Welcome to Joiner's Corner

For two years during college I had a summer job at Bluebird Body Company, the well-known school bus manufacturer in Fort Valley, Georgia.  My first employment was during the summer of 1971.

It was hard work but the pay was good.  I worked on the assembly line where driveshafts were installed.  My boss was Mr. James Dupree, a long-time Bluebird employee and a good friend of our family. He was a quiet, pleasant, hard-working man, who set a wonderful example for all of us.

The next year I signed up for another tour of duty.  I expected to return to the same spot on the line.  On the first morning of work, however, the fellow who greeted me called me Steve.  He said that I would be working with Mr. Wiley Patterson, inspecting rivets.  “It’s just you and Mr. Patterson.” he said. “You’ll be looking to see if any rivets are not properly seated.  Then you mark them with chalk.”

I had really enjoyed working with Mr. James Dupree, but I figured Steve would too.  Marking rivets with chalk was a lot more appealing than turning wrenches and handling heavy driveshafts.   I heard that bluebird singing, and I felt like he was singing my song.

Mr. Wiley Patterson was another great boss.  I was six feet five inches tall but only weighed 165 pounds.  I don’t know where all the food went, but it seemed there was no limit to what I could eat.  Mr. Wiley began bringing two extra biscuits for me.  Inside the biscuits would be a piece of country fried steak or cured ham, or sometimes a slice of roast beef with gravy.  This was a snack for our morning break.  It sure beat having a pack of orange colored cheese and peanut butter crackers.

There was, however, a down side to my new job.  Each bus had thousands of rivets holding the exterior sheet metal in place.  The rivets were air hammered one at a time by work hardened men with sinewy muscles.  The buses went down that inspection line quickly.  That part was okay. The problem, however, was a wide disagreement as to what constituted a defectively installed rivet.  Mr. Wiley marked anything that looked suspicious.  He had been there for decades.  Nobody questioned where he used the chalk.

But I was a skinny college kid who was there just for the summer.  When I marked rivets, it was a whole different story.  “You’re killing us!” the air hammer guys would complain.  “There’s nothing wrong with those rivets!”

I would slack up a bit and the air hammer guys would start smiling again.  Then Mr. Wiley would inevitably say, “Steve, are you running low on chalk?  Here are several that you missed.”

Mr. Wiley was a good boss, plus he was bringing those biscuits.  I didn’t want to do anything to interfere with that.  But the fellows with air hammers were always hot and sweaty and barely able to keep up with the buses being rolled down the line.  I sure did hate to mark something that seemed mechanically okay, something that looked a little cocksided but was probably fine.

It was like riding a seesaw but changing partners every few minutes.  It’s hard to get in rhythm that way.  Mr. Wiley and the air hammer guys were seldom happy at the same time.  I felt like an umpire at a Little League game with parents on both sides constantly giving advice.

About halfway through the summer, a Bluebird employee named David Fullington walked by our section. David had been my good friend since Mrs. Kathryn Roberts’ first grade class at Pinehurst Elementary.  He was probably thirty feet away when he shouted out my name and told me to stop loafing.

Mr. Wiley said, “What did he just call you?”

“He called me Neil,” I said.

“Why did he call you Neil?” asked Mr. Wiley.

“Because that’s my name,” I replied.  I told Mr. Wiley what had happened, and that I thought there was probably a guy named Steve who was wondering why he was installing driveshafts.

Mr. Wiley shook his head and laughed.  I survived the summer, and even made friends with the air hammer guys.  That last day of work they told me they hoped I’d be back.  They all shook my hand firmly like they meant it.

When the five o’clock whistle blew, I turned in my chalk.  I heard that bluebird singing once again.  This time I knew it with certainty.  That bluebird was singing my song.

In late December of 2017 my brother, Jimmy, and I were dining at the Cordele Recreation Parlor, a place more commonly called The Pool Room.  We each were having a chili dog all the way, a bowl of Irish Stew with oyster crackers, and a small bottle of Coke.  We witnessed something that day that I had never seen before and still don’t understand.

Sitting two barstools south of Jimmy was a fellow who was probably in his twenties.  He was dressed nicely and engaged in friendly banter with two other young men.  He ordered a scrambled dog, a magnificent feast that will satisfy the heartiest of appetites.

