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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.

I’ve run out of gas more than once, but the only time I clearly recall was in 1974. I had graduated from Valdosta State College and was living in a Tallahassee apartment working with Burroughs Corporation. Jane was staying with her parents in Thomasville and doing her student teaching in Whigham.

Each Friday after work I made the scenic 35 mile trip from Florida’s capital to Georgia’s City of Roses. That was my weekend routine during the four months before our December wedding. Following our honeymoon in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we began the new year at 2600 Miccosukee Road. Gas was cheaper in Thomasville than Tallahassee, so I’d buy it there when possible. That’s why my cream-colored Malibu coupe was running on fumes.

I made it to the city limits but not to the Fox Sing Oil station. Someone let me use a landline phone to call Horne Candy Company for roadside assistance. My future father-in-law’s green Ford pickup was a welcome site. “Don’t you know cars won’t run without gas?” Mr. Horne asked good naturedly.  

Another time is fixed in my mind of almost running out of fuel. In 1989 Jane and our ten-year-old triplets flew to California to visit her brother and his family. I was driving a rental van on the winding and windy Pacific Coast Highway with my wife and our three children aboard. “I’m not going to pay $1.72 for gas!” I announced, although the fuel-gauge hand was bumping the red line. Despite concerns expressed by fellow travelers, I drove on by.

Twenty miles later we coasted into the graveled lot of a small store with old-style petrol pumps. I thanked them for letting me fill the tank at $2.05 a gallon and hugged the matronly lady tending the cash register. It was a memorable lesson to be more careful about saying what I won’t do.

Running on fumes is the point I’ve reached in writing weekly columns. March will be seven years and that seems like a good place to change the pace. Seven is one of those numbers that’s significant in the Bible, beginning with the creation story in Genesis. I can’t claim God has given me any revelations about that timeframe, but somehow it feels complete.

There’s no way to thank everyone who has helped me along the way, so I apologize for oversights and worthy omissions. My mother is who I’ll begin with. She has encouraged my literary efforts since childhood. 

One of the earliest things I remember writing was a poem about a rattlesnake. Our collie-mix dog, Trixie, alerted us to the invader. Mama is brave in many ways but has a dreadful fear of snakes. Mrs. Bonnie Quattlebaum, an older friend and neighbor, was visiting us that day and sent the slithering scoundrel to its final destination. 

Mama kept those scribbled verses and gave it to me a few years ago. It was obvious that my juvenile rhyme had been rewarded with undeserved praise. The final lines summarize the story: “Trixie found the rattler and Mama found the hoe, but it was Miss Bonnie who dealt the fatal blow.”

My patient and loving wife deserves a choice spot on the helper’s list. She’s been a source of great encouragement, and has spent hours proofreading and making gentle suggestions. “It’s probably fine,” she’ll sometimes say, “but I had to read that sentence a couple of times for it to be clear.” 

During our college days in the 1970s I considered transferring from Valdosta State to the University of Georgia to pursue a journalism degree. Jane supported whatever I wanted to do and was willing to change schools too. But we loved Valdosta and the friends we’d made. Fifty years later I’m glad we stayed.  

Twice during the early years of our marriage I considered changing careers and had job offers from papers in Valdosta and Thomasville. Although the pay would have been substantially lower, Jane wanted me to do what I thought was best. So that’s what I did, and eventually stumbled into a satisfying career in banking.

There are a lot of folks who deserve to be thanked. I’ll cover some more next week, but the list will still be incomplete. Hopefully there’s enough fuel in the tank to keep writing an occasional column. If not, please know that I’ll be fine, just out of gas one more time.

As we slowly improved the interior of my mother’s childhood home over the past two years, the outside patiently waited its turn. In late 2023, however, the neglected exterior began begging for attention. That’s why we’re putting new boards on an old house. For those who came in late, here’s a little background.

Before the inside carpentry work began a major cleaning was required. The folks who moved out left piles of clothes on the floor along with untied garbage bags. A lifeless refrigerator was well stocked, plus packages of unopened sandwich meat were in a burn pit near the back door. The aromatic buffet fostered a roach infestation of biblical proportions.

Not having access to an oxygen mask, I borrowed a trick from President Bill Clinton and didn’t inhale. After disposing of rank garbage, the next step was to eliminate brazen roaches. Five gallons of Home Defense spray were dispensed, plus powder, tablets, and traps. Salt-filled shotgun shells were the only unused tools in my arsenal.

Regular treatments over several months finally squelched the bugs. I then began scraping paint off walls and ceilings as Jane washed them. She scrubbed using commercial-grade cleansers and disinfectants. It was so nasty I felt sorry for our rubber gloves.

The attic also needed a major cleaning. Decades ago my mother and I vacuumed much of the dirt and dust. Cracks in the clapboard siding had allowed dirt dobbers to invade and generously adorn the rafters. As I knocked their earthen clumps into five gallon buckets, Mama vacuumed.

I then stapled screen wire across the attic’s end walls to keep insects out. The house was built from green lumber cut from the farm in the 1930s. Those boards had dried and left substantial gaps. The openings weren’t noticeable from the ground, but an inside view showed streams of sunlight.

On my recent attic excursions, I found that the screen wire had been effective in keeping insects out, but dirt and dust had been steadily drifting in. I removed heavily-soiled insulation and vacuumed the boards multiple times. Another session is needed before new insulation is added.

