Welcome to Joiner's Corner

The list of things I don’t understand continues to grow. Two columns in 2019 covered this topic, so I refreshed my memory on what was mentioned. One area that continues to puzzle me is silent letters. Why waste ink and effort on something almost useless?

A combination of wasted ink and effort brings to mind Medicare Summary Notices. My November statement is a good example. Essentials could have been covered with one sheet of paper instead of three. Using front and back, as they thankfully do, would have resulted in two printed pages rather than six.

I assume the other 66 million people on Medicare receive similar mailings. My six pages pertained to a single provider and one date of service. Someone with significant health issues would get a much thicker package. The totality of such notices amounts to an unfathomable waste of paper, ink, labor, and mailing costs. So what do we do?  

First, reduce the font size. The font used is several times larger than necessary for most readers. Surprisingly, however, the notice states I have the right to receive it in large print! Super-sized editions would be bigger than some books. Perhaps Medicare considers that a novel idea. 

Secondly, there’s a lot of information that could be omitted or only provided annually. Page two, for example, includes four disclosures that come with each summary. After five years on Medicare I’ve never had a need for them. And on page four of my recent report are instructions in oversized print on how to appeal denied claims. Rather than repeat that in every mailing, it should be adequate to provide a phone number to request details.

But wait, there’s more. The last two-sided page is also a standard part of each summary. Short paragraphs in fourteen languages explain my right to get help in those languages at no cost. Perhaps there should be exceptions, but I tend to think if you’re getting Medicare benefits you should learn English or be responsible for interpretation costs. Automated translation is probably available at minimal or no cost.

Certainly there’s room for debate on such matters, as there should be. Former President George W. Bush described himself as a compassionate conservative, which I believe is the correct approach to politics and policy. My point is we’re wasting money while ignoring simple solutions. 

Medicare reimbursement is another area sorely in need of better oversight. A minor illustration is the CPAP device I use for sleep apnea. It has tiny filters which are considered “add-ons,” meaning something else has to be ordered to get them. I’m stockpiling supplies I don’t need just to get filters. That shouldn’t be allowed.

More concerning, however, are ongoing revelations about fraudulent Medicare claims. Known losses have amounted to megabucks, plus there’s no telling how much fraud goes undetected. Surely someone is capable enough and honest enough to address the issue. I don’t understand why the same problems keep resurfacing.

Reports of blatant fraud have been found under both Democratic and Republican administrations. And Medicare is just one small part of our federal government that makes headlines for the wrong reasons. I don’t understand why we keep electing the same people to work on the same problems they’ve made no progress in solving.

Decades ago a man from Perry, Georgia, named Gordon Scarborough was giving out bumper stickers that read, “Don’t re-elect anybody.” At the time that struck me as a bit extreme, but his point was valid. If people holding office aren’t getting the job done, maybe we should give someone else a try.

I don’t understand why elected officials and career administrators continue to ignore areas that obviously warrant attention. I have no expertise in such matters, but those who do seem content with a broken system. That indicates a problem with attitude or aptitude or both. Medicare is regrettably just one example within our massive government and its agencies.  

Perhaps I’ve wasted ink and effort covering a topic I know little about. A man who doesn’t understand silent letters can’t expect to have a full grasp of Medicare or politics. But if any of my statements are inaccurate, please note there’s a simple explanation. The list of things I don’t understand continues to grow.  

Several families who lived on the Scarborough Farm were mentioned in the original column. The aged homestead could tell countless stories if walls could only talk. There are two extraordinary bits of history I’m acquainted with. The earliest rarely comes to mind, slowly veiled by passing time. 

Verna Scarborough Thorougham was one of three children of Virgil and Mag Scarborough. She was born April 1, 1904, and died May 28, 1992. I never met her, but Verna’s name has been familiar since childhood. She was spoken of with admiration in our home and at Harmony Baptist Church. She’s the only person I know of from our rural community who served as a missionary in China.

Information I found online said she was living in China in 1935, but didn’t note when her stay began or ended. On May 6, 1929, she married Dr. James Chanslor Thoroughman, Jr., in a Dooly County wedding. I don’t know if overseas mission work was part of their original plan or a decision they reached later. Yellowed church minutes might shed some light on their calling.

Joyce Wilkes, owner of the Scarborough Farm, remembers Verna telling stories about China. She supported her husband, a medical doctor, in ministry, plus birthed three children while there. They left China as the Communists were taking over.

