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It’s probably an operator error but somehow I posted a single letter “A” for the column. The full column “A State of Disrepair” is on the website but WordPress doesn’t have an option to resend it. Thanks for your patience. I need a technologist. 🙂

Julius Bembry worked with my father for over 50 years. He excelled at operating farm equipment, always listening and watching for anything that needed attention. He was also talented at keeping things running, both through regular maintenance and ongoing repairs.

Our shop was nothing spectacular, just a cement floor in a corner of a tin shelter. A John Deere 4020 tractor would fit inside, but that was approaching the limit. The main luxury was a round, propane heater. Standing close to it would thaw one side as the other remained frozen.    

The tools Julius used were not fancy either, but were adequate for most jobs. When he retired in 2004 they were in good shape because he kept them ready for the next use. Thanks to my negligence, however, many are now in a state of disrepair.

A drill press was a handy piece of equipment that held up well for several decades. The drill still spins but the platform is no longer adjustable. For some tasks that’s okay, but usually it’s too inconvenient to bother with. 

There’s no telling how many pieces of metal the bandsaw has cut through. The saw worked fine until the blade lost its teeth. It chewed through hard fare for ages without complaining, then gradually began taking longer to finish the entrees. Today it would hardly slice a green apple.

A shop press is out of service too. It looks fine but the hydraulic jack won’t hold oil. A new seal would probably stop the leak, or acquiring a new jack wouldn’t be expensive. The press, though, is seldom needed, so it’s easy to procrastinate on making repairs.

Smaller tools are in similar condition. An electric motor that turns an emery wheel and a steel brush needs a switch. Fortunately the switch stopped working while in the on position. Now I just plug and unplug the cord. Three dollars and ten minutes would resolve the problem, so I don’t have a good excuse.    

Those tools were once important on our family farm. Without them a lot of repairs could not have been made on site. Others would have required considerably more time and effort. Today I rarely need them, so uselessness is not a great concern.

Their condition, however, reminds me that disrepair is not limited to inanimate objects. It affects people too. Sometimes we bring it on ourselves by making poor choices. In other instances it’s unavoidable. Accidents, illnesses, and assorted calamities can take physical and emotional tolls that are challenging or impossible to overcome. And given enough time, even well-maintained parts wear out.  

The most serious aspect of mankind’s disrepair, however, is spiritual. It’s more critical than anything else because it has eternal consequences. Thankfully, the matter can be perfectly addressed if we’re willing. We have a Creator who’s ready to mend what’s broken within, but he leaves it up to us to seek his help. 

 It won’t make much difference if our shop tools are never put back in good working order. But it’s critical that we don’t ignore a state of spiritual disrepair. Excuses are plentiful, but we won’t get to present our case to a jury of peers. Delay is an especially subtle temptation that can lead to disaster. Tomorrow, however, is not guaranteed. Nor is the rest of today.    

Amazing grace offers us what’s better than deserved. No matter how far we’ve strayed, or how adamantly we’ve rejected the tenets of a saving faith, or how many terrible decisions our past includes, there’s a remedy that’s ours for the asking.

An old farm shop with tools that don’t work is just a temporary inconvenience. A soul left in disrepair, however, can become a permanent condition.

Julius kept the tools in the shop ready for the next job. Perhaps that approach is worth considering on a spiritual level. Two questions seem fitting to ponder and pray over. Am I ready for God to use me? Or am I in a state of disrepair?

There’s a cure that’s sure and available to all. It’s up to us to make the call.

Ellen, my wife’s sister, was left some personal effects by a cousin, Suzy Smith. Suzy’s father, Frank Smith, graduated from Thomasville High in 1930. His annual was given to THS, but some letters from a class reunion need a home.

Graduates from 1929, 30, and 31 celebrated jointly in June of 1990. Copied letters and a class roster are from the 1931 group. Of 72 classmates 30 were deceased. Five had unknown addresses. 

Their “Senior Class Poem” offers tender reflection. “Tis June once more, the high school door swings wide as we pass through. And down the halls, our last footfalls echo in sad adieu.” 

