Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.     

A basketball tournament in the 1960s is where I first saw Tim Dominey. I was in the bleachers rooting for Unadilla High School when Vienna’s phenomenal hoopster broke our hearts. Early in the game he took two steps over the centerline and swished the net. I thought he was lucky but learned he was good.      

David Speight, leader of a talented Unadilla Blue Devils squad, still remembers the game. “We’d take a step back to guard him and he’d shoot,” he recalled with a grin.

The fall of 1970 was the second time I saw Tim. Valdosta State College didn’t have a football team, so basketball fever reigned supreme. The old gym was packed with spirited fans every game. T.D. was a headliner there too, hitting three-point shots for two-point rewards and playing relentless defense.  

When we met I confessed my attitude had changed from jeering to cheering. After he’d sink those long tosses I’d tell anyone who would listen we were both from Dooly County.

We had a short visit in late July. He stopped by on his way to Valdosta for a roundball reunion. Tim’s brother, James, coached there for 29 years, further elevating a young but strong program. James stays in touch with his former charges and calls an occasional huddle. Great coaches never quit caring.

The University of Florida is where Tim’s collegiate career began but quickly got sidetracked. An elbow to the mouth rearranged his teeth. Then came two knee surgeries. “I spent more time in the hospital than the classroom,” he said jestfully. He doesn’t dwell on what might have been. 

ABAC was his next stop. It was a junior college then, a program where he’d have ample opportunities to regain his finesse. He left Tifton after one season for Valdosta. During three years there he set multiple records and helped his coaching brother solidify a winning tradition.

After V.S.C. came a brief stint with the Atlanta Hawks. From the time he was drafted until the day he reported, James would play Tim one-on-one in demanding early-morning workouts. He prepared diligently for Atlanta but so did many others. 

Fortunate is the word Tim used to describe his journey. He’s a man of deep faith so blessed works equally well. Rather than taking credit for his many accomplishments, he points to those who helped him excel.

That process began on a family farm when he was a kid. He scrimmaged on dirt against three older brothers, Melvin, Jr., Tommy, and James, all who would later play college hoops. Tim recounted the first time he bounced a basketball on a wooden floor, probably in the sixth grade. “It came back up!” he laughed. “I was used to slamming the ball and dodging mud puddles.”

Glenn Cassell, one of Georgia’s winningest high school coaches, was a superb mentor to Tim and countless others. “Coach let me play,” he said appreciatively. Coach Cassell told him in junior high to shoot more, apparently recognizing unusual potential. Later on Coach Dominey guided his talented sibling with a similar approach.

Tim cites his teammates as another reason for any personal success. “I could not have had a better group of teammates in high school or college,” he said. The other starters at Vienna High and Valdosta State, plus a strong bench, allowed him to perform at his best.

Mike Chason, longtime radio announcer for Valdosta State basketball, said the 1973 squad probably had the best starting five in the school’s history. Four are in Valdosta State’s Hall of Fame. Tim is hoping the fifth will be inducted.

“I was fortunate in so many ways,” he said again as he was leaving. “I was fortunate to have three brothers who taught me what they knew, teammates who were amazing, and coaches who let me play.”

There’s no way to cover all his accomplishments in a column, so I’ll close with some juvenile poetry he might enjoy: “At first he had seemed like a foe, but that was a long time ago. When I met him again, we soon became friends, so I don’t always know what I know.”

I thought he was lucky but learned he was good, real good. For those of us who cheered from the bleachers, or ran the floor with him, or coached him along the way, I hope Tim realizes we consider ourselves very fortunate. If you want to say blessed, that works equally well.              

Scout Weesner, a senior at  Abraham Baldwin Agricultural College, was mentioned in an earlier column titled “Kissing a Pig.” In 2009 I was one of five honorees who competed in a fundraiser sponsored by the Dooly County Livestock Association. Scout provided the pig. 

The cute little critter I had envisioned turned out to be a 600-pound barrow named Wilbur. Scout had raised him to show then sell, but he became a pet who lived quite well. Memories of kissing Wilbur still haunt me, but today’s musings are about a more serious undertaking by his tender-hearted owner.

