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A longtime friend, Mike Chason, texted me a picture of a sign back in October of 2017. The photo, taken on the roadside in Dillard, Georgia, read, “LEGS $2.” He sent it the same day that I published a column titled, “We Bare All.” My column was about the billboards that pollute I-75 with promotions for strip joints and sex stores. I thought Mike had found a new approach to that kind of advertising, but I also felt a tinge of pity. I figured for two dollars, that must be a really bad looking set of legs.

I enlarged the picture, and was surprised to see two wooden table legs propped against that sign. I didn’t think much more about it, until I got a disturbing phone call a few days later.

I don’t usually answer calls from a number I don’t recognize. This number, however, was from the Vienna exchange. I thought it must be someone I knew. The man on the line said it was his car fender that I dented in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot. He wanted to know what I was going to do about the repairs. I told him I didn’t know anything about it, that my wife does all the grocery shopping.

He said it had to be me, because I left my phone number on his windshield. I assured him that I had not hit a vehicle at Piggly Wiggly, and that I had not left my number on anyone’s windshield.

The man had an attitude that I found quite disagreeable. He said that I better take care of his car or he’d contact his attorney. I wanted to ask him how big a fellow he was, but then I remembered how nice it is having all my teeth. I told him that he had the wrong number and that I was hanging up.

I pressed the red button to disconnect, pushing it firmly so he would know I meant business. While telling my brother, Jimmy, about the call, my phone rang again. My old buddy, Bubba Collins, was laughing heartily. He wanted to know what I was going to do about repairing that man’s car. He and his youngest son, Alex, were on their way to a Georgia Tech football game. They had taken a side trip on Prank Call Road.

When Bubba called, it gave me an idea about contacting that leg outlet in Dillard. “Is this the place that sells legs for two dollars?” I asked. A real nice lady said it was, and offered to help me.

I said, “My friend Cletus was fishing for bream at The Blue Hole on Cedar Creek a while back, and a big mud cat got on his pole. He waded into the water to try to land him, but an alligator bit off his leg.”

“That’s just awful,” said the very sympathetic lady.

“Yes, mam. It’s been rough on him. He lost his leg and the fish, and his insurance won’t pay for a prosthesis because Cletus knew the gator was there. Do you think you all could fit Cletus with a leg, if I bring him by one day?”

The lady said she was really sorry about my friend’s leg, but she told me they didn’t handle prosthetics. She said, “What we sell are wooden legs for tables.”

I told her that was even better, that I was making my wife a custom-made table for our forty-third anniversary. I said, “It’s going to be four feet wide and eight feet long. Would I need four legs or six legs to make it sturdy?”

She said that would depend on a lot of things, such as how heavy the top was. I told her I was planning to use a sheet of half-inch plywood and maybe put a nice oak finish on it.

“What kind of a warranty program do y’all have on those legs?” I asked. “Let’s just say my table collapsed on account of a leg breaking. If I had something valuable on the table that got damaged, would y’all’s insurance take care of it?”

That’s when I could tell she had lost interest in making a sale. She said, “Why don’t you come over here and let my husband talk to you about that table you’re working on? I think he can explain it better. He might even be able to fit your friend Cletus with a leg, and maybe fit you with one too.”

I told her I couldn’t come right away, but asked if they could give me a call when it was a convenient time. She said that was fine with her. Then she asked for my name and number.

When that lady calls, I sure hope Bubba doesn’t say anything that might get us into trouble with the law. Bubba and I would probably be okay, but poor Cletus doesn’t have a leg to stand on.

Ole Red just showed up in our yard one day. He was unexpected and uninvited, but looking as if he planned on staying a while. We already had two Cocker Spaniels that were longtime family members. Libby and Freckles were in a shady fenced area in our back yard with access to their own room inside the garage. They weren’t too keen on a free range Irish Setter joining the party.

Jane and I talked about what to do with Ole Red. We peeked out the blinds, trying to see if he would leave us alone. He wouldn’t, so we fed him, scratched behind his ears, and told him firmly that this was a temporary arrangement.

Red didn’t have a collar. He seemed healthy but obviously had a few years behind him. I wondered if someone decided to put him out before his vet bills started on the upswing.

He was a smart dog and savvy about highways, seeming to understand he couldn’t win a fight with a car. He had a wonderful disposition and a disarming smile. It only took a few days before Jane and I started talking about the advantages of having an unfenced dog, the protection he would offer against snakes and strangers and anything else that might come along. We kept trying to find Red a good home, but Red kept unpacking his suitcase.

