Prayer of thanksgiving for two who taught beyond books

 

With ribbons of steel as its backbone, a railroad crossroad in the wilderness of Wayne County evolved into a community in the mid-1800s. Jesup became “The town that trains built.”

            One hundred years later, the north-south tracks had a profound influence on a skinny kid who moved from one side to the other. I finished the first grade with Mrs. Leslie Poppell at T.G. Ritch Elementary on the east side. But when NeSmith Funeral Home moved to 111 W. Orange St., my sisters and I would walk six blocks to Orange Street Elementary.

            Principal Tom James and his wife, Sara, may not have been standing on the front steps of the low-slung, built-in-a-hurry school to handle the surge of baby boomers and newcomers with Rayonier’s new pulp mill, but they embraced us quickly. And until they died, Tom and Sara never let us go, and vice versa.

            The New York Yankees had the powerful duo of Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle. Tom and Sara James were Orange Street’s Maris and Mantle. But the school’s faculty was brimming with other all-stars, too.

            The cadre of teachers created a sense of family. Alumni speak of those years as if they can still smell the chalk in the classrooms of Ila Warren, Hazel Eason, Gussie Richardson, Mildred Jones, Sara James and others.

            Sara James taught me more than fifth-grade subjects. With the swagger of an athlete and the grace of a sophisticated Southern lady, she could swat a softball over Sixth Street. With robin-egg-blue eyes, she looked at me and said in her signature smooth voice, “This is how you get into your batter’s stance. Hold the bat like this. And never take your eyes off the ball.”

            She didn’t take her eyes off her students, either.

            Sara James poured her heart into teaching. She drilled beyond multiplication tables. What I learned the most never appeared on my report card. She taught me about me. She opened the lid on my 10-year-old imagination.

I am grateful Tom and Sara James took an interest in me. They instilled something that can’t be found in textbooks—self-confidence. As two of my early mentors, they taught me how to stand before a group and talk without my knobby knees buckling.

Tom said, “Always remember your principal is your pal.”  Indeed, he was. Later in life, I came to appreciate his motto: “The service you render is the rent you pay for the privileges of living on Earth.”

Twenty years ago, while I was visiting, Tom said, “Follow me.” We walked into the kitchen. He paused and pointed to a note on the refrigerator door. “See,” he said, “that tells everyone that you will do my eulogy.”  As I followed him back to the den, I slowed to dab the corners of my eyes.

            Five years later, I knelt between their La-Z-Boys and held hands with two of my favorite educators. As if I was following a ping-pong match, my pupils pivoted right and left, watching the eyes of Tom and Sara dance. Even though both were gravely ill, you could feel the adoration between them as they bantered back and forth in their soft voices.

            Tom talked of his prize-winning flowers and Kiwanis. Sara talked about golf, bridge, the Methodist church and her favorite subject—grandchildren. But the conversation—as it always did—bounced back to Orange Street Elementary.      

            Just as the railroad runs through the center of my hometown, the uplifting spirit of Sara and Tom James has run through my soul since 1954. And it always will.

As we pause to count our blessings in this special season, I offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the many fine teachers who have influenced my life.

Especially Tom and Sara James.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

When is a black eye worth it?

 

            When is the last time you sported a black eye?

            I’m not talking about something you said or did that put a figurative shiner on your face.

I’m talking about a punch that gave you a multicolored black circle around one of your eyes. If I took off my sunglasses, you’d see I’ve got one.

            How’d I get it?

An old-timer’s answer was, “It was my wife, my stove wood, and it ain’t none of your business.”

That’s not how I got my black eye.

The explanation goes back eight months. Neighbor Clyde Jones asked, “Would you like some emu eggs?” Five, to be exact. And I thought, “That might be fun for grandsons William and Fenn. If they could hatch one or more of those giant eggs, well, it’d be a memorable adventure.”

The Tallulah Falls School teenagers pooled their resources to purchase a digital incubator. The next 52 days were filled with research, anticipation and required rolling of the eggs. They were quick learners and became our family’s emu experts.

The hatch-rate odds were low, but one chick pecked its way out of the shell. And when that happened, 16-year-old William shouted, “Hallelujah!” For the next few months, “Hallie” was fed, watered, handled and exercised as if she were a puppy.

