Welcome to Joiner's Corner

Although I spent 35 years in banking, I’ve refrained from using this column to expound upon the world of high finance. That’s mostly because I don’t know much about it. It’s also because my interest in such matters has declined, an attitude shift slyly predicted in a tee shirt pun from long ago. We’ll get to the tee shirt later, but first here are a few thoughts on something I do know a little about – the not-so-high world of personal finance. 

One rule you can bank on is jewelry is rarely a good investment. I’m not anti-jewelry, unless it’s stuck through your face, nose, tongue, or such. I’m just saying if you pay retail then try to resale you won’t do well. A loan request made at Bank of Dooly several decades ago illustrates the point.

A chipper young man came in with a diamond ring he’d purchased at a chain jewelry store. He wanted to pledge it as collateral, leave it with me, and borrow half its worth. An appraisal from the seller showed a $6000 value. As I politely explained that we didn’t loan money on jewelry, he insisted there was no way the bank could lose.

Thinking it might be a teachable moment, I told him if he’d get a letter stating how much the jewelry store would pay the bank in the event of default I would reconsider. He returned after being told their company policy didn’t allow them to repurchase jewelry they had sold. The appraisal reflected what they might allow as a trade-in on an upgrade. 

There’s nothing wrong with buying jewelry if you can afford it. It is, however, generally a terrible investment. The folks who said, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,” were selling diamonds.  

Another reliable rule of personal finance is an old one – “A penny saved is a penny earned.” The Macon Telegraph recently reminded me of that axiom. 

I grew up reading The Telegraph and have subscribed to it for almost 50 years. We switched to the online version in 2023 to save money, but the monthly premium kept creeping up. When it reached $38.99 per month Jane and I discussed discontinuing it.

Our smart phones must have been listening to us. I began getting emails offering a one-year subscription for $79.99, which equates to $6.67 per month. I logged onto their website, but the best rate for an existing subscriber was $26.80 per month. I opted for the reduced rate, then complained to my wife their pricing seemed unfair. 

She agreed and called their toll-free number to ask about the $79.99 offer. The fellow said that rate was for new customers only. It wasn’t available to loyal subscribers who had paid full retail for five decades. He did, however, agree to a promotional rate of $19.99 per month. Her persistence led to a second offer of $15.99 per month. They finally settled on $12.99.

Thanks to my wife’s call we should save $312 over the next year. That’s enough to pay for the towable wagon I gave her for her birthday. The wagon is a fine addition to our yard equipment. It holds 15 cubic feet of pine straw and her mower easily pulls it.

It was frustrating that as a long-time Telegraph subscriber we had to jump through hoops to get a better rate. But a penny saved is a penny earned, and pennies add up to dollars.   

I’ll close with some sage financial advice of unknown origin – “Spend less than you make.” That’s not always easy and sometimes almost impossible. If you embrace that way of thinking, however, you can occasionally reward yourself with something special. 

Jane, for example, has another surprise coming. I’m building wooden side bodies from salvaged lumber for her small wagon. This will increase its carrying capacity by almost 50 percent. I may even add a secure compartment for storing her Timex and other fine jewelry.

That’s all I’ll cover for now about the world of personal finance. It’s possible I’ll share some additional thoughts later, as I hope to be around for a long time. Such longevity was noted in that tee shirt message I saw early in my career. I feel confident about it because the last half of the quip has already come true. “Old bankers never die. They just lose interest.”

It’s been almost two years since I passed the three-score and ten mark. Other milestones have not had much effect on my attitude, but the seventies unexpectedly became a more sobering mark. That’s partly because of a too-honest mirror. The kid I used to catch a glimpse of has left the building.   

I’ve had some remarkable examples of graceful aging among family and friends. For reasons I don’t fully understand, I’ve not embraced this phase of life as well as they have. I’m glad to be on the train, but wondering how it got to the station so quickly.  

