Welcome to Joiner's Corner

I’ve known a lot of men who it seems were born to farm. Daddy and Uncle Murray were two of them. They loved farming in the days of mules, hoes, and cotton sacks. And they loved it when the work got easier with tractors, plows, and mechanical pickers.

Most farmers from my father’s generation are gone or at least retired. The most senior of those who remain is Mr. Finn Cross. He’s 88 years old and still driving tractors, bulldozers, and such. When there’s work to be done, he does it, even on Saturdays in the late afternoon.

Some people know him as W. H. or Harvey. Daddy called him Finn since their childhood years. I asked Mr. Finn a few years ago how he got his nickname. He said it was from Huckleberry Finn. I expect there’s a story behind Mr. Finn’s nickname, a story perhaps for another day.

A lot of good men have left their marks in Third District. Now it’s mostly farmers of my generation and the one or two after that. Mr. Finn is that rare and inspiring exception, that man who keeps working because he loves his work, because he was born to farm.

Mr. Finn and his brother, Mr. Bud, had their farm shop right below my childhood home. They had a few semi-trucks as part of their operation. Sometimes we would hear those trucks riding by late on Saturday night, always heading towards the shop, never away. Daddy said that Mr. Finn told the drivers to make sure they got back home before midnight. He didn’t want them working on any part of Sunday. It was up to them about going to church, but they didn’t miss it because of their work.

Mr. Finn’s life is not just about work. He’s serious about his fishing as well. He and his oldest son William will drop a line in a mudhole if they think there are fish around. It doesn’t get too cold or too hot for those fellows.

It’s funny how little memories often last the longest. Mr. Finn took William and me fishing when we were around seven or eight. I don’t remember where or what we caught, just that we were in a boat.

I was about to put a new hook on and Mr. Finn asked me if I knew how to tie it. I told him I just looped it through and put a couple of knots in it. He offered to show me a better way. He threaded one end of the line through the eye of the hook, wrapped it around itself seven times, pushed the end of it through the loop, then back through another loop at the top. Then he pulled it tightly and cut off the excess line. “If you tie it like that,” said Mr. Finn with a smile, “it’ll stay on when you hang that whopper.”

Many years later I began fishing with my father-in-law, Mr. Bennett Horne. We often used lures, all of them from his tackle box, lures that were a lot more expensive than plain hooks.   Mr. Horne handed me a lure and asked if I knew how to tie it on. I told him I did. He wasn’t entirely convinced, so I showed him Mr. Finn’s method. Mr. Horne and Mr. Finn tied the same kind of knot. I took that as a good sign.

From fishing to farming, from family to faith, I don’t know anyone who has done it better or longer than Mr. Finn. He married one of the best cooks in Georgia. It may be Miss Helen’s cream potatoes that help keep him going. I’ve had them with a meal, and I’ve eaten them for dessert. They work fine either way.

I know some good farmers from several generations. But the dean of Third District, and a long way beyond, is Mr. Finn Cross. He’s already left a big mark, one that is still being defined. But he’s also made a lot of little marks, marks that are just as important. Every time I tie a fish hook on a line, I think about the man who showed me a better way. I think about a man who loves his family, lives his faith, and enjoys his time fishing. He’s a man who also finds great satisfaction in his work, a man who no doubt was born to farm.

Mr. Junior Spradley is the only man I know who keeps his casket at home. He also has one for his wife, Miss Frances, but neither one of them have any plans for immediate use. Mr. O. T. Spradley, Jr. is a 90-year-old retired farmer and rancher who enjoys wood working. I guess when you spend a lot of time making all sorts of furniture, it’s not too unusual that you would make your own casket.

I grew up about two miles away. Not long ago, I stopped by for a visit. I asked if he still had his casket. He said he did, then offered to take my measurements. I told him I’d hold off for now, that we would have to store it in the den. I’m pretty sure Jane would not agree to that.