The lady tending the counter put a milky white mug in front of him.  I assumed it must be frosted in some special way for the holiday season.  The young man quickly downed his drink and quietly motioned for a refill.  The lady reached into the refrigerator, pulled out a gallon of milk, and poured him another glass.

Apparently, there’s no house rule against mixing milk with a scrambled dog, but something about it just seems wrong.  I love milk with hot pound cake, chocolate chip cookies, and dozens of other desserts.  I enjoy milk with sandwiches like peanut butter and jelly, pineapple, and banana.  But I can’t wrap my mind around a milk and chili combination.  Just because you can do something, doesn’t mean that you should.

I consider myself somewhat of an expert on hotdogs.  My appreciation for exceptional presentations began during the early 1970’s when a Mr. Twist franchise opened near Valdosta State College.  It was a fine place for gourmet hotdogs, plus ice cream cones filled with twisted swirls of chocolate and vanilla.  They had perfectly steamed dogs with a dozen or so toppings.  My favorite was their foot-long with slaw and cheese.  That same topping has been a staple in our home for decades, although the dogs are noticeably shorter now.

I began dating my future wife, Jane, in the spring of my sophomore year in 1972.  Not long afterward, I was introduced to The Billiard Academy in her hometown of Thomasville.  It was famous then, as it is now, for their chili dogs.  Their chili is dryer than the norm, something I found odd when I first attended their classes.  I guess they drain the grease off or maybe they cook it using a different method.  Although I am strongly committed to the fight against low cholesterol, I quickly adapted to the Academy’s unique dry-style chili.  I continue to take short courses at The Billiard Academy on the infrequent occasions when I am in Thomasville.

Jane and I moved to Vienna in December of 1975 when I began working at Rooney Bowen Chevrolet.  Johnny Thompson managed the parts department during part of our overlapping careers.  He introduced me to The Pool Room in Cordele.  The two of us frequently took radiators to Cordele for Mr. Tyson to repair.  We coordinated those trips around our lunch hour.

We’d run by Tyson Radiator, then stop at The Pool Room long enough to each down two chili dogs, a bowl of Irish Stew, and an Almond Joy for dessert.  By one p.m. we’d be back at the shop in Vienna.  I’ve been addicted to those chili dogs ever since.

What makes a good dog great is the right topping, a good friend to enjoy it with, and a small bottle of Coke.  I’m hoping to get Johnny to buy my lunch at The Pool Room one day soon.  Maybe that fellow who ordered the milk will be around.  That way Johnny won’t think I’m making this up.

It is with some reluctance that I hereby admit to having a lingering curiosity about pairing a chili dog with milk.  But a small voice somewhere deep inside keeps saying, “Don’t do it!”  I’ve slowly learned over several decades that it’s best to listen to that voice.  One mug of milk with a chili dog probably wouldn’t cause a problem, but it could lead to having milk with fried fish or other unholy combinations.

I missed a good opportunity to help steer that milk-drinking fellow in a better direction.  Maybe someone will give him a copy of this column, or perhaps his friends will schedule an intervention.  The Pool Room serves a mighty fine dog, but it takes a small bottle of Coke to make it perfect.  Coke is how you milk that dog for all it’s worth.

There were some wonderful hymns written long before the 1940 edition of The Broadman Hymnal.  Many more have been written since.  But that old green hymnal that I grew up with remains my favorite.

William Cross and I began attending Harmony Baptist Church before we were born in 1952.  A few years later we were both enthusiastically singing along with the congregation.  What we may have lacked in tone we made up for in volume.  There were a few gifted singers among the members, but what I remember most is the joyful noise of people singing familiar hymns with vigor like they meant it.

I have one of those hymnals at home.  Most of the time it’s relegated to a silent role of filling a space on a bookshelf.  It got a brief reprieve recently when Megan, one of our grandchildren, came to visit Jane and me.  She’s 12 and enjoys playing the piano.  In addition to reading music she has learned a few chords and can play some by ear.  I was searching for something that we could play together when I turned to ”Bringing In the Sheaves.”

My singing is nothing exceptional, but it was good enough for the two of us.  I gave it my best shot while playing on the lower keys.  Megan added some chords and accent notes on the upper part of the piano.  It had been a long time since I had played or sung that hymn.  It was like finding an old friend that you haven’t kept in touch with.