Within a few weeks of Red having found us, I went to a Dooly County Chamber of Commerce meeting. There was a good crowd that day at Marise’s restaurant, maybe 25 or so folks. One lady was new to the area and had just started working at local radio station 3WN, 1550 on the AM dial.  Most everyone else that day was a regular attendee.

When the meeting was almost over, President Mike Roper asked if there was anything else that needed to be discussed. In the most sincere persona that I could muster, I told the group that I wanted to express my appreciation for all that the Chamber had done for me through the years. I asked everyone to put their business cards in a hat, that I had something special to give away. We had a hat full of potential winners, some quite excited and some a bit suspicious.

I don’t remember the lady’s name from 3WN, but her card surfaced to the top. I told her that she had won an Irish Setter named Red.   I figured we would have a good laugh and that would be the end of it. Then she asked when she could pick him up.

She told me she had some work left to do at the station, that she would come by later, on her way home. So that my conscience wouldn’t keep me awake that night, I told her that she didn’t have to take the dog if she didn’t want him. I told her how Red had dropped by without an invitation, but quickly settled in. She assured me that she would be glad to get him, and would see me a little after five.

We gave her a bag of dogfood and offered to buy some more. She thanked us, but said that she usually cooked for her dogs. She was going by Stephen’s Super Foods and buy a ribeye to help welcome Red to his new home. She said Red would have steak, a warm bath, and a soft indoor bed. I thought about asking her to take me too, but I was afraid Jane might agree to let me go. I didn’t really want to wear a flea collar.

That was probably 15 years ago. I’ve lost track of the time, but I thought about Ole Red the other day when I saw a story about the Flint Humane Society and their ongoing need for funds. They do a great job with limited resources, and take care of some dogs that don’t have anywhere else to go.

When I think about Ole Red, he reminds me what a difference that a temporary home can make. A few weeks in foster care and he was adopted. He found a permanent home with a nice bed, plenty to eat, and someone to love him. Flint Humane Society helps make that happen for a lot of dogs.

Ole Red wasn’t with us very long, but he sure left me with a lot to think about. He saw us peeking through the blinds that day. I’m sort of glad he did.

Donations to the Flint Humane Society can be sent to P.O. Box 393, Vienna, GA 31092. For more information call 229-268-7030, 229-322-1596, or check them out on Facebook. If you want to send a contribution in memory of Ole Red, I think he would really like that.            

Jane and I hiked part of the Appalachian Trail a few years ago. I’m not sure exactly how far we went, but you could barely see the vehicles in the parking lot. If we had worn our walking shoes and taken a bottle of water, we likely would have gone on for another fifteen minutes or so.

Will Ransom is the only person I personally know that has hiked all 2,189 miles from Georgia to Maine. When Will takes a walk, he doesn’t quit until he gets to his destination.

Will’s father, Jack, has been a friend of mine since elementary school in Unadilla. Jack is an avid hiker. He and Rudy McAnally have carried their sleeping bags on mountain trails all over the Southeast. Will was introduced to these rugged outdoor excursions early in his youth. He’s now 31 and has a passion for seeing nature at ground level.

One morning in early December, I visited with Will in his home. It was interesting to learn about long distance hiking, but what I enjoyed most was learning about Will. He loves the outdoors, practices good stewardship, and has an admirable determination to pursue his dreams.

Will began his journey April 21, 2017, at the southern tip of the AT in Springer, Georgia. He finished November 9^th in Maine. His dog, Rhetta, walked over 2000 miles with him, only missing small parts of the trail where dogs are not allowed. Baxter State Park in Maine is the northernmost end of the AT. The park land was donated with a stipulation that doesn’t allow dogs. Will walked Baxter State Park without Rhetta, then he went back to a dog friendly section of the trail that he had intentionally skipped. He had bypassed it earlier so that Rhetta could be with him for the celebratory ending.

It’s not often you find that kind of loyalty for a pet, or even towards a friend. Rhetta wouldn’t have known the difference, but Will would have. He impresses me as a man who has convictions for doing the right thing, even if it takes him down an inconvenient path.