I visited with Scout and her mother, Kathy, recently to learn about an organization called Carry The Load. Dr. Thomas Grant, a professor at ABAC, had encouraged Scout to volunteer. She’s now been involved with their month-long Memorial Day efforts for two years. The experience has given her a deeper appreciation for those who serve our country and a better perspective of how severe the costs can be.

Carry The Load was started by two Navy Seals in Dallas, Texas. Clint Bruce and Stephen Holly wanted to help restore the true meaning of Memorial Day. What began in 2011 as a 20-hour walk, evolved into year-round events to honor military heroes as well as first responders.

Bruce put weights in his backpack on that initial outing, one pound for each fallen hero he was particularly remembering. When he paused in Reverchon Park to speak to a World War II veteran, the old gentleman posed a thought-provoking question: “Son, who are you carrying?” That’s a common theme during the expanded walks of today.  

From that small beginning, Memorial Day observances have grown into annual treks through all fifty states. The continental U.S. is divided into five regions with routes that cover thousands of miles. Volunteers spend a month or more traversing 48 states and sleeping on a bus with triple-tiered bunks. They all converge in Dallas for Memorial Day. Alaska and Hawaii have separate rallies.

 Participants take turns walking and enjoy it when local supporters join them. Walks are typically from one to six miles, depending on circumstances. I was surprised to learn Scout was the youngest person on her bus in 2022 and one of only two females. Most of the walkers were retired veterans who understand grief far too well. They valued the ladies’ involvement and were quite protective of them.  

Hospitality is greatly appreciated along the route. Fire Stations are especially supportive, often sharing their bath facilities and providing a good meal. Some have sobering histories, like the Staten Island Fire Station which had multiple casualties on 9/11. 

On her first trip in 2022, Scout left on May 1st to join the East Coast leg which began at West Point, New York. A summer internship prevented her from making the entire 2023 trip, but she squeezed in two and a half weeks. She started with the West Coast group, then switched to the Midwest bus. 

Scout served as the photographer on the 2022 outing. She didn’t walk every mile but took pictures at each stop and a lot in between. Fellow travelers and others she met usually assumed there was a compelling personal reason for her being there, like the loss of a family member. She explained that wasn’t the case, which no doubt increased their admiration just as it did mine.

Countless families, soldiers, and first responders have been affected by heart-wrenching losses. Some casualties were related by blood, others by friendship and love. When a college student spends a month honoring fallen heroes she never knew, it reminds me that we each have ongoing opportunities. It may be a well-attended organized event, or it can be a small act of kindness extended for a thousand different reasons.   

Jesus mentioned the blessing of giving even a cup of water in his name. Scripture is clear that helping others is our responsibility. Sometimes I forget it’s also a privilege. It’s not hard to visualize Christ wearing a tee-shirt like the ones Scout has donned for each walk.

The silhouette of a soldier with a comrade draped across his shoulder needs no explanation. But printed on the shirt is a question each of us should consider. It’s the same query an old veteran asked a Navy SEAL loaded down with a heavy backpack. “Who are you carrying?”              

I’ve worked sporadically for almost two years improving my mother’s childhood home. Progress was slow but steady until a blue heeler named Harriet came along and distracted me. Working together in the woods became our routine last September. 

On June 22 heavy rain was forecast, so I went inside to refresh my memory on what was left undone. Two toilet paper holders called out from a mantle where they had been patiently waiting. Mounting them seemed like an easy job to kick off a restart. 

My first thought while unboxing one was that someone went overboard with instructions. It turned out that similar steps applied to other products such as towel bars. The only difference was the spacing of the mounts. Multiple templates with directions in four languages resulted in extensive paperwork. 

Using the short template seemed a waste of time, but I’ve ignored instructions before and come to regret it. So I cut the pattern out, leveled it as directed, then taped it to the wall.

The next step was to mark holes for the brackets. I lightly tapped a small nail to make indentations in the wood, took the taped paper off the wall, then secured each bracket with two screws. That’s when the trouble started.

It wasn’t a major obstacle, just the frustrating inconvenience of using the world’s smallest allen wrench to tighten set screws I couldn’t see. My body is not as flexible as it once was. And bifocals don’t work well when you’re upside down with your head wedged between a wall and a toilet bowl.

