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Buddy Bellflower died way too young. This story begins a few years before. Buddy rode our school bus for a short time when I was a youngster. He was eight years older than me and made a big impression on a little kid. His deep tan and black hair caused me to think he might be part Indian. That elevated his status considerably to a freckled-faced boy prone to sunburn.    

He was fun to be around, perhaps sensing my unspoken admiration. I never heard any talk of him causing trouble, but his natural swagger made me think he could take care of himself. Billy Griggs, a childhood friend of Buddy’s, confirmed that opinion. “Buddy was tough as nails but a really good guy. He’d fight a bear with a switch,” Billy said with a chuckle.

Billy illustrated his friend’s bravado with a story about Buddy and Mac Reed finding a coon in the stump of a hollow tree. They threw a coat over the stump then dropped it onto the critter, planning to take him hostage. The coon ate them up from the elbows down. Badly scarred arms led to heavy ribbings at school, but enhanced Buddy’s daring reputation.   

Lewis Oscar Bellflower, Jr. (originally spelled Belflowers) was born October 21, 1944, and died July 8, 1962. I was nine at the time and he was seventeen. Our paths rarely crossed after he completed the eighth grade at Pinehurst Elementary, but his mysterious death troubled me then and still does.

Karen Bellflower Brown was seven when her beloved uncle was killed. He had moved in with Karen’s family that year and was working with her father, Bo Bellflower, in his carpentry business. Dooly County Sheriff H. C. “Johnny” Johnson delivered the news.

Several fellows from Unadilla, including Buddy, had ridden together to a dance in Hawkinsville. Buddy had danced with a young lady, which didn’t go over well with some of the locals. That led to a “scuffle,” but nothing major according to those questioned.  

His Unadilla friends said Buddy stayed behind when they left. Later that night, he supposedly began a long walk home on State Highway 26. That’s where he was found after being hit by multiple vehicles. 

One theory is he passed out or stumbled in front of a car on the dark roadway. Others thought his body was placed on the pavement to conceal a murder. Sheriff Johnson told the family it appeared he’d been beaten. 

Buddy was a good-looking guy with confident charm, a combination women found appealing but their would-be suitors might resent. My guess is he danced too long with the wrong girl. Alcohol and jealousy don’t pair well.   

His death was disturbing to me because of the suspicious circumstances, but mostly because I had put him on a pedestal in early childhood. I’m not saying I should have, just that I did.

The last time I saw Buddy he was looking under the hood of a car and smoking a cigarette. Karen reminded me he kept a pack rolled up in his tee-shirt sleeve. She compared him to Fonzie from Happy Days, a tough persona concealing a tender heart. He helped her mother in the kitchen and assisted in taking care of three young children. Karen and her sister Beth adored their uncle and had begged him to stay home instead of going to the dance. 

There probably aren’t many people left who remember much about Buddy Bellflower. And the musings of a small-time columnist are unlikely to resolve unanswered questions. But it’s possible someone is tired of hiding a dark secret and ready to clear their conscience. 

Hawkinsville is in Pulaski County. His body was found in Houston. He lived in Dooly. Maybe having three sheriffs plus a city police department involved resulted in his case becoming everybody’s business but nobody’s focus. Or maybe someone decided to bury the truth.     

Sixty-two years have passed since he died, so this story probably won’t accomplish anything. It does, however, give me some peace of mind by making a small effort on his behalf. Perhaps it’s not too late to determine if justice was served or at least sought.    

The tanned boy with natural swagger made a big impression on a little kid. I guess that’s why I still think about him, why I still hope for some answers. There’s plenty of room for speculation about Buddy Bellflower’s death, but only one thing I can say for sure. Buddy Bellflower died way too young. 

Angela Barentine warrants an early mention among those who have helped me along the way. After reading my short book, Lessons From The Ladder, she asked if I would be interested in writing a weekly column for the Cordele Dispatch. 

A weekly feature had appeal but I wasn’t sure I had the skill, so I talked to Clay Mercer, a prolific author whose advice I knew would be free. “Write ten columns and see how it goes,” he suggested. “If you can’t write ten, you should probably leave it alone.” That was seven years ago. 

Angela later became editor at The News Observer in Dooly County, creating a second outlet for Joiner’s Corner. Clay amusedly congratulated me on becoming syndicated, a term which apparently allows exaggeration.   

Our daughter, Erin, set up the Joiner’s Corner blog for publishing stories online. She kept posting them until eventually teaching an old dog a new trick. I had forgotten that Seth, our son, created a website years earlier by the same name. He had posted several of my stories, but I was busy with work and never added to it. They each deserve credit for technical assistance at different times.

