the cigarette he held between two fingers.  He took another long draw without making further comment.

“Mr. Dittmore?” I asked, stunned that he had returned to Dooly County by way of the U.S. Postal Service.

“Mr. Dittmore,” he confirmed, still smiling as he exhaled a cloud of smoke. That little brown box was suddenly too heavy to hold.  I delicately placed it back on the desktop where I had found it.

That was my first experience with cremation.  My opinion then was that it was best to be facing east like the rest of our family.  Cremation has, however, travelled a slow road toward acceptability for me and many others.  I figure that since Adam came from dust, ashes won’t cause any delays on Resurrection Day.

In December of 1980 I changed jobs and began working at Bank of Dooly.  Over the years there were several occasions when families came in to borrow money for traditional type burials.  Cremation, though much less expensive, was never an option those families considered.

But it led me to do some soul searching of my own, to weigh the pros and cons of different methods for those final arrangements.  One night after supper I decided to have a serious talk with my wife, Jane.  I said, “Honey, with funeral costs going up, I’ve been thinking about cremation.”

She was more startled than I had expected.  “I didn’t think you would want to be cremated,” she remarked with a bewildered look.

That’s when I said more than I should have.  “I wasn’t talking about me,” I responded.

I should have known better.  Cremation can be a hot topic.

February 5, 1981

JOINER’S STORE – COCA COLA SINCE 1902.  That’s what the sign on the front of the small white frame building says.  I don’t know if that’s when my grandfather, Jim Joiner, first opened the store or if that’s when he began selling Cokes.  That was fifty years before I came on the scene.

Papa Joiner died in 1957 when I was almost five.  Uncle Emmett began running the store a little before then.  It’s been a longtime gathering place for the farmers who live nearby.  Uncle Emmett helps facilitate their friendly banter that covers everything from crops to politics.  Almost every conversation is seasoned generously with good-natured teasing.  That’s the main reason they still come.

Some of them stop by twice a day for a refreshment break, once in mid-morning and then again in the afternoon.  They are accustomed to sharing smatterings of local happenings as they pause to enjoy a Moon Pie and a Coke.  But the news on that cold day in February came as a shock to those gathered around the gas heater.  Queenie was dead.

“I know they must be mighty sad over at Ben Wilkes’ house,” one remarked.  The others were respectfully quiet and nodded in agreement.

Queenie’s passion for her work had earned her quite a reputation among the men in the community.  Finn Cross was in the store that day.  He had joined Ben Wilkes many times following the Brittany Spaniel’s rambling trail.  Queenie stood atop the pedestal of birddogs.  She was perhaps the most adept quail hunter that ever passed through this part of Dooly County.

Queenie pointed, Ben shot, and birds fell.  It was a well-established routine they had long perfected but never grew tired of.  Ben seldom misses when he raises his gun.  Maybe that gave Queenie an extra dose of inspiration.

Ben is a good enough shot to clean out a covey, but a wise enough sportsman not to.  “Leave some birds to rebuild,” is what he says.  He understands that hunting is not just about the moment, that it’s also about those moments somewhere down the road.  I think that Queenie may have understood that too.  I think she appreciated that Ben tempered his ability with discretion.  They were a perfectly matched team.

Queenie was more than just an excellent hunter.  She served an uncommon dual role for a birddog by also being a beloved family pet.  Ben’s wife, Joyce, said that her mother-in-law told her years earlier to, “Love Ben and love his dogs.”  Joyce says she didn’t love all of them, but Queenie was different.  In the woods she was the avid hunter.  In the yard she was the loving playmate for Ben and Joyce’s two daughters.

Ben built Queenie a wooden coffin, then shoveled out a place for her among the pines and broom sage on The Scarborough Farm.  As far back as I can remember those woods have offered a splendid habitat for quail.  Countless coveys have made it their home.  It was for a while Queenie’s dominion.

Ben did one last thing for Queenie.  He walked alone into the tall pines and fired a single shot.  He gently placed the still warm quail in Queenie’s mouth, then softly spread the freshly dug dirt over her grave.  The bobwhite whistle of a distant bird echoed through the thicket, offering a chance but proper eulogy.