I had no idea I could turn my neck 180 degrees. That helped me complete the project but I had to drive home in reverse. My neck was sore for a week. It’s worth it, however, to have two toilet paper holders that look as if they were installed by an accomplished tradesman. They will likely be admired for decades to come. 

A closet in our home offers an example of what can happen when instructions are not followed. The original fluorescent light had lasted 21 years, so I figured the warranty was out. Jane bought a smaller, yet brighter, LED.

With only three color-coded wires, it glowed with do-it-yourself appeal. There wasn’t room for a ladder without moving clothes, so I grabbed a step stool. Thanks to my long arms I could reach the ceiling, but it was cumbersome looking up while taking the old light down and putting a new one in place.

That awkward position is why I didn’t use the template that was provided. With great confidence I eyeballed the alignment, put four screws in, then flipped the light switch on. The illumination is great, but it was disappointing when I realized how poorly centered the rectangular fixture is.

One end of the light is four inches closer to the wall than the other. My wife graciously said it’s okay, but several months later it still bothers me that a five-minute shortcut led to a subpar result. I’ve been down that road enough times to know better. 

A light fixture being off center isn’t critical, and those perfectly mounted toilet paper holders aren’t really deserving of major accolades. The contrasting results of those little undertakings, however, demonstrate the advantage of following good instructions. It’s even more important in life.

Fortunately we have The Good Book available which features a perfect example. It’s increasingly popular, however, to dismiss and even ridicule biblical values. They’ve lost favor in a secular society that’s rapidly traversing moral boundaries.

God’s word can be completely ignored, or it can be watered down so much it doesn’t affect decisions. Blending with what’s trending began eons ago. That’s why Noah built an ark on dry ground. People of that day didn’t see a need for spiritual guidance until the waters rose.      

An off-centered light doesn’t really matter, but an off-centered life is a different situation. God gave us a Light for aligning our lives. It’s our choice to walk toward it or away.                               

Using that template to mount a toilet paper holder seemed a waste of time, but I’ve ignored instructions before and come to regret it. Some mistakes have only nominal consequences of a temporary nature. It’s a lot more serious when regrets last forever. 

The stream on my grandfather’s farm is shallow and narrow where it begins, only inches deep and two feet wide. The spring which feeds it is small but reliable, even in the dry months of summer. A hundred feet in the woods, however, is a much different look.

Two tributaries, located closely together, join the flow. They run about half the year, mostly in winter and spring, then go dry for a while. Their contribution is nominal much of the time, but substantial after hard rains.

Not much has changed on the first part of the stream since my early childhood. Intermittent flooding from the branches, however, has eroded the earthen walls farther down and deepened the streambed. Some banks have a four-foot drop and are ten feet apart rather than two. 

Erosion has taken a gradual toll as seasonal water has whittled away soil and washed it toward the Ocmulgee River. I’m trying to stop that process, or at least slow it down. That’s why I’ve been hauling rocks.

My first efforts were focused on a small peninsula. It’s only 30 feet long and 20 feet across, but clearing vines and underbrush revealed undeniable charm. It’s a miniscule replica of Florida, complemented by one main attraction, a leaning tree. Our granddaughter, Megan, once climbed it to escape an alligator. The tree and the memory are special.

Eight boulders are in a cluster near the spring, each about the size of a rocking chair. They’re artistically positioned to overlook the branch. My brother, Jimmy, wondered aloud one day how such large rocks came to rest there. I thought God arranged them, but now I’m guessing Granddaddy lent a hand.

Stones from baseball size to five-gallon buckets are scattered throughout the woods. I’ve been tossing them in piles for a couple of years, saving them for later use. And I’ve come across a dozen or so rock piles that have been there for decades. Some were only partially hidden by nature. Others had multiple layers of rocks covered in topsoil and required some persuasion to leave.

I had been pulling up old fencing for several weeks before I realized the proximity of rock collections to the wire. They were all on the interior side of the fence nearest to the water, which led to another theory about my grandfather’s fences.

Woods are on both sides of the fencing, which I thought was put there to give livestock access to the stream. The piled rocks, however, cause me to believe that part of what I’ve always known as woodlands was once in pasture.