One aspect of mission work, which Verna shared with family members, was not having toilet paper. Joyce would cringe as her mother’s first cousin talked about collecting leaves. That’s not a subject I’d normally broach, but it reminded me that God’s work requires all sorts of sacrifices, some more daunting than others. It’s tempting to avoid service that’s inconvenient, to offer God our talents then tell him how we’re willing to use them. 

Another remarkable story from the Scarborough Farm involves Roy and Christine Kingdom’s family, the last residents of the historic home. Their children were exceptional athletes, claiming state titles in multiple events. And one of them, Roger Kingdom, won two Olympic gold medals in the 110-meter hurdles.

When Los Angeles hosted the 1984 Olympics, Roger placed first plus set a new world record. He did it again in 1988 in Seoul, South Korea, adding to his gold medal collection and becoming the first Olympian to break the 13 second barrier in that event.

Roger’s many accomplishments are well documented, and his name is revered globally in the track and field arena. When age finally caught up with his legs, Roger began using his coaching skills to help others achieve their dreams.   

While writing this column, I thought about various local homes with stories of their own. One of the oldest disguises its age until you open the front door.

Mr. Henry DeLoach and his family lived and farmed next to Harmony Baptist Church during my 1950s childhood. Their home looked much like it does today, typical of early 1900s architecture. What can’t be seen from the road, however, is the log cabin within.

Henry and Vennie Lee Deloach raised six children there. Tony, the last remaining sibling, said the log cabin was built in 1810 and eventually became the center room of an expanded structure. Those rustic logs have witnessed over 200 years of changes, like the long-removed stairway that once led to an upper level with four bedrooms. And when I’m passing by that way I often wonder what they’d say, if hand-hewn logs could only talk.  

Not far from there is where the John Henry Williams family lived for a while in a log cabin. They built a separate frame home in 1905, a well-preserved dwelling still in service. It has three exposed chimneys, an unattached kitchen-dining area, and an inviting porch that stretches across the front of the house. Modern conveniences have been added, but the never-painted exterior exudes the same antiquated charm it’s had as far back as I remember. There’s no doubt it holds untold stories. 

The community of my childhood has several aged homesteads. A number of them have been renovated and remain in use. Others are too far gone to restore, but like the Scarborough house have boards and beams quietly hoping for a second chance elsewhere. 

Some places I’m more familiar with than others, more closely connected to the families who once lived there. But there’s one thing I know to be true of each one. They all have stories to tell, if walls could only talk.            

I don’t expect to see these headline wishes fulfilled, and maybe folks are right who hope some never will. I’m just “speaking my piece” as people used to say, but trying to do so in a friendly way. Craddock Durham, a former teacher of our men’s Sunday School class, often reminded us we can disagree without being disagreeable. 

BIDEN NOT RUNNING – He’s had too many birthdays to be entrusted with one of the most important and demanding jobs on the planet. But if I had to name a single fiasco that demonstrates poor leadership, I’d choose our southern border crisis. Balancing compassion for unfortunate migrants with what’s best for our country is not an easy task, but President Biden has excelled at ineptness.

TRUMP LEAVES POLITICS – If the polls are accurate, a majority of Republicans have a positive view of Donald Trump. I’m not on that list. There’s room for debate on multiple issues, but a single decision is one of several reasons I hope he’ll exit the arena. On January 6, 2021, he watched the Capitol being stormed by supporters he had helped inspire to action. For over three hours he refused to intervene, even with family members and close advisors begging him to address the mob. That’s inexcusable and unpresidential.

THIRD-PARTY OPTIONS NOW VIABLE – Some countries allow voters to make first and second choices in their national elections. That system could provide a boost to third-party and independent candidates. Supporters could vote for them without running the risk of helping throw an election to their least-favorite contender. Our two-party system is being manipulated by extremists on both sides of the aisle. It’s time to enhance the competition.

KEMP ELECTED PRESIDENT – Brian Kemp has done an outstanding job leading Georgia during two terms as Governor. I believe he would excel in leading our country. Presidential candidates with conservative values, integrity, common sense, tenacity, and compassion are scarce. He’s not seeking our nation’s highest office, but a third-party coalition might do well to draft him. It would be nice to be able to vote enthusiastically instead of having two pitiful choices.         

PUTIN RESIGNS AS DEMOCRACY SWEEPS RUSSIA – Putin’s military and hired mercenaries invaded a peaceful neighbor, Ukraine, without cause. The Russian Butcher has ruthlessly killed and maimed scores of innocent people, displaced millions, and destroyed untold property. A revolt is unlikely since Putin doesn’t tolerate criticism, but you never know. Lech Walesa led a successful pro-democracy movement in Communist Poland in 1989. It could happen again.

