Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.

I was four years old, or maybe five, and was outside playing. Uncle Murray came by. Mama told him that Daddy was in Unadilla at Giles and Hodge Warehouse. Uncle Murray said he was heading that way.

His pickup was loaded with bags of peanut seed, stacked above the back glass. I quietly climbed aboard and took the lookout position atop the seed bags near the cab. It was a fun trip. When he pulled into the warehouse, Uncle Murray found out why people had been waving so enthusiastically.

I was looking for Daddy, but I also wanted to go to the warehouse. Mr. Frank Giles was not just Daddy’s friend, he was mine too. I enjoyed his good-natured teasing and the free drinks during peanut season.

A few years later, when I was in the third grade, he showed me his pet mongoose. I had seen a mongoose kill a large wicked looking cobra on Wild Kingdom. Marlin Perkins had done the play calling, talking about the speed and tenacity of that little critter. They were small but fierce.

Mr. Frank had his mongoose secured in a wooden box. A heavy screen of hardware cloth covered half of the top. All you could see was the end of his tail. It wasn’t moving. Mr. Frank said he was probably asleep, but maybe we could get him to come out.

He told me to tap lightly on the side of the box, being careful not to startle him. “If he gets out,” said Mr. Frank, “then run for your life.” He cautioned me to stay away from the screen top.

I tapped the third time and the box flew open. I felt the mongoose tail slapping my face. I didn’t know whether to pray or run. The mongoose was loose and Marlin Perkins was nowhere around.

It took a minute for me to realize that what hit me was a squirrel’s tail. Mr. Frank had tied it to a string that was attached to the hinged door on top of the cage. That door was equipped with a large spring. When Mr. Frank slipped the pin out, the mongoose would attack whoever was nearby.  He surprised a lot of people through the years. I hope they enjoyed it as much as I did.

Not long after the mongoose event, Daddy and I stopped by the warehouse. He went inside to pay his bill. Mr. Frank’s wife, Miss Susie, took care of the books. Mr. Frank and I stayed outside. I let down the tailgate to Daddy’s pickup to have a place to sit.

“Those are some fine-looking watermelons you have there,” said Mr. Frank. I told him we had melons going to waste, that he was welcome to take those home. I think there were seven or eight of them. Mr. Frank politely declined, but I insisted.

Daddy came out of the warehouse. I told him I had offered Mr. Frank our melons. Daddy assured him that we weren’t planning to eat them. Mr. Frank thanked us. We laid them under a shade tree.

The Giles children went to school in Unadilla. I was in Pinehurst at the time and didn’t know them. In the fourth grade, I transferred to Unadilla. Mrs. Hazel McGough, my new teacher, introduced me to the class. “This is Neil Joiner,” she said. “He’s been attending school in Pinehurst.”

I had never met Don Giles, but he quickly spoke up. “I know who he is,” said Don. “He’s the boy who gave my Daddy those citrons!”

Mr. Frank and Miss Susie had three boys at home at the time. A fourth would come later. It never crossed my mind that sending him home with wild citrons would not be nearly as funny to his children as it was to me. Citrons looked like Charleston Gray watermelons on the outside, but the inside was hardly fit for making a fruit cake. When he cut the first one, Mr. Frank thought he had a green melon. By the third one, he was sure it was a scam. It was a sad day for the young Giles boys.

I thought Don and I might have trouble at recess. Instead, he turned out to be one of my best friends. I’m glad to still count Mr. Frank and Miss Susie in that same category. You won’t find any better folks than the Giles family, but one thing I will suggest. If Mr. Frank offers to show you his mongoose, tell him you believe you would rather have a slice of watermelon.

A train track runs beside Herschel Walker’s childhood home near Wrightsville, Georgia. During the eighth grade, he got serious about getting in shape. Racing those nearby trains became a big part of his exercise routine.

Wiley Kimbrough is the grandson of my first cousin, Sandra Bowen Wiley. He’s about to finish the 10^th grade at Fullington Academy. Two years ago, when Wiley was in the eighth grade, his teacher required the class to complete a scrapbook project. Everyone had to profile a famous Georgian. Wiley chose Herschel Walker.

