Welcome to Joiner's Corner

A few weeks ago, I wrote a column about looking for a deal on a tuxedo. Wilke Rodriguez came home with us for only $149.95. That was five cents under budget. In late March, my wife and I took Wilke to Nashville, Tennessee, to attend her niece’s wedding. Both of my readers asked how that trip went. Here’s part of the story.

Wilke stayed in our hotel room Friday night, while Jane and I went to the rehearsal dinner. I felt bad about that since Wilke loves all things barbequed. He’s a loyal advocate for South Georgia style sauce. Surprisingly, that’s what they served.

On Saturday, Jane and I spent a few hours walking around downtown. Wilke stayed in the room. He was okay with that, wanting to look fresh for the wedding.

It was close to lunch time when we went by a place call Arcade Alley. It was a section filled with maybe 20 or so shops and places to eat. The restaurants were closed for the weekend. We paused for a moment in front of J. Gumbos. On their big glass windows were some of their specialties. The one that got my attention was the Drunken Chicken.

A fellow was outside cleaning their sign. I think he worked for a group of merchants. He seemed to be taking care of the exteriors of several places. I asked him if he had ever had the Drunken Chicken. He said that he had, and that he would recommend it.

“Are they pretty easy to catch?” I asked. He didn’t respond. I told him we would be leaving town the next day, but I was curious as to how they got the chickens drunk. He said he didn’t know. I figured he had been warned not to talk about it.

I said, “I’m not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, it seems wrong to encourage chickens to drink. But, maybe where they are headed, it helps ease the pain a bit.” He smiled, but kept pretending that he didn’t know anything about it.

“The thing is, if the chickens are drinking voluntarily, then maybe it’s okay. But if they are making those chickens drink, then that just seems wrong.”

He finally stopped sandbagging and said, “I don’t think they force the chickens to drink.” He seemed a little nervous. I knew he wasn’t telling me everything.

I told him I appreciated him sharing that with me, but I had one more concern. He didn’t ask what it was, but I could tell he was curious. “I guess the cook knows about how many chickens they will sell in a day. Do you agree?” He nodded in agreement.

“But sometimes,” I continued, “they might not sell as many as they expect. Don’t you think that happens?” He said I was probably right.

“Well my concern is, that if you get 50 chickens drunk but only sell 30, what do you do with those other 20 drunk chickens?”

I didn’t hear his phone ring. He must have had it on vibrate. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s my boss and he needs me right away. I have to go now.”

He started walking off. I asked if he would be willing to testify before a grand jury.

He said, “I really have to go!” Then he sprinted on down the alley, not even bothering to take his cleaning supplies with him. I guess whatever his boss needed was quite urgent.

I found Jane three blocks away at The Italian Kitchen. It had great pizza and was playing Irish folk music. That was a new combination for me, but I’ll have to say, it goes well together.

When we got back to the room, I said, “Wilke, what’s your opinion on drunken chickens?”

He thought it over for a minute. He said, “Neil, based on my experience with sober chickens, I don’t know if anyone could tell the difference. Either way,” added Wilke, “I would recommend a South Georgia style barbeque sauce.”

I don’t remember what year it was when Sam called our house.  Our triplets were born in 1978.  They were probably three or four years old.  Sunday mornings were especially busy.  My wife, Jane, would fight the clock, trying to get the children ready for Sunday School.  I helped a little, but mostly just cleaned up the kitchen, then stayed out of the way.         

Our phone rang about 8 a.m.  It was a customer of Bank of Dooly, where I worked.  I knew him through the bank. Otherwise, we didn’t have any contact.  

“Neil,” he said, “This is Sam.  You need to come get me out of jail.”

I explained to Sam that getting people out of jail was not something I did, that he would need to call someone else.  Sam said he didn’t’ have anyone else, that I was his only option.

I told Sam that I wasn’t coming, but asked why he was in custody.  Sam claimed that he had been wrongfully arrested.  On Saturday night, he had pulled into MTV, a convenience store at Exit 109.  He bought a six pack of beer, then walked to his car.

He got in his car and opened a can of beer, but didn’t take a drink.  The policeman took him in.  Sam said that was a wrongful arrest as he was on private property, and was not drinking.