I flipped a few pages back to “Praise Him! Praise Him!”  That Fanny J. Crosby sure had a gift for lyrics.  She could say in a few lines enough to make a good sermon.  She never accumulated much wealth, but I believe her royalties are coming in bountifully every day now.

“Love Lifted Me” is where we stopped next.  It’s nice when you sing all three verses and you wish there was a fourth.  It’s one of those songs that’s so much fun to sing you wouldn’t mind running through it again at the end.  I expect the chorus has been repeated a few times after the congregation thought they were about to sit down.

“Sweet By and By” gives both the ladies and the men a chance to shine with a delightful blending of all four parts.  When we were singing that hymn back at Harmony, I had no doubt that one day we would all “meet on that beautiful shore.”  Good music can help keep us on course toward that best of all destinations.

We then skipped over to “Sweeter Than the Day Before.”  I had forgotten there is only one verse to that hymn, but what a powerful verse it is.  It was good to be reminded that the message of the gospel is simple.  There’s nothing wrong with delving into theology, but sometimes I think we’ve drifted too far from the basics.  If our theology is on the right track, then “every day with Jesus is sweeter than the day before.”

“Jesus Loves the Little Children” was a childhood staple.  I think the words were changed at some point so that no one would be offended by describing children as, “Red and yellow, black and white.”  That’s fine with me.  We sure don’t want to offend someone while trying to let them know that Jesus’ love is colorblind.  It’s a simple message that’s easy to sing but much harder to live.

Our final duet for the evening was “Praise Him, All Ye Little Children.”  In just a half page an unknown author encourages us to praise, love, and thank God, and reminds us that “God is love.”  I haven’t heard that song in ages, and I’m not sure why.

We ran out of time before we scratched the surface of the countless standards that are almost forgotten.  There are excellent choices in music today, but I hope we don’t lose track of those many great songs of the past.

When Megan comes again we’ll probably get that hymnal out for another session.  The only thing about taking that old green Broadman off the shelf is that it’s so hard to put it back.  There are a lot of good hymns lingering in unplanned silence that are begging to be sung.

A youngster of five in his father’s lap,

laughs aloud escaping his nap.

He poses a question that sombers the tone.

Dad knows the answer must be his alone.

For a fellow just five he appears concerned,

anxious, he seems, the response to learn.

It’s a query quite worthy of such a young lad:

“Just what is America, Dad?”

In his father’s heart the reply is plain

yet putting in words is hard to explain.

Dad ponders the asking from this child of his,

says, “This my son is what America is.

She’s a statue in a harbor with a torch in her hand,

a beacon to the homeless she offers her land.

She’s the unknown soldier resting in the dust,

the silent mother who knew why he must.

She’s the lump in your throat when the flag passes by.

When you’re singing her songs, she’s the tear in your eye.

She’s a mother’s embrace, a father that’s just,

a coin inscribed, ‘In God We Trust’.

She’s the great bald eagle awatch from her perch.

She’s a family praying in a country church.

She’s the laughter of children, the smile of a babe,

proof unaware of the price she’s paid.

America, my son, is just what we make her.

She’ll stay where we leave her, go where we take her.

She’s more than a country, a people, a place.

She’s liberty, freedom, justice, and faith.

I hope that I’ve answered your question my son.

She’s special and different to every one.

A final remembrance, then it’s time for your nap.

By the grace of the Lord, She’s the child in my lap.”

David and Dale Clemons live just outside of Unadilla on Third District Road.  The roof on their historic family home is covered with silver tin shingles that glisten when the sun is shining.  The house was built in 1910 and originally covered with wooden shingles.  The tin shingles were added in the 1930’s by David’s grandparents, Ernest and Effie Clemons.  I’ve made countless trips by that house for over six decades.

David and I are almost related.  His aunt, Frances Clemons, married my uncle, Murray Joiner.  It took me a few years to understand that we could share an aunt and uncle yet not be kin to each other.

I mostly remember David’s grandparents from long passed days at Harmony Baptist Church.  The clearest memory that I have of Mr. Ernest is of him standing on the small veranda at church one Sunday morning when I was probably five or six years old.  We were outside where boys played and men visited before the assembly for Sunday School.  There was a large oak tree that offered an inviting summer shade.