One benefit of the journey, however, is that I’ve learned a few things along the way. An insight came this past spring after an inguinal hernia put a kink in my routine. As pain in the hinterlands sidelined my usual activities, the frustration of forced relaxation led to an epiphany: I was better at being young.

All hernias are not created equal, I’ve discovered. A small one developed on my right side several years ago and remained inconsequential. There was no discomfort and only a tiny bulge. It bordered a faded appendectomy scar I’ve had since the third-grade.

Dr. Baker took out my appendix at Taylor Regional Hospital in Hawkinsville. We kept it in a brown jar of alcohol under our farm shelter for a long time. It didn’t occur to me until later it would have made good fish bait. 

That childhood surgery has been mostly forgotten except for two memories. One is the smell of ether in the soaked gauze they placed over my nose.

Ether was the standard anesthesia in the 1950s and I inhaled with great appreciation. I had watched enough westerns to know the other options were a swig of whiskey or clenching a bullet with your teeth. As a Southern Baptist I would have had to bite the bullet.  

The other thing I remember about my short hospital stay is a reprimand from an elderly nurse, an ancient woman probably well into her 50s. After I was stitched up and wheeled to private quarters, I snuck out of bed, walked to the bathroom, and locked the door. An eight-year-old boy needs his privacy.

When the nurse came to check on me, she attempted a forced entry but thankfully had no key. She threatened to accompany me the next time unless I promised to leave the door unlocked. I agreed to her terms but my fingers were crossed. I’d have rather bled to death.

Medical science says the appendix is a useless organ. My thinking is it works like a book appendix and that’s why I have no sense of direction. I’ve been lost on countless highways, campuses, and even inside buildings. It’s frustrating at times, but also interesting.

In the late 1980s a meeting for Georgia bankers was held at a hotel in north Atlanta on Highway 41. Because of my directional challenges, I got off I75 south of the city and took the historic route. I ended up on a dead-end street of abandoned warehouses, waving at people who didn’t wave back. 

After a hasty U-turn, I stopped at a florist and ordered the cheapest arrangement they would deliver to the hotel. Following their pink van was a piece of cake. I would have arrived on time if they hadn’t made two other stops. 

I’m glad to report the hernia surgery worked out splendidly. Dr. Alicia Register at Crisp Regional has expertly repaired three ailing members of the John Bonner Sunday School Class at First Baptist Vienna. If you want to run faster and jump higher, visit us for two consecutive Sundays and you’ll qualify for a referral.

Maybe one day I’ll cover a few more things I’ve learned along the way. Meanwhile, feel free to offer suggestions on how to approach the aging process with more enthusiasm. I really miss that kid in the mirror. He left sooner than expected and didn’t even say goodbye. 

There’s a lot I’m unsure of about this latter phase of life, but one thing I can say with certainty: I was better at being young.

George Washington Jordan is among the most senior of World War II veterans. The 105-year-old Dooly County native drove trucks in Okinawa while serving in the Army. Transportation was a common assignment for black soldiers in a segregated military. 

Despite the sobering circumstances of war, I have no doubt Mr. George approached military service the same way he has lived – with quiet dignity and an easy smile. I’ve known him almost 50 years and can testify to his exceptional character and gracious demeanor.  

In some ways he’s unchanged from when we first met – still slender and affable. His mobility, though, is now limited and hearing loss is severe. One of his children, Nathan Jordan, offered me a small dry-erase board to write questions on.    

“That was so long ago,” said Mr. George while trying to recall wartime accounts. He remembers a lot from those days but details are fading, some of them perhaps for the best.

Born April 15, 1919, on the Morgan Farm near Vienna, a mention of childhood evoked pleasant excitement. He enjoyed talking about plowing with mules as a teenager, sharing how the mules would shift directions on commands of gee and haw. 