Curiosity dictated that I ask why he had opened the can.  He said it was for when he got home.  He lived eight miles away. His story seemed a bit suspect, but it didn’t really matter.  Sam was in jail.  I wasn’t about to get him out.

I told Sam that I didn’t know anything about the law, but I felt the Vienna Police Department had a good understanding.  I suggested he might not have much to argue about, that maybe he should just relax and enjoy our town’s hospitality.  Sam remained insistent that I come.

Sunday morning minutes were allocated with precision.  We had none to spare. I had been talking with Sam way too long.  I finally reached my limit.

“Sam,” I said sternly, “I want you to listen very carefully to what I’m about to say.  I’m going to say it once, then I’m going to hang up the phone.  I’m not coming to get you out of jail.  You need to call someone else, or either just pretend you’re on vacation.”

I didn’t hang up quickly enough.  Sam said, “Neil, you don’t understand.  I have to be at work in two hours.  The company is downsizing, looking for any reason to fire people.  If you don’t get me out of jail, then I’ll lose my job.  I won’t be able to make the payments on that Chevette. You’ll have to repossess the car. It has over 90,000 miles on it.  We both know it won’t bring half of what’s owed.”

Suddenly, I had a whole new view of the situation.  I was tempted to thank Sam for calling.  I said, “Sam, pack up your toothbrush.  I’m on my way.”

We ran a little bit late getting to church, but Sam got to work right on time.  I don’t remember anything from that morning’s Sunday School lesson.  I don’t know what the preacher spoke about.  But I remember what I learned from Sam.

I learned to be careful when you say you won’t do something.  I had told Sam there was no way that I was getting him out of jail.  A few minutes later, I was writing a check.  Sam kept his job. He paid me back the money for his fine. He paid the bank for the Chevette.  

I guess Sam deserved to be in jail that morning, but I know it was for the best that he got out.  Sam learned something that weekend about the law.  I learned something about grace.  I never did thank him for calling me, but I probably should have.

Tomorrow is Easter.  It might be a good morning to get up early and watch the Sonrise, to spend some time just thinking about Grace.

(Sam* is an acronym for Substitute Alternative Moniker.  I just made that up, but it sounds so authentic that I hated not to use it.)

Lee Kinard had a classic 1984 Chevrolet El Camino for sale.   It was a one owner with low mileage and was in great condition. He parked it just off U.S. Hwy 41 in the outskirts of Richwood. It didn’t stay there long, but the nice folks who took it forgot to leave a check. Lee told us about the theft in our Sunday School class. I asked him if I could park my boat there.

It had been six years since the boat had been in the water. I cranked it every few months just to keep it in working order. Occasionally, I would even wash it and clean out the leaves that had blown in. I bought a new tag every year, just in case I decided to go fishing.

It was a 1983 Bass Tracker that I inherited from my father-in-law, Mr. Bennett Horne of Thomasville. He was an exceptional fisherman, going year-round regardless of the forecast. He caught way more than his share of speckled trout and red fish from the waters of the Aucilla and Econfina Rivers.   People didn’t use GPS in those days. Mr. Horne didn’t need one. He could remember every hole where he caught fish, and he knew exactly where the giant rocks were that lurked just under the water at Aucilla. He knew where to find the oyster bars in the flats and the grass where the trout hid.

I knew it was time to say goodbye. But that boat held so many good memories that sometimes I just enjoyed going out back for a visit.

There was the time we caught reds at Aucilla along with two dozen other boats, all crowding into one small honey-hole of fish. Everyone was trying to get as close as they could, but not so close as to upset the others. Avoiding eye contact was the norm. The fellow who was at the center, who had found that magical spot for the rest of us, was fishing alone. We all were catching fish, but he was loading the boat.

The man stood up. “Get ready to move,” whispered Mr. Horne. We figured he had caught all that he wanted. We were ready to slide into home plate. That’s when the fellow quickly dropped his pants and sat down on a bedpan, one like you might see in a hospital. Mr. Horne whispered again, “I think I know why he fishes alone.”

Another memorable time was when Mr. Horne and I, along with his good friend Shelly Chastain, were invited to have Thanksgiving dinner with One Armed Frank. The outside buffet was provided by Frank’s neighbors, “River Rats,” he called them. Frank had both arms but one hand was always nursing a can of beer. He ran the landing at Econfina. He would gladly use one hand to help launch boats and such. There was no expectation he would use both.  We knew not to ask.