Sandra, and her late husband, Lee, lived in Wrightsville for several years, about ten miles from the Walker home. She and Herschel’s mother have a mutual friend, a long-time neighbor of the Walker family. Their friend helped set up two interviews.

By Wiley’s account, Mrs. Christine Walker is a fine Christian woman and a gracious host. For the first interview, Wiley, Sandra, and other family members went to her home. She had arranged for a phone conference with Herschel. She invited them to stay as late they wanted, just so long as she made it to her church circle meeting at four o’clock.

For the second meeting, Herschel was there. He showed the same generosity with his time as his mother had. His brother, Willis, and sister, Sharon, also welcomed their guests. Willis showed them the trophy room, a place with no vacant spots. He said, “Herschel didn’t win all of these trophies.” He pointed to the wall and gave Wiley a big grin. Willis said, “That one is mine.”

ESPN was there for a scheduled interview. Herschel politely asked them to wait, while he spent some time with Wiley and his family. He talked about being an overweight child, who stuttered when he spoke. His classmates made fun of him. He told about being severely bullied one day in the eighth grade. He left school that day with an unspoken commitment to get in top physical shape. He was determined that he would not be bullied again.

That’s when Herschel started racing the trains. That’s when he started doing pushups and sit-ups in such numbers that most of us shake our heads in astonishment. Herschel’s workouts included more exercise in a day than some of us get in a year, maybe even in a lifetime. He still has an aggressive exercise agenda today.

Herschel’s transition was more than just physical. His coach told him that if he wanted to play sports, he would have to make better grades. Herschel didn’t just race trains. He raced books, and teachers, and other students. He graduated as valedictorian.

Life after high school could have gone much differently for Herschel. He was trying to decide between playing football for the University of Georgia or joining the Army. He flipped a coin three times. Each time it landed on Georgia. I don’t know if God intervenes in matters like that, but I’m sure there were some Georgia fans praying about it. Instead of marching with Uncle Sam, Herschel ran with The Dawgs.

The story of Herschel’s success at Georgia has been told many times. He is widely considered to be the greatest college running back ever. With a Heisman Trophy in 1982, plus an impressive professional career, Herschel has accomplished more than most of us would dare even dream.

Herschel’s childhood included some challenging years, but he didn’t let that define him. He caught a fast train near Wrightsville and rode it all over the world. We don’t all get to have a storybook ending, but we all have a train to catch.

Herschel rode his train to stardom on the football field. But if you took away his gridiron glory, he would still be an exceptional man. Herschel wasn’t content to just chase the train. He made the train chase him.

It was the Sunday morning after Easter, April 23, 2017. I arrived at church around nine o’clock, parked in the back lot, then headed towards the sanctuary.

Walking by our fellowship center, Providence Hall, I noticed some shingles that looked as if the recent winds may have loosened them. I then looked at the original part of our building, checking to see if there may have been any damage there.

It’s not often that I look upward for that short trip on the sidewalk. Most of the time, I’m glancing at my feet, watching for uneven cement that might lead to a stumble.

I had forgotten that we have a small cross on top of a very high steeple. The cross is painted white, and stands about three feet tall. It’s been there forever, I guess, but I don’t know the history. There’s no doubt that I’ve seen it many times. I can’t, however, recall any of those occasions. This time, I will remember.

On top of the cross was a crow, a big black bird, whose reputation is less than stellar. I stopped on the sidewalk and stared for a few moments. That uninvited black crow was perched atop our historic white cross. He was at the highest pinnacle of our church. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

I didn’t realize I had company, until I heard a friendly voice. “What does he think he is doing?” On the other side of the street corner was Rick Harville. He was taking his dog for an early stroll. Rick was also staring at the crow. He was grinning, thinking like I that it seemed pretty brazen on the crow’s part. We shared a good laugh. The crow cawed twice and flew away.

The crow was gone from his perch, but not from my mind. Our pastor preached from Song of Solomon, not a typical passage that pastors dare approach on Sunday morning. He brought a good sermon about showing love and respect for our mates. Even so, my mind wandered more than it should have, pondering if there was a message somewhere in that crow on the cross.