June Bailey McDaniel, the author, was looking forward to the reunion. “Some years ago I went with my husband to one of his in Bainbridge, Georgia, where I met several of his old girlfriends and heard how nice, smart and handsome he was and is.”

Ruth Booker moved to Ocilla in 1941 to work as a Public Health Nurse and met Claude Nelson Gray. “We had a wonderful life together for 43 years. He passed away in 1984. We had three children, twins, Jack and Jill, and another daughter Jean.”

Nora Pearson Cason had lost her spouse after 36 happy years. “As we approach the reunion of the 1931 class after 59 years, it brings to mind how precious the time given to us was and still is.” 

Amarinthia “Ama” Tanner married in 1935 and spent most of her life in Florida. After her husband retired in 1974 they moved to a Thomas County farm. He died in 1979. 

Kurt Clements confessed, “delusions of making a living playing baseball.” He held various jobs until 1938 when he settled at Forshalle Plantation. “Didn’t even know, till the end of the first month, how much I was going to be paid. Back then, if you asked what a job paid you didn’t get the job.” 

He stayed 40 years and raised four daughters. After his wife’s death he married two more times. “I must be the only man around who has had three good wives.”

Elizabeth Dekle Harris wrote hurriedly when sending her check for $60. Her husband’s health was, “not too good,” but children and grandchildren were, “beautiful, handsome, successful, and happy.”

Sara Goldstein Blumberg had a 50th wedding anniversary coming up. “About two years ago, I got run over by a car when out walking for my health! …I wasn’t supposed to live, but I fooled them.”

Helen Grovenstein Kitchens had three children but only one living. “My husband Bill died four years ago. We were married for 52 years. I now live alone and am trying to adjust. We’ve had some tough times, but had a lot of fun too. Life is mostly what you make of it, I’ve found.”          

Rosalie “Rodie” Mason White had been married and divorced twice. “You can call me a Gay divorcee,” she wrote, back when gay meant cheerful. Classmate Kurt Clements was husband number two. Apparently they parted on good terms.

Earl T. “Gussy” Mayo married a young lady from Boston, Georgia, then moved there and opened a hardware store. “I am 76 years old and holding…Good luck and may God bless each of you.”

Dr. Emory N. Milton served in the military during WWII. His first wife died in 1987. He married again in 1989. Ten grandchildren and one great-grandchild had been added to his tribe.

Elizabeth Sims Stenson recounted a moment from History Class. “The teacher (probably Miss Woodruff) asked Florence Dobbins what Napoleon’s Coup D’etat was, and Florence said, “Was it what he rode in?” 

Thomas Heyward Vann was a Captain in the Army Air Corps during WWII. He practiced law in Thomasville for 52 years before retiring. He and his wife, Mildred, had traveled to almost every state and several foreign countries.

Margery Wheeler Brown was married for 43 years to a Georgia Tech Professor before he died in 1981. “I stay busy with family, friends, and church activities.”

Estelle Johnson Joiner’s poetic expression began, “Memories, Memories, How I love to recall. Senior days of long ago, Best memories of all.”

Verse two of June Bailey’s poem seems a fitting close. “The plans we laid, the friendships made, Will linger for many a year. Though each of us may go a separate way, The memory will ever be dear.”

Not everything can be kept, but I hope those letters from a class reunion find a good home.

Donna Kinard, Sandra Wiley, and I met in PInehurst to visit their 101-year-old friend Lucille Welch. Her spryness greatly exceeded my expectations.

She reminded me we had met during her brief stay at High Cotton Homes, an assisted living facility. Miss Lucille was 97 then and recovering from two broken legs. She had tripped on her way to the kitchen. “I like sweets,” she confessed with a mischievous grin. 

Doctors in Macon said surgery wasn’t an option. She suggested Atlanta’s physicians might see it differently. After four days of debate they fixed the breaks.

Miss Lucille told the staff at High Cotton Homes her stay would be temporary. They were politely unconvinced until two months later. She was rolled out the door but transitioned to a walker at home.  