NORTH KOREA CEDES CONTROL TO THE SOUTH – Kim Jong Un, North Korea’s tempestuous dictator, is not prone toward making sensible decisions. But not too many years ago, the prospects of a united Germany under democratic rule seemed far-fetched. Communist East Germany joined their prosperous brethren in the West and both are much better off.       

IRAN’S LEADER EXPRESSES LOVE FOR ALL – This is among the least likely of headlines, but miracles can happen. The Apostle Paul’s Damascus Road experience is a good example. Acts 9:1-9 tells the story of Paul’s transition from persecuting Christians to joining them. His conversion account is proof that all things are possible with God.         

ISRAEL AND GAZA AT PEACE – Terrorists don’t plan to go away and everyone knows Israel doesn’t play. My understanding is that present day animosities can be traced back to early Bible times. That’s long enough to have reached a peaceful state, but there’s no way to negotiate hate. An Old Testament feud has a New Testament answer, but Christlike love can’t be mandated. It has to be voluntary.   

CIVILITY DOMINATES POLITICAL LANDSCAPE – Once upon a time people with differing political views debated important matters with civility. That’s become a rarity. Angry rhetoric leads to temporary fixes instead of lasting solutions. I’m old enough I’ll probably get by okay, but our nation is on a downward spiral that our children and grandchildren will be left to contend with. We shouldn’t keep kicking the can down the road.               

I don’t expect these headline wishes to be fulfilled, and maybe folks are right who hope some never will. My opinions are admittedly subject to error. So if speaking my piece has fractured your peace, I hope you’ll join me in a reasonable resolution. Let’s disagree without being disagreeable.    

Jimmy Lockerman, a long-time friend, is salvaging lumber from a time-worn house that belongs to a cousin of mine, Joyce Wilkes. He asked about its history, but those who knew it best are gone. A walk through empty rooms one day made me wonder what they’d say, if walls could only talk.  

Murray Joiner, Joyce’s father, bought the farm in 1952 from Mag Scarborough, his wife’s aunt. Margaret Clemons Scarborough and John Virgil Scarborough farmed while raising four children there. He died in 1925 at age 43. She moved and rented the property out until selling it.

The dwelling was built around 1900 or perhaps earlier. A hand-sawn four by six inch post is helping support a front wall. Most of the lumber, however, was cut by a sawmill. Virgil’s parents are buried nearby at Wallace Cemetery, so possibly were the original owners. 

In my childhood it looked like a homestead which had enjoyed considerable prosperity. The spacious unpainted house and outbuildings hinted of a rich past. Joyce was told that split-rail fences once surrounded every field.    

After Virgil Scarborough’s death, the Charlton Cross family lived there and farmed the land. Roy and Lois Altman and their children followed them. Several years back Bobby Altman removed a piece of plank for a keepsake. He and his brother, Lamar, had scribbled their names on it eons ago.

My earliest recollection of residents is the Joe Ervin family. Joe farmed on halves with another of Daddy’s brothers, Emmett. Uncle Emmett provided land and inputs and Joe supplied labor. Walking through the house reminded me of a long-ago visit with Joe at the Scarborough Farm. But first, here’s some background. 

Daddy preferred row crops over livestock, so I used our empty pens for 4H and FFA projects. I was thrilled to get a purebred Yorkshire through the Sears Roebuck Pig Chain Program. The finely-bred gilt was free, except for giving back a pig from her first litter. 

We’d never owned swine of prestigious lineage. Feasting on ground corn and Purina supplements she grew into a portly beauty. The prospects of expanding my operation with her offspring was exciting. My heart sank, however, when she birthed only three pigs. It dropped lower when she rolled over on two of them. The bottom came knowing the sole survivor was not mine to keep.  

Shortly after that disappointing experience, Daddy and I were talking with Joe under the ancient Scarborough barn, a typical structure of an earlier era. Stalls for animals and cribs for storing corn and such lined each side of an open middle large enough to accommodate mule-drawn wagons. The hay loft’s exterior door was 20 feet off the ground.

Stretched out in one of those stalls was a skinny black sow nursing 14 pigs. I didn’t know that number was possible, especially from a hog with no pedigree or special diet. Daddy traded with Joe for me to buy her when the pigs were weaned.

My registered sow birthed one more disappointing litter of five pigs. I sold her and began making a little money with that scrawny hog of undocumented ancestry. It was a memorable lesson in practical economics.   