My first thought was that the crow shouldn’t be on top of the cross. It seemed a bit disrespectful on his part. I had no interest in shooting him, but felt it might be appropriate to at least hasten him on his way. Maybe he needed a lesson in etiquette, a lesson on how to properly approach the cross.

But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that crow is not so different from me. Sometimes, I put other things ahead of God. It’s not that they are all bad things. Mostly they aren’t. Some are very good things, like family or friends or work, things that deserve our attention. But even good things, if we put them ahead of God, place us in the wrong position at the cross.

It’s tempting to stand at the top. That’s the view that seductively calls us. We are, however, a lot more useful at the foot. The scenery may not be as inviting, nor the path as exciting, but the rewards are rich, and are stored securely for a later time.

There’s one more thing that I learned from that crow. He wasn’t invited, but he should have been welcomed. He didn’t know he was perched in the wrong place. He couldn’t know, unless someone told him. That crow didn’t need to be greeted by a warning shot. He needed to be offered a welcoming spot.

I’m not sure this column will make sense to anyone other than me. Rick was there. I think he’ll understand. I don’t know if God had anything to do with that crow landing on that cross, but I don’t know that He didn’t.   What I do know, is that I plan to look a little less at the cracks in the sidewalk, and look a little more towards the sky. There’s a small white cross on top of our church. It’s only about three feet tall, but it’s big enough for all of us. There’s plenty of room at the foot of the cross.

I’m not sure what year Miller Lawson began helping my father on our family farm. I think it was in the early 1960’s. Daddy only had one employee at the time, Julius Bembry, a man of exceptional ability and character.

Miller was married to one of Julius’ older sisters, Mary Frances. I don’t know if Julius suggested to Miller that he come by the farm, or if Miller just came on his own. He told Daddy he was making a change and asked about a job.

Miller was around forty years old, I think. He didn’t have much experience on a tractor, but he said he would learn. He said that his young brother-in-law, Julius, would teach him.

Daddy knew the Lawson family. They had a reputation of being hard working and honest. Jolly dispositions and common sense were also strong family traits.

Miller grew up in an era when he didn’t have the opportunity for formal education. But he could sell a load of watermelons at the Cordele Market, and know just about how much money was due. He was a gifted salesman. The buyers would come by, looking for a bargain. Miller would convince them that nobody on the market had melons as sweet as his. He would cut them a slice, telling them he didn’t overload his with soda like most growers. Next thing you know, the buyers would be counting out the cash.

Miller knew the Bible better than a lot of folks with degrees. He was a good listener. He paid attention to the sermons, lessons, and conversations. He paid attention to The Holy Spirit. Miller often quoted Scripture. Sometimes I would wonder if it was really in the Bible, or maybe something he just thought should be. But I never found him to be wrong. I learned to stop wondering.

He might not quote The Scripture just like King James said it, but he understood the message.   When life dealt him a challenge, Miller would smile and say, “There’s a ram in the bush, somewhere.” He was referring to Genesis 22:13, where God provides Abraham a ram to sacrifice in place of his son, Isaac. Miller always looked for the ram. That’s not a bad practice for the rest of us.

He had a saying that I learned much later was paraphrased from a song: “I just thank the Lord,” said Miller, “I ain’t what I ought to be, but I ain’t what I used to be.” I heard that song at a funeral at Mount Moriah or Big Poplar. I’ve forgotten which church, and I’ve forgotten whose funeral, but I haven’t forgotten who introduced me to that line. Miller understood that he was still on a journey.

Miller was blessed with a big supply of common sense.  It was winter and he had been gathering pecans by hand at the Bob Brown Place, about two miles from our home. He was working alone that day. It was getting late, so Daddy went by to check on him. His truck was stuck in a wet spot.

Daddy had Miller drop him off at home and told him to just keep his truck. They could take the tractor the next day to pull Miller’s truck out of the bog.

The next morning it was freezing cold, but Miller arrived early.

Daddy said, “Miller, I don’t need my truck right away. You just keep it and we’ll get yours when it warms up a bit.”