It would make sense that rocks were thrown over the fence to get them out of the way, or maybe piled there before the fence was put up. The boulders are too heavy for lifting, but a mule team could have pulled them down the slope.

Maude and Tom were a mule-horse pair that my mother remembers from early childhood. Maude, the horse, was gentle and Mama would take slow rides as her father or older brothers held the reins and led her. Tom was a good worker but not keen on entertaining.

How the pair fell into an open well in the field, I’m not sure. Apparently the wooden sides had collapsed or been taken down, perhaps to make it easier to fill an abandoned hole with rocks. Maude went in headfirst with Tom falling on top of her. Tom was okay but Maude had to be shot by my grandfather, a sad day on the farm.

Rocks have always intrigued me, partly because my mother has collected them over the years for her flower garden and patio. They don’t bloom but never need watering, plus have ancient stories to share if we listen closely.

The same stones that were unwelcome in the pasture were thankfully not discarded. Now they’re quite useful for lining the banks of the stream. I trust they’ll slow the erosion, and perhaps even help regain lost ground as a respite for passing sand.                      

During the past decades these rocks have changed very little. Yet they’ve transitioned from being unwanted to greatly valued. It was a matter of finding a purpose and being given an opportunity.

Granddaddy would be pleased those rocks are being put to use. I hope fifty years from now someone will find they were beneficial to the stream, and maybe even listen to their story. That’s why I’ve been hauling rocks.

Should I hang it on a wall or rest it on a mantle? That’s what I’ve been pondering lately. Either way would be okay.   

Alger Hill, my maternal grandfather, enjoyed dealing in livestock. He was still buying and selling a few cattle and hogs during my early childhood, but fencing put up decades earlier was no longer needed. It’s gradually assimilated into the landscape for over 70 years.   

Last spring I began pulling up fences in the woods. A few sections are supported by remnants of posts or secured by trees which have swallowed strands of wire. In most places the fence lies flat on the ground and is hidden under leaves.

I’ve stumbled over camouflaged metal a few times and found it with a chainsaw too. Nothing got broken on me or the saw, but I knew the fence needed to be taken up. It will only bring a pittance as scrap iron but hopefully will find reward through new purpose.

There’s probably a more efficient way to pull up fencing, but I’m not on the clock, just getting paid in satisfaction. It’s good exercise and Harriet the blue heeler enjoys having company.

My first efforts were minimally successful. Binding roots grown through flattened wire were not impressed by hand tools nor 70-year-old muscles. The roots stopped laughing when I revved up the engine of the little John Deere.

Using a fork on the front-end loader worked fairly well, except some roots were stronger than the hydraulics. And twice the tractor tilted to one side enough I hastily conceded the match. That’s when I switched methods, looping a chain around the fence and pulling.

That was effective for freeing root-bound wire, but wouldn’t break it loose from trees which had absorbed it. So I began cutting strands as close to the trunks as possible. When a plan isn’t working, it’s best to adopt a new strategy.

Most of the fallen trees and limbs which leveled the fence are long gone with no traces left behind. Others have been easy to move. A few, however, are heavy enough to require a push with the tractor or cuts with the chainsaw.

Several things came to mind during this recent undertaking, such as the cost of procrastination. Years ago, when the fence was no longer needed, removal would have been easily accomplished. Wire could have been tightly rolled and reused to keep cattle in somewhere else. Taking it up now is a cumbersome process and the fence is unfit for even tomato cages.

Mending fences is another point I’ve been pondering. Daddy preferred row cropping over  livestock, but had a small herd of cattle when I was a kid. The antiquated fence around our pasture was so fragile our cows were on the honor system.

I remember helping Miller Lawson as he mended broken barbwire one day. He used a hand puller and made sure it was taut before I hammered staples into the posts. We saw an earthworm crawling on top of the ground, which Miller said meant rain was coming. Instinct is beyond my understanding. I’m just thankful to know the one who created it.           

King Solomon mused, “There’s a time and season for everything.” I guess that applies to fences. There are times for building and mending, and times for taking them down. Whatever season comes, it’s best to address needs promptly. 

 On this recent undertaking, though, it didn’t really matter that I waited so long to start. Harriet is having a splendid time and the rescued metal is destined for new adventures, perhaps for a higher calling. Purification by fire releases untold potential.