In those days the church had a lapboard exterior, painted white of course.  The main entrance and its covered porch was only a few steps from the unpaved county road.  I don’t know if a bumblebee found me that morning or if I found him, but he popped me solidly on the arm.

If I had been at home I probably would have cried, but that didn’t seem like a good option with other folks looking on.  Mr. Ernest cut a plug of chewing tobacco then pressed it on the sting.  He briefly held it in place then told me to take over.  I don’t know if that tobacco juice had any medicinal effect or if he just figured it would take my mind off the pain, but either way it helped.  Sometimes it’s best to accept things without analyzing them too much.

When I drive by the Clemons’ farm I occasionally think about that small kindness that Mr. Ernest showed me years ago.  But the thing that comes to mind most often is how durable those tin shingles are.  They’ve been there since way before I was traveling the road to Unadilla.  They must have been made from quality metal and then properly nailed to some good decking.  That roof also has a steep pitch so that rain runs off quickly.  Water doesn’t have time to linger in pools.

Those tin shingles on the Clemons’ home are likely to be around longer than I will.  I haven’t looked in their attic, but I have no doubt that it’s completely dry, which reminds me that I need to check the bucket over our garage.  I put it there several years ago as a temporary fix.  It seemed like a good idea at the time.  I sprayed some sealant around a vent pipe on the roof, but I haven’t looked in the attic to see if that solved the problem.

Jesus didn’t talk much about roofs that I know of.  I think their choices back then were mud and straw or mud and sticks, so it didn’t matter a whole lot.   He was, however, real clear on the need for building on a good foundation.  He said to build our houses on rock not sand. (Matthew 7:24-27)

If he were elaborating on that construction theme today, I think he might suggest tin shingles for the roof.  And I feel certain that he would tell us to give our roofs a pitch that is clearly pointing upward, a pitch that is steep enough that water won’t accumulate.  Rain never stops looking for cracks, even the tiny cracks that are too small to see.  Over time those droplets of water can slowly rot boards that are hidden from view.

A good roof can last a long time if we use good material, install it properly, and repair it the right way when needed.  Or we can put a bucket in the attic and get by for a while.  It looks about the same from a distance, but eventually the rotting boards will begin to sag.  Sometimes they will collapse and leave a gaping hole.  It can still be repaired, but it’s costly and may leave an unsightly patch.

I need to check that bucket in my attic.  It’s not convenient today, but one day soon I’ll take care of it.  I’m reminded of it each time I see those silver tin shingles on the Clemons’ home, but I keep putting it off.  I don’t have a good excuse.  It’s just easier to leave the bucket where it is.

A lot of folks in the Crisp County area remember Fatboy Mangum.  I was a young man of 23 when I met him.  He was in his mid-fifties.  He grinned and introduced himself, told me that everybody called him Fatboy.  He appeared comfortable with his massive rotund stature, but I called him Mr. Wayne.  That seemed more appropriate coming from a lanky kid three decades his junior.

I met Mr. Wayne through the funeral home where I worked part time.  From December of 1975 to December of 1980, I worked in Vienna with my cousin Rooney Bowen.  Most of my time was spent at his Chevrolet dealership, but I also helped at his funeral home when we had a call.

Mr. Wayne had a vault business based in Crisp County.  He had some helpers, but he ran the little backhoe that was used to dig the graves.  In order not to damage existing markers the backhoe had to be tiny.  Mr. Wayne overlapped both sides of the operator’s seat.  Sometimes he’d ask me if I thought he better give that backhoe a short rest.  I’d pat the hood and tell him that it looked fine to me.

We usually had 50 to 60 funerals a year.  Most folks died on the weekend or either had their service then.  If Jane and I were heading out of town on Friday after work, I’d caution her not to answer the phone, that it might be the funeral home.  That was before caller ID and cell phones.  It was kind of nice when you could leave your phone at home, when you could go for hours or even days without making a call.

Mr. Wayne put in the vaults for almost all the funerals we handled.  I saw him a lot during those five years, and I always enjoyed our graveside chats.  But the place I enjoyed visiting with him most was at the Chevrolet dealership.

