A prayer and ‘Superman’ win over the ‘Nerds’

 

            How were we to know?

            Know what?

            That we should have been paying closer attention.

            To whom?

            The “nerds.”

            Who were or are they?

            The socially awkward brainiacs in college dorms who were plotting to take over the world. And many dropped out of college to get an earlier start on the technology coup d’etat.

            Where were we in the early rumblings of this revolution?

            We were out doing what most college kids do. We were having fun and singing with The Tams, “Be young, be foolish, but be happy.”

            Sixty years later, we know better. We weren’t just foolish. We were dumb. Those nerds—and their brainiac children and grandchildren—now rule the world, which means they control our lives.

            Google these names: Bill Gates, Paul Allen, Larry Page and Mark Zuckerberg, just to name a few.

            Oops, don’t forget Elon Musk.

He’s the richest man on the globe and the second-most-powerful person in America. Maybe the world.

            In the 1980s radio/cable TV entrepreneur Farnell O’Quinn advised, “Write this down. The future will be all about cellular phones.” At the time, my friend had no inkling that the internet was soon to be the next big thing to magnify the power of his prediction.

            I guess that I was a poor listener on that, too.

But now, try to get along without your cell phone.

Our smartphones store more data and do more functions than the early computers that wouldn’t fit inside a 40-foot trailer being pulled by a Peterbilt big rig.

My cell phone—bless its heart, if it had one—has become my mobile office. With the handheld device, I manage text messages, send and receive emails, maintain contact lists, and navigate in unfamiliar territory. It’s a calculator and a camera. These days, my trusty Nikon mostly collects dust.

Oh, yeah, I talk on my phone, too.

And I could play video games, place bets, post whatever on social-media platforms and do a plethora of other things, but I don’t.

But at this moment, my cell phone is useless. I am locked out. Maybe a finger fumbled and pushed the wrong button.

I went to the cell-phone store. That’s where I go to really feel stupid. But even the whiz kid couldn’t reset my passcode. Nick was nerdy-nice and instructed me to call the 800 Apple hotline.

I did, and I was greeted by a young man with a cheerful Latino lilt in his voice. (And that reminded me that I am woefully behind in my Spanish lessons.)

Jesus—not the son of God—wanted to help. However, he said that unless my data was backed up in the iCloud, I would lose everything stored in my cell phone.

Whaaaaat?

I have hundreds, maybe thousands, of contacts that were once at my fingertips on an old-school Rolodex. And—bless his heart, too—Jesus was saying that I would have to kiss all that goodbye.

But hold on.

Enter Michael.

In his early years on our corporate team, I dubbed him “Wonder Boy.” But after 20-plus years, he’s long since been elevated to “Superman.” He’s our company’s technology wizard. He’s not a nerd, but he can “geek” with the best of them.

Michael could sense the rising panic in my voice, so he said, “Go find something to do, and let me see what I can do.”

As I was walking out of his office, I was mumbling about the horror of losing my gazillion photos and my digital Rolodex. And then I lifted a prayer to the real Jesus.

In the meantime, Michael was putting on his tight blue suit, the one with the big “S” on the chest.

Heh, heh, heh.

“Superman”—and a listening Lord—saved the day, again.

And all my cell-phone stuff.

It was just hiding in the cloud.

Heh, heh, heh.

I am still too dumb in this fast-changing world.

But take that, nerds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Cursive writing could become this century’s hieroglyphics

 

            Most days, the news is like slicing a soccer-ball-sized onion. The headlines will make your eyes water with frustration, anger or fear—mass murders, disappearing jobs, tariffs on a yo-yo string, trade wars or panic over prices. But beneath all that, there’s a significant story that’s getting barely a whisper of notice.

            Under the onion-like layers of odorous news is the likelihood that cursive handwriting will go the way of ancient hieroglyphics. And that would really stink. I am a communicator. Words and pictures have been keeping breakfast, lunch and supper on my plate for 54 years.

            Yes, I know.

            Technology has shifted my industry into overdrive, but that’s no excuse for laziness. The world has gone ga-ga over keyboards, so why waste time learning cursive? After all, if you’ve got two thumbs to text, why would you want to bother with gripping a pen or pencil to scratch out a note?

            I’ll tell you why.

