Welcome to Joiner's Corner

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.

May 29th marked the first time I ever attended a Memorial Day event, so I have no room to criticize how others observe the occasion. There’s nothing wrong with enjoying that holiday. We seem, however, to increasingly ignore its original intent of honoring those who gave their lives for our country. 

Recent columns about Vietnam prompted Bo Dolph to contact me. Bo was a few grades ahead of me at Unadilla High School, but with 20 to 25 students per class we knew everyone. He extended an invitation to a Memorial Day service at Liberty Baptist Church.

Private Don C. Benfield grew up in Macon. In 1967 he was buried an hour south of there in his grandparents’ plot in Dooly County. His mother, Elva Peavy Benfield, was later interred just to his right. His twin sister, Dianne Benfield Newberry, was placed on his left. 

David Peavy, another Unadilla High graduate, was walking through Liberty’s cemetery one day and noticed a headstone with his family’s surname. After seeing Don Benfield’s grave, he and Bo wanted to do something to remember a fellow Vietnam veteran they never met and felt had been overlooked. Bo asked Mike Bowden and the Unadilla Lions Club to help make it happen.

There were no programs handed out, just a picture of Private Benfield. “He was a good looking young man,” someone accurately commented. The following information is from various websites and is very limited. Personal accounts are hard to find after 56 years.     

“Don Curtis Benfield, Private, F Company, 2ND Battalion, 4TH Marines, 3RD Marine Division. United States Marine Corps. February 18, 1945 to April 08, 1967. Eight men from Fox Company, 2/4 Marines, were killed in action on 08 April 1967.” The list of names was followed by an excerpt from a Navy Cross awarded posthumously to one of them.

“Private First Class James A Popp’s squad was conducting a squad-size patrol against the Viet Cong forces in Quang Nam Province. While moving along a trail in search of the enemy, the squad was suddenly taken under a murderous volume of small-arms, hand grenade and 40 millimeter grenade fire. The heavy volume of fire rained in from three sides,…”

Don graduated from Lanier High School for Boys in 1962 and later attended Dudley M. Hughes Vocational School in Macon. His sister, Dianne, died July 14, 2003, at age 58. No children or siblings were listed in her obituary, just a mention that her twin brother preceded her in death. I don’t know much about him, except he died at 22 serving his country.

Mike Bowden welcomed the small crowd, which included a number of veterans. A nice breeze and shade from the church building provided a welcoming venue. Gary Fowler opened with prayer. Rebecca Carver sang the national anthem as the color guard from the Marine base in Albany stood watch.

Dan Bray played “The Marine Hymn” on his bagpipes early in the service. Near the end he reminded us of God’s “Amazing Grace.” The tranquil tones added a special reverence as a fallen soldier was remembered in a country cemetery.

Rodney Brannen, keynote speaker, talked about the countless stories of sacrifice made in multiple wars, noting Don Benfiled was among them. “His sacrifice is just one of many examples of why each of us should always remember what the cost of freedom truly is and how many of our nation’s sons and daughters have paid that price.”

It’s unclear what people who have died are allowed to see. Hebrews 12:1 mentions “a great cloud of witnesses,” so maybe some things are made known. I hope Private Benfield and his family watched from above and felt especially blessed, but that’s just wishful speculation. There is, however, another compelling reason to have such observances. 

As I shook hands with the veterans who were there, some of them friends since school days, I realized that morning’s service was also a way of honoring the ones who are with us. By remembering those who gave all for our country, we show respect to others who were willing to do the same.  

I can’t say what I’ll be doing next year, but because of an almost forgotten soldier I have a different perspective of Memorial Day. So to Bo, David, Jerry, Don, Harry, Perry, Larry, Frank, and any veterans I’ve overlooked from Private Benfield’s service, thanks for going when your country called. And thanks for coming home.

Mike Chason gets credit for consecutive column topics. Inspiration for today’s musings came as he was trying to tear apart a cardboard box for the trash. Even the athletic hands of an accomplished pickleball player couldn’t rip the industrial-strength tape.

Hedge clippers were nearby but didn’t help. Nor did the smaller hand snips he tried next. Scissors, though, easily sliced the tape, causing him to ponder the importance of having the right tools. 

That cutting-edge experience reminded me of my wife’s late father. Jane’s parents had a wholesale candy and tobacco company in Thomasville. Her mother handled the office work as her dad filled orders and restocked shelves. 

Mr. Horne kept a three-inch, metal box cutter in his pants pocket. Its single razor blade was easy to extend and retract. We have one in our kitchen drawer, the Horne Candy Company imprint long gone from its gold finish. It’s quite useful, especially for unpacking memories.  

Having the right tools is important for all sorts of undertakings. Growing up on the farm our cabless tractors each had a small toolbox mounted on the side. Necessities included a hammer, pliers, screwdriver, and adjustable wrench. Haywire was also helpful. For most situations that would get you by, at least temporarily.

