Ole Miss can’t strip-sack Sugar Bowl memories

            If you are a superstitious Dawg, you had an inkling of what was going to happen in New Orleans. On New Year’s Day, Georgia played its 13^th time in the Sugar Bowl.

            And the immortal Larry Munson’s “Old Lady Luck” was not with the 2025 SEC Champions. The Dawgs had no answer for Trinidad Chambliss, the dart-throwing, scrambling “Houdini” quarterback of Ole Miss.

There was a flicker of hope right up to the final seconds. But again, the Red-and-Black barkers had a muzzled ride home. Grandson Henry Wilson and I were among them, all 16 hours on the train from the Big Easy to Toccoa.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

            I think that I’ve been to about half of Georgia’s appearances in the Sugar Bowl. My first trip was at the end of the 1968 season. Pam and I were dating. We rode in the backseat of her dad’s tan-and-brown Oldsmobile 98.

Thanks to her family’s connections, we celebrated New Year’s Eve upstairs in Pat O’Brien’s in the French Quarter. And we had upfront seats for shows of legends Pete Fountain and Al Hirt. But it was a bark-less ride home. The tusks of the Arkansas Razorbacks gashed Georgia, 16-2.

            Last year, grandson William NeSmith and I had another we-got-whupped train ride to Georgia, courtesy of the Fighting Irish, 23-10. But with Gunner Stockton taking the snaps, we saw encouraging prospects for the upcoming season.

            And that’s why, with every clickety-clack on Amtrak’s rails, Henry and I couldn’t wait to get to New Orleans. This was my fourth time taking a grandson to a bowl game. Three more grandsons and a granddaughter are awaiting their turns. It’s all about making memories.

            Here’s a snapshot:

§  Staying in the Hilton New Orleans Riverside, Henry was up close to the Georgia team, coaches, administrators and alumni. Henry got to talk—one-on-one—with President Jere Morehead. Looking ahead, the sophomore hopes to major in engineering or medicine. His brother, Wyatt, is already enrolled in UGA’s College of Engineering. At the game, Henry chatted with Gov. Brian Kemp.

§  Dining at the iconic Brennan’s was one of Henry’s favorite activities. He enjoyed the “Land and Sea” entrée, but he really liked his first taste of the restaurant’s “Famous Bananas Foster.” However, the always-hungry Henry put his blue ribbon on Daisy Mae’s steak-and-eggs breakfast.

§  We took a daylight stroll down Bourbon Street. If the line hadn’t been so long at Felix’s, Henry could have slurped a dozen raw oysters on the half-shell. Pat O’Brien’s was impossible to get inside, too. I really wanted us to tap our toes to the ragtime dueling pianos. But we heard plenty of Dixieland jazz along the French Quarter’s streets.

§  Uber delivered us to the historic Garden District to visit Dr. Percy Pierre, a New Orleans native. Since Henry is interested in engineering, I wanted him to meet my 87-year-old friend, who was our nation’s first Black person to earn a Ph.D. in electrical engineering. All eight of his great-grandparents were enslaved. Every moment with Percy is a history lesson.

§  A must for all New Orleans trips is a visit to The National World War II Museum. My dad and Pam’s fought in the Philippines. I wanted Henry to get a feel for what his great-grandfathers, along with other brave men and women, had experienced in that brutal war.

§  If I had the power to write executive orders, I would require every American high school student to spend a day exploring the museum. And after watching the movie Beyond All Boundaries, a 250-word essay—reflections of what they saw—would be mandatory. Without victories in the Pacific and in Europe, we could be speaking Japanese and/or German.

Henry and I went to New Orleans to bark for our beloved Bulldogs. The same reason William and I were there last year. Both times, we had hoped for another chance at a national championship. But back-to-back, the scoreboard of Caesars Superdome said, “Not this year.”

On the clickety-clack ride home, I said, “Henry, during the Kirby Smart Era, we’ve been blessed. But we’ve also been spoiled. The Dawg Nation expects to win every game.”

“Look at this way, Grandpa. Think about all the other memories.”

That’s right, Henry.

Ole Miss can’t strip-sack those.

“And, Grandpa, we have next season.”

That’s right, Henry.

Go, Dawgs.

Woof, woof.

 

 

 

 

dinknesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Neighbor, one day we will have that reunion

 

            In 1951 a trio of 3-year-olds were pushing Tonka trucks in the sandbox of Jack & Jill Kindergarten. That was the nexus of a 74-year friendship among Pete Hires, Randall Bramblett and me.

