Big Dink stories help keep my father ‘alive’

            Sunday is Father’s Day.

            Oh, I wish mine were still here so that I could tell him how much I loved him. Even though he died in 1998, Big Dink’s DNA is at work inside me. And so many stories keep him “alive.”

            My daddy didn’t squeak when he walked, but Big Dink—a child of the Great Depression—was tight with his money. “It’s not how much you make that’s important,” he preached. “It’s how much you don’t spend. Live below your means, and you’ll always have enough money.” He walked the walk and left plenty of stories in his footprints.

            Here’s one of my favorites:

            Among his first employees at NeSmith Funeral Home was a bachelor, Buck Bishop, who lived in Joyce Brown’s boarding house across the railroad tracks in Jesup. Buck regaled listeners with stories about the thriftiness of his boss. I can still hear Buck laughing about the fence-building project.

            Big Dink had just taken down a tiny Jim Walter house in the backyard. In 1957 he built my little sister, Sheila, a playhouse in that spot. And he wanted to connect the new structure to the funeral home with a 10-foot span of privacy fence to hide hearse washing and such.

            With the list of materials, Buck walked across the street to Hodges Hardware. Standing behind the customer counter were Chuck Anderson, Harry Rogers, Robert Hayes and proprietor Jimps Hodges. When they looked at the list, they howled with laughter. Big Dink had spelled out the exact number of boards and the lengths required. What tickled Chuck and Harry most was their friend’s request for 56 10-penny nails.

            Chuck said, “You need to walk back and tell Dink that we sell nails by the pound, not by the piece.” Buck balked and said, “Uhhh … how about you let me count out 56 nails and then you can weigh them?”

            Harry urged Chuck, “Let Buck count ’em.”

            Harry was accustomed to sawing boards for their tightwad neighbor, so he had an idea. When he turned off the radial-arm saw, Harry got a broom and a paper sack. Sweeping up the sawdust, he said, “Buck, tell your boss that I’m sending him this.”

            When the funeral-helper-turned-fence-builder got back to the project site, he said, “Dink, Harry thought you might like to have the sawdust, too. He knows you don’t want to waste anything.”

            Big Dink wasn’t ready to turn the prank loose just yet.

            “Buck,” he said, “please go back to Harry and Chuck. Ask them if they have some burnt motor oil. If I had some of that, I think we could mix it with this sawdust and make some pretty good floor-sweeping compound.”

            Later that afternoon, another across-South-West-Broad-Street neighbor walked over to watch Buck work.

            Benny Westberry was a big-rig driver for Colvin Oil Company. Benny and his boss, Earl Colvin, were legendary penny-pinchers, too. When it came to guarding their wallets, Big Dink, Benny and Earl could have been kinfolks.

            Standing on the sidewalk, Benny didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He didn’t want to interrupt Buck, who was on his hands and knees, scratching in the pine straw around the azaleas. When Benny couldn’t wait any longer, he asked, “Buck, what are you doing?”

            Buck glanced up and said, “I’m looking for one of Dink’s nails.”

            “Well, Buck, why don’t you just get another one out of the sack?
            “Uhh, Benny, I can’t do that.”

            “Why, Buck?”

            “Because, Benny, I bought 56 nails. Dink said that’s all I needed. And you know him. Dink can squeeze a nickel so hard that you can hear the buffalo bellow.”

            Sixty-eight years later, I’ve got a project underway.

            Even though I can’t see the carpenters rolling their eyes and snickering, I know that they are watching me pick up scrap lumber. Big Dink would have thought, “Surely, this can be used for something else.”

            Yes, Daddy, your DNA is pulsing through me.

            And I couldn’t be more blessed.

            Happy Father’s Day.    

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Georgia, what’s on your mind?

 

         If you asked me to name my 10 favorite songs, the answer wouldn’t be instantaneous. But I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you my top pick, “Georgia on My Mind.” Ray Charles sings it best. Willie Nelson is my runner-up.

Indeed, Georgia is always on my mind.

I have never wanted to live anywhere else.

In 1989 three partners and I bought a company based in Spartanburg. The Spartanburg-Greenville area is one of the Southeast’s most dynamic regions. But before we signed the documents, I knew that I wasn’t moving to South Carolina.  Instead, the headquarters was coming to Georgia. 