Long before Dooly County named the roads, Mr. Junior lived near a landmark. There was a solitary pine tree on their family farm that was close to the highway. Someone started calling it Lonesome Pine and the name stuck. It was a well-known reference point for giving directions. Now it’s official. Lonesome Pine Road is on the green metal sign.

Mr. Junior named his farm after that tree. He grew some row crops, but his specialty was Charolais cattle. He raised and sold prize bulls that were top dollar specimens. The cattle of Lonesome Pine Farm had a reputation for exceptional quality.

We walked outside toward a storage building where he has the caskets. On the way there, we stopped by his museum. He calls it a museum in jest. It’s a small room with a few things that he considers special. The museum tours are free. The stories are priceless.

One wall is filled with a massive Japanese flag. Neatly pinned on top of the flag is Mr. Junior’s white sailor’s suit. He joined the Navy in 1944 when he was 18, not long graduated from Pinehurst High School. A young Japanese boy in Yokosuka offered to trade him the flag for a pack of cigarettes that cost six cents. Seven decades later that flag still brings a twinkle to Mr. Junior’s eyes. He was on the first ship to sail into Tokyo Bay after Japan surrendered. He could see the USS Missouri where the Instrument of Surrender was being signed. I learned a lot in that little museum. Small rooms can hold big memories. First-hand accounts from that era are no longer easy to come by. It’s good to listen while we can.

He pointed to a small straight chair that is sized appropriately for a young child. He’s only sold one of those chairs, but he’s given away another 399. Our family claims one. It was a gift for our first grandchild. The chairs are real sturdy, just like the man who makes them.

After the museum tour, he showed me the caskets. The same effort Mr. Junior put into cattle farming is now obvious in his woodwork. They are perfectly fitted, smoothly sanded, and beautifully polished. One is solid oak and the other pine. The pine seems especially appropriate for Lonesome Pine Farm.

He also makes some caskets for pets. Mr. Junior said, “You know, we think a lot of our dogs around here.” The pet caskets are well made too. It’s easy to tell that he believes in doing quality work.

Mr. Junior remembered a dry spring season many years ago. He said, “Your daddy planted a nearby field three times trying to get up a stand of cotton. I told George it should work out well, that since he planted three times he would probably get to pick it three times.” Daddy didn’t always make good cotton, but he always made good friends, friends like Mr. Junior.

When I was about to leave, he showed me a small piece of wood that had two round holes in it. It was shaped somewhat like a figure eight. He asked if I knew what it was. I told him I didn’t, but that I remembered seeing one in Daddy’s truck a long time ago. Mr. Junior put his thumbs inside the two holes and moved them around. He said it’s for old folks who want to sit around and twiddle their thumbs. He doesn’t need one for himself. They’re all made to give away.

Mr. Junior only takes one pill a day. He credits his woodwork with helping him stay healthy. Working with his hands helps to keep him on his toes. The cattle are long gone from Lonesome Pine Farm, but there’s plenty to do at the Lonesome Pine Shop. Maybe I’ll go back for a measurement one day. I guess we all need a good layaway plan.

Mr. Willis Owen was the barber for Third District. He farmed part time and ran the barber shop on Friday afternoons, plus all day Saturday. In the 1950’s he worked out of a room in Mr. El Sparrow’s store. I think my earliest haircuts cost a quarter, but I’m not sure. Daddy was paying the bill, so I didn’t worry much about the price. In 1962, Mr. Willis built a new barbershop, just a few steps from his home.

When Mr. Willis was about to use his straight razor, he would tell me that if I would sit still, he would try not to cut my ears off. All the regulars had both ears, so I knew he was teasing.

During the 1950’s and 60’s the men and boys in farm country got haircuts every two weeks. We had flattops, held in place with pink Butch Wax, or neatly combed hair with a straight well-defined part.

Those with hair long enough to comb used Vaseline Hair Tonic. It was a clear oil you could shake into your palm and massage onto your scalp. It would hold your hair securely in place during a category five storm.