On another visit Joe told me about sharecropping elsewhere as a young man. When they settled up, he received far less than he should have. He respectfully questioned the landowner, who responded in anger, “Are you calling me a liar?” Joe moved his family that night. There are lessons in that experience too. It’s best to avoid folks you can’t trust or reason with. 

Sometimes Joe entertained us with impersonations of Uncle Emmett. He told Daddy and me about going to Joiner’s Store when needing money for crop inputs. My uncle could be moody, so Joe would test the waters.

He’d imitate Uncle Emmett’s chronic sniffing and monotone mumble, “Morning, Joe. Something for you?” Joe would pretend he’d just stopped by to speak. He’d wait a few days then try again, not talking business until he received a cheerful greeting. His comedic account helped me understand the value of finesse.   

Joe lived on the Scarborough Farm until he built a home on the far side of the same field. He told me countless stories during my youth that I wish I could recall. I realize now they often came with valuable lessons.   

And a walk through empty rooms one day made me wonder what they’d say, if walls could only talk.       

Although I’m too young to join the Coke Club, I had a delightful visit with those fellows one Friday afternoon. Ten were present for the full session. Two others stopped by.

Earlier that day I’d asked Cecil McGraw when James Woodward would be presiding over a meeting. James is their CEO – Chief Entertainment Officer. A few hours later we were sipping sodas at McDonalds in Vienna. 

When I expressed my certainty they had countless stories worth sharing, Cecil responded with a sly grin. “We have plenty that shouldn’t be told,” he confided.

Joviality is essential for membership, but it comes easily. The laughter of old men is contagious. Fortunately, no restrictions are imposed on how many times a good tale can be repeated. 

James had shared one of those dated stories with me several months ago. During a six-week Alaska adventure he and Charles Stephens undertook in 1992, they went to a small diner for supper one night. James asked the waitress about the stuffed jalapeno peppers on the menu, pronouncing jalapeno with a hard j. She smiled, asked where they were from, then politely explained, “In Alaska we pronounce the j like an h. We say halapeno.”

“How long will you Georgia boys be in Alaska? she inquired. “We’re not sure,” said James. “Probably until Hune or Huly.”

One of the members thought their club name was ROMEO, for Retired Old Men Eating Out. James, however, said that’s an Albany group his brother belongs to. 

The Coke Club was established in 1998, but has no written documentation of organization or meetings. They don’t keep minutes for legal reasons. Cecil is approaching 30 years of retirement with Georgia Power and has been with them the whole time. James and Charles are also charter members.

Kenny Calhoun wasn’t present, but was acknowledged as a reliable source of local lore from days of yore. He reportedly has total recall plus remembers events which happened long before he was born.

The late James Pass was recognized for earlier contributions. While fishing at Lake Blacksher with David Brigman, also deceased, a flock of geese passed over and left a horrendous deposit on Jame’s head. He said David showed no sympathy, that he was only worried about his boat.

When David Brown and Mike Joiner dropped by for a brief chat, the subject of age was raised. David, a retired educator, shared that a young lady recently told him he had taught her great-grandmother. That’s sobering, considering he’s younger than the club’s senior members.

Marion Hall brought up a long-ago prank coordinated by James Woodward and Jim Braxton. Their businesses were located across the street, providing each a clear view of a strategically-positioned empty barrel placed outdoors at Woodward Auto Parts. They would stare curiously into the barrel then jump back, like something struck at them. After they left, others would cautiously peer into the emptiness, mystified by what they had missed.

Someone mentioned crates filled with empty drink bottles being stolen from behind Woodward Service Station. James connected a big horn to a battery and set a tripwire. When the culprit unknowingly activated the horn, police happened to be nearby and caught the man. Such tales help demonstrate how James quickly attained the rank of CEO. 

Tidbits of quaint history are preserved by the group. James mentioned Sheriff’s Willie King’s checkerboard style display that included a small sample of wood from every type of locally grown tree. The family doesn’t know what happened to the unique collection. 

Sheriff H. C. Johnson was remembered for his success decades ago in capturing moonshiners. One still was found inside a sawdust pile. Sawdust remnants in a car trunk containing home brew had given him a clue.

As I was leaving, Charles Stephens told me about another Coke Club which assigned numbers to their standard jokes to save time. Instead of retelling familiar stories, someone would call out a number. A new member at his first meeting looked over the list and found one he considered perfect. “Number seven!” he said enthusiastically, but no one laughed. “Don’t feel bad,” said a veteran club member. “Not everyone can tell a joke.”