Several times a year Rooney would have a supper back in the shop area.  It would be for employees and a few close friends, maybe 15 or 20 men.  We’d sometimes feast on barbequed goat that Mr. Parks Herrington had prepared.  Most of the time, however, we had fried mullet, often cooked by Herschel Davis or sometimes by Barney Crozier.  They both knew their way around a fish cooker.

Mr. Wayne came to those suppers.  He would bring his flattop guitar and I would bring mine.  He’d wait until everyone had finished eating and the conversation had waned a bit, then tell me it was probably time for us to play.  Mr. Wayne was a good guitar picker and a better than average singer.  He had a clear strong voice and knew a lot of songs. Three of them were his go-to numbers.

The lyrics of one were, “T for Texas, T for Tennessee, T for Thelma, who made a wreck out of me.”  I’d never heard that song before, and I don’t think I’ve heard it since.  Mr. Wayne sang it with passion.  It made me wonder if he had known a Thelma somewhere a long time ago.

“Waltz Across Texas” was another of his standards.  I thought that he and Thelma might have had a special connection to Texas, a connection that he still fondly remembered.

The last of his favorites was an old Jimmie Rodgers song titled “Waiting for the Train.”  Mr. Wayne would sing about being flat broke and trying to hitch a free ride from Frisco to Dixie in a boxcar.  “He put me off in Texas, a state I dearly love, the wide-open spaces all around me, the moon and stars up above.”  Between the verses he yodeled in Jimmie Rodgers style and enjoyed the highly predictable grins of our small audience.

Mr. Wayne was happily married to a sweet lady named Madge, a woman he loved dearly.  I don’t know if he had an earlier history with a Thelma down in Texas or not.  All I know is that he enjoyed singing those three songs.  Those mullet suppers were a long time ago, but I can easily picture Mr. Wayne smiling and strumming his guitar.  His voice is still clear and strong as I remember him singing about two lovers waltzing, or about a lonesome man who couldn’t afford a ticket for a train ride home.

I never thought to ask him if there was a story behind that trilogy of Texas tunes, and I’m sort of glad that I didn’t.  Sometimes there’s more pleasure in wondering than there is in knowing.  He sang like a man who had lived the lyrics, but that’s what the best singers do.  His waltzing days were long over, but sometimes a memory is almost as good.

I was standing at the counter in Forbes Drug Store a while back and noticed a small stack of Grier’s Almanacs.  Steve Morgan, who owns the pharmacy with his brother Frank, told me I was welcome to take one.  I was glad that he offered it for free, greatly relieved that I wouldn’t have to make the stressful decision of whether to part with a dollar.  Even if I hadn’t wanted an Almanac, I would probably have taken it anyway.

The late Miller Lawson was a beloved friend to our family and a fountain of common sense.  He told me that when somebody offers you something for free, it’s usually best to take it.  Miller said that he had hauled off some things that weren’t even good enough to throw in the trash.  But he had smiled and said thank you, and kept the door open for better possibilities.

Grier’s Almanac was a staple in farm households during the days of my youth.  I don’t remember where ours came from.  Maybe it was from nearby Joiner’s Store, or maybe from somewhere in Unadilla.  We kept it on the kitchen counter, right next to the phone book.

Farmers and other folks with vegetable gardens faithfully consulted the Almanac to decide when to plant.  Daddy didn’t use it for that.  Our Almanac seemed more for entertainment than agriculture.  Before smart phones, 24-hour television, and social media, people read things from printed pages and then had what we called conversations.  It might be good for someone to do a documentary on that sort of thing.

I was kind of excited that day in Forbes to be taking the 2018 Almanac home.  It had been a long time since I had seen one.  It brought back childhood memories of flipping through the pages, wondering what life changing information that year’s edition might offer.

According to the cover this is the 212^th annual issue, having been published every year since its debut in 1807.  With that kind of track record, I figured it must be loaded with valuable information.

It didn’t surprise me to find a deal on hearing aids.  Those ads seem to be everywhere.  Sometimes my wife turns down the corner of a page, so that I’ll take notice.  Not long ago, Jane suggested I should get my hearing checked.  But the thing is, if I get hearing aids I won’t have an excuse that now allows me to slyly ignore some of what she says.  Clear hearing is convenient, but it comes with a cost.

