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When I was a small child I enjoyed looking at clouds, searching their numberless shapes for something familiar. I saw a lot of dogs, but maybe that’s what I was looking for.

I would view the sky from various angles, sometimes sitting in an outdoor swing, sometimes standing and leaning against the unpainted boards on the side of the barn. My favorite place, however, was lying on my back in the grass, especially during winter. There was no better venue for cloud watching than our backyard on a cold clear day.   Sunshine and a corduroy coat provided a warmth that bordered on perfection.

I was seldom in a rush and rarely had anything that required urgent attention. I leisurely studied the fluffy cumulus clouds and their enchanting transitions of characters. What began as a dog pointing a covey of quail might become a charging bull. A cat might grow into a lion, or even morph completely into an elephant from the circus.

One time I saw Elijah in his chariot, but it wasn’t made of fire. It was instead the soft white and pale blue colors of billowy clouds in the sunlight of winter. Moses showed up on several occasions, or it may have been Charlton Heston. Sometimes I confused the two. Either way, he had no trouble parting the sea, nor using the massive walls of divided water to cover Pharaoh’s army.

Abraham and Isaac were together one time. Isaac looked especially relieved that his father had found a ram in the bush. I think I saw God once, but I’m not sure. I knew it was dangerous to look directly at Him, so the sighting lasted only a moment.

There were teepees and castles, flying fish and dolphins. There were assorted birds of almost every description, except that I never saw a whippoorwill. The eagles were most impressive, even more so when diving for fish.

I’m not sure how old I was when I realized it might seem odd for me to be stretched out on the grass. The artistry of the clouds became less intriguing. I didn’t plan to quit looking for stories in the sky. It just happened.

My wife, Jane, and I often walk the dirt road beside our home. We take our dog, Lilly, with us. She used to run ahead of us, and sometimes chased a rabbit into the woods. Lilly is 13 now and walks rather slowly. She still begs to go, but easily stumbles and often lags behind. Sometimes she stops and waits for us to turn around. We cut our walks short when she wants to go home.

Lilly has been part of our family since she was rescued by Michelle Gallett at Harmony Baptist Church. Someone left five puppies near the church. Michelle took them home, washed the fleas off, kept one for herself and found homes for the others. We know that our trips with Lilly down Coley Crossing must grow shorter, that our pace has to be lessened so she won’t strain to keep up.

At least one good thing has come from these slow walks. I’ve noticed the clouds again. I don’t find many clear shapes anymore. It seems that with age that would be easier, but somewhere between childhood and now my imagination lost some of its elasticity.

As a child I found something special in almost every cloud. I looked with simple faith, never doubting I would discover a remarkable formation. It’s much harder as an adult. I look now for shapes that are perfectly defined, whose lines need little interpretation. Grand expectations have been tempered with ordinary experiences.

I doubt that I’ll ever lie on the grass in winter again. We have wonderful neighbors who would no doubt stop to help me. The truth would be too embarrassing to share.

But I’ll spend more time looking upward on our unhurried walks with Lilly. I’ve come to realize that even the undefined shapes are quite spectacular, for I understand something now that escaped me as a child. I understand that in every cloud I see, there is always an image of God.

This story was written in September of 2017. Lilly died on October 24^th. I haven’t yet seen her chasing rabbits among the clouds, but I’ll keep looking until I do.

John Randolph Causey opened a Gulf station in Vienna, Georgia, in 1918. It was on State Route 7, a busy highway that later became part of U.S. 41. He also became a distributor for Gulf Oil Company, his territory covering the southern half of Dooly County.

His grandson, John Causey, has a round metal Gulf sign from that first year in business. His grandfather had put it up in the nearby town of Lilly at Mr. Clay Ingram’s store. When the store closed the sign came back to Causey’s Service Station. On November 30, 2017, John sold the station, but he didn’t sell the sign. He took it on a short ride north to his home.

John grew up working at the station for his father, George Causey. Longtime employee Willard Satterfield taught him how to drive. John would often go with Willard to deliver fuel to stores and farms. Outside of town they would swap places. He learned to drive behind the steering wheel of a tanker truck, a highly unusual but apparently successful approach.

John’s wife, Lady, has also spent most of her work life at the station. They could have stayed on a little longer and made it an even 100 years for the location, but with a buyer in hand they decided 99 was close enough. John was a baby when he first went there. That was 79 years ago.