Repairs were more easily accomplished with ratchet sets and appropriate wrenches. In our tiny farm shop, Julius Bembry could fix just about anything with a torch and welder. I don’t have those talents, which leads to a related point. The best tools are only as effective as a person’s ability to use them.  

Carpentry is another area that came to mind while writing this. My earliest recollections of a carpenter are of I. B. Barnes, a friend of our family and many others. He was a senior citizen during my childhood but still busy. He worked alone, so we’d lend a hand when he was doing something for us and needed unskilled labor.

Mr. B. had an electric skill saw and drill, but used a hammer for nailing. I’m not sure if nail guns had been invented. Like all carpenters of that era, he kept a pencil perched over one ear and used a wooden ruler with folding sections.

He was a pleasant man with a perpetual smile, soft spoken and easy to like. An early memory that has stayed with me is of him putting away his extension cord. Rather than wrapping it around his hand and elbow, as I was prone to do, he’d patiently make small interlocking loops.

When he needed the cord again, he’d slowly pull on one end and the loops would readily fall out. It was a simple process, but left an impression on the young boy watching. I realized he was making sure his equipment would be in order when needed.

Dealing with steroid-laced tape prompted Mike to consider a much broader lesson too, the importance of having the right tools for life. There are multiple angles worth exploring, but I’ll just touch on one with eternal implications – faith.

In Ephesians 6:11-16 Paul said, “Put on the whole armor of God.” Countless theologians have elaborated on the areas he mentioned, so I’ll just add one observation. It’s tempting to ignore the word “whole” and choose what suits us. If we’re missing any pieces of armor, however, our set is incomplete.

Love is perhaps the most essential element of faith. Jesus said the only thing needed to keep the entire law was to love God and love others. To reach our Christian potential, our toolbox has to be overflowing with love. It’s not optional.

King David in Psalms 51:10 mentions another vital aspect of faith. “Create in me a clean heart, O God; and renew a right spirit within me.” I didn’t know until my father’s funeral in 2007 that he regularly incorporated that scripture into his prayers. As I was writing this column, that verse reminded me that vibrant faith is incompatible with an unclean heart. It’s like having a chink in our armor.        

I don’t have any new revelations, nothing that’s not been said by others. But here’s what I am confident is true. If we want to have the right tools for life, the best place to begin is by having the right tools for faith. And I know without asking, there’s a pickleball player in Tifton who feels the same way. 

On the Monday after Easter, Mike Chason received a call  from a Tifton number. He answered, “Hello,” and the man responded likewise but added nothing more. Mike said, “Hello,” again. 

“Do I have the right number?” the fellow asked. Mike said, “I don’t know if you do or not.” “I’m sorry,” the caller replied, “I must have the wrong number.” That prompted my friend to suggest a column: “Do I have the right number?”

Mike’s brief exchange reminded me of a call made by my Uncle Emmett from Joiner’s Store. My uncle talked slowly, plus would pause to take the cigar out of his mouth. Sometimes he’d momentarily stare at his Tampa Nugget, perhaps allowing time to further consider his words.

Uncle Emmett dialed Mr. Tom Sangster’s house one day, a neighbor who lived within sight of the store. Mr. Tom’s teenage son, Joe, answered the phone. Joe said, “Hello,” three times without getting a response. “Alright,” Joe warned, “I’m going to hello one more time!”

That was in the early 1960s, the era of party lines in our rural community. Our house was connected with nine of our neighbors. The only way to know if the party line was in use was to pick up and listen. It was easy to hear when a receiver was lifted, but there was no way of knowing who it was.

“Someone is listening in,” my mother would say if the unidentified person tarried more than she deemed appropriate. “Maybe they’ll hang up. If not, I’ll call you back.” It was the standard protocol for unwanted eavesdropping.

Conversations were sometimes interrupted for acceptable purposes. Mama could quickly identify who was talking so occasionally would join in, perhaps to decide who was taking what to the covered dish dinner on Sunday. It was an early form of social media.

At other times Mama might tell the callers she was looking for my father and ask if they’d seen him. Sometimes she’d inquire if they would let her make an urgent call, like ordering fuel for an empty diesel tank.

One memorable phone incident involved Daddy’s unorthodox manner of resolving a problem. A young girl kept calling our house asking, “Is Mama Hester there?” Each time my mother would politely explain she had the wrong number. This went on for several weeks.

Daddy answered the phone one night during supper, correctly assuming it was the same caller. “Is Mama Hester there?” she asked. Daddy summoned his deepest voice and replied sternly with considerable volume, “This is Mama Hester!” That was the last time we heard from her. I hope she survived the scare.