If you tried to separate my love for and loyalty to Georgia from my soul, well, imagine the roar of a 50-yard stretch of Velcro being ripped apart. That’s never going to happen. Nonetheless, I do wonder in which direction our beloved Peach State is aimed.

And that raises the question: “What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

Since the colony of Georgia was founded in 1732, you might consider that a silly question. But if you compare our state, age-wise, to its counterparts in Europe, Georgia is still in diapers.

Visionary leadership has helped Georgia to become the envy of most states. Atlanta and its world’s busiest airport have been magnets to draw waves of paycheck-creating investments. But I do wish more of that “wealth” could be distributed among jobs-starved rural Georgians.

When Sonny Perdue became governor in 2003, he was determined to make Georgia the best-managed state in the nation. He created the Commission for a New Georgia (CNG). I served with two dozen other business and industry leaders. CNG accomplished Gov. Perdue’s goal, while saving Georgia taxpayers millions of dollars.

Then came Gov. Nathan Deal. During his eight years in office, Georgia became the nation’s best state in which to do business. Jobs poured into Georgia. Gov. Brian Kemp and his team have kept that national distinction, luring billions of dollars of investment and tens of thousands of new jobs.

Much of my adult life has been spent as a booster. I’ve been a chamber of commerce president, chairman of an industrial development authority and vice-chair of the Georgia Chamber of Commerce. Gov. Deal offered me a seat on the state’s economic development board. I declined, but that’s another story. Today I am on an economic development authority. 

I know the value of jobs creation and the importance of easing the property-tax burden on homeowners. It is clear that our state is ultra-business- friendly. Georgia is on a rocket ride. And that brings me back to the question: 

“What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

When God was handing out geography, He dealt Georgia a “royal flush.” We couldn’t ask for more variety and beauty. I don’t advocate erecting “No Vacancy” signs on our state’s borders, but it’s time to consider where we’re headed. Georgia, being what it is, will not be denied more than its share of concrete and steel.

But you can chisel this into Elberton granite:

Georgia will never get more natural wonders such as North Georgia’s mountains and streams or South Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp. I believe God expects us to be responsible stewards of our natural resources.

Quality of life is one of our greatest assets. Every growth decision should consider that.  Georgia is in the enviable position of being choosy.  We shouldn’t be giving tax incentives to attract projects that we might regret later. One example—in my opinion—is the tsunami of electricity-gobbling data centers flooding our state.

Georgia Power Company now believes that it must backtrack on its promise to quit burning coal, so that it can feed these gargantuan data centers. And that means more poisonous heavy metals are likely to be leaking into our groundwater from unlined toxic-coal-ash ponds. Wouldn’t safe water and clean air be two of the basics of quality of life?

So, again, I ask, “What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

Sing it, Ray.

“Georgia, Georgia ….”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Men should get over latex-glove paranoia

 

               The physician’s assistant asked, “Mr. NeSmith, are you allergic to latex?”

               “No, ma’am. Not until I hear it snap on your wrist.”

               Ladies, you know what I am talking about.

               Women, compared to men, have to endure the most medical-exam indignities. As you are probed and mashed in the pursuit of good health, I admire your courage. Trips to the gynecologists start in your teen years.

               Men—given the chance—will put off their visits to the urologist for as long as they can. The most common reason is the dread of that latex-glove-involved exam. The thought of the indignity of that infamous digital rectal exam (DRE) is enough excuse for many men to delay, delay, delay.

               And, in my opinion, that is a mistake.

               The second-leading cause of cancer death in men is prostate cancer.

               Different urologists have different opinions about the effectiveness of screenings, especially in older men. Back-and-forth theories abound. Some doctors believe the treatments can be worse than the cancer.

               I am not a medical expert. But even at my age, I choose regular exams. Prostate cancer is common in my family, and I’ve been visiting a urologist for about 30 years.

               But I digress.

               In 1997, my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The disease was slow-growing and was being monitored. I’ve heard doctors say that most older men will die with prostate cancer but not from it.

               But one Sunday afternoon, Big Dink, 76, sneezed.

               A rib cracked.