            One of my dearest mentors, the late Dr. J.W. Fanning, opined, “Only words live forever.” There is absolutely nothing that replaces the value or impact of a sincere, handwritten note. I have a shoebox of Dr. Fanning’s words stored in a fireproof safe. Over the 15 years he wrote to me, I could see the years taking a toll on his penmanship, but that just makes the letters even more priceless.

            My mother, who lived a full 90 years, called note-writing her ministry. Rolls of stamps flew off her desk as she produced as many as 12 notes a day. Before the rooster opened its eyes, she’d already crafted a half-dozen notes. I remember one recipient–who was struggling in a family crisis—said, “I have more than 100 letters from your mother. I keep them in a desk drawer. When I’m having a bad day, I read a few of her letters. It’s the medicine I need.” And he was a doctor.

            Yes, I know.

            This is 2025, not 1955.

            Still, how many emails and text messages do you get a day? If you’re someone like me, there’s a never-ending tsunami of electronic words. If each word weighed a pound and was plopped into the oceans, the Pacific would meet the Atlantic around Omaha. Sure, some messages are heartfelt and meaningful. I appreciate my friends staying in touch, but I have a treasured file for handwritten correspondence.

            My second-grade teacher, Ms. Barbara Billfelt, wrinkled her nose when she looked at my hen-scratching on Blue Horse ruled paper. My handwriting still reeks. It will make your eyes water.

Nonetheless, I believe pen and ink bring out the better side of people. In our rapid-fire, got-a-new-communications-gadget-every-day world, civility and common courtesy are slipping, too. It’s too easy to rat-a-tat-tat-rat off an angry email.

            Yes, I know.

            This sounds like the rumblings of a dinosaur, but I believe children would become better adults if their parents insisted that they write thank-you notes. A grandparent may be impressed by a grandchild’s tweet of appreciation. But a handwritten note will be placed in an honored spot, behind a magnet on the refrigerator door.

            There are arguments that cursive is irrelevant, even elitist. I believe that, even if you don’t have the swirling flair of John Hancock, a founding father of America, or Gordon Bishop, a late Wayne County ordinary (probate judge), penmanship is a worthwhile life-skill discipline.

It’s like learning to offer a firm handshake. Look people in the eye when you are talking to them. And I’ll add “no problem” is a stinky substitute for “you are welcome” or “my pleasure.” Good manners will get you into places where money never will.

            If we write off the value of teaching cursive, we will take a step backwards. And just like peeling an onion, that should make us “cry.”

(A version of this column was first published on Feb. 2, 2011.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Kenny and Dolly sang the gospel of friendship

 

Today the lyrics of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers have been looping in my brain. Over and over, I keep hearing their song “You Can’t Make Old Friends.”

            Yes, my boyhood buddy and I are old.

But I’m not talking about that kind of old. Randall Bramblett and I met each other—when we were just 3—pushing Tonka trucks in the sandbox of Jack and Jill Kindergarten.

            During elementary school, he lived on the T.G. Ritch side of the tracks, and I lived on the Orange Street side. We reconnected at Jesup Junior High. And on a May night in 1966, principal C.E Bacon and Superintendent James E. Bacon handed us diplomas from Wayne County High School.

Fifty-nine years later, we still call it Jesup High.

            Monday night, Randall rode around our hometown and reminisced. We both were born in the Ritch-Leaphart Hospital that stood three stories tall on the corner of Cherry and Macon streets. We were pleased to see the number of cars parked along Cherry Street and the Strand theater’s marquee lighting up the rainy sky.

We remembered the arrival of color TV. Folks stood on the sidewalk to watch NBC’s peacock logo flash in full color on the screens inside Harper’s Hardware. Bill Littlefield’s family was the first of our friends to get a color TV set.  

            Cruising Cherry, we named the stores of the 1950s and ‘60s. Of course, we couldn’t forget Sara Few, proprietor of Wayne County Music. That’s where we bought our Beatles records. Next door, our classmate Marie Dent’s father, James, was a loan officer at American National Bank.

            And we laughed about buying our shoes at Yeomans’, where salesman Nubbin Keith used high tech to see whether we had growing room in our new shoes. We stuck our feet in an X-ray-type machine. And our toes haven’t fallen off yet.