There were ads for fatigue remedies, walk-in bathtubs, Zoysia lawn plugs, and poultry products, plus some canine antiseptic powder that’s been relieving itchy pups for 1,022 dog years.  I don’t know if it’s safe for humans, but I’m thinking about ordering a bottle for a friend of mine.  My buddy Chris Kauffman taught me that referencing, “a friend of mine,” is how to buy something when you don’t want people thinking it’s for you.

What I found most exciting were the numerous ways to improve health, wealth, and luck for a nominal price.  There’s a Fast Money Candle for eight dollars or Love Draw Oil for only five.  Lucky Mojo Bags are priced to sell at fifteen bucks, or for ten more dollars you can get the extra strength version.  Shipping and handling is only another $7.50.

If you don’t want to wait by the mailbox, you can call one of the reverends, psychics, or spiritual advisors.  One lady is available to help change your bad luck to good, plus provide you with some lucky numbers.  The ad shows a picture of Jesus, but it’s possible that picture was used without His approval.

There’s Snake Oil to destroy all sorts of evil and Holy Water for money blessings.  Some of the products are guaranteed to be the most powerful available.

For those of you who prefer to shop locally, here’s something I’m sharing but asking that you keep in strict confidence.  I have access to a limited supply of lucky chinaberries.  It’s a pick your own orchard that is available only by invitation.

I can point you right to it during berry season or give you directions by phone.  If I’m not home just put ten dollars in our mailbox and help yourself to the berries.  If you’ll leave that ten dollars with me, I can just about guarantee that someone is going to get a blessing.

I met a man named Mingenback at a midday meeting in the month of May.  If you can say that tongue twister three times in ten seconds you’ll be eligible for a drawing.  I haven’t yet decided what I plan to draw, probably a stick figure or a rabbit.

My wife, Jane, and I attended a lunch program at Vinings Bank on May 1^st.  We were there to help celebrate the 50^th anniversary of the Community Bankers Association of Georgia.  Dan Oliver, president of Vinings Bank, was hosting the event in their spacious community room.

As we took our place in the food line, we spoke to a young man that we had not met before.  We shook hands and exchanged introductions.  I read his name tag to make sure that I had understood him correctly.

“Matt Mingenback,” I said aloud.  “Are you related to the Mingenbacks in Dooly County?”

“Dooly County?” he asked, inquiring as to its location.

I told him that we were about two hours south of Atlanta on I-75, and that we had a lot of Mingenbacks in our rural part of middle Georgia.  He was immensely pleased to learn of a southern connection.  Matt grew up in Kansas and now lives in Texas.  Stumbling upon the Georgia Mingenbacks was a complete surprise.

Matt is Director of Sales for a company called Fitech Payments.  I suppose it was his sales experience in reading expressions that gave away my ploy.  We all had a good laugh as I confessed that he was the only Mingenback I had ever met.  Matt said that he planned to pull that name prank himself one day.

I told him to be careful, that there was once an occasion when I felt a tinge of regret for playing that game.  I don’t recall the young man’s name.   We’ll just say Robonoski, because I think it was something along those lines.  All I remember is that it was an R word with four or maybe five syllables.

He was only a few years out of college and was working in the correspondent department for a large bank in Alabama.  He was traveling the southeastern circuit calling on small banks in search of potential business opportunities.  He stopped by Bank of Dooly in Vienna, Georgia, where I was the bank president.

I had never played that particular name game before, or even thought about it that I recall.  But when that young fellow came into my office and introduced himself, it just came to me on the spur of the moment to ask if he was related to the Robonoskis in our area.

He was a nice young man, very polite and personable.  He was excited beyond my expectations to find a pocket of Georgia folks that shared his uncommon name.  He said rather wistfully, “I’ve traveled all over several states with my job, but this is the first place I’ve found any family.”

The thing about a prank is that once you pull the plug there’s no putting it back in the drain.  The only thing I could do was tell him the sad truth.  I don’t think he suffered any long term emotional damage, but I sure did hate to disappoint him.

Speaking of disappointment, I realize that not everyone will be able to say that tongue twister in the first sentence in ten seconds or less.   I’ve decided to offer some consolation prizes for those who don’t qualify for the drawing.

If you can say that sentence clearly in 12 seconds, then you are entitled to a free blog subscription at joinerscorner.com.  If you can say it in 15 seconds, you will be awarded 200 points.

