Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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. 

While sweeping the floor of our farm shop one October morning, I was fondly reminded of the late Julius Bembry. Enough dirt had accumulated under my watch to start a small garden. That never happened when Julius was around. Sweeping up was part of his weekly routine.

His parents moved to my grandfather Jim Joiner’s farm when Julius was six months old. As a young man he worked with my Uncle Ray for a while, then spent over 50 years helping Daddy. He was a fine Christian gentleman and a dear friend to multiple generations of our family.

There were times of the year that sweeping the shop was put on hold. Planting season  came with long hours, and the days of harvesting often extended past sundown. Usually, however, farm work ended at noon on Saturday. About 11:30 Julius would grab a broom and sweep the concrete floor.

Julius liked a clean and orderly workspace. He’d make sure the hand tools were in the right place, knowing he’d need them again Monday morning. If they were greasy he’d wash them in gasoline. Then he’d sweep the floor and lock the door.

Joiner’s Store also came to mind that morning. My sweeping experiences there were courtesy of one of Daddy’s brothers. Uncle Emmett hired me to help him while he was recovering from a car accident. I was 11 when I started and 12 when I quit. We got along fine, but he tended to have grouchy spells. I figured I could get by without the dollar a day for Saturday pay which he held until month’s end.

Store work was, however, good training. I’d stock the shelves, fill orders, work the mechanical cash register, pump gas, wash his car, and do the weekly sweeping. He kept red sawdust which I’d sprinkle on the wooden floor in the mornings. It came moistened with oil to help attract grime. After a few hours of foot traffic the sawdust was ready to be collected.

A third sweeping-related memory surfaced of my friend Larry Abbott. He died in 2018 at age 70 from ongoing health issues. Larry walked with a pronounced limp, and one of his arms was severely undeveloped and almost useless. Despite those limitations, he kept the floors at the hospital in Vienna spotless for 21 years.

Larry was constantly going up and down those tiled hallways. It was a common site to see him pushing a wide dust mop with an arm made strong from double duty. I never saw him when he wasn’t smiling and pleasantly taking pride in his work. 

His exemplary attitude is one reason I sometimes think about Larry. The other is his simple approach to faith, a perspective he memorably conveyed one day at the bank.

I was sitting at my desk when Larry came into my office. He invited me to speak at a Brotherhood meeting at Mt. Vernon Baptist Church. I told him I would then jestfully added, “Maybe I can think of something to talk about.” 

With a big grin, Larry said he was sure that I could. He headed toward the door, but paused and turned around. He stepped back to my desk and innocently shared some advice which I still cherish. He said, “You could talk about something out of the Bible.” 

That little moment has long been a source of inspiration. Religion can be complicated if we let it. So can church. Larry understood that faith at its best is simple.

Matthew 18:2-3 addresses that matter. “And Jesus called a little child unto him, and set him in the midst of them. And said, ‘Verily I say unto you, Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven.”  

Sweeping the shop floor that October morning gave me a lot to think about. Julius, Uncle Emmett, and Larry are all gone, but each of them impacted my life in positive ways. Pleasant memories with meaningful lessons are a good combination. Reflecting on them was an unexpected reward for my long-delayed efforts in rounding up the dirt.  

And as the stirred dust resettled to the floor, I decided it best to sweep a little bit more.

My little John Deere kept throwing hints I should get two detachable forks for its front-end loader. Pursuing that grand idea led us to Rusty’s Welding. Rusty called later to ask if the engine had been shutting off unexpectedly. It hadn’t, so the tractor deserves accolades for breaking down in a good spot.

Rusty discovered the cause was a clogged fuel filter. The resin-like coating he found prompted him to inquire if the tractor had been sitting idle for a while. That wasn’t the case, but I knew what had happened. The diesel in the tractor had come from our farm tank and was several years past its expiration date. The root of the problem was contamination.  

I had recently changed the filter on the tank’s electric pump. The flow was slow so I figured it needed replacing. When that didn’t resolve the matter, I removed a metal screen from inside the pump’s housing. Hundreds of tiny holes, designed to trap particles as fuel passed through, were almost impenetrable. But after cleaning the screen with a wire brush, the flow was not much better.

Unsure of what else to check, I removed the pump from the tank. The bottom of the four-foot intake pipe was covered in heavy black grime that had hardened. There was no way for adequate fuel to be drawn through the opening. The stopped-up pipe, however, was only a symptom of the real culprit, contamination. 

Besides clean fuel, engines need fresh air too. I learned that during my childhood on the farm. One day Julius Bembry, who worked with my father, was blowing compressed air through a breathing element he had taken off a tractor. We had been picking peanuts, a dusty job, so filters needed frequent cleanings.   