As a young man he joined the civil service and moved to Jonesboro, Georgia, to help build the Atlanta General Depot. That job ended when Uncle Sam gave him a new one. On September 23, 1942, he was inducted into the United States Army. Basic training was at Ft. Benning, Georgia, where he was assigned to a Service Battalion. From there he went to Ft. Bragg, North Carolina, and trained in Truck Transportation.

Winter was cold in Ft. Bragg, especially when sleeping on the ground. “I like to froze to death,” he said with a grin, before relating an experience he now finds amusing. A young soldier he was sharing a tent with put his own shoes outside that night and couldn’t find them the next morning. We changed topics before I learned how that story ended.    

Ft. Lewis, Washington, was his last stop before Hawaii. In Hawaii he learned to swim, then boarded one of 65 ships bound for Japan. During the Battle of Okinawa he served with the Quartermaster Truck Company which moved supplies, fuel, and munitions to the front line. Standing orders were to abandon a vehicle quickly if it broke down. Japanese soldiers were adept at hiding and seizing opportunities. Hesitation could have grave consequences.

An ongoing challenge was a shortage of truck drivers. They were supposed to have three drivers per truck but only had two covering 24-hour shifts. Except for refueling and maintenance, they ran day and night for nine months. That tidbit of history gave me a better appreciation for supporting roles which often garner little recognition.   

Honorably discharged on February 29, 1946, Mr. George achieved the rank of Technical Five (Corporal) and earned four medals: the Good Conduct Medal, Asiatic Pacific Medal, American Service Medal, and the World War II Victory Medal.

Because his formal education ended after fifth grade, Nathan said his dad was amazed that he married a school teacher, a young lady from Miami, Florida, he met at church. Mr. George and his late wife, Leona, raised four children and lost a daughter at age two. 

Nathan volunteered for the Air Force at 17, but he’s appreciative of the sacrifices his parents made for two siblings who chose to attend college. His father sometimes held three and four jobs so their degrees would come without debt. Hard work helped pave the way for an industrial engineer and a registered nurse.

After 22 years in the Air Force, Nathan returned to Vienna. The former air-traffic controller launched a new career, still ongoing, with the City of Vienna’s Public Works Department. He excels at his job, but my deepest admiration is for the work being done on a higher plane. When his father needed more assistance with daily living, Nathan welcomed him into his home.     

Mr. George deserves accolades for serving his country, and for being a longtime blessing to his community. Perhaps his greatest accomplishment, however, is the godly example he set for his children. The tender care he now receives gives evidence of a beloved father. 

At 105 years of age a lot of things have changed, but those most important are still the same. George Washington Jordan lives as he always has, with quiet dignity and an easy smile.

Every year since the late 1940s a group of men has departed from Hawkinsville on a three-night river trip to the Atlantic Ocean. Fourteen to twenty friends usually ride two per boat and share tents as they camp along the water. 

They launch on the Ocmulgee River, which merges downstream with the Oconee to form the Altamaha. Four days at a leisurely pace gets them to St. Simons Island.

 The first Wednesday in January is their standing departure date. Ernest Mashburn, a longtime friend of our family, can attest that inclement weather doesn’t allow for delay. On his first outing in 1990 the temperature was 17 degrees. 

Sometimes the water level is ideal. At other times it can be challenging, either too low or too high. Ernest only skipped one trip during three decades. He and several others decided not to go when the Ocmulgee reached 21 feet, an unforgiving stage. Those who went navigated the currents without major incident, but had difficulty finding dry ground for campsites. 

Hawkinsville residents Roger Lawson and Thomas Bembry decided in the late 1940s that a boat ride to the coast would be a fun and rewarding experience. What began as a lark evolved into a cherished tradition that’s still going strong.   

A newspaper article from around 2004 includes a group photo of 13 men. Hugh Lawson and Johnny Bembry, son and nephew of the event’s founders, are pictured. River-trip enthusiasts have continued to surface in later generations of several families. 

The late Hugh Lawson, a federal judge, assumed the organizer’s role at some point. Ernest described him as having a great sense of humor and being a superb storyteller. His response to the mishap of a close friend offers proof.     