It may require more than 15 seconds for some folks to say it three times.  Regretfully, there is no formal recognition planned for that group.  I had to draw the line somewhere. Drawing the line is probably the thing that I draw best, so I think I’ll also let that serve as first prize.  I hope that the winners will enjoy it.  Good lines are hard to come by _______________________.

The Gettysburg Address only lasted a little over two minutes.  I won’t claim to be as efficient with my words as Abraham Lincoln, but if you’ll promise to listen closely, then I’ll promise not to keep you too long.  All those in favor, please signify that with a hearty, “Amen!”

Congratulations to each of you in the Senior Class of 2018 of Grace Christian Academy.  I’ll confess to being somewhat partial toward one of the graduates, but that’s part of being a grandparent.

I’d like to give those who are graduating a few simple rules that will almost guarantee you a happy, healthy, and prosperous life.  But the truth is, that’s not how it works.

What I will share with you though, are some worthwhile principles that can help you along life’s journey.  They aren’t new.  You’ve heard them all before.  But I hope to say them in a way that will help you remember them long after leaving here with your diplomas.

The first principle is, “Do your best.”  I heard a story a long time ago about an annual convention of a major dog food company.  It was a well-known national brand, one that all of you are familiar with.  There were several hundred salesmen gathered in the large banquet hall.  The company president was rallying the troops as he enthusiastically shouted out a series of rhetorical questions.

“Who has the best production facilities of any dog food company in America?” he yelled.  “We do!” the sales force shouted back.

“Who has the best distribution system of any dog food company in America?  he asked.  “We do!” they replied with vigor.

“And who has the best sales force of any dog food company in America?” he inquired.  “We do!” they responded.  The room was quickly filled with the thunderous sounds of spontaneous applause.

When the applause subsided, the company president spoke in a low and serious tone.  “If we have the best production facilities, the best distribution system, and the best sales force of any dog food company in America, then why,” he asked, “are the sales of our dog food ranked way down in fourth place?”  The room became uncomfortably quiet.

“Will someone please tell me,” he pleaded, “why aren’t we selling more dog food?”

A man in the back reluctantly stood up and gave a simple answer.  He said, “Because the dogs won’t eat it.”

If your career path leads you to a company that makes dog food, then make the best dog food you can.  Make it so good that the dogs will fight over the scraps.  If you become a school teacher, then be that teacher that makes a difference.  Be that teacher that inspires students to excel both academically and personally.  If you become a surgeon, then keep your scalpel razor sharp.  And live in such a way that your hands are steady, and that your mind is clear.  Ecclesiastes 9:10 perhaps says it best.  “Whatsoever your hand finds to do, do it with all your might.”

Secondly, “Get up on the right side of the bed.”  Two men were said to have been engaged in a rather unpleasant breakfast conversation.  One of them had a reputation for being ornery.  The nicer fellow asked him, “Do you always wake up grouchy?” to which the man replied, “No.  Sometimes I let her sleep.”

Never underestimate the value of a positive attitude.  We can’t always control our circumstances, but we can control how we respond to those circumstances.  Rev. A. B. Hosea was the pastor many years ago at Harmony Baptist Church, the little country church of my youth.  He began every morning by looking out his bedroom window while reciting Psalms 118:24, “This is the day that the Lord hath made; let us rejoice and be glad in it.”  Quoting that scripture didn’t guarantee Brother Hosea a wonderful day, but it helped him to approach each day with a wonderful attitude.

Finally, ”Brush your teeth and say your prayers.”  That’s what Andy told Opie in Mayberry, and it’s still timely advice.  I remember a bedtime scene where Andy asked his young son if he had brushed his teeth.  Opie fibbed.  He told his father that he had, then he offered for Andy to feel his wet toothbrush as proof.  Don’t ever be tempted to just run water over your toothbrush.  That won’t help prevent cavities.  Take good care of your body.  It’s the only one you’ll ever have.

And nurture your faith.  Every ship needs a rudder to give it direction.  Faith is like the rudder of life.  It keeps us on a course that’s worthwhile, a journey where we serve God by serving our fellow man.  II Timothy 2:15 says, “Study to shew thyself approved unto God a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth.”  Our faith doesn’t grow by accident.  It grows by our intentional efforts to become closer to God.  If we excel at everything else we undertake but fail to nurture our faith, we’ve missed out on what’s most important.