Our local paper has covered one noteworthy part of her storied past. She and her late husband, Frank Welch, were at Pearl Harbor when the Japanese attacked on December 7, 1941. She’s now among the oldest with first-hand accounts. 

The couple’s courtship began when she was 16. For their first date Frank took her to Vienna to see a Roy Rogers movie. He left Dooly County, however, when his father insisted the peas needed picking one Saturday afternoon. He had other plans.

Pick peas or leave were the choices, so he hitchhiked to Atlanta. He lived in a four-story boarding house his aunt owned, a place which catered to Georgia Tech boys. 

Frank was at Pearl Harbor as a federal employee, a maintenance supervisor assisting the Navy. Lucille was an operator for the telephone company. She mentioned proxy weddings, something new to me, and said a lot of couples got married over the phone. Operators were privy to interesting calls.   

February 5, 1941, is when the young couple married. She stayed in Pinehurst until April 1, then left on a Greyhound bus headed to San Francisco en route to join her husband. California was the first place she encountered people of Asian descent, quite an experience for a Georgia farm girl who had never been anywhere. 

Admiring the huge ship that would take her to Hawaii was also a memorable moment. She recounted holding her big hat while wondering how she’d get aboard. It was her first of many walks on a gangplank.

Sandy Mount, a small rural school, is where Lucille Arflin completed the first seven grades. She transferred to Pinehurst and was in my father’s class for two years. Her dad then sent her to Vienna High, to her dismay, for the 10th and final 11th year.  She graduated with the Class of 1940. 

For his second career, Frank owned an auto parts store in Jacksonville, Florida. He retired in 1962 and deeded the business to their two sons so he and his adventurous wife could travel. They moved to Pinehurst, but spent a lot of time seeing the world.

Switzerland was her favorite of the 52 countries they visited. Italy was also special. A trip to Australia and New Zealand would, unknown to them, be their last. Frank died from cancer in 1993, 30 years ago.

Lucille worked with the welfare department in Jacksonville for 20 years and earned a partial retirement. “It’s not much,” she said with a laugh, “but I know when they send the checks they wonder when I’m going to die!”

Her brother, G. L. Arflin, is ten years her junior. He calls to check on her and asks, “Are you still here?” Miss Lucille is living proof that laughter is good medicine.

“I’m not a fancy eater,” she said. She favors old-fashioned cooking – black eyed peas, cornbread, okra, and such. She loves biscuits and has sweet potatoes every two or three days. 

Friends, family, and wonderful neighbors often stop by or call. “How fortunate can you be?” she asked cheerfully. “I enjoy life. I’m not a person to be sad, or let things bother me that I can’t do anything about. I wouldn’t change my life for nothing.” To feel that way at any age is remarkable. At 101 it’s miraculous.

Determination, simple foods, lots of laughter, and a grateful attitude only partially describe Mrs. Lucille Welch, but that’s plenty for us young folks to work on. 

Her spryness greatly exceeded my expectations. And so did everything else.       

An older gentleman recently asked if I’d had any experience with signs, not those on roadsides but ones from above. His wife died last spring. Sometimes he wonders if she’s touching base.

In 2005 the couple planted a bed of miniature roses. For undetermined reasons the plants didn’t flourish. They grew less than 18 inches tall and never bloomed. Eventually all of them died except for one scraggly bush.

A single struggling plant didn’t seem to him worth keeping, but his wife assured him multiple times it would someday bloom. Now in his first summer without her, the loneliest summer in 60 plus years, it came to pass. That’s why he’s thinking about signs. 

After noticing the lone bud he listened to an old song, “Roses Will Bloom Again,” and he shed a few tears. One line mentions the Rose of Sharon. On the day of his email I was working on a column that referenced that same flower. I don’t know if that peculiar timing is a sign, but it got my attention.

We know from scripture God has used signs in notable ways. Moses saw a burning bush that wasn’t consumed. Pharaoh had more experience with signs than he could handle. 