Vitalis and Brylcreem later became popular. They would keep your part where it was supposed to be, but were not wind rated as high as Vaseline. With Vitalis, you got the magical powers of V7. With Brylcreem, the ladies loved to run their fingers through your hair. Those ads gave us a little more confidence, a smidgeon of hope.

Friday and Saturday nights at the barbershop were major social events, sometimes lasting until midnight. The room would be full with 20 or more folks, some leaning back on two legs of the straight-back chairs. Four chairs surrounded a small corner table used for checkers or cards.

Setback was the card game the men played. Cousin Wendell Dunaway, Mr. Raymond Nutt, Mr. Bud Cross, and Mr. Lon Fullington were four of the regulars. It was a lot more than a card game. It was the major stage prop for Barbershop Theatre.

Cousin Wendell was the host of the show. He made sure the card playing didn’t interfere with the friendly banter. Mr. Raymond was the lead humorist. He had a big laugh that bounced all over the barbershop walls. Mr. Bud and Mr. Lon added color commentary. They would wait patiently for a good opening, then add some spice to the conversation. It was an unscripted comedy show, each of them seamlessly playing familiar roles. There was a lot of audience participation. Nobody was ever in a rush to get a haircut. The free entertainment made the wait worthwhile.

I think I was in the ninth grade when our class was invited to be servers at the annual Mother-Daughter/Father-Son Banquet. It was a dressy event for the Future Farmers of America and the Future Homemakers of America. My classmate, Patsy Borum, and I were paired as a team. For such a formal occasion, I decided I needed a haircut from a city barber.

I went to see Mr. Tommy J. Brown in downtown Unadilla. He cut many of my friends’ hair and had a great reputation. It would have been fine, except I went on a real slow day. Mr. Tommy had taken too much cough syrup, plus he had just bought a brand-new pair of suction clippers. Those clippers cut and vacuumed with one pass.

Several times Mr. Tommy asked if I saw any hair falling on the floor. We were both amazed at how well those suction clippers worked. When he finally turned the chair around towards the mirror, I didn’t recognize myself. There was nothing left, nothing to comb, nothing to part, nothing between my scalp and the open air. I was a super-skinny, long-legged, bald-headed kid going to my first major banquet. Patsy said I looked fine. I knew she was lying.

It was a long time before I needed another haircut. I told Mr. Willis what happened. I told him that I had learned my lesson. He smiled and said it was okay, that he’d try not to cut my ears off.

Mr. Willis’ son, Greg, converted the barbershop to a pond house. It’s just a rock’s throw from where it originally sat. I stopped by not long ago. Greg and I reminisced for a while. When I close my eyes, I can still see those men playing Setback. And thanks to Mr. Willis, I can still hear each of their voices amid a room full of laughter. Mr. Willis left me with both ears, just like he said he would.

I think I was in the fifth grade or maybe the sixth. My mother had taken me to Hawkinsville to Mr. Ben Silver’s store to get some new tennis shoes. Mr. Silver, who seemed quite ancient to me at the time, measured my foot. He brought out a single pair that fit as well as new shoes could, a pair that was priced to sell. There was only one problem. They were girl shoes.

I told my mother and Mr. Silver that they looked like girl shoes. Mr. Silver, however, was quite convincing. He showed us the box they came in. He explained things about the styling that clearly indicated it was a shoe for young men.

Mr. Silver didn’t change my mind, but he had the confidence of my mother. She was the only one of us with a checkbook. We left with those shoes. The more I thought about it, I figured that two grownups knew way more than one kid. I accepted that Mr. Silver must be right.

The next morning, I boarded the bus to school, a trip with nothing eventful to report. When I got off, Cynthia Graham was standing there on the playground. She was a grade behind me. We both took piano lessons from Mrs. Beddingfield. Cynthia skipped any semblance of a greeting. She asked, with a confused look, “Why are you wearing girl shoes?”

I told her what had happened. I told her that I had suspected they were girl shoes, but that Mr. Ben Silver had assured us that was not the case.