The Vienna of John’s youth was bustling with people and businesses. Right next door to Causey’s Service Station was the Vienna Hotel, a three-story inn with a restaurant and gift shop. The hotel burned in 1953 and wasn’t rebuilt. Maybe they had heard some crazy talk of plans for a four-lane highway, a road without traffic lights that would bypass the downtowns of rural Georgia.

John’s father, George Causey, opened his own station on Cotton Street in 1924. He was 17 years old and not long out of high school, after which he had taken a six-month business course. In 1958 he closed that station and built a new one on the original U.S 41 site. That’s the one that was recently sold. Vienna had numerous stations and stores in 1958, plus banks, gins, and assorted businesses. There wasn’t much reason to shop out of town. The streets were often packed, especially on Saturdays.

In John’s childhood there was a grist mill in town and a livery stable. Mule drawn wagons were still common. Folks would park at the stable, then go by one of the general stores and leave a list of supplies. They would visit on the streets, take in a show at the movie theatre, then go back and pick up their groceries. Their simple routine makes me think that progress may be a bit overrated.

John made fuel deliveries to country places like Calhoun’s Store. Mr. Bivins Calhoun sold groceries, hardware, hand tools, and fuel, plus had a dealership for Oliver tractors. His cotton gin was just across the road. One-stop shopping has been around for a long time. The superstores have just wrapped it in fancier packaging.

In 1958 John and Lady got married. I’m guessing that brand-new Gulf station helped clinch the deal. John was paid $37.50 per week by his father. That was the exact amount of their monthly rent for a small apartment. Lady soon began working at Citizens Bank as secretary to the president, Mr. Grady Williamson. With a two-income household, they began thinking about becoming home owners.

In 1960 they bought a house on Sixth Street. They paid $6000 and financed it for 12 years with payments of $45. John wasn’t sure where they would get an extra $7.50 per month, but they found enough money for the house plus two small additions named Michael and Wynn.

Four generations of Causeys have worked at the station, the last one being John and Lady’s son, Michael. But the station isn’t the only common thread that runs deep in their family. Their continuous history with the Vienna Volunteer Fire Department preceded the station and is still going.

John’s grandfather served as fire chief from 1908 to 1925. Their family has been pulling those big hoses ever since. Michael is the current chief and has been since 2008. I doubt there’s been a fire in Vienna in the last 110 years that hasn’t had at least one Causey helping put it out.

Someone said, “The more things change, the more they remain the same.” I’m not sure I know what that means, but I’m thinking it’s probably true. There’s one thing that I do know. John Causey’s years at the family station left him with a tank full of memories. I see now why he kept that big orange Gulf sign. It came home when he did. There’s no doubt that’s where it belongs.

I am by nature a modest person. When I was in the third grade, Dr. Baker removed my appendix at Taylor Regional Hospital in Hawkinsville. At some point during my hospital stay, I locked my bathroom door to ensure privacy. An older nurse came by. She threatened that if I locked it again she would get the key and go in with me. From my perspective, she would not have known the door was locked had she not pushed on it. I still believe that I made the right decision.

As a footnote to the story, it turned out my appendix was healthy. It looked so good that we kept it in a jar of alcohol in our farm shop for years. My surgery was due to having some suspicious symptoms during an era when appendectomies were popular.

In the past fifteen years I’ve had two and a half colonoscopies, one Barium X-ray, and two biopsies of the prostate, the first of which was done without anesthesia. When that tissue sampling gun clicked I understood why they had checked me for weapons at the door. It was the worst medical test that I’ve ever had, followed closely by the Barium X-ray.

The Barium ordeal was when I learned the value of anonymity. My approach was gleeful as I entered the room, blissfully unaware of what was in store for me. I still regret having introduced myself to a technician who was the daughter of a friend. I wished I had borrowed the Lone Ranger’s mask.

The reason I report 2.5 colonoscopies is that my first one didn’t take. Dr. Peter Donnan was practicing in Cordele at the time. He gave me a twilight drug that’s not as strong as full anesthesia but works for most people. They gradually gave me ten times the normal dose, but I reportedly kept flinging my arms and kicking my legs. He called the game in the bottom of the second inning and sent me to Barium Village.

Ricky Stevens has been my doctor for a decade or so. Knowing my history with twilight drugs, he uses Propanol, which for me works much better. Doc had me on the calendar for Friday, December 1, 2017, for our second colonoscopy as a team.