While blowing the dust away, Julius saw a teachable moment for the kid helping. He explained that air filters are like the hairs in our noses. They help prevent dust from going where it might cause more harm. The bandana he kept in his back pocket offered another layer of protection when needed. 

Clogged filters of any sort can prevent equipment from operating optimally. And if we’re using fuel that’s past its prime or working in dusty conditions, the filters need more frequent attention. Ignoring the basics can lead to severe problems. The same is true of life.

Television is a good example. During my childhood the Federal Communications Commission provided an effective filter for viewing options. The three major networks, CBS, NBC, and ABC, rarely offered anything that wasn’t suitable for the entire family. That was partly due to regulations, but also because traditional Judeo-Christian values were generally embraced by the media, advertisers, and viewers. 

The Andy Griffith Show was a staple in many households. Father Knows Best, My Three Sons, I Love Lucy, Leave it to Beaver, and My Favorite Martian were also popular. Gilligan’s Island,  Green Acres, and The Beverly Hillbillies are just a few more of the dozens which were regularly watched. Clean entertainment was the norm. Now it’s the exception.

 In a documentary I recently watched on Netflix, a man was asked to comment about a settled legal case involving Pepsi and a Harrier Jet. He laughed and said he would have to temper his language for television. The person interviewing him responded, “You can say anything you want.” Filters for vulgar language, licentious behavior, and graphic violence are practically gone.        

The entertainment industry has few boundaries, except those dictated by profit goals. Filters are now mostly self-imposed. That’s not easily done, but a positive example was offered some time ago in our men’s Sunday School class. A member shared his conviction that if a show was inappropriate for his teenage daughter, it wasn’t suitable for him either. 

Even the best filters, however, can fail. That’s why it’s important to carefully choose the fuel that nurtures our souls. I have no control over what others may consume, so my focus needs to be on what I’m taking in.

Filters can help to some extent, but a better option is to keep our spiritual tanks filled to the rim with the cleanest fuel possible. The root of the problem is contamination.  

Last week’s column was about a recent visit to an assisted living facility. I played piano as Ramona Giles led the residents in singing. She picked old hymns, beginning with “Victory in Jesus” followed by “Because He Lives.”

I was surprised to learn that neither song is in the 1940 Broadman Hymnal. “Victory in Jesus” was published in 1939, probably too late for the deadline. E. M. Barlett, who wrote the lyrics and music, died in 1941, perhaps unaware how well the song would be received.

“Because He Lives” is so familiar I was sure we sang it during childhood, but it’s younger than me. The 1971 effort of Bill and Gloria Gaither is one of many songs written and recorded by the talented couple.

The next eight selections came from the storied green Broadman, the one I’m most sentimentally attached to. I’m not opposed to new material, but the hymns I grew up with are infused with sweet memories.

Harmony Baptist Church didn’t have a choir, just a volunteer songleader. Several men filled that role capably over the years, but I won’t try to name them. I’d surely leave someone out.

Mr. Lee Willaims was Harmony’s most gifted bass singer. His smooth voice could be clearly heard, especially when phrases were echoed through short repetitions. Miss Leola Wilson, a sweet soul who never married, added flavor with superb alto. A small lady with a strong voice, she needed no help. That was fortunate as the rest of us mostly sang also. 

Congregational singing played a prominent role in worship services. Everyone assembled in the sanctuary before Sunday School for a hymn, announcements, and a prayer. Later during church we’d sing four or more songs before the preacher took his turn.

Several verses of the invitation would pause the music until that evening. Baptist Training Union, known as B.T.U., was followed by more singing, preaching, and another invitation. “Oh Why Not Tonight” gave us plenty to think about.  

There were probably a hundred hymns in our regular rotation. Ramona’s selections were in that group, songs like “The Unclouded Day.” Willie Nelson’s theology seems sketchy, but he sounds confident about reaching that “home far beyond the skies.” I hope he gets there and has a guitar instead of a harp.       

“Are You Washed in the Blood?” was a good question in 1878 and still is. Alan Jackson made a splendid recording of that and other old hymns a number of years back. He sang some of his mother’s favorites, a fine gesture by a son who valued where he came from.

“At the Cross” reminded me of standing next to my lifelong friend William Cross in the sanctuary. When “cross” was mentioned in the lyrics, I’d emphasize it with enough volume he would notice but the preacher wouldn’t.  

“Blessed Assurance” is one of more than 8000 songs written by Fanny J. Crosby. She was blind from infancy, yet considered her condition a blessing which kept her from being distracted. Her daunting challenges led to inspiration rather than exasperation.

“When the Morning Comes” has a recurring line that I need to reflect on more often. In a world of alarming disarray it’s a blessing to know, “We will understand it better by and by.” I sure don’t understand it now, but I believe I will someday.