Gideon’s story of leaving a fleece on the ground is well known. He first asked God to moisten it, then pled that it be kept dry. God honored both requests.      

If we skip over to the New Testament, Paul’s sudden blindness on the Damascus Road is a sign of divine intervention. Stephen’s prayer not to hold his accusers responsible for his stoning is a sign of a remarkably forgiving faith. 

But what about today? Does God still give signs and perhaps even allow our loved ones to play a role? Hebrews 12:1 notes we are surrounded by a “cloud of witnesses.” Some interpret that to mean the saints, such as those mentioned in Chapter 11, are aware and possibly involved in our lives. Others consider it a figurative encouragement to conduct ourselves as if witnesses are cheering us on. My position is that I don’t know. 

What I do know is God has a long history of using signs. One of my favorites is the rainbow Noah saw after the flood. Jane and I saw a double rainbow soon after my brother’s death last year. We were taking our first walk in a long time on the dirt road beside our home. Was the rare, double rainbow a sign? I can’t say, but it felt like one. It was comforting to be reminded Jimmy has a better view than I do.

Signs are not always manifested in physical ways. Perhaps they come through reading a familiar scripture that seems more vibrant than before. Or maybe it’s the quiet nudge of the Holy Spirit leading us to do something out of the ordinary. 

The South Central Baptists Association held a men’s fish fry at First Baptist Vienna in late August. I sat by a young man who didn’t look familiar. He said he was a traveling preacher walking from Nashville to Florida.

David had completed some Bible studies while in prison. He worked as a cook after getting out, then God told him to start walking. He said he goes where the Holy Spirit leads and hasn’t been hungry on his journey. There wasn’t time to ask about signs that brought him our way. I hope he’s traveling the straight and narrow road.   

I’m not sure how to respond to my reader’s query. The older I get the more I realize how limited my understanding is. There’s no doubt God still uses signs. They may, however, be shrouded with a degree of mystery. Otherwise we might test his patience by continually asking for more.

Whether the man’s wife was personally involved in that surprise flowering I can only speculate. It’s possible she was privileged to play an active part. It seems likely she was at least allowed to bear witness with warm pleasure. In a heaven overflowing with rewards that would fit nicely. 

It could, though, have been God working alone without anyone watching, offering the blessing of a tender reminder to a loving husband who needed some cheer. However it’s viewed, the source is the same. The best response I can offer is not an answer, just an observation. If the sign points upward, follow it. Roses will surely bloom again.  

“Oh no Brother Ben. Shot at a rooster and killed a hen.” Bettye Sangster Herrington remembers someone in her Dooly County family making a hefty sigh when something went awry then reciting that little rhyme. It caught my attention as my shots are often wayward.  

I found some sketchy history about that quip online. One young lady said her family closed their mealtime blessings with, “Amen, Brother Ben. Shoot the rooster. Kill the Hen.” Apparently they prayed before the chicken was slayed.

Variations of that poem have reportedly been used in humorous expressions of gratitude for table fare. Kids were likely enthusiastic practitioners. I suppose it was reserved for when chicken was served, which was quite frequent during my father’s childhood. 

Daddy didn’t care much for chicken as an adult. He ate so much growing up that he lost his taste for fowl meat. He would eat a single wing, but that was about it. Cured ham and side meat, on the other hand, were lifelong staples he never tired of.

Something Daddy told me years ago demonstrated his mother’s selfless love for her children. He was grown before realizing the neckbone wasn’t Mama Joiner’s favorite piece. It’s amazing how mothers personify sacrificial love without expecting applause. 

Pulley bones were my first choice during childhood. I favored the flavor of white meat and also loved the wish that came with each lucky break. For those born too late to participate here’s how it worked.

My brother and I would each hold one side of the y-shaped bone beneath the table, then pull until it broke. The person with the longest section was entitled to a wish, which is why it’s also called the wishbone. The wish was kept secret, an inviolable rule for potential success.  