He has a good sense of humor, so I figured he and the other folks assisting might enjoy a little break from the usual routine. Early that morning before we left home, Jane used a brown permanent marker and wrote neatly on my rear, “Exit Only.” I wasn’t awake when they rolled me over, but I’ve been told it was a nice diversion to the mundane task at hand.

In case you are interested in entertaining the medical professionals at your next colonoscopy, here are some ideas. For those patients with an artistically inclined spouse, you could draw a smiley face, compass, sun dial, target, or anything that blends naturally with the landscape. For those who prefer the printed word, the following suggestions are loosely arranged by topics.

Just Say No: No Loitering, No On-Ramp, No Trespassing, and No Smoking.

Travel Guide: Scenic Overlook, North-South Connector, Detour Ahead, Next Exit Closed, The Great Divide, The Twin Peaks of Georgia, and “Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

Product Information: Periscope Not Included, This Side Up, Handle With Care, Slide Card and Enter PIN, By Invitation Only, and Out of Order.

Cautions: Do Not Over Inflate, Crime Scene Area, and, “Don’t look, Ethel!”

Miscellaneous: The End Is Near, Has Anybody Here Seen John? Charter Member of The Bedpan Band, Service Engine Soon, A Split Decision, All Employees Must Wash Hands, and my personal favorite, “Run, Forrest, Run!”

I’m not recommending you follow this path. Your doctor may disapprove, plus there’s probably a disclaimer on permanent markers noting they are not intended for writing on skin. You are, however, welcome to use any of these suggestions. It won’t matter that you weren’t the first to do this. When it’s a matter of health, there’s no shame in bringing up the rear.

P.S. If you think you don’t need a colonoscopy, please talk to my friend and fellow columnist, Clay Mercer, about his difficult but successful battle with cancer. You can contact him at claymercer.com.

Mrs. Ernestine Braswell Furlow turned 100 on January 23, 2018. Woodrow Wilson was President the year she was born. Gas was 15 cents a gallon. It was also the year that a global flu epidemic claimed millions of lives, including over 500,000 in America. That’s a sobering number, especially so to Miss Ernestine. One of those deaths was her mother.

Miss Ernestine was nine months old when her mother died on October 28, 1918. She has a picture of herself as a smiling baby that was taken a month earlier. Her father remarried, but he died when Miss Ernestine was only five. She lived with grandparents, uncles, and aunts, and came to Vienna in the fourth grade.

In July of 1934 she had a blind date with Anderson Furlow. She married him in September of 1935 when she was 17. They were blessed with three children, Belinda, Anita, and Andy. Anita passed away in March of 2000. Mr. Furlow died in 2001 after 65 years of marriage.

In November of 1948 Miss Ernestine joined Avon Products Inc. She worked in outside sales for forty years. She was a regular member of the President’s Club, a recognition for agents in the top ten percent. Another former Avon rep, Mrs. Martha Brown, lives just two miles away and will be 104 on February 23rd.

It’s remarkable that a rural community has two Avon ladies whose average lifespan is 102. If you see me wearing makeup, please don’t laugh. It might be worth giving it a try.

While making her customer calls, Miss Ernestine also did volunteer work for her church, Vienna First Baptist. She was the Extension Director for decades, delivering magazines and visiting the sick. One of her longtime fellow church members, Mrs. Bobbie Odom, is almost 101. It didn’t surprise me to learn that Miss Bobbie was an Avon customer.

Miss Ernestine celebrated her milestone birthday a few days early in Loganville surrounded by 21 family members. Her Sunday School teacher, Murray Stephens, organized a second party held in Miss Ernestine’s home. Her dining room table is filled with cards, pictures, and a giant scrapbook.

She enjoys her scrapbooks, which are of library quality. There are clippings about churches, community events, family, and friends. She had saved an article about her next-door neighbors, Jim and Debbie Bolton, who have been helpful in countless ways.

Miss Ernestine has lived in the same house for 70 years and is not saving any boxes for moving. She smiled when talking about her long life but added that she’s not about to buy any new furniture. With a confident faith, she said that a much better home is being prepared for her.

I squinted through my glasses to read some of the news items that she’s kept. Miss Ernestine wasn’t wearing glasses. Nor was she using a cane or walker. She stood for over 90 minutes as we slowly circled a memory filled table.