Ramsey “Bub” Way was a regular participant on countless excursions. One year when his boat had mechanical trouble, he held the bendix gear in place so it could be cranked. As the starter was engaged it sheared off the tip of a finger. During the following year’s trip, Judge Lawson nailed a metal sign to a tree commemorating the minor tragedy: “On this spot, January 3, 1991, Bub Way became Nub Way.”

In the 2004 newspaper story, one unnamed fellow offered an assessment of their annual adventures. “Don’t quote me,” he said, “but there are four things we enjoy. One is the ride, two is the cooking, three is the bragging, and four is the libations.”  

We’ll focus on the rides today. Ernest hasn’t been since 2019, but trips down that river blessed him with a boatload of memories, such as the partially-submerged steamboat. It was discovered on the Lawson-Bembry maiden voyage, resting in the middle of the Alapaha a little below Baxley. It hadn’t been there long as everything was still intact. The adventuresome duo went aboard and took a couple of pots and pans from the galley as souvenirs. 

Metal sections of the boat outlasted the wood, but the flood of 1994 moved the entire vessel. The steamboat’s history remains a mystery.

Another memory Ernest shared is of abandoned liquor stills. Remnants of a once-vibrant operation were located near Penn Holloway Creek. A shallow ditch which veered off the creek offered limited access to the secluded spot. It was a favored camping site with empty barrels repurposed for conversation.

Ernest wistfully described the expansive confluence of the waters where the Altamaha forms. He said they’d tie their boats together and drift in the swirls for a while, just relaxing among good company. If I ever make a bucket list, I’ll put that near the top.

I can’t begin to capture an 88-year-old man’s recollections of multiple trips down the river. But a few old-timers will gladly share their memories if you ask. 

Thomas Bembry went on those jaunts until his late eighties. He’d sing little ditties like “Shoe Fly” as others grinned and sang along. Ernest recalled the January launch when Mr. Bembry had decided to stay home. As the boats eased away from the landing, he stood on the banks of the Ocmulgee to say goodbye to his friends. And a rugged old man cried like a baby.  

River trips are filled with laughter and tales of yesterdays, but teardrops on the water’s edge show streams of love displayed. What began as a lark became a lasting tradition. And a river of memories keeps flowing toward the sea. 

My wife and I recently watched the 1980 version of The Blues Brothers. It’s been a while since I’ve laughed that much. Nobody can dance like John Belushi. 

We’ve been Netflix customers since prehistoric times when movies were sent through the U. S. Postal Service. Netflix has always offered a variety of options, including some which should be rated U for Unfit. 

But that’s more of an opinion than a complaint. It’s our choice what we watch and no one is forcing us to subscribe to your service. I am, however, hoping you’ll consider making a slight enhancement.

My suggestion is to offer two versions of movies when appropriate, with one of them suitable for all audiences. This idea surfaced as we were enjoying the comedic antics of John Belushi and Dan Akroyd, while cringing at needlessly crude language.  

I noticed the R rating, but pressed the play button anyway. It had been decades since we’d watched a televised broadcast of The Blues Brothers. I soon realized the TV version had been edited. It didn’t have the f-word, s-word, or use God’s name irreverently.

Taking God’s name in vain is the most offensive of the three to me personally. It seems that would be the case for Christians, Jews, and Muslims alike, since we all claim to worship the same God. That should be reason enough to avoid disrespectful usage. 

The f-word ranks an easy second in offensiveness, yet it’s increasingly common in the entertainment industry. It’s not just in movies or other shows. It’s frequently employed by celebrities in every arena, including top-tier athletes whose young fans idolize and imitate them. Censorship, though, is rarely a viable solution. That’s why I’m suggesting you voluntarily offer G and PG alternatives.

It’s a simple and inexpensive process to dub substitute words and phrases. Existing movies as well as new ones could be offered in dual versions. And here’s the part you’ll love – Netflix should profit from an expanded audience.