I’ve given you four things to think about.  Do your best, get up on the right side of the bed, brush your teeth, and say your prayers.  Following those principles won’t magically give you a storybook kind of life.  It will, however, help you to write a better story for the life that you’ve been given.

Good night, and God bless you.

Snow United Methodist Church is a short drive west of Unadilla on Highway 230.  I was there in November of 2017 for the funeral of a long-time friend, Charles Jones.  Charles and I were in the Unadilla F.F.A. String Band together in the late 1960’s.  He mostly played bass guitar, but sometimes took a turn on piano, or plucked a bluegrass classic on his mandolin.  Like his father, Horace Jones, Charles could play just about anything with strings on it.

Jerry Pickard was one of our fellow band members.  He played “Last Date” on the keyboard at Charles’ service.  Jerry and I then played a duet of “Down Yonder.”  Jerry made a lighthearted comment that “Down Yonder” seemed like an odd title for a funeral song.  The congregation laughed, knowing that Charles had a long history with that old country standard.  He had played it countless times in duets, first with Jerry, then later with me.  He would grin comically and bounce along the piano bench as he pounded out the rhythm on the lower keys.

I can’t help but wonder if Charles nudged Saint Peter and said, “Pete, I’ll bet you haven’t heard that at a funeral before!”  Charles had a contagiously joyful approach to life.

Deidre and John Hibberd have been attending Snow UMC since 1974.  At Charles’ service Deidre invited me to come back in the spring to celebrate Homecoming and the 175^th anniversary of the church.  She knows that I am easily tempted by a combination of good friends and fried chicken.  They were both plentiful that Sunday in April.

I learned that a nearby spring once bubbled with sand as white as snow, hence the name of Snow Springs.  James Ray Irwin has been around Unadilla for over eight decades and has a gift for remembering details.  I had seen him a few weeks earlier and asked him about those springs.  He said that in his youth it was like quicksand, just like the bottomless pits depicted in movies of yesteryear.

Johnny Moore was born in 1952 and grew up attending Snow UMC.  He’s heard old tales of people tying a rope around themselves and venturing into the swirling sand and water.  Johnny and I graduated together from Unadilla High School in 1970.  If he had been born a few years earlier, he would no doubt have been on the end of one of those ropes.

Brush arbor meetings were held outdoors before the church was officially chartered in 1843.  The site was chosen because it had ample water for the people and their horses.  The preaching, singing, and visiting often lasted for several weeks.  A log church was built but lost in a fire.  The current white frame building has been there since 1902, and remarkably still has the original stained-glass windows.

There are stories from years ago about revivals where the church was overflowing with people.  Buckboards were positioned near the open windows for additional seating.  I guess the preachers in those days needed strong voices, or maybe the people listened more closely.

Mrs. Marjorie Moore is 88 years old.  She’s heard her share of sermons and Sunday School lessons at Snow UMC, but faithfully attends every service.  Her good friend, Mrs. Alvarez Hudson, will be 100 on December 9^th.  She moved to Perry a few years ago but came as usual to Homecoming.          The Moore and Hudson families have a long history at Snow UMC.  Miss Alvarez said that her late husband, Vaude, was one of nine children.  Eight of them are buried in the cemetery behind the church.  In an era when big families were common, Snow UMC was surrounded by prospects.

Homecoming has been observed at Snow UMC on the fourth Sunday in April for over sixty years.  This was the first time that Charles Jones wasn’t there.  We sang his favorite hymn, “Victory in Jesus.”  I’d like to think that he sang along, but I don’t want to ask him about it yet.

There was a good turnout for this special occasion. Like many rural churches though, the regular Sunday crowd is a lot smaller than it used to be.  The days of big families have passed, and a lot of folks left the farm to live and work elsewhere.  The list of potential new members is not very long.

The white sand is long gone from the spring.  There are more members in the cemetery now than in the pews.  That’s a sobering fact in some respects, but it’s also a good reminder that Snow UMC has been around for a lot of folks who needed it.  Over the past 175 years they’ve helped quench the thirst for countless souls.  The living water they offer is free to all who will receive it.  It comes from a spring that will never run dry, a spring where the sand is much whiter than snow.