The nice thing about Frank was that he always gave a good report. Frank would tell you about the folks who just left with the limit and had only been there a couple of hours. He would caution you to watch out for flying fish, that they were, “jumping in the boat.”   Shelly would try to look serious and say, “Frank, I was so afraid you might have a bad report today.” We knew that Frank was not just selling bait. He was selling hope.

We made lots of trips in that boat and brought home plenty of fish. The fish are long gone, but the memories are still fresh.

I parked the boat at Causey’s Service Station. A few days later Charles Henerson took it home. That boat has given me more good memories than I can put into a column. I hope it gives Charles some that are just as sweet. I knew it was time to say goodbye.

The late Ralph Burton, Jr. was a gifted story teller.   With a slight smile and soothing voice, he made listening easy. Ralph found interesting twists to life’s ordinary events. He embellished them just enough that you weren’t sure how to separate the truth from the fiction.

Ralph was working in his garden years ago. It was behind the home where he and Judy lived on East Union Street in Vienna. The traffic wasn’t as heavy in those days as it is now, but there were often some vehicles passing in front of their home. Some took the paved road beside it, the road with a clear view of their back yard.

Ralph’s pants were infiltrated by fire ants. They quietly covered his legs, maneuvered into position, and whispered the attack signal. That’s when the fight started.

Ralph took off his pants. He was running in his boxers toward the back door, slapping everywhere he thought there might be an ant.

Judy was looking through the window and had no idea what was going on. She met him at the door and said, “Ralph, what in the world are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

“No ma’am!”, said Ralph. “I still have my mind. It’s my pants that I lost!”

Another story, that many enjoyed hearing Ralph tell, was about his education. He said he went to ABAC for four years before his daddy found out it was a two-year college. Ralph said he was so close to getting his degree, that his daddy sent him on up to the University of Georgia to finish.

He came home to farm, fully equipped with the latest information from the Agricultural Department of the University of Georgia. Ralph was planting some cotton that spring. He had those planters set to the exact specifications recommended by the Cooperative Extension Service.

Mr. Delma Stillwell pulled his pickup to the side of the road. He got out just to be neighborly. He kneeled and dug lightly in the seed bed, something he had done for decades before Ralph was even born.

Mr. Stillwell told Ralph that he was planting the seeds too deep, that he should raise the planters about an inch. Mr. Stillwell was a good farmer. Ralph wisely followed his advice.

Mr. Stillwell left and Ralph resumed planting. He made four rounds. Then it hit him. Mr. Stillwell did not have the knowledge and technical expertise that came with being a graduate of the University of Georgia. He only knew the old ways. Ralph changed the planter depth back to where he had it, back to the exact specifications of the Cooperative Extension Service.

Ralph said the only place in the field where he got a stand of cotton were those four rounds he made taking Mr. Stillwell’s advice. He had to replant the rest of the field. When he went back that second time, he asked Mr. Stillwell to meet him there and help him set the planters.

Ralph would tell that story, then smile and share a lesson that we all understood. In a soft voice, one appropriate for a moment of reverence and reflection, Ralph would slowly say, “You know, I got a degree from the University of Georgia,……… but I got an education from Mr. Delma Stillwell.”

Rest well my friend. And thanks so much for the stories.

Jane’s niece is getting married soon. It’s a black-tie event in Nashville, Tennessee. I figured we could find a black tie without too much trouble, maybe even borrow one from a neighbor. Jane said black-tie means tuxedo. It seems the invitation would say tuxedo, but I didn’t argue. I could tell that her mind was made up.

She said we could rent one for around $150. I asked her who else had rented it. She had no idea. “Well,” I said, “I don’t believe I want to wear some clothes that maybe 50 other people that we don’t even know have already worn. And there’s no way I will pay $150 to use a suit for one night.”

“You want to buy a tuxedo?” she asked.

“Not all that much,” I replied, “but I’ll bet I can find one online for $150. Why not be a tux owner instead of a renter?”

“Good luck,” she said with a knowing smile.