Cleaning the attic comes with challenges, such as reaching all the way to the front and back walls. In the middle of the house I can stand up, so it’s relatively easy. To access other sections, however, I sit on a board and use a long extension on a shop vac. And I wear a hard hat. One minor nail encounter proved I’m not as hard-headed as some have suggested.

With fresh paint and most other interior work completed, our focus finally shifted to the exterior. My initial plan was to replace a few boards and seal cracks with strips of wood and fillers. But as I pondered over the project, I realized a piddler with sketchy credentials lacked the skills to do it correctly.

Mart Sikes, a renovation enthusiast, began working there near the end of 2023. Like many old houses, when one board was removed it revealed another that needed replacing. That brought about, however, an unexpected benefit of being able to insulate hollow walls.

We removed the lower boards on the front of the house, which faces south. After suctioning and blowing out almost 90 years of dirt, dust, and wasp nests, we cut one inch foam boards to fit between the studs. Adding two more layers provided a total of three inches.

Afternoon sun had been unkind to the fully-exposed west wall. That’s where we began working next. Those planks were in the worst condition, plus windows needed attention. Rain had been seeping in behind one window, discreetly damaging unseen wood. The renovation became a bigger project than expected, because I eventually decided to do it the right way instead of patching it.

Patches are sometimes okay, but are seldom the best way. That’s true of carpentry and countless undertakings. It’s even more true of life and faith. It’s tempting to choose the easiest fix, but our relationships with God and our fellow man deserve our best efforts.  

Years of neglect and the passage of time has taken a heavy toll on those walls; restoration, though, should prevent their further downfall. Each day I’m warmly reminded of the satisfaction that comes with doing something the right way instead of patching it. That’s why we’re putting new boards on an old house. 

Jane and I moved to Vienna in December of 1975 and soon joined First Baptist Church. The building’s third-floor hallway had an in-wall cabinet with a “LOST AND FOUND” sign. Only one item was displayed, a green Pyrex bowl. 

That bowl remained unclaimed for decades. Those stairs can be challenging, plus the owner probably transitioned to a higher plane. I’ve long been amused by the bowl’s lingering stay, and intrigued by other lost and found stories.

In the early 1950s, Papa Joiner’s vacant childhood home burned to the ground. A neighbor saw my elderly grandfather poking through the ashes with his walking stick and was concerned. Papa Joiner assured the man he was fine. He said he’d lost a dime there as a kid and was hoping to reclaim it. 

James Woodward found a couple of guns during the 1950s that someone apparently lost intentionally. Last summer I showed James a piece of wood that nature had carved into a pistol shape. My faux gun reminded him of a 38 revolver he rescued from a creek near Aunt Jeanie’s Kindergarten during his youthful ramblings.

His excitement was tempered when James’ father told him to go see Sheriff John Byrom Fokes. James hoped to get the pistol back, but that never happened. Another temporary treasure was a 16-gauge shotgun he found under a bridge. A spent 20-gauge shell, wrapped with string to hold it in, was in the chamber. Once again his father sent him to the sheriff.  

There are multiple ways of losing guns, but what seems most plausible is someone tossed them in the water for nefarious reasons. Perhaps there are unsolved cases connected to those weapons, but that’s just speculation.

Mrs. Lessie Holland gets credit for an old and unique lost but not-found story. She married Mr. John Holland after the accidental death of his first wife, Ophelia. Whether he gave her a diamond ring or she already owned it, my mother doesn’t know. When she noticed the ring had slipped off her finger one day, she frantically searched their cleanly-swept yards.

Her suspicions eventually turned to the free-range chickens on their farm. One by one she killed them all and searched their every craw. The ring wasn’t found, but meals were easy to plan.

Mr. G. L. Arflin’s jewelry story has a better ending. Money was tight when he and Mary Ransom married in 1956. He would sometimes joke that when they got rich he was going to buy himself a diamond ring. His wife began discreetly saving money she made from selling cakes, never charging more than $5. In the 1960s she surprised him with a 1.1 carat symbol of her selfless love.

In 2004 he lost the ring but had no idea where. They had been to Cordele that day and he had also worked in the yard. Thirteen years later, in June of 2017, Mr. G. L. was on his riding mower, planning to cut grass along Mocassin Creek, which runs through his property. He stopped near the bridge on Highway 230 and sat for a few minutes for no particular reason. Something shining on the grassy bank, about a foot from the water, caught his attention.

How his ring ended up in such a precarious position without being washed downstream remains a mystery. And for the sun’s reflection to be so perfectly timed, miracle is the word that comes to mind. That diamond ring now tenderly reminds him of the precious jewel he loved throughout 66 years of marriage.    

Lost and found stories have many dimensions, but John Newton deserves special mention. As a young captain of a slave ship, a raging storm got his attention while at sea. Newton underwent a spiritual awakening that changed his life and eternal outlook. 

He left the slave trade and wrote the beloved hymn “Amazing Grace,” whose familiar lines include these: “Amazing grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.”

Whether it’s guns in a creek, diamond rings, a green bowl, or a missing dime, there’s satisfaction in finding something that’s been lost, or disappointment if we search in vain. Only one quest, however, has everlasting consequences. It doesn’t really matter about an unclaimed bowl, but there’s no such thing as an unclaimed soul. Lost or Found is a choice we face. It’s up to us which road we take.