“Yep,” someone somberly agreed.  “I reckon that Ben is mighty sad about Queenie.”

Finn Cross knew Queenie much better than most.  “I’m sad too,” he added in quiet reflection.

And the men warmed their hands around the heater, knowing there was nothing else that needed to be said.

Bald eagles have an inherently regal quality about them.  I love those videos that show an eagle diving toward the blue waters of a pristine lake and adeptly catching his prey.  His eyes are intense, his skill remarkable, and his mission clear.  There is something quite satisfying in watching that majestic bird successfully put fresh fish on the dinner table.

A May 2018 edition of The Macon Telegraph told about a middle Georgia eagle that was euthanized due to injuries.  One of the eagle’s wings had been broken during a collision with a vehicle.  According to the article the eagle was feasting on roadkill, a practice that seems inappropriate for such a stately creature.  I’ve learned since, unfortunately, that such behavior is not isolated.

I mentioned the story to a man who spends a lot of time outdoors.  He said that not only will eagles eat roadkill, but they’ll sometimes run the buzzards off to claim it.  Up until that point I was trying to give the wayward Macon eagle the benefit of the doubt.  I thought he was perhaps devouring a critter he had been pursuing.  But now I’m thinking that he had found some leftovers by the highway.

It’s hard to imagine how that eagle had strayed so far from what he could have been.  Instead of a magnificent hunter he had become a lowly scavenger.  Rather than riding high on heavenly winds he was standing along the highway mimicking unseemly behavior.

It’s possible he wasn’t taught well by his parents.  Maybe he grew up having to figure it out for himself and never learned what Jesus said about choosing the straight and narrow path.  (Matthew 7:13-14.)  Having loving parents who are good examples goes a long way in life.  Perhaps that eagle didn’t have solid guidance at home and didn’t find it elsewhere.

Or it’s possible that he came from a good home but drifted away from what he had been taught.  Maybe he kept seeing those buzzards congregate and his curiosity got the best of him.  He may have noticed they kept going back for second helpings and decided it must taste better than it looked.  What at first may have seemed repulsive probably became more acceptable over time.

It could be that he was influenced by some wayward friends.  Once his pals crossed that line of propriety, they may have encouraged him to join them.  It’s easy to imagine them saying, “Why don’t you just try it?  One time won’t hurt you.”  Peer pressure can be a powerful motivator.  Fitting in is more comfortable than standing alone.

There’s also no telling what role that television, movies, and music may have played in that eagle’s downfall.  He was probably offended at first by situations that glorified roadkill dining, but I expect he got used to it as it became more common.  He may have flipped the channels, but he probably didn’t see much difference in the content.  I’m sure he didn’t want to unplug his TV, so he just kept watching those buzzards gather along the roadside.  With movies and music also glamorizing the buzzard lifestyle, he perhaps began to think it wasn’t so bad after all.

Even if that eagle had serious doubts, he may have been too polite to express them.  If he took a stand against the buzzard lifestyle, then he would no doubt be criticized as narrow minded and uncaring.  He might even have been accused of having no love or compassion for the buzzards themselves.  That eagle probably found it a lot easier to stay quiet and try to blend in.

It’s a shame that a master of flight died while walking the low road of life.  It’s mostly his fault I guess.  He was in a place he shouldn’t have been and doing something he wasn’t intended for.  It’s too late for him, but maybe some other eagles will learn from his tragic demise.  The choice of fearlessly soaring in the sky or scavenging the roadways would seem to be a simple one.

Those videos that show an eagle diving for a fish are nice, but I had hoped one day to see that take place in person from a front row seat.  I’m beginning to think that may never happen.  My expectations have been tempered a bit when it comes to eagles.

The thing that troubles me most though, is that it seems to be getting harder to distinguish the eagles from the buzzards.  I think it’s because they’re increasingly dining on similar fare.  Someone should warn the other eagles.  Someone should tell them about that eagle with a broken wing.  But I’ll probably stay quiet and watch something on TV.  It’s a lot easier to just blend in.