Rather than reinvent the wheel, my thoughts are to follow standards set by the Federal Communications Commission several decades ago for over-the-air broadcasts. Cable is not subject to those rules, which has led to a plethora of foul language, vulgarity, and gratuitous violence. That’s not going away, so why not provide multiple viewing options when feasible?

Except for coarse language, I found little about The Blues Brothers objectionable. It’s a hilarious plot and even has a hint of redemption as two lovable scoundrels become unlikely heroes on a self-proclaimed mission from God.  

Another easily adaptable film that comes to mind is the original Annie. My memory may be faulty, but I think there’s a scene where Daddy Warbucks uses the gd expression. It struck me as odd that a show targeting kids used God’s name in a disparaging manner. One tiny change could take care of that.

Christmas Vacation with Chevy Chase is a great example of a movie that could readily be made family friendly. Chase has starred in countless comedies which would be ideal for modification. Productions featuring Will Ferrell, Adam Sandler, Jim Carrey, and Steve Martin also come to mind. My personal playlist would mostly be comedies, but the possibilities of two-tiered versions in multiple genres are limitless. Netflix is only one of many streaming services, but you’ve always been a leader. This could be an opportunity to launch a positive effort while adding to your bottom line. 

Thank you for your consideration, and please let me know as soon as the family-friendly version of The Blues Brothers is available. I’d love to watch it with our grandchildren. Nobody can dance like John Belushi.   

On Easter Sunday of 2022 I scribbled a note describing that morning’s heavy fog. I planned to write a column soon thereafter, but instead treaded water in the pool of good intentions. Although my note found obscurity in a deepening stack, the idea would occasionally resurface, especially on foggy mornings.

I’ve been to a lot of sunrise services, the earliest of which came during the 1950s at Harmony Baptist Church. Springtime weather has been perfect on countless mornings for outdoor celebrations of the resurrection. The occasion I remember most clearly, however, began with what seemed little promise.    

Vienna First Baptist, where I’m a member, held joint sunrise services with Shiloh United Methodist for several years. Shiloh’s historic church has snow-white clapboards plus a charming steeple. Its rural setting emanates a serenity Norman Rockwell could not have enhanced. 

I had been to Shiloh on other Easter mornings. I had experienced the soft glow of light peeking out from the distant side of an open field. Each time the rising sun was a poignant reminder of a risen Savior. 

Navigating through dense fog on the pre-dawn drive to Shiloh that morning was a bit of a letdown. A sunrise service without sunshine lacked appeal. Low expectations were easily embraced, but thankfully soon erased. 

Our pastor, Brian Leverett, delivered the short message and shared something I needed reminding of. Brian said that even though we couldn’t see the sun, we all knew it was there. The fog had no effect on the source of light. It only obscured it.

The same is true of God and his Son. There’s no limit to the things that can come between us and our Creator, things that fog our minds, dampen our spirits, and may even cause us to wonder where God is in the mayhem. 

Gary Turner once shared a story with me which helps put that in perspective. He told about a Sunday School lesson taught by Mr. John Bonner in the men’s class at Vienna First Baptist. Mr. John, a godly man and gifted teacher, posed a question one Sunday morning – “Where is God?”

A few days later a class member stopped by Mr. John’s home. Mr. Fred Moore, a rugged man who spent decades in the timber industry, drove Mr. John to a lovely spot of forested land on his property. He didn’t explain the purpose of their outing until they arrived at the place he wanted his friend to see.

“John,” he said, as they admired a beautiful setting, “last Sunday you asked us where God is. Well I can’t tell you where God is, but I can show you where he’s been.”

Our world seems increasingly in disarray. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by problems in our country and around the globe, plus the personal struggles that affect us or those dear to us. Sometimes I find it helpful to reflect on those two incidents, one a hazy Easter morning, the other a moment between old friends.