Will walked away from a steady job with ten years of employment. Hiking the AT had been a longtime goal, but he wouldn’t go while his elderly grandmother, Audrey Ransom, was living. Her love and influence helped shape Will’s outlook. He valued their time together enough to put his dreams on hold. She encouraged him to pursue a degree in nursing, a possibility that he has not yet dismissed. I expect she saw in Will a compassionate heart, a young man who cares about people, and pets, and preserving our planet. When she died, December 15, 2016, Will knew it was time to begin his long walk.

Carrying a 50-pound backpack in rugged terrain for almost seven months takes a physical toll, even on a very fit young man. Will still has some sore muscles. Next time he’ll try to pack a bit lighter.

He wasn’t concerned with bears or moose. He smiled and said that he kept a knife hung around his neck in case of trouble. The blade was only 3.5 inches long. It seems to me that might only help if dealing with a really tiny bear. There actually were some tiny things that were rather bothersome, like the ticks in part of Vermont. Small problems left unattended can swell into big troubles.

Rain and freezing weather were minor inconveniences from Will’s perspective, a small price to pay for the deeply cherished times of quiet reflection. Trail Magic, a term he had to explain to me, often came when most needed. He told about a married couple, now in their 90’s, who had set up a spot on the trail to give out treats to the through-hikers, doing their small part to encourage others. Will ran into folks all along the AT who were there for that same purpose. One man had even brought a grill and cooked hamburgers, a welcome menu change for both Will and Rhetta.

Will plans to one day tackle the Pacific Crest Trail and the Continental Divide Trail. Those two, along with the AT, are considered The Triple Crown of hiking. I don’t know much about long distance wilderness hiking, but I hope that next time Will carries a bigger knife.

He’s now working in Danville, Georgia, building tiny houses and planning one for himself. Will likes making something useful that also leaves a small imprint on the environment. He’s enjoying the path he is traveling, and patiently searching for the next turn in the road.

I’ll go on record with two predictions. First, I believe Will’s life will be one that makes things a little better for the rest of us. Secondly, I have no doubt that he’ll figure it all out somewhere along the trail. When Will takes a walk, he doesn’t quit until he gets to his destination.

My father belonged to a men’s Sunday School class at Harmony Baptist Church for over six decades. His cousin, Wendell Dunaway, was the teacher for much of that time. Many years ago, Daddy shared with me something from one of their lessons.

The scripture they had studied that morning was Philippians 4:11, where Paul says that he has learned to be content. Cousin Wendell asked the class if anyone knew a truly contented man. Alvin Hogsett, a relative on my mother’s side of our family, answered without hesitation, “Fountain Bembry.”

Uncle Fountain was a brother to my grandmother, Carrie Mae Bembry Hill. He lived much of his life in a small and very old house that was a few hundred yards from my grandparent’s home. In his later years he lived with Grandmama. Daddy and I were somewhat amused by Alvin’s answer. We knew that Uncle Fountain’s contentment could also be viewed as a lack of ambition.

When he was young, I think he farmed a few acres. That was before tractors replaced mules and horses. He drove a school bus for Pulaski County and worked as a store clerk  for a while. He did a little weekend barbering out of his house and sold Mason Shoes from a catalog. He worked enough to support his modest lifestyle, a lifestyle more simplistic than most would choose.

Uncle Fountain’s small farm was rich in iron ore. It was heavily mined in the early 1960’s. It’s the only place I know of in our area where that was done. Deep pits were left where the ore was removed. It was no longer suitable for farming or hardly growing timber. I don’t know how much money he got out of the iron ore, but he bought a clean used pickup truck, a light blue 1956 Ford stepside.

He wore a Stetson cowboy hat and a Texas string tie when he went to church or to see his lady friend. I was a child and thought that he was rich. I came to realize, however, that his wealth didn’t go much beyond what I could see.

He enjoyed spending time with Miss Mickie Calhoun, often bringing her to family dinners at Grandmama’s house. She was sweet and smart and would have made him a good wife, but he was a committed bachelor. He was satisfied with regular visits and an occasional trip to town.

When the weather was good, he would sit in Grandmama’s backyard under the shade of a big pecan tree. He kept two bricks under the front of his metal chair, tilting it back a few inches. Every hour or so he’d get up and adjust those bricks. Then he’d sit back down and cut a fresh plug of Bull of the Woods chewing tobacco. When necessary, he would lean over and spit, accurately but with little effort, into a tin coffee can stationed beside his chair.