It’s beyond my ability to capture the camaraderie of the Coke Club in a column. So I’ll close by thanking those fellows for their friendship, a delightful visit, and reminding me of a blessing easily taken for granted. The laughter of old men is contagious.     

In our men’s Sunday School class, I recently asked the fellows to think back to childhood and share what they wanted to be when they grew up. To my surprise, no one mentioned professional sports or Superman. 

Charles Stephens was first to respond. “When I was six years old, my mother asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her I wanted to have big feet and slop the hogs.”

He had been tagging along with his father, Emmett Stephens, and wanted to follow in his footsteps. Charles got his wish for a good foundation. He used to water ski on bare feet. And his business accomplishments far exceeded those of a big-footed hog slopper.

Marion Hall wanted to be a fighter pilot. He would have made a fine one, but a hearing test clipped his wings. He learned that some medicines prescribed during infancy had done irreparable damage. 

High-altitude thrills hold no appeal which I can fathom. The Georgia State Fair in Macon offered clear evidence I should follow a grounded path.   

Unadilla’s Future Farmers of America rode a school bus to Fair Day in 1969. Robbie Moore and I climbed into the cockpit of the bullet, a two-seat cylindrical contraption. It repeatedly turned us upside down as the support arm rotated in the opposite direction. I quickly regretted eating a foot-long hotdog. When departing the platform, I apologized to the attendant and pointed toward Robbie.   

Mike Joiner, a distant relative, wanted to be a preacher and raise horses. That peculiar combination sort of makes sense. Tending horses could pair well with feeding sheep. Horses rarely complain or hold long committee meetings.

Ronnie Cape is one of our group’s youngsters. He has both hair and hearing. When Ronnie said he wanted to grow up to be just like me, I expected a chorus of “Amens!” Hearty laughter indicated the class didn’t take him seriously.

Then Ronnie told us he had wanted to be a cowboy. Others probably also dreamed of riding the range and using saddles for pillows. Childhood memories may be fading. Some probably didn’t hear the question. I speak softly so as not to wake them.

The first thing I remember wanting to be was an “Injun.” That’s what American Indians were called on TV in the 1950s. I think it was an animated clip at the picture show which inspired me. A little Indian boy was having a splendid time in the great outdoors.

That role became less appealing as I watched Native Americans struggle in Westerns, so I changed horses and switched to cowboying. Mable, a former circus horse, only wanted to go in circles. The brown mare would buck me off if I had other ideas. Mama sent Mable packing. 

Chief came after Mable. He was a pudgy pinto with a painfully slow gait. If I insisted on shifting gears, Chief would drop to his knees and roll over, forcing me to jump from the saddle. The allure of cowboying was stymied by a lazy horse.

Later in childhood I flirted with the idea of becoming a columnist. I liked the witty satire of Art Buckwald and the relentless pursuit of truth by Jack Anderson. As an adult I enjoyed Lewis Grizzard’s humor and the folksy writings of Bill Boyd and Ed Grisamore with The Macon Telegraph. There were also local writers I admired, like Mr. Harry Hamrick. He penned a column called “Whatcha Callit” for decades. Mr. Harry gleaned little jewels from the fields of life.

After sharing our youthful recollections, I posed another question: “How many of you dreamed of growing up to be a humble servant?” We all shook our heads sidewards with knowing smiles.    

Career choices are important, and most of them allow us to honor God in various ways. But maybe our focus should be less on what we achieve and more on what we believe.  

Our scripture lesson that morning was from the tenth chapter of Mark. If we trust what Jesus said, the path to greatness comes through humility.

I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up, but God’s highest calling has often been my lowest priority. It’s challenging for me to enthusiastically embrace humble service, so maybe there are others who might benefit by answering a telling question. What do you want to be when you grow up?     

“Dog is man’s best friend,” they say, but not everyone feels that way. I’m sorry I didn’t get to tell you goodbye Travis. Maybe we can visit sometimes, but I’m not sure I’ll be back. The woods we once loved to roam aren’t safe anymore. 

When Dr. Baker asked how I was doing, I couldn’t resist saying, “Ruff!” He laughed even though it’s a really old line. The surgery, however, was no laughing matter.  

Sixteen staples have been removed and my shoulder is healing. Shaved hair is growing back, so I won’t get to show you my scar. My leg still hurts a bit, but I’m thankful to have it. Try walking on one front paw and you’ll understand. 