It doesn’t matter how thick the fog may be, I know the sun is still shining. And when challenges make it tempting to wonder where God is, I like to visualize two gray-haired men sitting in a pickup truck admiring our Creator’s handiwork. Evidence of where God has been is all around us. And evidence of where he is flows from within us if we allow it. 

Perhaps it was best that I didn’t write a column as quickly as intended. I’ve had time to mull the experience, time to better appreciate that fog comes in many forms, time to reaffirm that no matter how foreboding the haze may be, we have a choice. We can allow it to dampen our spirits, or we can embrace the assurance of the Son’s unfailing light.

I’ve been to services early on Easter mornings when the weather was ideal, yet the one I most vividly recall is when the light was dim, mostly hidden from view. I already knew the sun was shining, but sometimes I need reminding.

My scant knowledge of criminal investigation techniques came from watching Columbo. The bumbling detective would often pose a question as he was about to walk away from a suspect. That recurring scene came to mind as I pondered over Buddy Bellflower’s last day. Unanswered questions abound. 

Online searches I made regarding Lewis Oscar Bellflower, Jr.’s death were not productive. Shortly after the first column was published, however, a longtime friend informed me of two articles from August 10, 1962. Eddie Hightower found them at Newspapers.com.

Details in The Macon Telegraph and The Macon News are almost identical and have Hawkinsville datelines. They were both designated as specials, so presumably were not written by staff. One headline reads “Jury Sees Unknown Attacker in Case.” The other says “Jury Is Unable To Find How Boy, 17, Died.” Here are some key points.

The body was found on State Route 26, about four miles west of Hawkinsville. That’s in Pulaski County, not Houston as I previously noted. A Pulaski County coroner’s jury issued a statement that “Oscar ‘Buddy’ Bellflower came to his death by wounds inflicted upon his body by a person or persons unknown and in a manner unknown by this jury.”

Coroner Pat Nelson presided. Testimony was heard from a number of witnesses. Georgia State Patrol Trooper George Brown told the jury he believed the youth had been put on the highway prior to being struck by a car driven by C. B. Brown.

Sheriff Andy Hill testified his first theory about the death was that the body had been placed on the highway before it was run over by Brown’s car, but he had not been able to substantiate his theory with evidence.

Not mentioned in either article is that Mrs. Louise Williford of Unadilla also ran over Buddy. I learned that several years ago from one of her daughters, Virginia Williford Bailey.

I’ve always been intrigued by the circumstances of Buddy’s death, and have occasionally discussed it with Unadilla friends. When I asked Virginia if she remembered my childhood hero, she surprised me by sharing her mother’s unfortunate connection.

Mrs. Williford came along just after Mr. Brown. The state trooper who arrived later offered her a bit of consolation. He assured her Buddy’s death occurred well before she got there.

Virginia doesn’t remember if her mother testified at the inquest or not, but says the traumatic experience continued to bother her. Whenever they were driving on that stretch of highway, she would point out the spot where it happened.

Dr. W. R. Baker reported a ruptured liver which indicated a “rather terrible force.” He said the injury could have been caused by a pipe, a blackjack or, under certain circumstances, by a car bumper.

Buddy was reportedly seen at the Hawkinsville dance at midnight, Saturday, July 7th. A person answering his description was said to have later been walking in the direction where he was found on the highway. His body was discovered Sunday morning about three a.m.

David Clark, ambulance attendant, testified the youth was wearing no shoes and his socks were clean. New shoes were found nearby.

I don’t plan to inquire if records from the investigation are still available. If anyone is interested in doing some hobby sleuthing, however, there are things I’m curious about.

Stories told just after it happened said there was a fight at the dance over a girl, and that some guys ganged up on Buddy. If that’s true, it should have been easy to identify those involved, as well as others who witnessed the scuffle or knew about it. 

It seems odd the newspaper articles don’t mention the dance or a fight, or whether any suspects were questioned. And there’s no reference regarding testimony given by anyone who attended the party. Maybe the details are in the minutes of the jury and there were good reasons not to publicize them. Or maybe the reasons weren’t so good.  