Carrie, our other daughter, has been a good source for checking my faulty memory. She recalls details from decades back more accurately than I do. Our grandchildren get credit for inspiring better efforts in my writing and living. I hope something I’ve penned might someday be deemed worth sharing with the next generation.     

About six years ago I sent dozens of emails to Georgia-based newspapers, asking if they were interested in the column. Most didn’t respond or politely declined. A few thankfully said they would run it when space allowed.

Adding The Houston Home Journal extended coverage to a third county along I-75 in my local area. The Herald Journal in Greensboro gave Joiner’s Corner its sole spot in North Georgia.

Len Robbins covers a big area of South Georgia with his publications. He added five counties and their local papers to my potential readers including Clinch, Atkinson, Lanier, Brooks, and Echols. I’ve received some welcome feedback from Quitman to Homerville.

Valori Moore, owner, editor, and chief of everything at The Taylor County News warrants a wheelbarrow of kudos. After reading my sample column she said she loved it but couldn’t afford something of that quality. That tickled a hobby writer whose mantra is, “It’s free and it’s worth it.” Val has remained a source of ongoing encouragement.

To those editors who took a chance on an unknown writer with sketchy credentials, I am deeply appreciative. The opportunities you allowed have been a blessing plus helped open other doors. 

Dr. Gerald Harris, longtime editor of The Christian Index, boosted my confidence by running multiple columns in that storied publication. Scott Barkley took over when Dr. Harris retired and continued to include submissions. Open Windows, a Lifeway publication, invited me to write two series of devotionals, a challenging but affirming experience.

Cotton Farming has been a good ally, running several columns that fit their needs. Georgia Magazine gave me statewide exposure a couple of times. It’s uplifting when professionals think something I’ve penned is worth sharing again.

Thank you to all those who gave me the privilege of telling their stories. And thanks to the many readers who were generous with kind words. Some posted comments, emailed, or texted. Others called, sent a note, or gave me a pat on the back.

Lord willing, I’ll keep writing but not on a schedule. Earlier columns are on the website and you’re welcome to share them. Joiner’s Corner is still free and hopefully still worth it.

In the movie Forrest Gump the lead character unexpectedly stops running his cross-country trek. The hushed crowd who had joined him waited to hear what he’d say, but Forrest didn’t have anything to offer. He was just tired. 

That scene came to mind as I pondered in vain for clever parting lines. Writing a weekly column has been a wonderful experience, but lately it’s felt like I’m running on fumes. Maybe I’ll find some inspiration while spending more time near my favorite stream. 

My heartfelt appreciation goes out to everyone who has helped me along the way. Hopefully I’ll be back someday with a little more to say. The past seven years have gone by really fast, so I’m slowing the pace before I run out of gas.

I’ve run out of gas more than once, but the only time I clearly recall was in 1974. I had graduated from Valdosta State College and was living in a Tallahassee apartment working with Burroughs Corporation. Jane was staying with her parents in Thomasville and doing her student teaching in Whigham.

Each Friday after work I made the scenic 35 mile trip from Florida’s capital to Georgia’s City of Roses. That was my weekend routine during the four months before our December wedding. Following our honeymoon in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, we began the new year at 2600 Miccosukee Road. Gas was cheaper in Thomasville than Tallahassee, so I’d buy it there when possible. That’s why my cream-colored Malibu coupe was running on fumes.

I made it to the city limits but not to the Fox Sing Oil station. Someone let me use a landline phone to call Horne Candy Company for roadside assistance. My future father-in-law’s green Ford pickup was a welcome site. “Don’t you know cars won’t run without gas?” Mr. Horne asked good naturedly.  

Another time is fixed in my mind of almost running out of fuel. In 1989 Jane and our ten-year-old triplets flew to California to visit her brother and his family. I was driving a rental van on the winding and windy Pacific Coast Highway with my wife and our three children aboard. “I’m not going to pay $1.72 for gas!” I announced, although the fuel-gauge hand was bumping the red line. Despite concerns expressed by fellow travelers, I drove on by.

Twenty miles later we coasted into the graveled lot of a small store with old-style petrol pumps. I thanked them for letting me fill the tank at $2.05 a gallon and hugged the matronly lady tending the cash register. It was a memorable lesson to be more careful about saying what I won’t do.

Running on fumes is the point I’ve reached in writing weekly columns. March will be seven years and that seems like a good place to change the pace. Seven is one of those numbers that’s significant in the Bible, beginning with the creation story in Genesis. I can’t claim God has given me any revelations about that timeframe, but somehow it feels complete.