            Last April we planned a few laidback days in the wilds of the Altamaha River swamp. We were hungry to relive memories of our youth. One thing led to another, and the idea morphed into a mini reunion of our Class of 1966.

            Randall and I would drive down from Athens. Pete, his son Justen, and grandson Carter would fly from New England. But as they say, “Life is what happens while you are planning to do something else.” Pete’s health grounded him in Massachusetts. The closest he got to the Altamaha gathering was a speaker-phone conversation with his classmates.

            Pete, Randall and I agreed, “Let’s regroup for the fall.”

            We hoped.

We prayed.

            But by October, Pete’s declining health kept him hospitalized. The three of us stayed in touch through calls, texts and emails. Pete got his Christmas wish—home for the holidays. On Jan. 3 Randall and I got a text from Genie, Pete’s wife. Our friend, 77, had died in his sleep.

            As the news soaked in, my mind drifted back to 1952.

            We lived next door to Aubrey and Kathleen Hires and their son, Pete. Mr. Hires, the county school superintendent, and my dad, the undertaker, both wore starched white shirts and ties. They called each other “Neighbor.” (For the past 30 years, Pete and I have called each other “Neighbor,” too.)

            It was Christmastime and frigid for South Georgia. Jack Frost had coated our yard’s St. Augustine grass with crunchy ice crystals. And my dad was worried. Mother’s father had died, and our family’s Dodge didn’t have a heater. He knew that we would shiver all the way to the Baker County funeral and back.

            I couldn’t hear Mr. Hires’ big wingtips crunching his way to our house, but I will never forget the knock on our back door. “Neighbor,” Pete’s dad said to Big Dink, “here are the keys to my new Buick. Take Margie and the kids to her daddy’s funeral.” His generosity wasn’t a random act of kindness. It was just who Aubrey Hires was.

In 1985 I was honored to be a pallbearer at his funeral. When Pete’s mother, Kathleen, died in 2020, she was living with him in Rhode Island. He asked me to deliver her eulogy. The COVID-19 crisis and other unreversible complications prevented the memorial. But Mrs. Hires died knowing that she was one of my all-time favorite teachers.

After graduation from Jesup High School, Pete, Randall and I scattered. Randall carried his Rayonier scholarship to UNC-Chapel Hill. A football scholarship took Pete to Duke. And I cruised to UGA in the backseat of my parents’ teal-blue Buick.

For the next several decades, the Jack & Jill graduates were scrambling to create our families and our careers. But we kept in touch through a common link—music, Randall’s music.

Pete could jam on his electric guitar. I can plink on a piano. And we shared a celebration of our friend’s success and fame as a musician, a singer and a songwriter. Chuck Leavell, keyboardist of the Rolling Stones, once told me that Randall was on his short list of the most gifted on the planet. Pete and I agreed. But as expected, Randall, our humble sandbox buddy, blushed.

When you have more “yesterdays” than “tomorrows,” you hear the clock ticking. For Pete, it was ticking too fast. That’s why the swamp reunion was to be so treasured. But, again, life is what happens when you are planning to do something else.

Neighbor, it won’t be along the Altamaha River. But one day—“when the roll is called up yonder”—we will have that reunion.

Won’t we, Randall?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Save Okefenokee and create a forever legacy

 

            On Jan. 12, the 2026 Georgia General Assembly will be gaveled into session. The optimist in me wants to encourage the Gold Dome leadership to use those 40 days to solve—once and for all—the protected future of the Okefenokee Swamp.

            Now is the time to stop stalling and do something. The vast majority of Georgians believe the Okefenokee Swamp is a treasure, perhaps our “Yellowstone.” Besides its 438,000 acres of beauty and wonder, the swamp serves an irreplaceable ecological purpose.

            Earlier this year, we saw private money thwart the controversial mining project of Twin Pines Minerals. Altruistic dollars did what bickering and debates had failed to do. The headstrong mining company sold its property and retreated to Alabama.

For the vision and generosity of The Conservation Fund, we shout, “Hallelujah!” A monumental step into the future of Georgia’s great-great-great-grandchildren and beyond.

A downside for Charlton County is the loss of promised jobs that are desperately needed.           

Hold those thoughts for a few moments.

Why has there been a yearslong hesitancy to do the right thing and save the Okefenokee forever?

In my opinion, there are two major unresolved issues:

§  Will mining on the Trail Ridge, the Swamp’s eastern sand-dune boundary, endanger the water level and sustainability of the biodiverse blackwater sanctuary, aka “The Land of the Trembling Earth”?