But when the “puppy” got to be 3 feet tall, Hallie needed a new home. Alan and his sons helped construct a chain-link enclosure—complete with a roof—next to my office in the barn. She has been a featured attraction for visitors.

Hallie especially loves being hand-fed kale by guests. Perhaps it was that leafy superfood, because Hallie has been shooting skyward. And she was bumping her head on the ceiling. Alan joked, “I grew up with Sesame Street’s Big Bird, and now we have one.”

The time came to move Hallie into the pasture. With helpers Randy and Michael, we fashioned a 6-foot-tall circular pen that gave Hallie access to her private barn stall. But taking down the old pen is how I got the shiner.

More on that in a minute.

When Clyde came over to check out the new barnyard arrangement, he asked, “How did you get her over here?” Thanks to neighbor Ellen’s horse trailer, Hallie rode in style. But Pam coaxed the 6-foot bird into the trailer with kale treats. And then Pam rode inside with a species survivor of dinosaur days.

For Hallie, the new pen was love at first sight. She had room to run. But she was the only one of the barnyard inhabitants that was excited. The mules, the llamas, the small horse, the miniature donkeys and the cats were terrified of the weird-looking “thing.” None of our menagerie will come close to her, even though they are separated by fences.

Maggie, a 1,600-pound mule, stares—from a safe distance—and keeps her ears cocked as if to ask, “What the heck is that?” Baby Llama Bean and his banana-eared buddies are making noises that sound like a horse with a sore throat. Bubba, Sister and Rascal, the ratcatchers, are staying a safe distance on top of hay bales. The next few weeks are going to be a barnyard soap opera.

Now, how about my black eye?

In taking down the chain-link ceiling of Hallie’s original pen, oops, a section slipped and whacked me in the face. I was lucky the contraption didn’t poke me in the eye, but I have evidence that it came close.

Hallie has been a memory-making adventure for more than William and Fenn.

Yes, even me, with my black eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

It takes teamwork to make The Echo’s dream work

 

     If you’re reading this, I have two words: Thank you.

     Nov. 4, 2021, seems as if it was last week. That’s when the new era of The Oglethorpe Echo began its partnership with UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication was launched.

     And thanks to you, we are now in our fifth year and growing.

     This novel idea would not have succeeded without your loyalty and support. The model being used by your 152-year-old newspaper has attracted attention from across America and as far away as South Africa.

     Other communities are envious and would like to have similar arrangements for their newspaper.

     In September 2021, when Ralph Maxwell told me that his family was closing The Echo, I thought, “Oh, no. What can we do?” Minutes into that conversation, a mental light bulb flickered.

     Call it a dream, if you will, but Ralph was quick to shake my hand.

     And thank the Lord, Dean Charles Davis of Grady College came to my rescue. Within days, he had assembled the core of his leadership team, professors Dr. Amanda Bright and Andy Johnston. Both seasoned newspaper professionals were up to the challenge. The professors have mentored approximately 200 journalism students who have gained real-life experience at The Echo. Incredible. Thank you, Amanda and Andy.

     I like the catch phrase: “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

     Teamwork is exactly why you are reading the only newspaper in the world that loves Oglethorpe County. And thank goodness, you love The Echo, too.

     Our team has many contributors, including:

●      Readers have embraced the newspaper. Thanks to expanded news coverage and the addition of a website and multiple social media platforms, The Echo’s readership is at an all-time high and notching higher. Many of you will always want a printed edition to hold in your hands. And we acknowledge that many of you are fans of the digital age. The Echo brings you a variety of ways to click on to what’s happening in our community. Thank you, readers.

●      Without readers, there wouldn’t be advertisers. And with The Echo’s readership growing, more and more advertisers are turning to the newspaper to champion their marketing messages. I have always believed that advertising is news, too. News that tells what products and services are available. I preach that you must first be a good business to survive. Strong advertising support has made The Echo a good business, and we aim to survive. Thank you, advertisers.

●      Donors are all-stars on our Team Eco, too. From the start, we organized the newspaper’s ownership under the umbrella of a nonprofit organization. That means tax-deductible donations can be made to The Oglethorpe Echo Legacy, Inc. Right now — November through December — your dollars (up to $1,000) can be tripled, thanks to The Echo’s membership with the Institute of Nonprofit News. That means your $25 donation becomes $75 or your $100 contribution triples to $300. Last year, many of you contributed $1,000 for a $3,000 impact to the newspaper’s rainy-day fund. A key mission of our nonprofit organization is to build a rainy-day fund so that the newspaper can weather unpredictable economic turbulence. The Echo is 152 years young, and we want it to continue to be Oglethorpe County’s most trusted and complete source of news and information for years into the future. Thank you, donors.