I don’t remember any of the things I wished for. Home-churned ice cream and warm pound cake would be good guesses. I’m certain I never wished for a neckbone. If I ever do, the economy has tanked. But everyone has different tastes I’ve learned, sometimes for reasons not readily discerned.

Several decades ago Rev. Harris Whitman and his wife Betty owned and operated a Carterbugers franchise in downtown Vienna. They did a superb job of managing a popular eating establishment. 

One day a long, black limousine pulled up to the drive-in window. Brother Harris noted it was an amusing site for a fast-food restaurant in a small town. The chauffeur ordered for the snazzily dressed young woman in the back seat. She had a hankering for chicken livers. 

That’s enough about chickens for today. Suzanne Harper sent an email in March, when I asked readers to submit favorite sayings. Her grandmother, Mama Cassie Stephens Johnson, had plenty of them. Suzanne shared a few of her wry comments.

“It always rains after a good man dies to wash away his tracks.” Suzanne said it still causes her concern when there’s not a drop of rain after funerals. The weather may be bone dry after my service, but maybe it will at least be humid.

“Don’t wash on New Year’s Day or you’ll be washing for a corpse before the year ends.” If Jane is doing laundry next January 1st, I’ll be suspicious of her motives, especially if the clothes are all mine. 

“If troubles were strung up outside on the clothesline, you’d go gather in your own.” It’s tempting to worry about troubles, even those we know are unlikely. “Prepare for the worst but expect the best,” seems a reasonable approach. 

“Flowers blooming out of season, trouble’s the reason.” Suzanne heard Mama Cassie make that remark not long before she died. Her grandmother was peering out the kitchen window over the sink when Suzanne’s Aunt Leona told her the Rose of Sharon was blooming out of season. Perhaps the timing was coincidental, or maybe she sensed things were changing.    

I’ll close with a saying from Suzanne’s father. “Always tell the truth, so you don’t have to remember what you said.” The truth is I’m not sure how to conclude today’s rambling column. 

Perhaps my uncertainty is akin to the off-target shot described in Brother Ben’s poem. Sometimes I aim at a rooster and wind up hitting a hen, but Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, next week I’ll try it again. Amen.

On Thursday, July 13th, I finished clearing a blocked path in my favorite woods. Half of a massive, bifurcated oak had taken a dive. The next day Jane discovered a fallen pine in our own yard. Thankfully it’s on the back part of the property and can wait until cooler weather. Summer heat has elevated my procrastination levels.

The tall, straight tree had given no hint it might topple. Another nearby pine, which is much larger, has been precariously leaning since we moved here in 2001, yet refuses to yield to gravity. Apparently It has a more supportive foundation.

The downed pine was close to a soggy bottom which stayed wet longer than usual this summer. With soft ground all around, the root system finally let it down. The once perpendicular tree became too heavy for what was holding it up. Now it’s flat on its back.

The Leaning Fence of Pinehurst perhaps experienced a similar problem. I don’t know the folks who own it, so this is just speculation. I think it was earlier this year when several acres of pasture were fenced. The creosote posts were perfectly aligned and the wire stretched tightly between. I admired what appeared to be a quality installation.

One section, however, soon strayed a bit off kilter. Not long after the job was completed, a hundred feet or so developed a noticeable slant. I have no idea of the cause, but the cure probably involved substantial work.

Our former home on DeLiesseline Drive had a different fence issue. Legendary fencer Howard Harris put up a chain link enclosure about 35 years ago to keep our two cocker spaniels in the backyard. Howard’s work was exceptional, as always. He put enough concrete around the posts to withstand a category five hurricane. But we overloaded the fence with greenery.

Trumpet honeysuckle fully camouflaged the wire within a few years of being planted. My wife, by some accounts, reportedly suggested pruning the hearty vines, but that’s too far back for accurate recall. In addition to the weight of tangled overgrowth, wind could no longer easily pass through the open links. A storm came along and several posts bent at ground level, just above the concrete.

After correcting the slouch, I drove a long iron pipe through each hollow post down into the ground about two feet and left four feet above. Then I poured concrete via a funnel into the posts’ interior and filled  the remaining space. The original foundation was solid, but we had overloaded the posts.   