There’s no way to thank everyone who has helped me along the way, so I apologize for oversights and worthy omissions. My mother is who I’ll begin with. She has encouraged my literary efforts since childhood. 

One of the earliest things I remember writing was a poem about a rattlesnake. Our collie-mix dog, Trixie, alerted us to the invader. Mama is brave in many ways but has a dreadful fear of snakes. Mrs. Bonnie Quattlebaum, an older friend and neighbor, was visiting us that day and sent the slithering scoundrel to its final destination. 

Mama kept those scribbled verses and gave it to me a few years ago. It was obvious that my juvenile rhyme had been rewarded with undeserved praise. The final lines summarize the story: “Trixie found the rattler and Mama found the hoe, but it was Miss Bonnie who dealt the fatal blow.”

My patient and loving wife deserves a choice spot on the helper’s list. She’s been a source of great encouragement, and has spent hours proofreading and making gentle suggestions. “It’s probably fine,” she’ll sometimes say, “but I had to read that sentence a couple of times for it to be clear.” 

During our college days in the 1970s I considered transferring from Valdosta State to the University of Georgia to pursue a journalism degree. Jane supported whatever I wanted to do and was willing to change schools too. But we loved Valdosta and the friends we’d made. Fifty years later I’m glad we stayed.  

Twice during the early years of our marriage I considered changing careers and had job offers from papers in Valdosta and Thomasville. Although the pay would have been substantially lower, Jane wanted me to do what I thought was best. So that’s what I did, and eventually stumbled into a satisfying career in banking.

There are a lot of folks who deserve to be thanked. I’ll cover some more next week, but the list will still be incomplete. Hopefully there’s enough fuel in the tank to keep writing an occasional column. If not, please know that I’ll be fine, just out of gas one more time.

As we slowly improved the interior of my mother’s childhood home over the past two years, the outside patiently waited its turn. In late 2023, however, the neglected exterior began begging for attention. That’s why we’re putting new boards on an old house. For those who came in late, here’s a little background.

Before the inside carpentry work began a major cleaning was required. The folks who moved out left piles of clothes on the floor along with untied garbage bags. A lifeless refrigerator was well stocked, plus packages of unopened sandwich meat were in a burn pit near the back door. The aromatic buffet fostered a roach infestation of biblical proportions.

Not having access to an oxygen mask, I borrowed a trick from President Bill Clinton and didn’t inhale. After disposing of rank garbage, the next step was to eliminate brazen roaches. Five gallons of Home Defense spray were dispensed, plus powder, tablets, and traps. Salt-filled shotgun shells were the only unused tools in my arsenal.

Regular treatments over several months finally squelched the bugs. I then began scraping paint off walls and ceilings as Jane washed them. She scrubbed using commercial-grade cleansers and disinfectants. It was so nasty I felt sorry for our rubber gloves.

The attic also needed a major cleaning. Decades ago my mother and I vacuumed much of the dirt and dust. Cracks in the clapboard siding had allowed dirt dobbers to invade and generously adorn the rafters. As I knocked their earthen clumps into five gallon buckets, Mama vacuumed.

I then stapled screen wire across the attic’s end walls to keep insects out. The house was built from green lumber cut from the farm in the 1930s. Those boards had dried and left substantial gaps. The openings weren’t noticeable from the ground, but an inside view showed streams of sunlight.

On my recent attic excursions, I found that the screen wire had been effective in keeping insects out, but dirt and dust had been steadily drifting in. I removed heavily-soiled insulation and vacuumed the boards multiple times. Another session is needed before new insulation is added.

Cleaning the attic comes with challenges, such as reaching all the way to the front and back walls. In the middle of the house I can stand up, so it’s relatively easy. To access other sections, however, I sit on a board and use a long extension on a shop vac. And I wear a hard hat. One minor nail encounter proved I’m not as hard-headed as some have suggested.

With fresh paint and most other interior work completed, our focus finally shifted to the exterior. My initial plan was to replace a few boards and seal cracks with strips of wood and fillers. But as I pondered over the project, I realized a piddler with sketchy credentials lacked the skills to do it correctly.

Mart Sikes, a renovation enthusiast, began working there near the end of 2023. Like many old houses, when one board was removed it revealed another that needed replacing. That brought about, however, an unexpected benefit of being able to insulate hollow walls.

We removed the lower boards on the front of the house, which faces south. After suctioning and blowing out almost 90 years of dirt, dust, and wasp nests, we cut one inch foam boards to fit between the studs. Adding two more layers provided a total of three inches.