It was a long day in Unadilla. Cynthia kept quiet. I tried to avoid attention. I kept my long feet tucked under the desk as much as I could. On the playground, I never stopped running. The bell finally rang. I sprinted to the bus that would take me home.

Mama took the shoes back to Mr. Silver. He didn’t put up much of a fight. Loss of a shoe sale is a small price to pay for your personal safety. I hope he put them back in the right box.

I don’t recommend sending your male children to school wearing girl shoes. It’s not worth the risk of them having a real tough day. But as I think back to that experience from childhood, I realize that I learned some things that have served me well.

I learned that Cynthia Graham was a good friend. She didn’t ask others why I was wearing girl shoes. She asked me. Good friends will talk to you about things like that, things that you need to know, things that sometimes you don’t want to know. Good friends stay with you, even when the highway ends and the dirt road turns narrow.

I also learned that sometimes it’s best to trust our instincts. In my heart, I knew without any doubt those shoes were made for a girl. But in my head, I listened to Mr. Silver, and I trusted the label on the box. It’s often tempting to form opinions based on labels, based on the outside packaging. The thing that really matters is what’s on the inside of the box.

Maybe Mr. Silver made an honest mistake. Or maybe he needed to sell a pair of shoes so badly, that he couldn’t resist crossing the line with his marketing. We never went back there for shoes again. If he deserved any punishment, that was probably enough.

I don’t remember being mad with Mr. Silver, just a bit aggravated. Years later, sometime after becoming an adult, I realized that he had provided me with a lesson of great value. The lesson was that we all have those Ben Silver moments. We have those times when we are tempted too strongly by the sale. We stand too close to the cash register. We try too hard to make it ring. How we respond to those moments is up to us. What we do, becomes who we are.

Those shoes from Ben Silver’s store are long gone, and I’m very glad. I would never buy another pair, or wear them to school again. But I wouldn’t take anything for all that I learned. The new shoes blues only lasted for a day. The lessons from Ben Silver’s store have lasted a lifetime.

Coach Larry Davis came all the way from Auburn, Alabama, to attend a May reunion of Unadilla High School. He taught and coached in Unadilla, Georgia for three school terms, beginning in 1964, ending in 1967. It was his first job out of college. His wife Carol worked in the principal’s office part of that time. They lived within walking distance of the school.

I was standing outside on the sidewalk when Coach Davis walked up. I hadn’t seen him since school days, yet he called my name. That surprised me greatly. I was glad he didn’t ask me to call his.

We had a good time visiting. He and Carol enjoyed catching up with a lot of old friends, some of them star players on the basketball teams he coached. I understood how he remembered them. They had spent hours together in the gym. Some were exceptional athletes. I couldn’t figure out, however, why he would remember me.

The reunion lasted several hours. People would come and go. I was about to leave and saw Coach Davis and Carol sitting at a table. I walked over to say goodbye, to thank them for coming. Somewhere during those few steps, it came to me why he remembered. It was a story I had told on other occasions, but had almost forgotten.

When I was in the seventh grade, Coach Davis was our homeroom teacher. He was also the coach for the junior high boys’ basketball team, among other coaching and teaching duties.

Pinehurst Elementary School is where I had attended the first, second, and third grades. It was even smaller than Unadilla. I was the biggest, strongest, and fastest kid in my grade. I had a lot of muscle and speed, but not much coordination. I was great playing Red Rover, a game where the other players linked hands and tried to keep the runner from breaking through. There was nothing sweeter than the sound of, “Red Rover, Red Rover, send Neil right over.” I was unstoppable.

In the fourth grade, our parents transferred my brother Jimmy and me to Unadilla. They didn’t play Red Rover in Unadilla, at least not in the fourth grade. I started a growth spurt that year, all of it upward. My bones outgrew my muscles. If I said that I was shaped like a pencil, that would be bragging.

