Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.

In the first column of this series I invited readers to share some of their favorite sayings. Here’s a sampling of those received. Help yourself if you find anything useful.  

“Proper prior planning prevents pitifully poor performance.” That’s a slightly modified version of a submission from retired Navy officer John W. Hadbavny. I substituted “pitifully” for a four-letter word that rhymes with hiss. Otherwise, my 96 year-old mother might quit making biscuits. 

Lt. Comdr. Hadbavny thinks he originated “Seven P-Words to Live By,” but isn’t sure. With 21 plus years of serving our country, he’s no doubt well-versed in planning. An Ohioan by birth, he’s a Georgian by choice. Such solid thinking gives evidence he’s capable of coining useful phrases, so I’m awarding him full credit.

David Fowlkes emailed some of his maternal grandmother’s sayings, plus enlightened me on the meanings. “You can’t do everything and go to mill.” Mrs. Bertha Keesee Owen’s point was we have to let some things go, even leaving good things undone at times.

“There’s many a slip between cup and lip.” The implication is that intentions don’t always result in action. A similar vein of thought was posted on my blog in a comment by David Hardegree. “The kindness planned for tomorrow doesn’t count today.” As one whose intentions are often sidetracked by procrastination, I should tape those two sayings to my mirror.

“A whistling woman and a crowing hen – both shall come to no good end.” Grandma Owen didn’t think it was very ladylike to whistle. My mother, who whistles while she works, used to laughingly recite that same quote.

Mama’s whistling is not a full-fledged version, so may be exempt. Her faint sound is heard most often when she’s really tired. At the other end of the spectrum is the upbeat whistling style featured on The Andy Griffith Show. That’s a good tune which warmly reminds me of a great series. If you haven’t whistled in a while, try a verse or two and see how it feels.

Unadilla native Jim Hamrick shared an old saying that was new to me. “If the outhouse is a two-seater, you gotta learn to be friendly.” Jim didn’t know where it originated, but said it holds water. He was awarded extra points for a sly pun.

The practicality of a two-seat outhouse is debatable, but I guess privacy at times had to be sacrificed for urgency. And some folks probably built two-seaters to impress the neighbors. 

During my early childhood Harmony Baptist Church had a multi-seat, cement-block outhouse, one side for men and the other for women. With that upscale facility plus a concrete baptismal pool, it was obvious we were an affluent congregation. Sermons on humility helped temper our pride.

Another common feature of churches during that era was the cement picnic tables. Harmony’s were shared, perhaps jointly owned, with Smyrna United Methodist Church. The long slab, probably 50 feet or more, was shaded by pines bordering the unpaved parking area. Sturdiness was essential for supporting tons of country fare.

Reverend Wayne Searfoss pastored Harmony for a while during the 1950s. I remember him mostly because of newsletters he later sent from Mexico and occasional return visits. Decades of mission work kept him south of the border. A story from his Harmony days played out near those picnic tables. 

Ice cream was churned by hand back then. Electric churns had not been invented or perhaps were kept secret from rural Georgia. Brother Searfoss decided to automate the process at a church dinner. He jacked up his car and ran a rubber belt from his tire to the churn, put the vehicle in gear and let it turn.

He probably concocted that Rube Goldberg setup for entertainment purposes. One version of that story ends with the jack collapsing and the car ramming the outhouse. A deacon’s wife, exposed to a shocked congregation, reportedly asked without flinching, “Is the ice cream ready?” 

I’m out of space, which is probably a blessing as I have no idea how to wrap up these rambling musings. I guess that proves the wisdom of an old sailor I hope to meet one day – “Proper prior planning prevents pitifully poor performance.”

My apologies, sir, for the slight modification. I was writing under the influence of biscuits.                    

Part 3 in the “Sayings” series was on hold until I read a Walking in Grace devotional on May 7th. Rick Hamlin included a quip that was begging to be shared. As he and his siblings were growing up their mother would sometimes remark, “It’s a good thing none of you are too good-looking because that way you develop your personality.”

Whether Mrs. Hamlin originated that jestful line or borrowed it, I don’t know. Either way, it prompted a review of my scribbled notes of sayings.   

“Keep on keeping on” was a regular comment of Mr. Hardin Hodge, a Henderson resident who frequented Unadilla. Our family listened to his Sunday morning program on WCEH Radio in Hawkinsville. That four-word jewel was his parting phrase. 

Charlie Hill was the station’s popular anchor who was heard throughout Middle Georgia. Other announcers were also high-caliber professionals. Mr. Hardin, on the other hand, had no particular qualifications for radio that I’m aware of.

Somehow, though, he became host of a gospel music show, probably by convincing sponsors it was an essential ministry. Selling was as easy for Mr. Hardin as putting on shoes, a product he marketed from a B. A. Mason catalog. A late friend of his said Hardin could sell anything if he could stay sober.  

Whatever he lacked in media training was offset by his resonant voice and abundant confidence. Confidence, infused with charm and humor, is what allowed him to spend a month in the luxury suite of a New Orleans hotel on credit.

The version I heard during childhood is that he presented himself so well they were delighted to have him as a guest. When management became concerned about the mounting bill, he cheerfully wrote them a check and paid two-weeks in advance. It took 14 days for the check to be returned, further extending his classy accommodations and fine cuisine.

 I wish I had asked Mr. Hardin about that adventure. He would have shared the tale with flourish, readily embracing entertainment over factual inconvenience.

After the hotel discovered he had no means to pay, Sheriff Willie King of Dooly County drove to New Orleans to bring him home. Mr. Warren Hodge, an affluent businessman of impeccable character, probably arranged to get his younger brother home, but that’s just speculation.