●      The engine of energy on Team Echo is our staff. Trisha Bearden is our office manager. Lourdes Boyd is marketing director. Valerie Argo is office manager. Assisting them are volunteers who are always asking, “What more can we do to help?” Barbara Cabaniss is captain of our volunteer team. Today, our lead volunteers are Anne Garner and Cindi Johnson.

     So, what do I do? The best explanation is that I’m the “kid with a bicycle pump who keeps air in the tires so that we keep on rolling.” My mission is to help in any way that I can.

     I love Oglethorpe County, and I love its newspaper.

     The Oglethorpe Echo’s success is your success.

     It takes a team to make the dream work. Thank you, everyone.

     Go, Team Echo.

     P.S.: Don’t forget the deadline for contributions is Dec. 31, 2025.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

The state of Georgia is always on my mind

 

     The fascination came early. Before I was 15, I was hooked.

     Decades later, I’m still like a kid in the candy store. I struggle to decide what I like best. That’s why I can never get enough.

     Georgia is always on my mind.

     When our daughter Emily was in pigtails, we would slip through the Altamaha River swamp in a flatbottom boat. In a hushed voice, I pointed out the young buck with velvet on his antlers.

     And there were tiny wood ducks trailing their mother in the oxbow lake. Her eyes got big when we spied a sofa-sized alligator sunning on the muddy bank.

     Our then 10-year-old was trying to listen, but she was distracted by the hum of mosquitoes. Wrinkling her nose, she whined, “Daaaaad, why does God make mosquitoes, ticks and red bugs anyhow?”

     Propping the paddle on my knees, I leaned forward and said, “That’s His reminder that we aren’t in Heaven, yet.”

     I once heard, “All the way to Heaven should be heaven.” And if you take time to soak up the majesty of God’s gifts to Georgia, life can be heavenly. But still, I can’t decide which part of our state that I like the best.

     If I’m wading through wiregrass beneath a canopy of longleaf pines with my eyes fixed on the quivering tail of a bird dog — crouched and locked in a point — I think, “It can’t get any better than this.”

     Over a supper of fried quail and cathead biscuits, I always offer a special blessing of thanksgiving.

     I will never forget the night in Atlanta, when Alan and Eric showed my dad how to do the Tomahawk Chop. (You could do that back then.) Unbelievable. Our Braves were in the World Series, and three generations of NeSmith fellas were there and chanting.

     There were those unforgettable times in Sanford Stadium watching Herschel Walker do Herculean things with the pigskin.

     How about the night 85,000 roared, “USA, USA, USA!” as our women won the soccer gold medal in the 1996 Olympics?

     And then there were the Dawgs’ back-to-back national championships.

     How do you beat that?

     Well, spend a weekend camping in Rabun County. See the mountain laurel shouting with color, sniff the crisp air and listen to a grandson squeal as he reels in a feisty, walking-on-it’s-tail rainbow trout.

     And then savor that moment over a campfire, backlit by a navy-blue sky filled with twinkling stars.

     Pretty special, huh?

     When we were 14, Pete Hires and I rode a Trailways bus from Jesup to Augusta to witness the Masters. We marched with Arnie’s Army. The Golden Bear, Jack Nicklaus, earned his first green jacket.

     I never return to Amen Corner, nestled in flaming azaleas, that I don’t find myself back in 1963 and wondering, “What could be more glorious?”

     Watching the sunrise over the Atlantic can’t be forgotten either.

     Whether you are just outside the breakers off Cumberland Island, catching trout or kayaking in a tidal creek — with a bald eagle gliding overhead — few places are more picturesque than our coast. And then there’s the oyster roast on the beach.

     Oh, my.

     I’m a sucker for small towns, back roads and country stores.

     That’s how I found Providence Canyon, snug on the Alabama line. With Tom’s peanuts and a 6-ounce Coke, I watched the sun slip behind Georgia’s Grand Canyon.

     I congratulated myself for wandering off my planned route, just to behold the spectacle.