Destiny brought us together I suppose. When I was rambling alone I often ended up in your neighborhood. I never planned the trips, just felt a yearning to explore. Sometimes I went so far I couldn’t remember the way back. Buck, a friend of Neil’s, gave me a ride home several times in his truck. 

If you get a chance to travel by vehicle, you should go. A pickup bed offers great views and a strong breeze. For inside rides ask to sit by a window. Sticking your head out and letting the wind blow your ears back is awesome. Some people call that riding shotgun, but that word gives me chills now.

One of my early adventures took me to Royal Road. Neil’s phone number was on my collar so the nice folks let him know I was there. They fed me and said I was an exceptionally sweet dog. I know they meant it because they said it on my next visit too.

I spent one night at a clothing optional campground. They took good care of me but the mosquitoes were huge. Neil told me later we’re Southern Baptists and if I stared too long I might go blind. It’s not always easy to tell when he’s kidding.   

There were a couple more campground trips, but Neil didn’t have to go get me. Two fellows in a golf cart gave me snacks and took me home. Golf carts aren’t as fast as trucks, but their slower pace and open sides let you enjoy the scenery more. It’s amazing how many interesting things we pass by without really noticing.

After you and I began galavanting together, my trips became even longer. Sometimes you’d get tired and turn back while I kept going. That’s how I met three different families near Unadilla. There are a lot of good people in the Sugar Hill community. They all treated me like royalty.

Macedonia Church Road was one of my last and longest journeys. It’s about eight miles by highway, maybe longer on my meandering path. A young couple heard their dogs barking one night and the man found me outside looking haggard. I was covered in so much mud it concealed the number on my collar. They kept me in their barn and put my picture on something called Facebook. 

That trip was exhausting, but thanks to the kindness of strangers everything turned out well. I stayed closer to home after that, yet ran into worse trouble. I’ve always watched for snakes, gators, and Bigfoot, but I never suspected the most dangerous critter is the one who wears shoes.

My fenced-in yard here is spacious and sleeping accommodations are exceptional. Jane and Neil spend time with me, spoil me with treats, and take me on rides. Honestly though, it doesn’t compare to roaming. Squirrels taunt me daily and there’s an aloof cat I’m longing to chase. The cost of my safety is the loss of my freedom.

Please spend some time with Ethan, the little boy next door. Ethan and I loved our playtimes. His mom said he’s been asking about me. I’d like to see him, but I don’t know how to explain why I left. I’m not sure a young child should hear that story.   

Dog is no doubt man’s best friend Travis, and most of the time the reverse is true. I’ve met some lovely people during my travels, but it only took one man with a gun to make me wary of others. It’s still hard to believe he shot me while I was wagging my tail. 

Be kind to everyone Travis, but be careful. The woods we once loved to roam aren’t safe anymore.  

Love,

Harriet   

It was a mystery why Harriet was limping. She winced with pain as she struggled to stand. After hopping a few feet on three legs she sat down and raised a hurt paw. For those who don’t know her, here’s some background.

Harriet is the blue heeler who somehow ended up at my mother’s childhood home in September of last year. As I pulled into the driveway that fall morning, the oddly-colored dog bounded down the porch steps and greeted me like a long-lost friend. 

My brother and I had begun renovating the vacant house in 2021. Jimmy wasn’t able to do much work, but he was good company. He’d scrape walls as I painted, then sit in a folding chair and jestfully point to areas needing attention. “You missed a spot,” he’d say with a grin.

JImmy’s health began a rapid decline in March of 2022. Hospital and rehab stays became routine. After his July death I resumed working on the house, but his absence left a void. Then Harriet came along and it became easier to count my blessings again.  

She didn’t have a collar and wasn’t chipped. Our vet said no one had reported a missing blue heeler. We didn’t know where she came from, but the longer she stayed the more I hoped it was a permanent arrangement. 

I read about the unique breed online and learned they’re used for rounding up cattle, sheep, and other livestock. Heeler refers to their instinct to nip at the heels of whatever they’re trying to corral. 

Without a herd to work, Harriet chased squirrels and even birds. She’d run a squirrel up a tree then track it from limb to limb. She probably chased deer too. That may be what brought her to our place. It may be why she sometimes ran so far she would get lost. 

Since she joined our family we’ve had a dozen or so reports of her ramblings. Her usual range was three to eight miles. A lot of nice people fed and sheltered her, and called my number when they found it on her collar. Some were so smitten they took her to McDonald’s.