Buddy Bellflower was only 17 when he was killed. He was perhaps the youngest person at a party for adults. A kid who blows smoke rings tends to grow up fast. Buddy would have turned 80 this October, so there may not be anyone left who knows the truth. But if someone remembers that night and is willing to talk, Columbo’s bumbling understudy has a lot of questions.        

Buddy Bellflower died way too young. This story begins a few years before. Buddy rode our school bus for a short time when I was a youngster. He was eight years older than me and made a big impression on a little kid. His deep tan and black hair caused me to think he might be part Indian. That elevated his status considerably to a freckled-faced boy prone to sunburn.    

He was fun to be around, perhaps sensing my unspoken admiration. I never heard any talk of him causing trouble, but his natural swagger made me think he could take care of himself. Billy Griggs, a childhood friend of Buddy’s, confirmed that opinion. “Buddy was tough as nails but a really good guy. He’d fight a bear with a switch,” Billy said with a chuckle.

Billy illustrated his friend’s bravado with a story about Buddy and Mac Reed finding a coon in the stump of a hollow tree. They threw a coat over the stump then dropped it onto the critter, planning to take him hostage. The coon ate them up from the elbows down. Badly scarred arms led to heavy ribbings at school, but enhanced Buddy’s daring reputation.   

Lewis Oscar Bellflower, Jr. (originally spelled Belflowers) was born October 21, 1944, and died July 8, 1962. I was nine at the time and he was seventeen. Our paths rarely crossed after he completed the eighth grade at Pinehurst Elementary, but his mysterious death troubled me then and still does.

Karen Bellflower Brown was seven when her beloved uncle was killed. He had moved in with Karen’s family that year and was working with her father, Bo Bellflower, in his carpentry business. Dooly County Sheriff H. C. “Johnny” Johnson delivered the news.

Several fellows from Unadilla, including Buddy, had ridden together to a dance in Hawkinsville. Buddy had danced with a young lady, which didn’t go over well with some of the locals. That led to a “scuffle,” but nothing major according to those questioned.  

His Unadilla friends said Buddy stayed behind when they left. Later that night, he supposedly began a long walk home on State Highway 26. That’s where he was found after being hit by multiple vehicles. 

One theory is he passed out or stumbled in front of a car on the dark roadway. Others thought his body was placed on the pavement to conceal a murder. Sheriff Johnson told the family it appeared he’d been beaten. 

Buddy was a good-looking guy with confident charm, a combination women found appealing but their would-be suitors might resent. My guess is he danced too long with the wrong girl. Alcohol and jealousy don’t pair well.   

His death was disturbing to me because of the suspicious circumstances, but mostly because I had put him on a pedestal in early childhood. I’m not saying I should have, just that I did.

The last time I saw Buddy he was looking under the hood of a car and smoking a cigarette. Karen reminded me he kept a pack rolled up in his tee-shirt sleeve. She compared him to Fonzie from Happy Days, a tough persona concealing a tender heart. He helped her mother in the kitchen and assisted in taking care of three young children. Karen and her sister Beth adored their uncle and had begged him to stay home instead of going to the dance. 

There probably aren’t many people left who remember much about Buddy Bellflower. And the musings of a small-time columnist are unlikely to resolve unanswered questions. But it’s possible someone is tired of hiding a dark secret and ready to clear their conscience. 

Hawkinsville is in Pulaski County. His body was found in Houston. He lived in Dooly. Maybe having three sheriffs plus a city police department involved resulted in his case becoming everybody’s business but nobody’s focus. Or maybe someone decided to bury the truth.     

Sixty-two years have passed since he died, so this story probably won’t accomplish anything. It does, however, give me some peace of mind by making a small effort on his behalf. Perhaps it’s not too late to determine if justice was served or at least sought.    