Perhaps the best known example of a building with a foundational issue is the Leaning Tower of Pisa. It’s reportedly tilted about four degrees, a process which began during construction in the 12th century. Soft ground couldn’t support the tall building’s weight on one side.

As work continued through the 14th century, the lean gradually worsened. Stabilization efforts began in 1993 and today it’s securely positioned. The tilt was not fully corrected, which was intentional. That would have disappointed tourists plus required a new set of brochures.  

Whether it’s a fallen pine, a leaning fence, or a renowned tower, a good foundation is essential. The same is true of faith. 

Jesus, in Matthew 7:24-27 talked about the wise man who built his house on the rock and the foolish man who didn’t. Absence of a sound spiritual foundation may go unnoticed for a long time, with little indication things are amiss. Eventually, however, storms take a toll. The damage may not be readily apparent in this life. Some revelations are delayed until the next.

The pine looked sturdy with a promising future, but its weighty top was too much for a soggy bottom. The Leaning Fence of Pinehurst has been repaired, or I’ve grown used to it.  And The Leaning Tower of Pisa is likely to perch at the same slope for ages to come. The Pisa Chamber of Commerce embraces its less than upright standing.    

Structural foundations are important, some more so than others. A spiritual foundation, however, must be rock solid or the master of deception will undermine it. Soft ground may seem okay for a time, but it didn’t work out for a fallen pine. 

July’s heat and humidity is rough on a chainsaw, but a massive oak tree left me little choice. Before its unexpected fall, the regal tree stood proud and tall. Half still does.

Decades ago the trunk forked into two branches about eight feet up. One branch remains staunchly erect and looks unaffected if approached from the east. Its western face however, is hideously scarred. Time will tell if the tree gets well.

According to an online source, a trunk with two branches of similar size is called a bifurcation. That’s probably accurate but that word makes me a tad nervous. I thought bifurcation was something Baptists avoided or at least pretended to.  

To my untrained eye the oak had looked fine. Now it’s obvious a weak spot was hiding in its core, an imperfection which eventually surfaced. There are several lessons the split might suggest.

In Matthew 12:25 Jesus said, “Every kingdom divided against itself is brought to desolation, and every city or house divided against itself will not stand.” I suppose a divided tree could be added to the list.

I read that two scenarios are typical when a tree has a low divide. Sometimes the grain orientation at the fork interlocks and provides good support for both branches. At other times a malformation results in a higher risk of failure.   

The fallen half is about more than my little chainsaw can handle, so I may leave the large base where it lies. With a little trimming it could become a multi-purpose bench, one end for pondering, the other for piddling, with the middle for praying. Maybe that’s a second lesson. Even in a fallen state redemption allows usefulness.

Hefty limbs were blocking the way to a picnic area our family enjoys. That’s why some of the sawing wasn’t delayed until cooler days. After a week of cutting and hauling the path was cleared. The next step was to remove several large limbs that were keeping the huge branch precariously supported.

Over four feet of clearance was between the bottom of the split trunk and the ground. If it had collapsed, anything beneath would have been crushed. I explained the danger to Harriet, the blue heeler, but sometimes she doesn’t pay attention.

Two nearly-equal branches of the ancient oak apparently weren’t fully bonded. The half left standing may survive or even thrive, but it’s not as impressive as before the divide. Perhaps that’s a lesson for other areas – couples, churches, countries, or whatever else we name. Divides are sometimes necessary, but severance is painful and scars long lasting.  

A final lesson from that tree is to be careful making judgements based on what we see. A forester could have examined it and probably recognized a flaw within. Malformations, however, are not always easily detected nor remedied. Or if considered from another angle, potential is not always apparent. 1 Samuel 16:7 says, “People look at the outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”

Samuel had been sent to anoint a king that God would reveal to him, a child of a man named Jesse who had eight male children. Seven of Jesse’s sons were introduced to Samuel. He was impressed with the eldest and probably the six that followed, but God had other plans. The eighth and youngest son, David, seemed an unlikely king, but he had the only vote that mattered.