§  If the state’s Environmental Protection Division (EPD) blocks adjoining landowners from mining, will that violate their constitutionally protected private-property rights?

I am not a scientist or an attorney, but I have learned these things.

Scientific experts at the University of Georgia have just released findings that mining—on the lip of the Swamp—could do harm to Okefenokee National Wildlife Reserve. Details of that report are available at https//iopscience.iop.org/article/10.1088/3033-4942/ae2653. I’ll let the facts speak for themselves.

In addition, I believe private-property rights have been the core reason Rep. Lynn Smith, chair of the House Natural Resources and Environment Committee, has repeatedly balked at bringing a bipartisan measure up for a vote that could propel the bill into full-House consideration.

The late Rep. David Ralston, speaker of the House, was a friend. Frustrated over Lynn’s lack of action on other proposed environmental legislation, I asked him about her annual foot dragging. David smiled and said, “Rep. Smith is a good soldier.” To me, that meant she was simply following orders from the Gold Dome’s higher-up chain of command.

With the upcoming 2026 session, I see a way for Georgia leaders to stop dragging their feet, too.

Here’s how:

I respect private-property owner rights. I don’t want anyone to trample yours or mine. Property rights run with the land. Only the owner of the property can assert and exercise them. The people of the United States own the Okefenokee property, including the water under it. The issue of disrespecting private-property rights should be removed as a stumbling block.

The first detail that should be scientifically established is what is the safe perimeter of the Okefenokee. When that critical boundary is drawn, the inside-the-line owners should be invited to explore these possibilities:

§  Would they be willing to sell their acreage?

§  Would they be willing to sell just the mineral rights of the tract(s)?

§  Would they consider donating all or a portion of that acreage in return for a tax deduction?

Now is the perfect time for a public-private hands-joining to save the Okefenokee. Under the leadership of Gov. Brian Kemp, the state of Georgia has continued to be nationally recognized as the place to do business. And the Peach State has prospered, accumulating a rainy-day surplus of more than $14 billion. Excellent. Those funds should be managed wisely.

I suggest a smart investment would be to use a small fraction of those taxpayer dollars as a challenge to private conservation-minded donors. Make it a 50-50 initiative to complete the protection of our irreplaceable Okefenokee Swamp.

Once and for all.

Georgia would put up half if private citizens and philanthropic organizations would meet the match. The Conservation Fund has already demonstrated its financial firepower to be a game-changer for the right causes. I believe others would be inspired to follow this example. The optimist in me trusts there’s a teamwork solution.

I also believe Georgia has the nation’s best economic development team. Let’s put more emphasis on helping the Charlton counties of our state.

Gov. Brian Kemp, Lt. Gov. Burt Jones, Speaker Jon Burns and members of the General Assembly, you can help to create a lasting win-win. Your leadership could establish an honorable legacy that will live far beyond the lives of your great-great-great-grandchildren and millions more grateful Georgians.

How about it?

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’

 

“In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”  Acts 20:35 NIV

 

            Regardless of your faith, the Apostle Paul’s admonishment in Acts 20:35 should be a caution to every one of us. Tearing into Christmas packages is exciting, especially when the spirit of Santa lives under your roof. You listen to squeals brought about by Barbie dolls, bicycles, iPads, video games and all the gifts that put smiles on faces.

            But we shouldn’t stop there. When’s the last time you put a smile on a stranger’s face? How about your children? Have they discovered the blessing of giving to people they don’t know?

            When the presents are exchanged at your house, try this. Load up your family, and take them to the nearest nursing home or retirement center. Ask for permission to visit with the residents. You don’t have to buy anything. Just a stack of child-made cards will work magic. Lonely faces will light up like the brightest Christmas tree.

            Most of us know this simple truth. But sometimes it takes a gentle tap on the shoulder to remind us. My tap came with a phone call years ago. My 89-year-old mother had taken a tumble, broken a bone and needed rehabilitation for a few months. She was making progress, but my regular visits to see her were therapeutic for me, too.

            After a couple of days in the hospital, Mother was assigned to a rehab facility. My initial focus was on her. We wanted to meet everyone who was entrusted with her care. We found the staff was caring and professional. But unfortunately, I had become so absorbed in Mother’s challenges that I was looking without really seeing.

I confess.

And shame on me.

            Thank goodness, as I walked toward room 102, my eyes finally opened. I started looking to the right and left. In those rooms were people’s mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters and friends. I slowed my stride, trying to make eye contact with other residents. A pause, a hello and a friendly wave almost always brought back a smile. One by one, I learned their names. And when they heard their names, each smile burst into a grin.