My coordination had never been very good. With every inch I grew, it got worse. When we played baseball in the country on Sunday afternoons, I went to right field. If there was a long fly ball, I prayed that my good friend William Cross could get there in time from center. It was a long shot that I would catch it. I mostly used my glove to protect my head. I needed a helmet a lot more than a glove.

Coach Davis didn’t know that background. All he saw was a really tall seventh grade boy. He was a great teacher, smart, personable, and well-liked by the students. He said, “Joiner, if you don’t play basketball, I’m going to flunk you in homeroom.” That wasn’t a threat. It was pure flattery! Here was a cool young coach who thought I had potential. I walked around school a little taller that day.

I joined the team. The only thing that kept me from greatness was a lack of speed, strength, and coordination. Otherwise, I was an excellent recruit. My jump shot looked exactly like my set shot. The occasional rebound that I claimed was always due to a ball bouncing exactly where I was standing. Sometimes, if I held my hands up, the ball would happen to land between them.

The next year, Coach Davis moved to eighth grade homeroom. He never mentioned the basketball team. I didn’t either.

Coach Davis didn’t remember that seventh grade episode. He laughed and said it sounded like something he might have done. He told me if I had stayed with it, I might have made a pretty decent player. Here he was, over 50 years later, still looking through the eyes of a coach, still offering encouragement.

There’s no doubt in my mind that I would have always been on second string, maybe third if enough people went out for the team. But I always appreciated that Coach Davis saw more potential in me than I saw in myself. That’s what the best coaches do. That’s what the best teachers do. Put me in, Coach. I think I’m ready now.

I think it was the summer of 1960. I was seven years old, almost eight. After supper one night, Mr. Teasley Lewis came to our home. He lived about a mile up the road toward Unadilla.

We sat around our kitchen table. Daddy shared a story from an earlier time, a time when every farmer raised a few hogs. Each winter, as soon as the weather turned really cold, some of the hogs were destined to leave the pen. They were transformed to hams, sausage, lard, and such. Nothing was wasted.

My grandfather, Papa Joiner, had a country store. It was a gathering place for the locals, most of them farmers. Daddy told us about a long running ritual between Papa Joiner and Mr. Teasley.

Mr. Teasley would drop by Joiner’s Store on one of the early freezing days of winter. He would patiently wait for a lull in the conversation.

“Jim,” said Mr. Teasley, “do you think it’s cold enough to kill hogs?”

Papa Joiner would hesitate for a moment, then reply, “I don’t know, Teasley. It probably is.”

Mr. Teasley would then finish their script. “Well it hasn’t killed any of mine.”

It was a simple little monologue, one that became a tradition of entertainment for the store crowd. Mr. Teasley had a knack for that sort of thing.

After Daddy finished telling the story, Mr. Teasley brought out The Dancing Man. This ten-inch wooden doll had been carved from an apple crate, way back when Mr. Teasley was a young man. His skinny arms and legs were attached with cords. A lifeline cord ran through his upper body, just below his neck. He was sort of a free-style marionette, his movements not hampered by overhead strings.

The Dancing Man’s goatee, mustache, and big eyes matched his black painted pants. A gold shirt and socks added flair suitable for an entertainer. Bright red boots, gloves, belt, and skull cap provided a certain mystique. He had the look of a Gypsy, a pirate, or perhaps both. It was hard to tell where he was from, but it was clear he wasn’t a local.

Mr. Teasley tied one end of the lifeline cord around the leg of the chair that I was sitting in. The other end he tied below his own knee. He pulled it tightly so that The Dancing Man’s red wooden boots barely touched the floor. The Dancing Man stood erect in the middle, silently awaiting the music.

With his right hand, Mr. Teasley held a hand carved stick and lightly tapped the cord. His left hand held his harmonica. I don’t remember the songs, just that they were lively tunes, the kind you might hear Uncle Ned & The Hayloft Jamboree play at a square dance. The Dancing Man never missed a beat, bending and jumping with vigor. His oversized feet tapped loudly on the floor, amazingly synced with the music.