It can go either way. We can embrace what looks ideal without understanding it’s seriously flawed. Or we can dismiss what’s lacking in appeal, unaware of its potential. An outside focus tends to neglect inside value. 

There may be other lessons from that tree, but that’s enough rambling for today. I’ll close with a word of caution on a couple of things.

First, I don’t know much about trees except what I read, so please don’t rely on Joiner’s Corner for forestry advice. And secondly, I’m pretty sure I’ve heard a sermon on bifurcation, so be careful about using that word in polite conversation. I could be confused, but I think we’re supposed to be against it, or at least pretend to be.        

Finding Granddaddy’s Pistol, obscured by old leaves, was quite a thrill. It’s not a real gun, but the gnarled piece of wood looks authentic enough to deserve a name. Meticulous detail reflects the work of a gifted artist.     

A June morning is when I spotted the L-shaped remnant. I’d been hoeing around a deteriorating wooden enclosure that once protected a small spring. Although the spring shifted to another location years ago, those weathered boards are still brimming with memories. That’s why I don’t disturb them.

The circular casing was built to prevent runoff of hard rains from muddying the clear water bubbling from the ground. Its open top is four feet across and sides are three-feet high. Water and sand were constantly churning inside those walls during my childhood. It was a perfect venue for watching waterbugs play their darting games. Or a kid dreaming of a circus career could daringly walk the two-inch rim. 

A cement block pump house, its roof long gone, is precariously perched a few feet away. The ground on one side has caved over the years, resulting in the small building being heavily tilted. Like the spring’s enclosure, its use has evolved from practical to sentimental. 

During my childhood a short galvanized pipe ran from the protective enclosure to an electric pump in the once-sturdy structure. Another two-hundred feet of pipe ran uphill to my grandparents’ home. Water from a deep well would have tasted the same I suppose, but mystical qualities seemed infused in the spring. Maybe the water was flavored as it squeezed through layers of limestone.   

Before my grandparents had access to electricity they used a ram pump. We still have the cast-iron housing but that’s all that remains. It was a gravity fed system powered by water pressure. The ram was located a considerable distance below the spring. Water which flowed downhill was channeled into the housing. 

Force from that water turned a mechanism which propelled a small but constant supply to the house. A trickling flow slowly collected in a sink and spilled over into a large trough outside.

That was before my time, so what I know came through others. My grandparents had the only ram in our area that I’m aware of. In the days of drawing buckets of water from open wells, they enjoyed an unusual convenience. 

Granddaddy’s Pistol was near the ring of planks, partially hidden in dirt. I saw enough to hope it might be a collectible, but tried to temper my expectations. Much to my pleasure, the wood was well-preserved. 

Rinsing it off revealed delicate grains, swirls of charm that would be hard for man to duplicate. It reminded me that God doesn’t actually need our help for anything, yet he lovingly invites us to participate.

Another find, which also seemed spectacular, surfaced the same day just a few feet away. The area had been thickly covered with vines and bushes until recently. Clearing the undergrowth was richly rewarded with two hidden treasures.

My guess is the second piece was once part of a tree root. Its twisted base was a dull black color and featured a skyward-looking swan perched atop. As I washed away the grime an enchanting, reddish hue was revealed. The wood, however, was soft in multiple places and came off in chunks. What’s left is interesting, but the bird lost its head.

At first glance the pistol and the swan appeared exceptional. Scrubbing with a brush, however, proved otherwise. The pistol is captivating and solid to the core. A headless bird, on the other hand, is lacking personality.

Contrasting qualities of those two discoveries reminded me that looks can be deceiving. What may seem lovely is often only temporary beauty, a shapely form that won’t withstand a cleansing flow. Or something considered as unbecoming may be sound as a rock beneath its muddy surface.

Finding Granddaddy’s Pistol in the woods was quite a thrill. It looks nice on the bookshelf and warmly emanates nostalgic appeal. It’s a valued addition to a small collection of naturals, intriguing items Jane and I enjoy searching for.