I found a website with name-brand tuxedos at bargain prices. I almost hit the order button but decided to look at some reviews. Half the customers were delighted with their product. The other half had returned their outfits, and were wondering where their refunds were.

A major retailer in men’s clothing offered tuxedos for $500 or more. Then I saw a clearance item, a Wilke Rodriguez for $149.95. It looked like something Alan Jackson might wear to the CMA Awards. It was casket sharp, as my nephew Ben would say. Only one was in stock. I hoped I wasn’t too late.

I checked to make sure it was black, not Steve Martin Navy, as in Father of the Bride. The color was right, the size was right, the price was right. I had fought the system and won.

The coat fit perfectly. The pants, however, were a size 40, not the 38 that I expected. Monique said that was the only size available in this clearance item.

We took the pants to a company store in Albany for alteration. A very accommodating gentleman named Ed helped us. He looked at the coat and said that the pants should be size 38. “That’s what I thought,” I said, “but Monique said they only come in size 40.”

Ed went to his computer, saying he believed he could straighten this out. I asked him if I needed a belt or just suspenders.

He said, “Tuxedo pants don’t have belt loops.” I told him mine did. Ed looked at the pants and told us they weren’t tux pants. Besides the belt loops, they were missing the satin stripes. With a few clicks on the computer, Ed took care of everything.

We were so thankful for Ed’s help that we bought two more sport coats, a tux shirt, bowtie, suspenders, handkerchief, socks, and cufflinks. I’ve already spent $664.83, plus Jane and Ed are both telling me that I can’t wear my brown boots.

I’m not so sure now that I really beat the system. But I feel good knowing that I won’t have to rush to the store on Monday and turn in my outfit. Next Sunday, I may be the best dressed man at church. Mr. Wilke Rodriquez will be staying with us for a long time.

My longtime friend, Jerry Sinyard, built our home in 2001. I thought the unpainted color of the cement planks looked fine. Jane, however, was not interested in the natural look.   She brought home a lot of paint samples to dab on the boards. She would ask Jerry’s opinion, to which he would always wisely reply, “If you like it, then I like it.”

I am convinced that sample number 27 was the exact same factory standard light green that we tried in test number one. The difference was that Jane created it by combining 9 colors. I’m not one to argue about paint, so please don’t mention this to her.

Someone told us that paint on cement siding would look fine for 12 to 15 years. Jane heard 12. I heard 15.   I stalled her those three years, telling her that I would paint the house when I retired. I delayed a few more months, as she again sought out the perfect color. She didn’t think the sample number 27 paint formula, the one that we had secured in our safety deposit box, was exactly what we wanted. Times had changed. The paint needed a dot more of something, a hint of some indefinable color.

Our home has two stories. I’m a one-story guy. I don’t like heights.  When I was a child my parents took my brother Jimmy and me to The Macon Fair every October. My favorite part of the Ferris wheel was when it began stopping to let people off. I knew the odds were getting better that I would survive.

I wondered if the wild looking guy who had carelessly snapped our safety bar in place, had also put this contraption together. Had he tightened all the nuts and bolts? Had he checked for worn parts and frayed cables? He just didn’t look dependable. Back in the 1950’s, dependable folks weren’t covered with tattoos or sporting ducktails. He had it all.

Before I began painting our second story, Jane heard voices coming from our office. “What in the world are you watching?” she asked. “Ladder safety videos,” I replied. She thought that was funny. I considered it prudent and knew that thousands of OSHA employees were on my side.

The videos were helpful, filled with facts about safety. Their entertainment value, however, was a bit weak. I toyed with the idea of writing a short safety manual that might be a little more fun to read. When I started writing, I realized that a lot of the principals of ladder safety could also be applied to daily living, something I call Paint Can Theology. Solid ground, for example, is important for both ladders and life.

There is a disclaimer in the book, noting that it is not recommended for professional painters or theologians. If you fit either of those two categories, then I beg you not to buy it. Otherwise, you might enjoy climbing a few rungs.

The hardest part of painting our house was getting started. The second hardest part is getting finished. Now that I have a weekly column to write, the painting will just have to wait. Besides, Jane is looking at paint samples for the front door. “It needs a little more green,” she said, “or maybe a tad of black.” Perhaps I have time to get a few columns ahead.