I enjoyed visiting with Uncle Fountain under that shade tree. He was easy to talk to, never out of sorts, never complained that I can recall. I don’t remember talking about anything in particular. Sometimes it was just the two of us, or there might be a half-dozen men following a big Sunday dinner. The men all migrated to the shade tree or the side porch when it was time to clean up the kitchen.

When I was born in 1952, Uncle Fountain was 58 years old. I don’t know when he retired, but I don’t remember him ever working. He was old enough that retirement seemed appropriate. As I got closer to becoming an adult, however, I wondered why he hadn’t done more with his life. I wondered why he was content to live in a room he didn’t own, to date a woman he had no plans to marry, and to let his small farm be disfigured with almost useless clay gullies.

I wasn’t around in Uncle Fountain’s younger days. I don’t know if he worked hard or hardly worked. Ambition is sometimes doled out in doses that seem pitifully small. But too much ambition can be a treacherous thing, sometimes a lot worse than having too little.  We can get so busy building more barns that we forget the importance of shade tree visits.

For a long time I thought that Uncle Fountain’s wealth didn’t go much beyond what I could see. Now, though, I view it differently. I think his wealth was measured in contentment.  I think Uncle Fountain was a lot wealthier than I ever imagined. Alvin Hogsett was the only one that morning who had an answer for Wendell’s question. Alvin didn’t hesitate. He knew he had answered the question well.

Lee Harris called me recently, then left a picture of a paper bag in our mailbox. I’m almost certain that’s the first time that’s happened to me. It was a copier photo of a small brown bag, five inches wide and ten inches long. It wasn’t any different from a million others, except for a hand-written note dated July 27, 1998.

The bag and the message had long escaped my memory cells. It was almost 20 years ago when I sent it to my uncle, Claude Bowen. He was hospitalized at the time. The note read as follows:

Dear Uncle Claude,

I wanted to get you a nice card, but with the dry weather had to rework my budget. Did you know the hospital won’t accept collect calls? I told them I was your nephew, but that didn’t help. Perhaps you can talk to the administrator? Glad to hear you’re doing better. Best wishes from all of us for your continued recovery. Neil, Jane, Erin, Seth, & Carrie

P.S. I meant to enclose $20, but had already sealed the envelope before I thought of it.

Lee went to see Uncle Claude during that hospital stay. He said there were Hallmark Cards lining the room, but what Uncle Claude most enjoyed showing his visitors was the brown paper sack.

For anyone reading this who is under 20, you should understand that paper bags were in common use in 1998. They were used by grocery, hardware, and other retail stores of just about any description. For a few years the checkout clerks would ask if you wanted paper or plastic. Now it’s mostly plastic. I’m not complaining, but plastic is hard to write on, and I’m almost out of paper bags.

The late Reverend Doug Fullington deserves credit for the P.S. For a long time he pastored First Baptist Church in Pinehurst, plus he and his wife, June, ran The Fullington House restaurant. He also performed a humor routine throughout middle Georgia and beyond. He dressed up in overalls and a tie and pretended he was clueless about life. He would tell some funny stories, easily drawing laughter from the crowd, then close by reading a letter from home, a letter from his mama.

The letter would explain that she was writing slowly because she knew that he read slowly. It would be filled with other such clever little jewels, then end with that P.S. about the twenty dollars.

Brother Doug would come to the Bank of Dooly, where I worked, on Monday mornings. He’d visit with me a few minutes, quite often sharing something from the weekend. On one of those visits, he told me he had preached Sunday morning and then gone straight to the restaurant as usual. He worked hard for over an hour, helping take care of the bustling lunch crowd.

Brother Doug was tired and his feet were sore. He sat down at a corner table in the dining room to take a short break. Karlie Ingram was five years old, and was there from Vienna with her family. She walked over to Brother Doug. “Don’t you have any friends?” she asked. He smiled and said, “It sure doesn’t look like it, does it?” Then Karlie made him a really sweet offer. She said, “I’ll be your friend.”

He thanked Karlie for her kindness and told her he was just resting a bit. He was still smiling the next day when he shared that story with me. We both understood that Karlie had set the compassion bar rather high for the rest of us. We talked for a minute about Isaiah 11:6, “And a little child shall lead them.” Brother Doug’s hair had been silver for a long time, but Karlie taught the lesson that day.

Lee Harris reminded me of more than just a paper bag. He reminded me that small things can make a big difference. It can be as simple as writing a note, making a call, or leaving a picture in someone’s mailbox. It can be as tender as a child offering friendship to someone who is sitting alone. Sometimes we need to do big things, the kind of things that take a lot of effort. But the small opportunities are the ones that surface every day. They’re the ones that we have no good excuse to ignore.