The memories she treasures most are of family. She mentioned Anita’s piano lessons from Mrs. Louise Lewis and her gift for classical music. She talked about Belinda, also a student of Mrs. Lewis, serving for many years as a church organist. An article about Andy notes that he developed a computer program so the Georgia Board of Regents could modernize college registrations.

Miss Ernestine recounts childhood memories of ringing the dinner bell when it was time to eat or listening to her uncle play his fiddle. But she’s even more interested in what’s going on right now, in keeping up with her family, church, and friends.

She told me that she enjoys my columns, and that she’s noticed I like to include some humor. She said I could tell folks that she was recently looking for her coffee jar and found it in the refrigerator. I didn’t tell her I had just stuck my head through an arm opening while trying to put on a vest. That wouldn’t be so bad, except it took me a while to figure out what was wrong.

We paused at the front door as I was about to leave. She smiled and said with a hint of mischief, “Neil, I was just wondering if you would mind playing the piano at my funeral?”

I said, “Miss Ernestine, I’d be honored to. But I was just wondering if you would be willing to speak at mine?”

The quarterly reunion for Junior High was held Thursday, January 4, 2018. Although the school was located in Pulaski County, the reunions are now held in Vidalia. This one took place at Meadows Park Health and Rehab in Room 223.

Junior High was a small rural school that included the first through fifth grades. Its name seems a bit of a misnomer. Perhaps the original plans also included grades six through eight, but that’s just speculation. Other than a blue metal road sign there’s nothing left of Junior High.

The school was housed in the original Bethlehem Church building. It preceded the Bethlehem I remember that was on Mock Springs Road. Folding doors separated the sanctuary from the classroom, an open span that accommodated all the students and two teachers. A coal burning heater kept it warm enough to study. It was as comfortable as most of their homes, which relied on open fireplaces.

My mother, Margaret Hill Joiner, only attended Junior High for the fifth grade. She went there because a relative, Robert Coleman, was a newly-hired young teacher and needed more students. Elizabeth Stokes Dunaway, Mama’s first cousin, attended all five years at Junior High. She serves as President of the Alumni Association, but has delegated most of the reunion details to Mama.

Cousin Elizabeth and Mama grew up near each other. They often visited, played, and had meals together. They attended church at Bethlehem Baptist, and were both baptized in the ice-cold waters of Mock Springs. They double dated, married Dooly County farmers, raised families, and spent decades together as members of Harmony Baptist Church. Harmony is two hours from Vidalia, where Elizabeth now lives, so they don’t see each other on Sundays anymore.

My brother, Jimmy, and I were guests at the recent reunion. We heard some delightful childhood stories from another generation. I asked Cousin Elizabeth if she remembered her first-grade teacher. Without hesitation she named Mrs. Bathsheba Johnson. “We called her Miss Bassie,” she said, noting she was a much better teacher than her sister, Miss Drusilla Sewell.

In nice weather Cousin Elizabeth walked the short distance to school. At other times she caught the bus or was taken by her parents. Mama lived about three miles away. She walked almost a mile, then rode Mr. Tom Dunaway’s school bus with her good friend Kat McKinney.

Mama and Cousin Elizabeth talked about their aunt, Ruth Hill Shelton, who each day milked four cows. She hand-churned the cream into butter that she sold or bartered. I remember as a young child in the 1950’s going with Mama to a grocery store in downtown Hawkinsville. She showed me some of Aunt Ruth’s butter, something I felt provided my great aunt with celebrity status. The days of homegrown products being carried in the stores were rapidly winding down.

Cousin Elizabeth said that she didn’t do much milking herself, but that she loved working in her family’s vegetable garden. Her mother, Aunt Effie to us, had big gardens. She liked sharing from them, especially with people in need. Gardening must have been in the Hill Family genes as Mama also seemed to relish the work. In my childhood, and many years afterward, she picked bushels of peas and beans with an enthusiasm I admired but did not understand.

I attended a funeral recently for Mrs. Helen Cross, a fine lady and renowned cook from the Harmony Church community. Her nephew, Reverend Mike Peavy, described love in a way that I had not heard before. Mike told about Miss Helen picking and shelling butterbeans, then cooking them in a big pot. But love, he explained, was when she gave those butterbeans away, something she did often and in generous portions.

I used to wonder how the ladies of that generation could enjoy the hard, sweaty, work of gardening. I think Mike Peavy gave me the answer. Maybe they loved the work, but I think what they really loved was the sharing. They gathered some to keep, but gathered much to give away.

