Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.

Doster Fitzgerald is taking a break from his weekly column to focus on writing a couple of books.   The Rooster has been a friend ever since we took a Dale Carnegie course together over 30 years ago. He graduated with honors. I got a certificate of attendance.

I never mastered the techniques they taught for remembering names. I found out it’s easier to just call the guys Bubba, Slick, Chief, or Doc. For the ladies, I usually just say Ma’am. I have some longtime friends and family that I don’t know their real names. Maybe I’ll take that Carnegie course again one day. It’s probably too late to ask for a refund.

At the end of 2015, I retired from banking. The first 33 years were with Bank of Dooly. The last two were with South Georgia Banking Company which acquired Bank of Dooly. Before that, I worked five years with my cousin, Rooney Bowen. He owned the Chevrolet dealership in Vienna, plus the funeral home that was next door. I have sometimes been introduced as a recovering car salesman.  Rehab efforts continue and have been partially successful.

I’m not sure what direction this column will take. We’ll just see which way the wind is blowing and try to follow it. We may even pull our caps down a little tighter and walk straight into it. There are times it feels good to have the wind at our backs, times it feels good blowing in our faces. We’ll give them both a chance.

When I retired from banking, I began painting our home. That experience was so thrilling that I wrote a book about it, Lessons from The Ladder. It’s about ladder safety and painting, with some correlations to life that I call Paint Can Theology. I plan to write a few columns based on the book.

Lessons of other varieties may be an ongoing theme, such as Lessons from The Lenders. I was known as the banker who couldn’t say, “no”. I turned down a couple of loan requests, but that was over a 35-year period. When I announced my retirement, the bank examiners threw a party.

Perhaps I’ll write a column on Lessons from The Bladder. Dr. Lyons has taught me more about urology than I wanted to know. I found out that a digital exam has nothing to do with mathematics. Boy was that a shocker. My friend and managing editor, Angela Barentine, may not let me run that column.  She already nixed the idea of using Tom Selleck’s picture for my photo.

I’ll work toward a column that is entertaining enough to keep you awake, but we’ll delve into some serious issues at times. If you are not sure which category a column falls in, then send me a short email. Sometimes I’m not certain whether I’m serious or if I’m kidding. My wife, Jane, usually knows, so we can always ask her.

I sure hope you’ll come back next week.

Neil