That brown paper bag brought back memories of Uncle Claude, Brother Doug, and a young Karlie Ingram, delightful memories that I’m glad could be rescued. If I’m ever again given the choice of paper or plastic, I’ll take paper. I’m pretty sure that paper is where the best memories are kept.

My wife, Jane, claims she doesn’t have a recipe for coon. I didn’t see her look, but she seemed quite certain. It’s hard to believe that dozens of southern style cookbooks made the same glaring omission. But I wasn’t worried. I was pretty sure that I knew where to get one.

Ed Mixon married Lorene Lewis on June 27, 1959, at Harmony Baptist Church. Lorene was the daughter of Elmo and Dorothy Lewis. She grew up on their family farm about five miles south of Unadilla. Ed and Lorene spent most weekends with her parents during the early part of their marriage. Her Uncle Teasley, “Unc” to her, lived just a few steps down the road with his family.

Unc stopped by one Friday night and said, “Ed, I’ve got Ol’ Monkey in the truck. You want to go coon hunting?” Ol’ Monkey was Unc’s favorite coon hound. He had an instinct for hunting that’s found only among the best trackers. Unc, Ed, and Ol’ Monkey became a regular threesome on Friday nights. Sometimes they were joined by Lorene’s daddy, Elmo, or her younger brother, Tony.

Unc would put Ol’ Monkey out and they would listen for his bark. His bark let them know when he was following a trail, and when he treed something. He would often run far ahead of them, deep into the pitch-black woods. They’d catch up with Ol’ Monkey, then search the branches with flashlights for the coon’s shining eyes. Unc would invite him to dinner with his single shot 12 gauge.

A good outing might yield two or three coons, but they had one night of exceptional hunting in Mr. Son Register’s cornfield. Coons were everywhere. Unc shot enough for several meals, but hardly dented the population. Ed says there couldn’t have been much corn left in that field to harvest.

Possums were also on Unc’s menu. In the fall, Ed and Unc would shine their flashlights up the persimmon trees and lure the critters down. When a possum hit the ground, Unc would grab him by the tail and drop him in the croker sack that Ed would be holding. Ed would shake the possum on down in the bag, and quickly twist the top to keep him from climbing out. One night the bottom tore open and the possum landed right on top of Ed’s feet. That’s when Ed learned to dance. Unc caught the possum again, tied the bag at both ends, and took him on home.

Ed and Lorene were late one Friday night getting to her parent’s home. Ed still had on his dress clothes from work. He was not expecting to go hunting, but Unc showed up with Ol’ Monkey and Ed couldn’t resist.

Not long into the hunt, Unc heard Ol’ Monkey barking. He had a different bark for coons, possums, bobcats, and foxes. Unc said, “He’s got a possum treed in a hollow.” Ed, in his dress clothes, crawled through a wash to get under some briers. Ol’ Monkey stuck his head in the hollow tree and the possum nailed him. Unc cut a limb and trimmed the side branches to short stubs, making what he called a twister. He sat on the ground and braced both feet on the tree. He twisted the possum’s hair around those stubs, pulled him from the hollow, then sacked him for the trip home.

Ed and Unc coon hunted nearly every Friday night until Ol’ Monkey got run over by a car. That ended the family tradition, a tradition they had kept alive longer than most folks in South Georgia.

I visited Ed not long ago. A good friend of his, Mrs. Pearl Rouse, gave me her well-tested recipe for coon. She said to boil it in water with apple cider vinegar until it’s tender, then bake it in a loaf pan with barbeque sauce and a little salt. Cook some sweet potatoes with it, and cover everything in sauce when you serve it. The same recipe works for possum except you need to drain the grease off.

Miss Pearl fed a large family gathering one time before telling them what she had served. Some had been adamant in the past that they would never eat coon. She laughs now and says they can’t say that anymore. Miss Pearl says there weren’t enough scraps left over to feed a stray cat.

Ed turned 82 this year. His coon hunting days are far behind him, but he still enjoys recalling those long-ago Friday nights with Unc and Ol’ Monkey. Ed’s memories of those hunts have a flavor that’s tender and sweet. I don’t much want coon for supper tonight or for dinner tomorrow, but I’m glad that I got the recipe. I probably don’t need it, but somehow it just seems worth keeping.