 On the ride back to Georgia, Sheriff King realized he didn’t have enough money for gas. Mr. Hardin assured him there was no need to worry.  He said, “Willie, if you’ll stop at a bank in the next town I’ll cash us a check.”

Unadilla’s F.F.A. String Band went to Dublin in 1968 to put on a country-music show at the Veterans Administration Hospital. I rode in the car with Mr. Charles Hambrick, who had been involved in planning the outing. 

We took our band equipment to a big open room where a dozen men were setting up chairs. Much to my surprise Mr. Hardin was in charge and was testing a microphone. He paused his supervision long enough to offer us a warm welcome.

At first I thought he might be working with the V.A., but soon learned he was a patient. He was dealing with alcohol issues, something which plagued him much of his life. As jovial as ever, he could not have been a more gracious host. My guess is Mr. Hardin put the show together and commandeered Charles Hambrick to handle transportation.

Several other sayings are in my notes, so maybe I’ll get around to another sequel. My plans were to cover a dozen or so today, but memories of Hardin Hodge got me sidetracked.

In my youthful eyes he was a lovable scoundrel whose silver tongue matched his shining hair. He was by no means considered a pillar of the community, yet folks seemed to enjoy his company, accept his shortcomings, and value his friendship. Or maybe that’s just what a young kid wanted to believe and still does.

Whatever the case, there’s no denying he gave good advice on Sunday mornings. When challenges have surfaced over the years, whether big or small, I’ve often recalled his winsome smile and revisited that notable line. 

And as my too-honest mirror increasingly reflects opportunities for developing personality, I’m glad I can still hear Mr. Hardin’s mellow voice as he signed off the air. “Keep on keeping on.”                 

Sage Hardin Hodge – September 23, 1916 – September 12, 1982 

Pete and Beverly Dail have a charming bed and breakfast, The Jewell of Vienna. As owners of a historical home they’ve collected some interesting memorabilia, including a tattered book titled Greater Vienna. 

Their fragile keepsake was loaned to me by Pete without hesitation, but Beverly warned if anything happened to it she would break my fingers. Hopefully she knows the cover and some pages were missing before I borrowed it. 

Governor J. M. Terrell is pictured on page three along with Dr. J. M. Whitehead, Mayor of Vienna. Joseph M. Terrell was the 57th governor of Georgia, serving from 1902 to 1907.

Articles in The Vienna News from 1903 credit a Baptist minister, Rev. J. D. Norris, as the author and mentioned the city’s support. Three thousand copies were published and offered for free, except for two-cents postage if mailed. Scattered advertisements apparently funded the flattering commentary. Here are some excerpts and observations about the town of 2000 people. 

“The New South. In 1866 the South entered a new era…No one will deny that the South is today established upon a surer foundation, and destined to attain greater success and glory than the old South ever dreamed of.”

Page eight gives a history of Dooly County, noting it was organized in 1821 and that slices of Dooly were later added to Macon, Houston, Wilcox and Berrien counties. Berrien is in another part of the state, so this may be incorrect. The reference could be connected to Vienna as it was once called Berrien, then Centerville briefly, and finally Vienna in 1841. 

Crisp County was not carved from Dooly until 1905, two years after the book’s publication. Greater Vienna listed 26 towns and post offices from an area that is now two counties. Some places are still well known, like Cordele and Unadilla, while others are mostly forgotten, like Emerich and Eureka.

“Vienna’s Brick Houses. The courthouse, jail and City Hall are brick structures. There are 38 brick structures. The Heard, Stovall, Hargrove and Walton buildings are the sky-scrapers of the city. There are numerous offices in the second-story buildings.”

Officials from the early 1800s through 1903 were listed beginning on page 12. Included are state senators and representatives, ordinaries, clerks, sheriffs, tax collectors, tax receivers, treasurers, surveyors, and coroners.

Lewis Joiner was the first sheriff. I don’t know if we’re related or not. He only served for four years and the next 18 sheriffs had even shorter two-year terms. There has to be a story behind such brief times in office.

A picture of the School House shows a single-story frame building with a steeple. It’s nice but not elaborate. The Dooly County Jail, however, was a multi-level brick structure with two complete stories and a partial third. Impressive architecture and a rail fence offer a stateliness which seems odd for its purpose. Aesthetics give the appearance that funding for incarceration was favored over education.

“In this day of progress, the telephone is a valuable aid to business and the Ledbetter Telephone Company is pushing to the front in this section, and bringing Vienna into touch with the outside world.” All 68 customers were named.

“The people of Vienna are refined, cultured and very sociable, law-abiding and patriotic. There is not a city in Georgia that has a finer class of citizens than Vienna has.”

“Dooly County Poor Farm. Is located in the Southern portion of the city. The farm consists of about 50 acres of good land located between the two railroads. The people of Vienna are noted for their great generosity to the poor.”

“Vienna a Dry Town. Vienna has been a dry town for over twenty years, and is going to remain so.”

“No Immoral Dives in Vienna. Such places are unknown in Vienna. Our city is composed of sober, moral and law-abiding citizens. “ Local preachers, I assume, had to go out of town to get material for fiery sermons. Most Sundays they would have thanked everyone for being so good.   

Greater Vienna is intriguing but I’m out of space. Thankfully I now have a theory on the brief tenures of early sheriffs. With such exemplary residents, lawmen probably got bored and quit.

To ensure the town’s peaceful tradition continues, that borrowed book will soon be returned to its owners. I think Beverly was kidding, but my fingers aren’t willing to take a chance.