An unexpected bonus of delay came through finding a remnant of a post with subtle charm. It was hand-cut, not store bought, with rusted strands of wire still attached. Time has carved away the softer wood and left a solid core, artistry that offers a lesson. Outer layers are just window dressing for what’s inside.   

 Procrastination has led to some extra work, but in this case I don’t really mind. Pulling up fences is not the mundane chore I expected. The slow-paced task has given me a lot to think about, reminding me of lessons from the past and providing some for the future. 

Perhaps that will explain, should someone later wonder, why an old fence post is on display. It will look quite at home, I think, on the wall above the mantle.        

In December of 1975 Jane and I moved to Vienna where I began working with my cousin at Rooney Bowen Chevrolet. Someone, often me, made frequent trips to Woodward Auto Parts to get items for repairing vehicles. That’s where I got to know James M. Woodward, III.

James, a lifelong Methodist, posed a question one day about my denomination. “Neil, do you know why Baptists don’t make love standing up?”

“No sir,” I answered, “I can’t say as I do.”

“Because someone might think they were dancing,” he said. 

 My apologies to anyone I’ve offended by putting that in print, but James and I have laughed for almost 50 years over that brief exchange. It’s funny how little moments can become lasting memories. 

Madison is his middle name, but the M could just as easily stand for Mischief. Marion Hall, a member of our men’s Sunday School Class at First Baptist Vienna, shared a story typical of James’ persona during one of our morning sessions.

As a group of silver-haired friends were having coffee at McDonald’s, someone made a comment about varying interpretations of scripture. Several fellows expressed their opinions as James patiently waited his turn. “Let me explain something about Methodists,” he said. “Most of us Methodists don’t know a lot of theology. What we know more about is sin.”

Multiple strokes have created some balance issues for James. When I saw him in late June his bathtub had given him two black eyes. He had gone down in the second round of a clean fight. He’s not as surefooted as when he was Chief of the Vienna Volunteer Fire Department, but his sense of humor remains untamed.

Charles Stephens is one of his classmates and lifelong friends. In 1992 the daring duo went on a six-week trip to Alaska to fish, see the sights, and visit another member of the Class of 1956 who lived there.

According to James, Dr. Sonny Sangster loaned them his boat which Charles adeptly put out of commission. The good doctor also took them on a ride in his personal plane. Before taking off he asked if everyone had their seat belts buckled. Charles affirmed he did, but later realized he had been gripping his camera strap.

The seat belt flapped outside the plane for two hours and knocked a hole in its belly. Sonny offered to pay for their next travel adventure if they would go to Hawaii.

Charles may remember those incidents quite differently, so I didn’t ask. James paused the humor for a moment of pensive reflection. He said those six weeks were one of the highlights of his life.   

Good-natured mischief is ingrained in James’s personality, but he’s serious about things that are important. He wrote a book about Woodward Farm a few years back. Within those pages he shared the blessings of family and his passion for good stewardship of land entrusted by God.

Conservation efforts began decades ago in the Woodward family. His father was the first in Dooly County to have parallel terraces established on cropland. That legacy is being continued with a current focus on forestry and wildlife habitat. Part of the farm is enrolled in a permanent easement to protect a rare wildflower called Canby’s Dropwort.

Arrowheads and other artifacts have been collected on the farm and elsewhere. Among his favorites are pieces of wood that nature has slowly carved or left to be reshaped. When I expressed an interest in woodworking he recommended a book, You Can Whittle And Carve. And he gave me a wooden knife and arrowhead he’d made, examples certainly but perhaps more intended for inspiration.

James showed me a knife handle he was shaping and explained the process he would use to secure its blade. I told him about a hatchet I’d found in the woods and related my unremarkable results in making a handle which I attached with small bolts.

“Bring it by, sometimes,” he said, “and let me see what I can do with it.” 

I plan to take it to him and hopefully get a short tutorial on carving. There’s nothing urgent about repairing the hatchet, but as I was leaving he asked me to follow up on another matter.

“Neil,” he said, “If you hear any reports of Baptists dancing, will you be sure and let me know?”

I promised I would, then left with a pleasant reminder of something easily forgotten. It’s funny how little moments can become lasting memories.