Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Daddy preferred row cropping to livestock. In my earliest childhood memories, our small cattle herd consisted of maybe 25 brood cows. We had one very muscular Black Angus bull. It seems he would have been quite happy, but he never smiled. We knew to avoid him in the pen or pasture. There were calves, of course, but they were temporary residents on our farm.

The cows were mostly Angus, a common breed of beef cattle, but Star and Della were for milking. Only those two dairy cows had names. Sometimes it’s best not to name your livestock.

Daddy milked Star and Della by hand. He squeezed the milk into a silver metal pail. After he carried the milk inside, Mama took over. She chilled some in the refrigerator for drinking and cooking. Some of it she churned into butter. That butter sure tasted good on homemade biscuits with pear preserves.

An older neighbor, Mr. Ernest Holland, told me something during my childhood that I still think about sometimes. Mr. Ernest said, “You can eat just about anything, if you put enough butter on it.” I laughed and thought he was only talking about butter. Now, I think maybe he was talking about life.

Star and Della were both good producers. They provided plenty of milk for our family of four. Their attitudes, however, were worlds apart.

Della never liked to be milked. She would go right into the stall, understanding that’s where the sweet feed would be, the corn or oats that were quite a treat compared to the Bermuda grass in the pasture. She never understood, however, that the tradeoff for a good meal was to share her milk.

Daddy would occasionally try to milk her without putting the kickers on, but she always failed to appreciate the freedom. He would put one clasp around each of her back legs. A short chain between them kept her from being able to do much damage. Otherwise, she might have kicked Daddy, or even worse, kicked over a full pail of milk.

Star, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy the extra attention. She liked for Daddy to wash her udder with the warm soapy water, rinse the soap off, then gently massage the milk into the pail. He alternated squeezes between his right and left hands. The first sounds were streams of milk hitting the metal bottom. The sounds grew softer as milk slowly filled the open container.

Daddy called the cows to the barn using a two-syllable word that sounded like, “Ho-eck.” I don’t know if it’s a real word, something he heard, or something he made up. I just know the cows all came up the lane from the pasture. They knew it was feeding time. Star and Della knew it was milking time.

Daddy put me on Star’s back a few times and let me ride her to the barn. He didn’t have a rope on her and didn’t need one. She just kept up that steady walk toward the trough, ready for the feed, ready for the morning ritual with Daddy’s familiar hands.

I think I was eight or nine when Daddy stopped milking. He had milked cows almost every day since his childhood. I expect he was ready for a break. Most of the neighbors had already decided that store-bought milk wasn’t all that bad, that maybe store-bought butter wouldn’t ruin a good biscuit.

Milk cows and beef cattle have different purposes. Della and Star were milk cows, so their purpose on our farm was over. Daddy took Della to the sale barn, hoping she would find a good home. But Star was family. She didn’t go to the livestock auction. She stayed in the pasture and still came up the lane for generous servings of sweet feed. Nothing was required in return.

When Star died, Daddy sold the rest of the herd. He took up the fences and planted cotton where the pasture had been. Daddy never said much about keeping Star. All I remember is him telling me that he didn’t plan to sell her, that he would leave her in the pasture as long as she could stay.

I can’t say that I learned much about raising cattle from that experience. But I learned something about loyalty and taking care of family. And I learned that being put out to pasture is not always a bad thing. I’m glad that Daddy didn’t take Star to the sale barn. Star died at home, just like she deserved.

I’m not sure how many cold-water Baptists are still around. Elizabeth Dunaway, Mary Joyce Dunaway, and my mother, Margaret Joiner, are in the most senior group. They were baptized in childhood at Mock Springs, each of them having made professions of faith at Bethlehem Baptist Church.

When I was a child in the 1950’s, Mock Springs had long been the main place to beat the summer heat in the Pulaski County area. Somebody told me the water temperature stays around 68 degrees. To me it felt much closer to the freezing mark. It’s possible they used a faulty thermometer.

The boil, as it was commonly called, spewed thousands of gallons of water. The cold water filled the big swimming area then overflowed through a large metal pipe. The overflow poured out forcefully, dropping several feet to ground level where it formed a crystal-clear stream.

The push of water coming out of the boil was strong enough to keep children from getting past the opening. Tan colored electric eels also served as guards. I’ve heard that two young men with scuba gear swam nearly a mile in the underground stream. I don’t know if that’s true or not. I never considered trying to go past the electric eels. Daddy taught us to avoid mixing electricity with water, a lesson I still find helpful today.

