Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.       

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