Harriet came home without a collar twice in October. How she got them off was baffling. Now I’m thinking she had assistance. Georgia law addresses the shooting of a collared dog. I suspect hers were removed by a two-legged critter covering his tracks.   

There are differing views on whether dogs should be allowed to roam. I grew up in the country and favor giving them freedom in most circumstances. Others disagree and I respect their opinions, except for those who confine dogs to crates all day. That’s sad. Regardless of how you feel about such matters, surely most would agree that a gentle pet doesn’t deserve to be shot.

Dr. Baker and his staff gave her excellent care for over a week. It looked at first as if she might lose her left front leg, but it’s healing. I’m thankful the pellets near one eye didn’t affect her vision. I’m hoping we’ll both recover from wounded hearts.   

Granddaddy Hill had a neighbor who killed several of his cows a long time ago. My grandfather’s cattle were grazing in the man’s grain field. It didn’t cause any major problems between them which I’m aware of. As my friend Shannon Akin says, “There are at least two sides to every story.”

Maybe Harriet was chasing somebody’s cat, free-range chickens, or pet goat. Or maybe she ran a deer away from a hunter instead of toward him. She was probably trespassing as Harriet doesn’t understand property lines. But a BB would have sent her scampering.

Whoever blasted her with a shotgun probably doesn’t read my weekly column. So maybe others will pass a message along in hopes it might reach them: “If you shoot someone’s pet, you should be decent enough to explain your reason.” 

Most mornings I work on my grandmother’s house at 1956 Unadilla Highway. If you fired that gun, consider this an invitation to stop by. We may not have a pleasant conversation, but I won’t try to step on your toes or call you ugly names. I can’t, because Harriet keeps reminding me what Christ said about forgiveness. It’s not optional. 

It’s no longer a mystery why Harriet was limping. But I’d sure like to know why someone shot my dog. 

October was my lucky month. Five phone messages informed me I was the grand prize winner of two major sweepstakes. Not only did I place first with Readers’ Digest, I was also atop the leaderboard at Clearer’s Publishing House. Twin wins in one month with prizes worth millions had never happened to me before. I was ecstatic.

Congratulatory voicemails stressed the importance of keeping my good fortune confidential until finalized. They provided a callback number and the name of their agent who would ensure the funds were safely deposited in my bank. 

Jane and I don’t answer unknown numbers unless there’s a compelling reason. If a voicemail is left, we listen then decide. Quite often it’s a scam, sham, or flimflam. The difference in those three terms is unclear to me. I just like the sound of that column title.

At this stage in life, it’s unlikely I’ll get taken in by such blatant trickery, but no one is immune. The bad guys excel at deception and persistence. They play the numbers game, knowing if they place enough calls someone will fall.

Sunday’s edition of The Macon Telegraph on October 29th carried a front page story about a retired Houston County couple who were almost conned out of $186,000. Through an elaborate scheme, they thought their bank accounts were in jeopardy.

The couple invested in gold, from a legitimate seller, as instructed. Thankfully, they became suspicious before the valuable bars arrived. They contacted authorities and were able to return the gold for a full return. By cooperating with law enforcement on a sting operation, one man was jailed after showing up at their house. A zillion more, however, are still on the loose.

Their story reminded me of a lady coming to Bank of Dooly years ago, convinced she had won a large sum of money. She had agreed for a courier to deliver the certified check to her home. The only thing required of her was to give him $2500 cash for federal taxes. There was no doubt it was a scam, but she believed otherwise. 

Officer Robert Jones with the Vienna Police Department came to the bank and also explained it wasn’t legitimate. She didn’t believe him either, but reluctantly left without the money. Vienna P.D. monitored her neighborhood around the appointed time. The courier didn’t come, or perhaps saw law enforcement was nearby and kept driving.

Two other bank customers were victims of scams of a different nature. Sadly, the crooks were operating within the law at the time. The scams weren’t illegal, just immoral, unethical, misleading, and reprehensible. Both ladies fell for the same ploy, believing that by purchasing magazines and other assorted items, they were certain to win a small fortune.

By the time their families intervened, each had spent tens of thousands of dollars on goods they had no use for. The purchase that best demonstrated the culprits’ heartless strategy was a motorized boat. It was inflatable with a tiny trolling motor. Battery not included.

Merchandise had been stored in each of the women’s homes. That which was still in the original packaging could be returned for a partial refund. I guess that helped keep the perpetrators out of jail. With the assistance of authorities, part of their expended funds were recovered. The grossly overpriced items which had been discarded, however, or lacked the original packaging, resulted in substantial losses.