When you went from 98 on the sand to 68 in the water, it would take your breath away. There were only two somewhat sane choices for entry. You could run in and do a shallow dive or you could go off the springboard. The board was my preference. Once you committed, there was no turning back.

Gradually wading into the chilling water never made sense to me. It worked okay for some people, mostly teenage boys who were trying to impress girls. I figured if that’s what it took to impress them, that I might stay single. As Clint Eastwood said, “A man has got to know his limitations.”

We’d go there on Sunday afternoons after church, and occasionally would have a Sunday School dinner on the outdoor picnic tables. Dinner was followed by a predictable lesson in patience. In the 1950’s our parents had a strict rule: No swimming until 30 minutes after eating. We would take turns asking if it had been long enough, optimistically searching for an adult with a lenient watch.

Our parents were convinced that rule protected us from cramps and likely drownings. We couldn’t even wade in the edge. The children knew that knee deep water was safe. Our parents, however, knew that temptation often starts in the shallow end.

Bethlehem Baptist Church was originally near Elizabeth’s childhood home. The back half of the building served as Junior High School. It was only one room that included the first through fifth grades.   Elizabeth and Mama both attended there. They don’t know why it was named Junior High. Maybe it started out with more grades, or maybe someone planned to add some later.

Bethlehem built a new church in the early 1940’s on Mock Springs Road. The ladies from my grandmother’s generation helped nail the interior boards that were sawed from local poplar trees. By the late 1950’s the church had dwindled to a few members, most of them having a lot more years behind them than ahead. On a Sunday afternoon in the summer of 1958, Reverend Britt baptized Elaine Calhoun at Mock Springs. She was nine years old and perhaps the last person to join Bethlehem. Elaine still remembers the minnows being attracted to the white socks she wore. I was a five-year-old spectator. I mostly remember hoping it wouldn’t take too long. All swimming had been suspended.

Bethlehem closed the doors in the early 1960’s. Elizabeth, Mary Joyce, and Mama had already married, moved their church memberships to Harmony Baptist, and started families. Elaine’s family moved to Double Branch Freewill Baptist. She later married Covie Langford, a cold-water Baptist from a different stream. Covie was baptized in the spring fed waters of Double Branch.

Those four ladies from Bethlehem have faithfully worked, witnessed, prayed and loved their neighbors. That kind of commitment seems harder to find lately. It makes me wonder if we’ve made the water too comfortable. Maybe we need more cold-water Baptists. Maybe it’s time to go back to Mock Springs.

I’ve been to a lot of funerals, way more than most folks my age. For five years I worked for my cousin, Rooney Bowen. He owned the Chevrolet dealership and the funeral home in Vienna. Cars and caskets were our specialties. I’ve played the piano for many services. That began when I was a teenager at Harmony Baptist Church. For 35 years I worked at a small-town bank, a bank where our customers were also our friends. That added a number of funerals to the total count.

I officiated at the funeral for Donnie Carpenter. His wife, Mattie, asked me to have the service. I told her it might be best to have a preacher. She said there was nobody Donnie would rather have than me, that whatever I said would be fine. I called my pastor for some guidance. I read a few verses of scripture, then nervously rendered some personal comments. Mattie told me Donnie would have been pleased. I think he would have too. I plan to ask him about it, but no time soon I hope.

I’ve attended funerals for people who were well known and the church was overflowing. And I’ve been to a graveside service where it was just Rooney, the preacher, and me. I’ve heard some exceptional eulogies and pastoral comments. But of the hundreds of services I’ve attended, there is only one that I remember the message quite so well.

It was the service for Henry Offenberg. The message was not based on the exceptional things that Henry had done, but on things that were rather simple and even mundane.

Henry was one of the nicest fellows I’ve ever known. He was a quiet man, easy going and even tempered. He was three grades behind me at Unadilla Elementary, but the school was small enough that I knew him well. We grew up and I became his banker. Regular trips to the bank were the norm in those days. I saw Henry often. He always had a slight smile that seemed permanently affixed.

He died way too young from a tragic vehicle accident on January 7, 1998. Many of us were used to seeing Henry drive his truck at a slow and steady pace. His death was a shock to our whole community.