A totally unexpected call came to me in March from my late brother. The display showed “Jimmy Joiner,” so I didn’t answer. Then I got a text asking, “Who is this?” I assumed it was a scam, but Seth, our favorite son, suggested Jimmy’s number may have been reassigned.

It turned out I had pocket dialed Jimmy’s number without knowing it, prompting a return call and then a text. I explained what happened to a man who lives in Hawkinsville. He was very polite and even told me he was sorry about my brother. 

I drifted off topic with these ramblings, but will close with something that seems more on track. Fifty or so years ago, while working with my cousin at Bowen-Everett Funeral Home, I saw an especially unique floral arrangement. Among the hundreds of flowers seen during my  five-year period of employment, it’s the only one I could still identify in a lineup.

A dark red rotary-dial phone was attached to a circular wreath of flowers. Across the open center was a banner emblazoned with gold letters that read, “JESUS CALLS.” Although the occasion was somber, I’ll admit to stifling a laugh. All during the service I wished I could make that phone ring.    

In John 10:27 Jesus said, “My sheep hear my voice, and I know them.” In Matthew 7:24 he offers a contrasting scenario: “I never knew you; depart from me.” We each should consider without delay, what would Jesus say if he called today? 

Would he speak my name joyfully and welcome me into his open arms? Or would he ask a sobering question that has already been answered. “Do I have the right number?”  

I’m an unlikely source for book recommendations. My list of perused titles is pitifully short. At Christmas, however, Jane gave me one I had mentioned earlier and forgotten about. It’s an old story which I should have read years ago.

The Hiding Place was originally published in 1971. Corrie ten Boom, with assistance from John and Elizabeth Sherrill, gave a personal account of Nazi Germany’s invasion of her Dutch homeland. Holland was neutral in World War II, hoping such politics would provide them a degree of protection. Neutrality, however, is often lacking in reward.

It only took five days for Hitler’s forces to take control of the peace-seeking country. Holland’s substantial Jewish population suffered tremendously. They were crammed into trucks and trains then taken to prisons and labor camps. Some were killed without delay while others died slowly from sadistic brutality and inhumane conditions.

Corrie ten Boom’s family wasn’t Jewish by birth or religion. They were Christians who led an unassuming life guided by their steadfast faith. Days were spent running their small shop where they sold and repaired clocks and watches. On Sundays they worshiped the One whose guidance they trusted.

The ten Boom family could have maintained a tolerable lifestyle under German occupation. The only thing required was to look the other way, to ignore the atrocities being committed against Holland’s Jews. Instead they took a risky path, knowing it would likely cost them dearly. They helped their suffering countrymen in multiple ways, most famously by providing a hiding place in their home for people who had no other options.

Their refusal to ignore the plight of others led to unspeakable tragedies in the ten Boom family. Corrie miraculously survived confinement, but her elderly father and sister Betsy did not. Yet despite the cruelties she endured and witnessed, Corrie thanked God for using her to minister to others.

That’s all I’ll share about The Hiding Place. If you’ve read it you already know the story. If you haven’t, please don’t settle for my brief overview. Details of her experience are not what I want to elaborate on today. It’s Corrie ten Boom’s decision, along with other family members, to remain faithful during times of relentless persecution. 

Sometimes I wonder how moral people, especially Christians, could have allowed such horrific abuses. But what I find most troubling is thinking I might have been among them. When safety is assured by doing nothing, the easy path is tempting. Fear of repercussions can take us further down that road. Concern for loved ones adds another dimension.

Most of us probably won’t face anything akin to the dire circumstances of the ten Boom family. Yet each of us makes regular decisions of who to put first, Christ and those in need, or ourselves. Such choices begin in childhood and never end.

There’s always a kid who doesn’t fit in, one who sits alone in the cafeteria or waits awkwardly on the playground, hoping for an invitation that never comes. Some are bullied while others are made unwelcome. Decisions on taking a stand or staying quiet begin early and are no less challenging when we become adults.

The Christian response to injustice has often been silence. Examples are abundant, but I don’t know if it’s productive to recount our imperfect past. Instead I’ll close by suggesting that each of us consider more intentionally how God can use us today.

Mr. Heard George, son of U.S. Senator Walter F George, was an elderly gentleman when I first met him in 1975. He was a member of Vienna First Baptist and belonged to the men’s Sunday School class taught by Mr. John Bonner.

I’ve been told that in Mr. Heard’s prayers he often said, “Help me do something for someone who can’t do anything for me.” That strikes me as a perfect request, one God would appreciate hearing and likely answer without delay. 

So, I’ll end today’s musiings with that borrowed prayer and a recommendation of a good book. The Hiding Place has many lessons, all of them best learned by reading Corrie ten Boom’s account. 

Perhaps the most important lesson is to focus on love instead of hate. But as I reflect on my tendency to linger in the safety of the sidelines, another point comes to mind. Neutrality is often lacking in reward.