Welcome to Joiner's Corner

I’m not sure exactly what inspired Dewel Lawrence to have a musical instrument made from a bedpan. One tale is that it happened when he was a patient in the hospital, still under the lingering effects of anesthesia. Dewel heard melodious echoes coming from that metal chamber. He dreamed he was on center stage, making bluegrass magic with The Soggy Bottom Boys. Some people say that the nurses begged him to stop.

For most folks, this would have been just a passing thought. Dewel, however, is not a man to walk away from a grand idea. He took his bedpan to Danny Jones down in Crisp County. Danny can make a musical instrument out of anything. He added a neck, some frets, and four guitar strings. Dewel left there with a panjo, perhaps the finest one in this part of Georgia.

Dewel felt that such an instrument should not be left in some corner of his shop to gather dust. He became the founding member and lead singer of The Bedpan Band. He continues to take the panjo on an extended tour of the Dooly County area.

The band needed a guitar player, but most of the good ones were already taken. Others were nervous about the reputational risks of being on stage with a panjo. That’s why Dewel asked me to play rhythm guitar. He knew that reputational risk was not a factor. I only play in two keys, G and C. Sometimes I’m not sure which key we are in.

The banjo player for The Bedpan Pan is a whole different matter. Rodney Brannen is a top-notch musician. Earl Scruggs would not want to follow him on stage. Rodney owns the funeral homes in Vienna and Unadilla. He didn’t have much choice but to join the group. He knows that Dewel and I are both getting closer to being potential customers. It’s important to accommodate the folks you want to bury.

Rodney has the natural smile of a mortician. It’s a facial expression that is serenely pleasant, but not so happy looking that it might seem inappropriate. But when he takes off his tie and straps that five string around his neck, he quickly morphs into Banjo Brannen. I’ve seen him laugh and almost pat his foot, two things you won’t ever see at a funeral.

Playing rhythm guitar with The Bedpan Band has been quite rewarding. I was afraid the practices and performances might get too regular. We addressed that, however, by agreeing not to practice so much that it would affect our playing. The band has a very strict limit of no more than one practice per performance. That lack of preparation is evident every time we play. We believe that such consistency is critical to our continued lack of success.

Engagements have not been so frequent as to become problematic. We’ve played three times this year. That shattered our old record of two. The tricky part in scheduling shows is that we have to make sure the banjo player won’t be tied up with a funeral. That’s more of an art than a science.   It’s even less accurate than forecasting the weather.

One thing I can say with confidence is that the band’s price is reasonable. We’ll play for fried chicken, or anything else that is considered a traditional southern food. If you’re serving a dish that only requires a microwave, we’re probably not the right group for your event.

Dewel wants to expand The Bedpan Band. We’ve been using the panjo as a stage prop, but he hopes to find someone to play it. I tried it a couple of times with only mediocre success. It’s hard to play a panjo wearing blue rubber gloves.

Dewel’s vision began on a bedpan, but he didn’t leave it there. He is determined to see that his dream pans out. If you’re interested in auditioning to play the panjo in The Bedpan Band, then give Dewel a call at BR-549. Serious inquiries only please.

P.S. If his wife Becky answers the phone, just hang up and call back. I’m not sure she would give him the message.

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.