“Sweet Hour of Prayer” offers a comforting reminder. “In seasons of distress and grief my soul has often found relief. And oft escaped the tempter’s snare by thy return, sweet hour of prayer.” Amen.

“When We All Get to Heaven” is easy to sing and fun too. It’s not in the current Baptist Hymnal. A theologian probably suggested “all” was misleading, but that’s just a guess. With an 1898 copyright it had a good run. I hope it won’t be forgotten.  

“Sweet By and By” ended the program, but only for a minute. Mary Joyce requested  “The Old Rugged Cross.” It was sung a lot at Harmony, enough so that I remembered it was number 71.

I love those old hymns, but I’m not opposed to new material. Ramona introduced me to “Our Best,” a beautiful melody with a poignant message. “Every work for Jesus will be blest, But He asks from everyone His best. Our talents may be few, These may be small, But unto Him is due Our best, our all.”

It’s number 343 in the green Broadman Hymnal.

Decades ago at the Sunbelt Expo someone was handing out coin-sized mementos that were similar to lunchroom tokens. It took a moment to digest the clever imprint – TUIT.    

Today I am sorely in need of a round TUIT. My to-do list always gravitates toward the hinterlands. It’s like the forgotten folder I found under my desk marked URGENT. 

Thankfully, most items aren’t actually urgent. A window sill needs work and a hole needs dirt. The bucket in the attic was put there before we got a new roof and is unnecessary, I hope. Tasks occasionally get completed. Others are resolved by time, not always optimally. Many, however, are perpetual.

My tendency to put things off came to mind following a September visit to an assisted living facility. I’ve known two of the ladies living there since early childhood, but rarely see them. My to-do list includes checking on friends, kin, classmates, and shut ins, but good intentions don’t really count. 

Mary Joyce Dunaway called and invited me to come play the piano for the residents. When I said okay, she didn’t delay. “How about two o’clock tomorrow?”

I contacted my longtime buddy, Don Giles. His wife Ramona has a lovely voice and agreed to lead the group in singing hymns. She picked out some beloved standards, mostly from the green Broadman Hymnal of 1940. The singing was followed by lighthearted reminiscing.

Based on assurances she would be leaving when I did, my mother went with me. Mama and Mary Joyce married first cousins and lived a few miles apart. Our families worshiped together at Harmony Baptist Church. Seasoned memories abound, such as their views on making tea.

Mama’s tea is mildly sweetened. Mary Joyce, on the other hand, is generous with sugar. When ladies of their generation would bring pitchers of tea to church dinners, Mary Joyce would say, “Pour Margaret’s in with the unsweet.” She maintains Mama’s tea is not fit to drink. Mama refers to Mary Joyce’s tea as glucose. 

After the hymns were sung, Mary Joyce asked me to tell the group about Larry, her oldest child, falling asleep during a sermon. I recounted how David, his younger brother, opened a hymnal to “Just As I Am” then handed it to Larry with an urgent whisper. “Get up! We’re singing the invitation.”   

The three of us were sitting near the back. Larry popped up from the pew, then realized he was the only one standing. He gave David a look that clearly said, “Wait until we get home.”

Sharing that story reminded me of a Sunday afternoon the three of us were playing cowboys with cap pistols. Little rolls of gunpowder made popping sounds when the triggers were pulled, adding authenticity to unscripted play.  

David was Billy the Kid and I was Jesse James. Larry was Sheriff Wyatt Earp. Jesse got shot in the heart and tumbled to the ground. The Kid, however, was a tough hombre. He rolled in the dirt while dodging bullets, then jumped up and scampered out of range. 

Wyatt Earp wasn’t happy. He wanted me to settle their dispute by verifying Billy had been riddled with bullets. I didn’t want to rile the high sheriff, but even outlaws have a code of conduct. Thankfully, it suddenly came to me that dead men can’t talk.

Miss Susie Giles and I also enjoyed revisiting some long-ago moments. When I was in the third grade, I gave her husband, Mr. Frank, some citrons under the pretense they were watermelons. I didn’t know their children at the time. It never crossed my mind that three boys would be sorely disappointed when the citrons were cut open.

Mr. Frank instigated our next laugh. He offered to show me a mongoose, provided I could keep it a secret. He said mongooses are so vicious they are illegal in America. That’s why he kept the mysterious critter in a small cage out of sight. When he slyly released a spring-loaded door, a furry tail slapped me in the face. The mongoose prank was eventually retired after a man’s heartbeat jumped out of rhythm. 

Visiting with those ladies reminded me it’s a blessing to have friends who share common memories. Hopefully I’ll do better about keeping in touch with such folks, plus taking care of other neglected items on my to-do list. If, however, that doesn’t work out, there’s one thing for certain. I’ll just do it when I get a round TUIT.