            Driving on Southwest Broad Street, we recalled Kinky Fender’s A&P grocery. I slowed at the corner of 111 W. Orange Street. NeSmith Funeral Home was where stories inspired my book, The Last Man to Let You Down, My Daddy the Undertaker.   

            Further down South West Broad, we pulled over. Randall wanted a good look at the brick buildings that were once Peede & Bramblett Cabinet Company. He spent his youth sweeping sawdust there before winning a Rayonier scholarship and going to UNC in Chapel Hill.

Randall reeled off stories and memories of personalities who did the exquisite millwork. My friend is a masterful songwriter. I hope he writes a book, too.

            Lester Dixon was a notable Peede and Bramblett personality. During my early UGA days, Lester was assigned to the law school renovation project. Freshmen couldn’t have cars, so the talkative craftsman was my old-school Uber ride home and back. For the round-trip fare, I helped Lester unload building supplies when we got back to Athens on Sunday nights.

            When we crossed the railroad tracks to “his” side, Randall asked, “Do you remember when Old Waynesville Road was dirt?” House after house, we clicked off who once lived where. And that prompted me to take him to the “dream house” that we couldn’t afford. His daddy had custom built the house for George Weinstein, founder of the furniture-maker Waynline.

            In 1973, with our first child on the way, Pam and I needed to move out of our tiny mobile home. By this time, Nubbin Keith was selling real estate, and he showed us the Park Lane house whose then owner was Tax Commissioner Ira Spell. They were asking $34,000, but they would take $31,000. I told Randall that while we marveled at the Peede and Bramblett quality, we couldn’t afford a $300 house payment. We settled for a $14,000 house on Brunswick Street. Our monthly payment was less than $100.

            The soundtrack of our hometown ride-around was my friend’s latest album on Spotify.

            When I suggested Waffle House for supper, Randall said, “My favorite.” Over plates of All Star specials, the memories and laughter kept rolling.

Just like those Tonka trucks in Jack and Jill’s sandbox.

            Dolly and Kenny sang the gospel of friendship.

            You can’t make old friends.

            Right, Randall?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Springtime makes me smile and sneeze

 

            Ahhhhhhh, April is here.

            What’s your favorite season of the year?

            Each has its highlights, but I vote for springtime.

            Spring is when you can shuck your sweater and feel the warmth of what’s to come. Well, let me back up.

            Spring flirted with us in mid-March. We went to a middle-school baseball game. We wore light jackets, thinking we were prepared for 50-degree weather. But then the sun dropped behind the pines, and the wind roared in. A grandson on the mound was the only thing that kept us at the ballpark, cccccccold and ccccccheering.

My attorney and friend, the late Hubert Howard, once advised, “You’ll be surprised what you will do for your children.” Add to that “your grandchildren.” And now, two weeks later, I am thawed out and have these springtime thoughts:

§  The purple martins are swirling about their condo on a pasture pole. The winged acrobats are a joy to watch. When I see them arrive, I know the robins are not far behind. Both feathered friends make me smile.

§  Springtime makes me think about fishing. I believe our seven grandsons were born with a fishing pole in their hands. If we take a trip—any trip—their tackleboxes go with them. That makes me smile, too.

§  In the spring, when I drive over the Dr. Alvin Leaphart Sr. Bridge—high above the Altamaha River—I remember what the late Billy Parker said when I asked him when was the best time to go fishing in Long County’s Dunn’s Lake. Billy grinned and said, “Watch for that big sandbar on the Baxley side of the bridge.” When I nodded, he set the hook, “Well, you are about two weeks late.” That makes me smile.

§  In mid-March, I know it’s coming. And once it gets here, there’s no stopping until late September or early October. Once you make that first cut, it’s game on. On the farm, we never finish mowing. We just begin all over again. But there’s satisfaction in looking back and seeing the progress made. You can’t do that with every job, and that makes me smile.

§  In the mid-1980s, Billy Poppell introduced me to a grass-cutting innovation. In the Redland community, I watched him zoom and twirl around trees on the newfangled zero-turn lawn mower. He declared, “It’ll cut your mowing time in half.” The businessman was right, but he wasn’t there to watch me on my maiden mow. A wobbling drunk could have mowed a straighter line. With that comical memory, I can’t help but smile.