            I hurt for my mother. I wanted her back walking the halls of her retirement community and slipping notes of encouragement under doors of her friends. Card-writing was her personal ministry. She did her part to keep the post office in business. She missed teaching Sunday school and going to church. She wanted out of the wheelchair. Marjorie NeSmith believed that she was really 69. She couldn’t believe that there would be 90 candles on her next birthday cake.

            But what put Mother into rehab became an unforgettable lesson for her children and grandchildren. For our family, it was a gift, one that presented itself each time we visited her. By looking around, we saw how blessed we had been. The late Dr. Norman Vincent Peale reminded us to be kind to our neighbors, for they are having as much trouble as we are. Oftentimes more.

            Just after Christmas in 2014, Mother, 90, went to Heaven to join my dad. The lessons learned during her final months will always remain a cherished gift. That’s why during this season of receiving—regardless of our faith—we should heed Christ’s words, echoed by Paul. The greatest blessing is giving. Insist that your children put down their toys for an afternoon. Take them to a nursing home or retirement center.

Visit strangers.

Make new friends.

And by giving joy, your children (and you) will experience the magic of receiving joy, too.

Merry Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

‘Memory Lane’ is my other name for Cherry Street

            Every time that I drive through the heart of downtown Jesup, my mind scrolls through the 1950s and 1960s. I can see the long-gone storefronts and the faces inside the establishments of my youth.

   I can hear familiar voices, especially Ralph Grantham’s.

            When the tall barber nodded in my direction and said, “Next,” I knew it was time to climb into his chair. I will never forget the day that he said, “This time, buddy, you don’t need to sit on the board.” I felt almost grown, not having to sit on the booster board across the arms of his chair.

            For a kid, Jack’s Barber Shop on Cherry Street was as close to a man’s world as you could get. I can still hear the buzz of the clippers and smell the butch wax and Clubman talc. But what I liked most was the atmosphere, the chatter between the barbers and the men who were waiting in wooden school-auditorium chairs along the wall.

            Proprietor Jack Jackson was on the left. My barber, Ralph, was in the middle. And Herbert Dent—known as the “new man”—was next to the plate glass window.

When I was about 18, I went to the shop for a haircut. Ralph wasn’t there. I asked Herbert to “lower my ears.” And on a whim, I asked for a shave. For years, I had watched Jack, Ralph and Herbert wrap hot towels around the faces of men. I thought my time had arrived. Herbert’s straight razor didn’t get much whisker resistance on my face. If he was snickering, I didn’t hear it.

But I digress.

Jack’s Barber Shop was also where I got my first business-world rejection. I haven’t forgotten that, either. I had dreamed about being the shop’s shoe-shine boy. There were air conditioning and a Coca-Cola machine in the backroom, behind the curtain. I imagined how glorious it would be, shining shoes and listening to the men banter back and forth.

By the time that I was in the second grade, Big Dink had taught me the art of making a cotton shine rag pop. I was ready for the Kiwi-polish-and-horsehair-brush big-time in Jack’s. I had heard men in the shine chair bark, “Watch the socks!” I knew to be careful, especially with the liquid sole and heel dressing.

One Saturday morning, after a buzz cut by Ralph, I decided to approach Jack—Mr. Jackson, of course—and ask him for a job. Without stopping the snipping of his scissors, he nodded in the direction of the shine stand and said, “Sorry, son, I’ve already got a shoe-shine boy.”

Talk to men my age, and they can rattle off their barbershop stories. I have Screven friends who made weekly pilgrimages to Jewell Brinkley’s for their dollar haircuts. He was famous for “holding court” and working the crowd where men were waiting for their turn to get a nod and hear “next.”

One of Jewell’s favorite antics was to tease young boys. As he was brushing off the clippings from a lad’s shoulders, he’d wink at the other men and ask, “OK, son, I’ve got some smell ’um here. Do you want gal bait or coon pee?” Most 10-year-old boys would never say that they had a girlfriend. So, they left Jewell’s thinking they smelled like raccoon urine.

But it was really “gal bait.”

Memories are my happy place.

For my 40^th birthday, Big Dink bought and restored Jack Jackson’s 1900-vintage barber’s chair. It’s a treasure that occupies a corner of my office. For my 77^th birthday, I climbed into it and leaned back.

When I closed my eyes, I was on Cherry Street—my Memory Lane—and stepping into Jack’s Barber Shop. 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com