I can’t recall many specific events during that time in my life. But I don’t have any memories that are more cherished than that summer night. Six decades later, it still makes me smile. I’m thankful that Mr. Teasley looked at that apple crate and saw something more in the wood.

The Dancing Man entertained a lot of folks in the Dooly County area. He especially loved dancing for children, but he would go anywhere that someone needed an extra dose of cheer. He enjoyed being on stage, but was just as glad to dance for a young child around a kitchen table.

Mr. Teasley died September 18, 1987. The Dancing Man retired that day. His slender wooden arms and legs are folded by his body, his lifeline cord wrapped neatly around him.   When I think of Mr. Teasley and The Dancing Man, it reminds me to look a little more closely at my own apple crates. I can leave those crates where they sit, or I can look through Mr. Teasley’s eyes, and think about what they could be. Mr. Teasley is not with us anymore, but he left us with a valuable lesson. Apple crates are all around us.  It’s up to us to look for something more in the wood.

Traditional southern fare is my strong preference. The same foods we’ve had at church dinners and family reunions since the days of Dwight Eisenhower, still serve us well.

My wife, Jane, and I were in Thomasville recently for a three day visit with her family. They are also my family since 1974, even earlier if you count the dating years.   Her nephew, Scott, graciously took a group of us out one night to an upscale restaurant. When I saw the menu, I was glad that Scott has plenty of work in his Atlanta law practice.

Several in the family have refined palates. They welcomed the European flavored offerings of a master chef. I don’t even eat broccoli, a plant which has, I believe, wrongfully sneaked into the channels of respectability in many southern kitchens.

We had a big meal earlier that day due to a family funeral. The folks at First Baptist Church of Thomasville include some wonderful cooks. After finishing a plate that was bountifully loaded, I then had two desserts. I was still pretty full that night.   That turned out to be a blessing.

The restaurant had five or six dinner entrees, but the descriptions just didn’t tempt me. I figured the lamb might be okay, but then I remembered about Mary taking that little lamb to school one day. The thought of Mary having to tell those children to stop laughing and playing was too much. I couldn’t stomach that idea.

I decided to order just a salad and appetizer. The one salad that I thought might suit my simple taste buds was grilled Romaine lettuce. I’ve never grilled lettuce. I wasn’t even sure it was legal in Georgia. But I figured a bowl of grilled lettuce with some Thousand Island Dressing would be fine. A few Saltine Crackers and everything should work out.

They brought my grilled Romaine. It was just one leaf, one leaf of moderate size, with some kind of fancy brown dressing underneath and beside it. I was thinking that for ten dollars, there would be several leaves. Jane asked me not to say anything, nor ask for Thousand Island or Saltines.

I tend to eat too fast, and I knew that grilled lettuce leaf had to last about an hour. I would cut a tiny bit off the end, then work my fork around until I could get it to stay there. I would slide it through the brown dressing and chew it 32 times. I don’t remember ever having to swallow. That lettuce wasn’t bad, but spending all that time eating it pretty much wore me out.

For a backup plan, I had ordered a six-dollar appetizer of fried chicken skins. I asked the nice young lady to bring them and the salad as my meal. I was thinking that chicken skins must be really thin strips of chicken, something like potato skins that still have a bit of potato attached. I overthought that one.

I didn’t see chicken on the menu, just skins. I wanted to ask what they did with the rest of the chicken. I thought they might fry me up a wing or a leg, anything that I could recognize. I wasn’t even sure where these skins came from. For all I knew, they could have been the part that flew over the fence last. I’ve heard that’s a delicacy in Europe. That may help explain why we started our own country.

Jane asked me to please not inquire about the chicken. She’s been in the family longer than I have, so I figured it was her call. I quietly chewed my chicken skins, while silently planning my next day’s outing to The Billiard Academy. I visualized two chili dogs, all the way, with a small bottle of ice cold Coca Cola. I knew it would cost me five dollars and fifty cents, but I don’t mind paying for fine dining.