Reverend Tommy Daniels conducted the service at Unadilla First Baptist Church. He asked the question, “Who will stand in the gap for Henry Offenberg?” Tommy spoke only briefly about the leadership roles that Henry had taken, things like serving on the Board of Deacons. He focused instead on the quiet role that Henry played, taking care of things that few would readily volunteer for.

Early in Tommy’s pastorate in Unadilla, Henry went to see him. Henry told him he was there to wash his car. Tommy assured him he didn’t need to do that, but Henry insisted. He told Tommy that there were a lot of things he couldn’t do, but this was something he could. He said he planned to keep his pastor’s car clean. Tommy tried to pay him the first few times. Henry made it clear he wasn’t washing his car for the money. He just wanted to show his pastor he cared about him.

Tommy told about Sunday night services and how Henry would stay to turn off the lights. Most folks left soon after the services ended, but some would linger, wanting to visit with friends or talk to their pastor. Tommy would tell Henry to go on home, that he would take care of the lights. But Henry would decline his offer. He would tell him it wasn’t any trouble to stay.

I left that service with a whole new perspective of Henry Offenberg, a newfound respect for him that still causes me to examine my own Christian service.

Sometimes God needs us for jobs that are highly visible, jobs that maybe even carry a bit of prestige. But more often He needs us for those tasks that are routine and behind the scenes, those things that go unnoticed and unappreciated, things for which we receive no public accolades.

I knew Henry Offenberg quite well. I’m thankful that his pastor helped me to know him even better. Henry washed his pastor’s car. Jesus washed his disciples’ feet. It seems to me that Jesus and Henry have a lot in common.

Henry’s example of humble service hit real close to home that day. That’s why it’s the funeral that I remember most clearly. I’m still remembering Henry, because Henry still needs remembering.

Our oldest grandchild, Abby, is only a year away from college. She’s been looking at various options, hoping to find somewhere she could enjoy her stay while getting a good education. She recently visited Georgia College & State University in Milledgeville. Their brochure has an impressive list of available degrees. I learned there’s a major in Rhetoric.

That was a bit of a shock to me. I’m accustomed to hearing the term rhetoric used in a critical manner. It often describes the rather meaningless jargon of politicians, as in, “That’s just a bunch of rhetoric!” But I did some research and found it’s a respectable word, closely related to communication.

Good communication seems in short supply on many fronts. From politics to private matters, from race to religion, from neighbors to North Korea, there’s plenty of room for improvement. I don’t know if there are any jobs for Rhetoric Majors, but it sure seems like there is a need for some good communicators.

Language can be a barrier to communication. Several decades ago my wife, Jane, and I, along with our young triplets, went to Cordele to eat at a Chinese restaurant. We ordered by pointing at the numbers. The nice young lady who waited on us was very quiet. We assumed that her English was limited. She mostly smiled and nodded.

There was no dessert listed on the menu, but we asked if they offered any. She brought us some delicious little balls of cake that had been deep fried and coated with powdered sugar. They were exceptional. We gained a new appreciation for authentic Chinese desserts.

No one in our family speaks Chinese. Jane, however, has a master’s degree in education. She was designated to find out more about this splendid dish from another culture. She spoke slowly and with extra volume. We are firm believers that adding volume greatly enhances interpretation. Jane’s approach, in my opinion, was perfect.

“What – do – you – call – these – little – round – fried – pastries?” asked Jane.

The young Chinese lady gave a slow and deliberate response. “Donuts,” she said.

“Donuts?” Jane asked, with a considerable degree of surprise.

“Donuts,” she confirmed, her pleasant expression punctuating her familiar nod.

We returned on many occasions. After our meals, we would ask with exaggerated flair for donuts. We were not fluent in each other’s language, but smiles don’t need interpretation.

Another barrier to effective communication is hearing loss. My cousin, Joyce, told me a few years ago that her husband, Ben, needed to do something about his hearing.

Several families of barn swallows had nested on their porch. The little birds are quite charming until they build their mud nests and begin raising their young. Swallows have a penchant for foul etiquette, rendering porches almost useless for human purposes. They are protected by federal law, and apparently know this. They are relentless in homesteading and almost impossible to legally displace.

It was about supper time as Joyce walked by a window that gave her a clear view of their porch. Ben was standing at the kitchen counter with a paper plate and two slices of bread.