Each piece we’ve kept is quite unique but they share a common bond, a blessing far beyond their intrinsic appeal. The artist is a friend of mine.     

Last week’s column focused on Tim Dominey’s storied basketball accomplishments. During our conversation he emphasized the contributions of teammates and coaches. He said his game was much better because of them.     

Tim especially wanted to acknowledge players from his days at Vienna High School, along with their legendary coach, Glenn Cassell. I promised to spread some credit later. 

There’s not enough room to list everyone, so I’m naming the starters from his senior year plus two high-impact players from before. The other four on the floor in the 1967-1968 season were Tommy “Moose” Mason, Carl Forehand, Ronnie Walton, and Wayne Nelson. Senior Walt Stone and junior Mike Cason were standouts when Tim joined the starting five his sophomore year. 

Reverend Tommy Mason lives just up the road, so I stopped by one afternoon. Decades ago he transitioned from the insurance business to ministry. I had expressed doubts that such an abrupt change was possible, suggesting an intermediate career might be appropriate. He was similarly skeptical of my switch from car sales to banking.  

Tommy and Tim were classmates from third grade through graduation. They shared many experiences on and off the court. “Basketball,” said Tommy, “was fun all the time, even practices except perhaps the line drills.” Football, however, he considered enjoyable on Friday nights.

When I asked Tommy about playing alongside Tim, he noted how generous his friend was with the ball. Like the other players, Tim shared a team-centered focus on winning, a philosophy instilled by their coach. 

In their senior year Vienna High lost the state championship game to Wilcox County. The teams had met five times that season with Vienna winning three and Wilcox two. Their sixth matchup was decided in the final seconds. Tim had made a smiling confession earlier he missed a shot at the end that would have given Vienna the win.  

Coach Glenn Cassell’s Training Rules were mentioned by both Tim and Tommy. Moose has a mimeographed copy of the handwritten sheet from the 1965-1966 season. On the bottom is Tommy’s signature, leaving no room for misunderstanding. Five numbered points are followed by a short admonition.   

“Go to church on Sunday. No smoking, drinking, or cussing. Be in bed by 10 on week nights and 11 on weekends. No eating between meals. Goal – Win State Championship. Team – Love one another.”

The rules were nonnegotiable. Tommy relayed a story from Hardy Tippett, a 1957 graduate who played for Coach Cassell. Hardy was dating Alice Ambrose who lived on U.S.41 in Richwood. He would leave her house well before 11 p.m. to make sure he wasn’t seen after hours.

Requiring church attendance wouldn’t be allowed today. Dictating behavior could infringe on someone’s rights. Bedtime curfews and restrictive menus are probably unacceptable too. The goal of winning might be okay, if we take the other four away. “Love one another,” would likely be alright unless the source was referenced. It was a different era.

There’s no way to adequately thank or even recognize those who contributed to Tim Dominey’s basketball successes. Besides those mentioned there are scores of unnamed players, friends, and supporters deserving of accolades. So here’s a parting thought. Whatever role we are destined to play, success is best measured by those we help along the way.

As I was about to leave Tommy’s home, I mentioned Tim’s remark about the missed shot. Tommy remembers the scene well. “The ball hit the front of the rim and ricocheted like a bullet toward Al Crenshaw. He took it down court as Ronnie Walton pressed him tightly. Al made a looping throw, sort of a hook shot, which put Wilcox ahead. The clock showed two seconds. It wasn’t enough time.” 

Tommy then offered a telling perspective on that once-somber moment. “But,” he said with emphasis before pausing briefly, “do it again and I’d give Tim the ball. I’d give him the ball every time in that situation.”        

Tim said his game was much better because of his teammates and coaches. Each of them would no doubt say the same of him. The young hoopsters of Vienna High embraced Coach Cassell’s strict rules and lofty goal and it served them well. Sharing credit for what they achieved comes natural I believe, because they understood what’s most important. Love one another.