Afternoon sun had been unkind to the fully-exposed west wall. That’s where we began working next. Those planks were in the worst condition, plus windows needed attention. Rain had been seeping in behind one window, discreetly damaging unseen wood. The renovation became a bigger project than expected, because I eventually decided to do it the right way instead of patching it.

Patches are sometimes okay, but are seldom the best way. That’s true of carpentry and countless undertakings. It’s even more true of life and faith. It’s tempting to choose the easiest fix, but our relationships with God and our fellow man deserve our best efforts.  

Years of neglect and the passage of time has taken a heavy toll on those walls; restoration, though, should prevent their further downfall. Each day I’m warmly reminded of the satisfaction that comes with doing something the right way instead of patching it. That’s why we’re putting new boards on an old house. 

Jane and I moved to Vienna in December of 1975 and soon joined First Baptist Church. The building’s third-floor hallway had an in-wall cabinet with a “LOST AND FOUND” sign. Only one item was displayed, a green Pyrex bowl. 

That bowl remained unclaimed for decades. Those stairs can be challenging, plus the owner probably transitioned to a higher plane. I’ve long been amused by the bowl’s lingering stay, and intrigued by other lost and found stories.

In the early 1950s, Papa Joiner’s vacant childhood home burned to the ground. A neighbor saw my elderly grandfather poking through the ashes with his walking stick and was concerned. Papa Joiner assured the man he was fine. He said he’d lost a dime there as a kid and was hoping to reclaim it. 

James Woodward found a couple of guns during the 1950s that someone apparently lost intentionally. Last summer I showed James a piece of wood that nature had carved into a pistol shape. My faux gun reminded him of a 38 revolver he rescued from a creek near Aunt Jeanie’s Kindergarten during his youthful ramblings.

His excitement was tempered when James’ father told him to go see Sheriff John Byrom Fokes. James hoped to get the pistol back, but that never happened. Another temporary treasure was a 16-gauge shotgun he found under a bridge. A spent 20-gauge shell, wrapped with string to hold it in, was in the chamber. Once again his father sent him to the sheriff.  

There are multiple ways of losing guns, but what seems most plausible is someone tossed them in the water for nefarious reasons. Perhaps there are unsolved cases connected to those weapons, but that’s just speculation.

Mrs. Lessie Holland gets credit for an old and unique lost but not-found story. She married Mr. John Holland after the accidental death of his first wife, Ophelia. Whether he gave her a diamond ring or she already owned it, my mother doesn’t know. When she noticed the ring had slipped off her finger one day, she frantically searched their cleanly-swept yards.

Her suspicions eventually turned to the free-range chickens on their farm. One by one she killed them all and searched their every craw. The ring wasn’t found, but meals were easy to plan.

Mr. G. L. Arflin’s jewelry story has a better ending. Money was tight when he and Mary Ransom married in 1956. He would sometimes joke that when they got rich he was going to buy himself a diamond ring. His wife began discreetly saving money she made from selling cakes, never charging more than $5. In the 1960s she surprised him with a 1.1 carat symbol of her selfless love.

In 2004 he lost the ring but had no idea where. They had been to Cordele that day and he had also worked in the yard. Thirteen years later, in June of 2017, Mr. G. L. was on his riding mower, planning to cut grass along Mocassin Creek, which runs through his property. He stopped near the bridge on Highway 230 and sat for a few minutes for no particular reason. Something shining on the grassy bank, about a foot from the water, caught his attention.

How his ring ended up in such a precarious position without being washed downstream remains a mystery. And for the sun’s reflection to be so perfectly timed, miracle is the word that comes to mind. That diamond ring now tenderly reminds him of the precious jewel he loved throughout 66 years of marriage.    

Lost and found stories have many dimensions, but John Newton deserves special mention. As a young captain of a slave ship, a raging storm got his attention while at sea. Newton underwent a spiritual awakening that changed his life and eternal outlook. 

He left the slave trade and wrote the beloved hymn “Amazing Grace,” whose familiar lines include these: “Amazing grace how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost but now I’m found, was blind but now I see.”

Whether it’s guns in a creek, diamond rings, a green bowl, or a missing dime, there’s satisfaction in finding something that’s been lost, or disappointment if we search in vain. Only one quest, however, has everlasting consequences. It doesn’t really matter about an unclaimed bowl, but there’s no such thing as an unclaimed soul. Lost or Found is a choice we face. It’s up to us which road we take.

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.