Both of those elderly ladies were susceptible to scams, and we all are to some extent. New schemes, increasingly more sophisticated, are introduced with regularity. I’m no expert on such matters, but here are some suggestions.

First, don’t answer unknown numbers. Second, don’t trust your caller ID to reflect who is on the other end. Third, always remember that if something sounds too good to be true it probably is. And fourth, if a situation seems the least bit odd, discuss it with someone you have confidence in.

The fifth point, and perhaps most important, is never rely on Joiner’s Corner for advice on scams, shams, and flimflams. I don’t even know if that’s one thing or three. I just like the sound of that column title.   

“One Man – Three Wars” might be a better column title. That would pay homage to Lt. Col. Robert S. Phillips’ heroic service in World War II, Korea, and Vietnam. 

A mutual friend arranged a visit to his Lake Blackshear home. David Hinson and I arrived at ten a.m. on a Wednesday in November. Gay McInvale, a beloved assistant to the Colonel, invited us to the breakfast table.

She served pound cake with whipping cream and fresh strawberries. “He likes strawberries,” said Gay, coyly acknowledging generous servings. Mid-morning desserts must agree with the Colonel. Pictures from his 100th birthday party in August show his vintage Air Force dress uniform fits perfectly. 

As I looked through a photo album of the celebration, our jovial host pointed to a man with a saxophone. “He played for my 99th birthday party too.” 

“Is he coming back next year?” I asked. ”Probably,” he said with a chuckle. “He’s really good and I love the saxophone.” A photo of him dancing offers tender evidence. 

Thursday’s plans were to scatter acorns in the woods to attract deer. He and Randy Powell, another valued assistant, would return Friday and Saturday to hunt. Last year he harvested a nice buck, and almost called one in with a trophy rack. 

“How long have you been hunting deer?” I asked. “About 85 years,” he answered. “I started hunting them in Pennsylvania when I was 15.”

After his 1942 high school graduation, he joined the U. S. Air Force and became a navigator. B-24s carried him on 52 missions to Germany, Austria, and elsewhere. He kept the aircraft on course until their targets were reached, then directed them home after their bombs were dropped.

One of many harrowing moments came when their plane had to land without power. “Just after dropping the bombs, the number one engine got hit and we lost a lot of fuel. We were the lead ship. We broke formation and headed to a secondary airstrip in Yugoslavia.”

“They shut down that engine then another, leaving one operating on each side of the plane for balance.” He calculated it would take 20 minutes to go 76 miles across the Adriatic Sea. The engineer soberly advised they might have enough fuel.

“Only one engine was running when we reached the coastline. Swede Olson, from Atlanta, was our pilot. He put it in a dive from 2000 feet and shut off the engine. The only sound we heard was air going through bullet holes. Swede made a perfect landing.”

That was late in 1944. A twin-engine C-47 transport plane took them to France. He was with the 98th Bomb Group at the time, but finished his tour with another outfit. 

In the spring of 1945 he returned home to Tyrone, Pennsylvania, and took a three year break. He fished, hunted, and went to Penn State for a year. He also met Jenny Colitto and fell in love.

After three months of marriage, he went to Okinawa in 1949 with the Strategic Air Command. Jenny was about to join him when the Korean War started and dependents were no longer allowed. In Korea he was the navigator for sixty B-29 missions.

On a New Year’s Eve flight in 1951, his good friend and pilot, Joe Davis, said, “You guys get your gear on.” An engine was on fire. Davis put the plane in a dive from 25,000 feet to 12,000 and extinguished the flames. “Bob,” he said, ‘get us home.” 

With lost fuel and unknown structural damage, they made it out of Siberia and landed in Japan. The base commander and his wife hosted them for a splendid dinner on New Year’s Day.

In Vietnam the Colonel switched from bombing missions to reconnaissance. Their responsibility was to locate the enemy’s ground missiles and relay those positions to fighter pilots.

He held two acorns in his outstretched palm as we were leaving. “Deer love these,” he said. “I’ve picked up about 15 gallons. They’re in rut now. I’ll rattle my horns and make like a young buck to draw them in.”

The Colonel has survived three wars, buried two wives, and seen 100 birthdays, yet he’s optimistically planning tomorrows. There’s no way to condense his remarkable life into 750 words, so if you get an opportunity to hear the stories of a humble hero firsthand, don’t miss out. And if by chance you play the saxophone well, you may want to audition for next year’s party.