The tanned boy with natural swagger made a big impression on a little kid. I guess that’s why I still think about him, why I still hope for some answers. There’s plenty of room for speculation about Buddy Bellflower’s death, but only one thing I can say for sure. Buddy Bellflower died way too young. 

Angela Barentine warrants an early mention among those who have helped me along the way. After reading my short book, Lessons From The Ladder, she asked if I would be interested in writing a weekly column for the Cordele Dispatch. 

A weekly feature had appeal but I wasn’t sure I had the skill, so I talked to Clay Mercer, a prolific author whose advice I knew would be free. “Write ten columns and see how it goes,” he suggested. “If you can’t write ten, you should probably leave it alone.” That was seven years ago. 

Angela later became editor at The News Observer in Dooly County, creating a second outlet for Joiner’s Corner. Clay amusedly congratulated me on becoming syndicated, a term which apparently allows exaggeration.   

Our daughter, Erin, set up the Joiner’s Corner blog for publishing stories online. She kept posting them until eventually teaching an old dog a new trick. I had forgotten that Seth, our son, created a website years earlier by the same name. He had posted several of my stories, but I was busy with work and never added to it. They each deserve credit for technical assistance at different times.

Carrie, our other daughter, has been a good source for checking my faulty memory. She recalls details from decades back more accurately than I do. Our grandchildren get credit for inspiring better efforts in my writing and living. I hope something I’ve penned might someday be deemed worth sharing with the next generation.     

About six years ago I sent dozens of emails to Georgia-based newspapers, asking if they were interested in the column. Most didn’t respond or politely declined. A few thankfully said they would run it when space allowed.

Adding The Houston Home Journal extended coverage to a third county along I-75 in my local area. The Herald Journal in Greensboro gave Joiner’s Corner its sole spot in North Georgia.

Len Robbins covers a big area of South Georgia with his publications. He added five counties and their local papers to my potential readers including Clinch, Atkinson, Lanier, Brooks, and Echols. I’ve received some welcome feedback from Quitman to Homerville.

Valori Moore, owner, editor, and chief of everything at The Taylor County News warrants a wheelbarrow of kudos. After reading my sample column she said she loved it but couldn’t afford something of that quality. That tickled a hobby writer whose mantra is, “It’s free and it’s worth it.” Val has remained a source of ongoing encouragement.

To those editors who took a chance on an unknown writer with sketchy credentials, I am deeply appreciative. The opportunities you allowed have been a blessing plus helped open other doors. 

Dr. Gerald Harris, longtime editor of The Christian Index, boosted my confidence by running multiple columns in that storied publication. Scott Barkley took over when Dr. Harris retired and continued to include submissions. Open Windows, a Lifeway publication, invited me to write two series of devotionals, a challenging but affirming experience.

Cotton Farming has been a good ally, running several columns that fit their needs. Georgia Magazine gave me statewide exposure a couple of times. It’s uplifting when professionals think something I’ve penned is worth sharing again.

Thank you to all those who gave me the privilege of telling their stories. And thanks to the many readers who were generous with kind words. Some posted comments, emailed, or texted. Others called, sent a note, or gave me a pat on the back.

Lord willing, I’ll keep writing but not on a schedule. Earlier columns are on the website and you’re welcome to share them. Joiner’s Corner is still free and hopefully still worth it.

In the movie Forrest Gump the lead character unexpectedly stops running his cross-country trek. The hushed crowd who had joined him waited to hear what he’d say, but Forrest didn’t have anything to offer. He was just tired. 

That scene came to mind as I pondered in vain for clever parting lines. Writing a weekly column has been a wonderful experience, but lately it’s felt like I’m running on fumes. Maybe I’ll find some inspiration while spending more time near my favorite stream. 

My heartfelt appreciation goes out to everyone who has helped me along the way. Hopefully I’ll be back someday with a little more to say. The past seven years have gone by really fast, so I’m slowing the pace before I run out of gas.