     But there’s one spectacle that I don’t have to travel far to see. It’s right here in Oglethorpe County. Sunsets in Smithonia are something to behold, too.

     This past summer, I was sitting on a lakeside bench, watching the catfish in a feeding-frenzy and waiting for my favorite time of day: sunset.

     The only thing that could have made it better was if I had asked Spotify to play Ray Charles singing “Georgia on My Mind.”

     And then I heard the tale-tell hum of a mosquito.

     As I slapped my neck, I smiled and thought of Emily.  

     That pesky insect was one of God’s reminders that I wasn’t in Heaven, yet.  

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Lindsay Scott almost wore a Tennessee-orange ‘24’

 

(Note: Fourth-quarter miracles aren’t anything new for the Georgia Bulldogs. I pulled this column from my 2010 files. And Coach Vince Dooley called the 1980 Buck-to-Lindsay ‘miracle’ perhaps the greatest play [at the time] in Bulldog history. The Dawgs take on the Florida Gators in Jacksonville on Saturday.)

 

"Lindsay Scott 35, 40, Lindsay Scott, 45, 50, 45, 40 ... run Lindsay! ... Well, I can't believe it. Ninety-two yards and Lindsay got in a foot race … I broke my chair.”

                                                                                                —Larry Munson

 

            Georgia had Herschel, but Florida had the fading clock and 92 yards of grass to protect their 21-19 lead in Jacksonville. If you've ever barked for the Bulldogs, you know 1980's history was written a different way.

            Up in the broadcaster's booth, Larry Munson growled, "Florida in a stand-up five, they may or may not blitz. They won't. Buck back, third down on the 8, in trouble, got a block behind him. Gonna throw on the run."

            Where were you when Lindsay Scott snared Buck Belue's pass? Many of our friends had already fled the Gator Bowl. A few lucky ones were back in their RVs with TVs tuned to see the catch that punched Georgia's ticket to New Orleans for a national championship.

            With a tiny transistor radio glued to my ear, I witnessed Lindsay and the Bulldogs run into the history books. Above the pandemonium, I heard Munson gasp, "We were gone. I gave up—you did, too. We were out of it and gone. Miracle!"

            For years, I carried a cassette of that play in my car. If I needed a boost, I'd listen to Larry beg Lindsay to run. Goose bumps would sprint up and down my spine. The magic still works.

            Friday afternoon, my spirits were sagging, so I clicked on a Web link to watch Buck hit Lindsay, one more time. Pumped, I picked up the phone and dialed my friend, Larry Munson.

An hour later, I was sitting at his dining room table. Larry and I began rewinding the clock to 1980, as we leafed through Robbie Burns' new book, BELUE TO SCOTT! At 88, Larry's no longer the voice of the Bulldogs, but he's still a rabid Dawg.

Back and forth we swapped stories from that glorious November afternoon. That's when I told him about a trip to Lindsay's home his senior year at Wayne County High School. (Recruiting rules didn't prohibit those kinds of visits in the 1970s.)

            Coach John Donaldson, Dr. Hurley Jones and I had heard Coach Johnny Majors was frequenting the Scotts' home. We had to go to 596 State St., too. When Lindsay saw our car turn the corner, he dropped his basketball and bolted. Watching the orange number 24 Tennessee jersey disappear around the corner, we almost backed out of the driveway. But, instead, we got out and knocked on the door.

            Lindsay's parents, Raymond and Johnnie Mae, ushered us into the family room where we talked for about two hours. Then the back door creaked open. Sheepishly, Lindsay announced, "I've been thinking about going to Tennessee."

            John and Hurley talked about their playing in Sanford Stadium. Lindsay began to warm up to the idea of switching his orange jersey for a red one. "Lindsay," I said, "Tennessee is a fine school, but Knoxville is a long way from Jesup. Would you like for your family and friends to be able to see you play?"

            He nodded.

            "Well, hundreds of your hometown friends go to games in Athens," I said. "It'd be easier for your family to watch you play for the Bulldogs. Think about Jacksonville. Imagine how many people from Jesup would be cheering for you during the Georgia-Florida game."

Lindsay smiled and said, "I think I'll go to Georgia."

            Coaches Vince Dooley and Mike Cavan closed the deal.

            And the rest is Larry-broke-his-metal-steel-chair-with-about-a-5-inch-cush-ion history. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com