Miller flashed that big smile of his, a smile we had seen many times. He said, “I already got my truck out. I just need you to take me to get it.”

Daddy couldn’t imagine how Miller had managed this without some help. He didn’t have to ask.

“There was a hard freeze last night,” said Miller. “I knew that ground would be frozen solid. I went over there and drove it out.”

Daddy laughed in admiration of such a simple solution. He enjoyed sharing that story for many years. Sometimes, when I feel like my truck is stuck in the mud, I find myself thinking about Miller Lawson, thinking about what he would do. Miller never got a chance to be a student, but he sure made a good teacher. There’s a lot to be said for hard work, honesty, and common sense. There’s a lot to be said for knowing that somewhere, there’s a ram in the bush.

The Saturday of our niece’s wedding, Jane and I were in downtown Nashville, Tennessee. It was lunchtime, and we had no specific plans.

Somewhere between J. Gumbo’s and The Italian Kitchen, we passed the old spaghetti factory. I guess whoever put their sign up didn’t think about using capital letters. I wanted to go in, but Jane said they were closed. It didn’t look closed to me, but she pulled me along rather quickly.

She said, “You want to ask them how old their spaghetti is, don’t you?”

I said, “No. I wanted to thank them for their honesty. There aren’t many restaurants that would admit to serving old spaghetti, much less advertise it. I’ll just send them a note when we get home.”

The Hermitage Hotel attracted my attention. I asked the desk clerk what time the hermits usually came out. He feigned a confused look.  I figured that was a tactic to protect the hermits’ privacy. I asked if Herman and The Hermits had ever stayed there. He said I might want to ask someone in security, then he picked up the phone. Jane thought we should leave. I don’t know as I will ever get my questions answered.

We returned to our hotel room about five o’clock. Wilke Rodriguez was very glad to see us. We got ready for the seven o’clock ceremony, and walked the short distance to the wedding venue at the Country Music Hall of Fame. I was hoping to take a picture of a wax figure of Little Jimmy Dickens, but I guess that part of the Hall was closed. That would have been something worth putting in a frame.

I had sent my wife’s brother, Rick, the father of the bride, my column on shopping for a bargain tuxedo. It told how we found Wilke Rodriguez, how we became friends for only $149.95. Rick had passed that column along to some other folks. They were delighted to meet Wilke. I had several requests for pictures. “Do you want both of us or just Wilke?” I asked. They all said both, so I was tickled about that.

One fellow had ordered a specially tailored tuxedo from China. I asked Wilke if he had ever been to China. He said that he hadn’t, and it was way down low on his list. First, he wanted to go to the Georgia Agrirama in Tifton to watch them grind cane juice and turn it into syrup. He said he was aggravated with China about the prolific spread of Chinaberry Trees. I told him I wasn’t sure they were entirely to blame, but sometimes he has selective hearing.

Wilke Rodriguez almost got us both in trouble at the reception. Jane was two tables over, visiting with some of the bride’s family. I was standing by my chair, stretching my legs, giving Wilke a good view of the room. We were about 20 feet from the dance floor.

A lady who was too young for me, but too old for Wilke, walked up. She said, “Mister, you look sort of lonesome standing here by yourself. Would you like to dance?”

I was thinking we shouldn’t, but Wilke was urging me on. The band was playing a real slow song, the kind where you would hold your partner close. I decided it was best that I make the call on this one.

“Young lady,” I said, “I’m flattered that you invited me to dance, but I’m not sure that Mrs. Rodriguez would be happy with that.”

“No problem,” she said with a laugh. “Is it okay if I take your picture? Then I would love to meet Mrs. Rodriguez!”

That’s when Wilke spoke up. “Maybe we ought to dance first,” he said. His smile conveyed a definite sense of mischief as he motioned towards the dance floor.

Wilke understood that he had overstepped his boundaries. He knew that we would be discussing this later. But with a cunningly slow walk, he stalled long enough for the band to switch to a fast song. I realized with a certainty that Wilke Rodriguez at $149.95 really was a bargain. You can’t put a price on a friendship that also includes that kind of wisdom. I think that even Mrs. Rodriguez will agree with that.