The Junior High Reunion helped remind me that we all have gardens to tend. Every garden looks a bit different, but so do the needs that they meet. I guess the blue metal road sign isn’t the only thing left from Junior High. There are two alumnae and a huge collection of sweet memories. I hope that I get invited to their next gathering. Maybe I’ll find out what happened after fifth grade.

My brother, Jimmy, and I found Mr. Walter F. Nutt not long ago. Our discovery came unexpectedly on the morning of July 6, 2017. We were doing some long-overdue maintenance at Wallace Cemetery, a small and seldom visited place not far from where we grew up. Beneath several inches of vines, limbs, and oak leaves, we found Walter Nutt’s grave.

His granite slab shows that he was born February 6, 1886, and died at the young age of 32 on January 1, 1919. His death came long before my birth, but his name seemed vaguely familiar, as if there was something more that I knew about him but could not recall. His marker is inscribed, Gone but not forgotten. My unspoken thought was that a more accurate line would now simply state Gone.   

Jimmy and I soon left for dinner, knowing Mama’s homemade biscuits were almost ready. Mr. Junior Sparrow called to tell me that he had enjoyed a recent article written by Ed Grisamore in The Macon Telegraph. It was about a patriotic poem that I wrote a long time ago titled What America Is.

Mr. Junior has done an excellent job maintaining the grounds of nearby Williams Cemetery. It’s the place where his parents and a lot of his mother’s family are buried. It’s rare to find a small country graveyard so well taken care of. I told him that Jimmy and I had been working at Wallace Cemetery, and that we hoped to one day have it back in respectable shape.

Mr. Junior mentioned Walter Nutt, noting that he was buried near the giant oak, a tree that was already massive in my childhood 65 years ago. He told me that Walter Nutt married his aunt, Nora Williams, a sister to Mr. Junior’s mother, Odessa Clyde Williams Sparrow. After the wedding, Nora went by separate means to their new home. Walter was not far behind, driving a horse drawn wagon. A half mile from Wallace Cemetery, on a hill near Cedar Creek, the wagon wheels abruptly stuck in some flint rock. Walter Nutt fell between the horse and wagon. He died on his and Nora’s wedding day.

I have some family members buried at Wallace, including my great grandparents and great-great grandparents on the Joiner side. Several other families once buried their loved ones there, but that was years ago. Their close relatives have mostly died or moved elsewhere. Daddy and Uncle Murray took care of the grounds as far back as I can remember. Jimmy and I have been rather sporadic in our efforts.

It was probably on a visit to the cemetery with Daddy and Uncle Murray that I first heard the story of Walter Nutt. That’s why I think his name had a hint of familiarity.

On October 30^th, I went to Williams Cemetery, then later visited with Mr. Junior Sparrow. I learned that Nora Williams Nutt married again after her husband’s untimely death. Her second marriage was to Dr. Burrell B. Wilson, a veterinarian. She and Dr. Wilson are buried in Williams Cemetery with a small marker between them. Nora died in childbirth in 1925, at the age of 31. Her child died also and was buried beside her. I was surprised that Walter Nutt’s tragic death was only part of the story. The somber events of Nora Williams’ life seem an unfair burden for one family to bear. Some things we’re not yet meant to understand, but can only trust that one day we’ll see clearly.

Hurricane Irma passed our way as a tropical storm on September 11, 2017. It toppled the ancient oak at Wallace Cemetery, barely missing Walter Nutt’s grave. Jimmy and I began slowly clearing some limbs and leaves. Thanks to the Finn Cross family, the huge fallen oak has recently been removed from the graveyard.

Someday Walter Nutt’s grave will probably be lost again to time and vines and the absence of anyone looking for it. But I realize now that its inscription, Gone but not forgotten, will still be true for what’s most important. Finding his slab, and learning about his life, helped remind me that the condition of our graves is far less important than the condition of our souls. Taking care of one is worthwhile. Taking care of the other is critical.

Finding Walter Nutt led me to a rather intriguing story of love and tragedy that seems worth preserving a while longer. If you look for his grave, it’s on the north side of Wallace Cemetery. You might want to take a hoe or a rake with you. There’s still plenty that needs to be done.

I thought for a while that our work at Wallace Cemetery was a way of helping others. But I’ve found out that it’s mostly something we can do for ourselves.