§  In early March—and sometime in late February—another sign pops up to signal that spring is nearby. I like daffodils. Last year, thanks to the generosity of a friend, we planted a pickup-truck load of daffodil bulbs. And this year, when I saw the yellow flowers bursting through the red dirt, I had to smile.

§  Dogwoods, redbuds and azaleas are nature’s “Paul Revere” of season change, too. The blooms “gallop” in shouting, “Spring is coming! Spring is coming!” And those colors take me back to April 1963. Pete Hires and I rode a Trailways bus from Jesup to Augusta to witness our first Masters. As ninth-graders, we saw Jack Nicklaus beat Arnold Palmer for his first green jacket. I’ve been back many times. But remembering that first tournament adventure and those brilliant azaleas in the Amen Corner makes me smile.

But there’s one thing about this time of year that doesn’t make you or me smile. Pollen is the scourge of spring. Yellow stuff blankets the earth and finds its way into our eyes, ears and nose. And it makes us, excuse me …

Ahhhhhhhchoooooooo!

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

 

Where’s common sense in crippling the EPA?

 

            There’s a country song for every occasion and situation.

            Ray Charles moaned, “Here we go again.”

            Lorrie Morgan asked, “What part of no don’t you understand?”

            I could name a hundred more, but Jerry Reed best sums up the looming environmental crisis. His comical lyrics “She got the gold mine. I got the shaft” describe what’s about to get worse with our natural resources.

In this scenario, there’s nothing funny. With a we-will-worry-about-that-later attitude, responsible environmental stewardship is taking a backseat to corporate bottom lines.

            There is a litany of examples.

Here’s just one: toxic coal ash.

            By now, you would think the coal burners would care about the poisonous mess that they have made and are continuing to make.

            Georgia Power and its peers couldn’t be happier.

            In 2019 the state’s largest utility announced that it was stepping away from coal for less harmful fuel sources. We applauded them. Now, Georgia Power says that it must step up burning coal to meet the electricity demand created by the tsunami of mega-data centers washing over us.

            The double downside of that news is that there will be more dangerous waste piled into Georgia Power’s already-leaking and polluting coal-ash ponds.

            And why are coal burners so giddy and clicking their heels?

            President Trump has made it clear that the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) will be rolling back protective guardrails, ignoring its original mission. A mission of making sure we drink clean water, breathe clean air and plant our crops in clean soil.

            But hold on.

            Shortly after his November victory, our second-term president promised America would have the cleanest air and water on the planet.

            Hear, hear!

            But hold on, again.

            In the same flurry of political rhetoric—before moving back into the White House—the president-elect chanted, “Drill, baby, drill!” Apparently, that’s where his heart really is. His environmental initiatives don’t reflect carrying out the promise of the cleanest air, water and dirt.

            That’s worrisome to the tune of “Here we go again.”

            And in Georgia, that’s all the encouragement our industrial polluters need. History reflects that Georgia Power—for example—already gets its way without EPA interference.

            Do you remember Lefty Frizzell’s country classic “If You’ve Got the Money (I’ve Got the Time)”? Georgia Power and its parent, the Southern Company, are among the nation’s biggest spenders on influence peddling. With their money, the utility makes sure that state and federal lawmakers have “the time” to listen.

A VW Beetle could transport our Gold Dome leaders and Georgia Public Service commissioners who dare to ask the industrial giant, “What part of no don’t you understand?”

Up in Washington, the EPA previously allowed Georgia, Texas and Oklahoma to establish its own governance of toxic coal-ash handling. Thus, the Peach State’s Environmental Protection Division (EPD) has allowed Georgia Power to ignore what makes environmental common sense—drain every coal-ash pond. Put the waste in safe, dry storage for future beneficial recycling.

And that brings me to President Trump’s March 4 address to Congress. I listened to every word, and I printed his transcript.

Here’s an excerpt: “Over the past six weeks, I have signed nearly 100 executive orders and taken more than 400 executive actions, a record to restore common sense, safety, optimism and wealth across our wonderful land.”

Yes, Mr. President, America is a wonderful land.

And the majority would like to keep it that way.

But if you cripple the EPA, common sense will not rule.

We cannot be optimistic that our people and our natural resources will be safe.

Polluters will get wealthier with the “gold mine.”

And American citizens will get “the shaft.” 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com