“Ben,” she asked with weeks of pent up frustration, “do you think those birds are ever going to leave our porch?”

Ben held up a dinner knife so she could see it. He said, “I’ve already put mayonnaise on my bread. “

Joyce just smiled and said, “Okay.”

Some communication problems can be helped with hearing aids or interpreters. Those are the easy ones. The tough ones involve attitudes, opinions, prejudice, and personal interests. It’s hard to communicate with people we don’t know, people that in some cases we don’t even like. Maybe it would help if we try to think of them as our neighbors. That’s not rhetoric. I found that idea in a Good Book that I read. Luke 10:25-37.

Dr. Joe Christmas was our family doctor for a long time. He took care of three generations in the Joiner family, even helped some with the fourth.

In December of 1975, my wife, Jane, and I moved from Valdosta to Vienna. I began working with my cousin, Rooney Bowen, who owned the local Chevrolet dealership as well as funeral home. Dr. Joe was a close friend of Rooney’s. He came by the Chevy place on a regular basis.

Sometimes he stayed for only a few minutes. Other times he would prop his feet up on Rooney’s desk, light his pipe, and take a much-needed break. On those longer visits, I learned a lot from Dr. Joe, things I otherwise would never have known.

Jane and I had triplets in 1978, Erin, Seth, and Carrie. Dr. Joe told me there must be something in the water in Third District, the community where I grew up, that this was the second set. I had no idea what he was talking about. I had never heard anything about another threesome.

Many years earlier, Doc had delivered three babies that belonged to Joe Louis James and his wife, Otha Mae. One of the babies didn’t survive, so most folks thought they had twins. Joe Louis James lived just down the road from my childhood home, close enough I could see their house from our yard.

I was out at the farm one Saturday, having a cold drink at Joiner’s Store. Joe Louis James stopped in for an afternoon break. We decided the triple births might be attributed to sweet potatoes and oil sausage, two foods that we both had eaten in large quantities.

Doc strongly embraced our theory. On many occasions he would grin and ask, “Neil, are you still eating plenty of sweet potatoes and oil sausage?” I would tell him I had decided it was best to leave them alone. Doc would take a draw on his pipe and say, “Well, son, that’s probably for the best.” We laughed about it every time. It never stopped being funny to the two of us.

About once a month Dr. Joe would decide it was time to pull for Cokes. Everyone who worked at Rooney Bowen Chevrolet, plus anyone else who might be around, would put a dollar in the pot. We would then buy bottled Cokes out of the coin operated machine in the shop.

We looked on the bottoms to see where they were stamped. A giant map on the shop wall told us whose bottle had made the longest trip. The winner took all, maybe ten or fifteen dollars. Nobody really cared who won. We enjoyed Dr. Joe running the game. He enjoyed certifying the winner.

Doc told me a story about Mama Joiner that was new to me. She was my grandmother, as well as Rooney’s. In September of 1969, when I was almost seventeen, she suffered a severe heart attack. She was taken to Dooly Medical Center, but only lived a brief time. Dr. Joe was in the room with her, along with a nurse, whose name I’ve long forgotten.

They saw Mama Joiner take her last breath. The nurse then left the room and headed down the hall. She only made it a few feet and came frantically running back. She fell on her knees and shouted with great panic, “Lord have mercy, Dr. Joe, that woman is coming in the front door!”

It was my great aunt, Lilly Noble Dunaway, Mama Joiner’s twin sister. They were identical twins and both wore their gray hair in buns. To those of us who saw them regularly, it was easy to tell them apart. To that nurse, however, it seemed clear that Mama Joiner’s spirit was not yet ready to leave.

Rooney told me another story from that day, a very special story. The funeral homes provided emergency medical service in our area back then. The hearses doubled as ambulances. Rooney got the call to go to Mama Joiner’s house. When he got there, Dr. Joe was already on the scene.

Her heart attack was bad. There wasn’t much to do other than provide comfort. That’s what Dr. Joe was doing. He was lying on the bed beside Mama Joiner, propped up on a pillow with his arm around her. Mama Joiner loved Dr. Joe. He loved Mama Joiner. They both understood it was more about the man than the medicine.

When I think about Dr. Joe, a lot of memories easily bring a smile. But that one memory almost brings a tear. That’s when I wish that we could pull those Coke bottles one more time.