               X-rays revealed that the cancer had metastasized into my dad’s bones. His urologist said that what happened was a rarity. I don’t remember the exact medical terminology, but radiation did not halt the spread of the disease. Medically, everything possible was done. The seven-week countdown had begun.

               My parents moved into our home, as did sisters Sandy and Sheila. Pam was a champion keeping meals on the table and the house in order, as we rallied around our family’s patriarch. We showered the man we all called Granddaddy with love and prayers. Our requests to God were twofold: “Lord, we pray for a miracle. But if that’s not Your will, please don’t let him suffer long.”

               Eventually, hospice nurses joined the vigil.

               On a Sunday afternoon, Granddaddy’s urologist visited. He signaled the end was nigh. He advised that we should be diligent with our goodbyes. I called one of our newspaper cartoonists to come.

               In roundtable fashion, we told signature family stories that had been repeated over the years. As we reminisced, the artist sketched. Later that day, I sat in bed with my dad. One by one, I retold the stories depicted in the cartoons. We laughed. We cried. I can still feel Daddy squeezing my hand.

               On Tuesday, the last thing we heard him say was a soft, raspy “I love you.” And the last thing that he heard from his family was “We love you.”

               Prostate cancer has a history of finding NeSmith men.

               Since I turned 50, I’ve been seeing my urologist at least twice a year. And about a dozen years ago—after one of those latex-glove DREs—I had a procedure that removed prostate tissue, revealing a small amount of malignancy. The lingering question was, “Did that get it all?”

               Continued urology visits and tests have been encouraging. My PSA has remained low and unchanged. The Gleason number, a key indicator, is good, too. Again, in my opinion, you can’t be too vigilant.

               That brings me to former President Joe Biden. What happened to him might be what happened to my dad. The metastatic-bone cancer appeared “out of nowhere.”

 I am not a doctor, but I believe America’s 46^th president’s medical outlook is grim. Cancer doesn’t care whether you are a Democrat, a Republican, or whatever political affiliation. And when prostate cancer metastasizes into your bones—short of a miracle—the countdown is imminent.

               Men, doctors say that it’s likely most of us will die with prostate cancer.

               But we shouldn’t have to die from it.

               Nonetheless, if possible, I believe we should know what’s going on with our bodies.

               So, get over the latex-glove paranoia.

               Go see a urologist.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Graduates, here’s a ‘quart jar’ of advice

 

            Sir Edward Elgar had no idea what he started in 1901.

            One hundred and twenty-four years later, the English composer’s creation is one of the most-played songs in America.

            Especially this time of year.

            Imagine if he and his heirs had gotten just a dollar every time “Pomp and Circumstance” has been the soundtrack of thousands—no, millions—of graduations. I’ve walked and sweated in a black robe twice—high school and UGA—to that “dum, dum, dum-da-dum, dum ….”

            And during ceremonies, in between the first and last playing of Sir Edward’s song, speeches are sandwiched in between awards and diplomas. A cornerstone of those commencement addresses is advice for the graduates. From kindergarten to college postgraduate ceremonies, advice comes in heavy doses.

            As we say in the South, graduation speakers try to pour “a gallon into a quart jar.” I’ve been behind the podium plenty of times, and I’m sure that I’ve been accused by attendees of that overload, too.

            So, Class of 2025, let’s see whether I can be more concise and keep it to just a “quart.”

§  Watch your diet

            Wise food and drink choices are healthy. You’ve heard that over and over. I add “beware of what you feed your brain, too.” What you put in your mind is just as important as what you put in your mouth. Read. Read. Read books and articles that will help you stretch your potential. A positive attitude is a powerful asset. Auto pioneer Henry Ford said that whether you think you can or can’t, you are right.

§  Watch your manners

            In this hurry-up world, rudeness is overtaking kindness. If you don’t know the definition of “civility,” look it up. And if you want a living example of what civility is not, see it in action—road rage. Good manners will get you to where money never will. Dr. Norman Vincent Peale urged us to be kind to our neighbors. Why? They may be having as much trouble as you are. Maybe more. Set a goal to be known and respected as a lady or a gentleman.

§  Watch how you greet people

            When addressing people, look them in their eyes. Don’t mumble. Speak clearly. And when you shake a person’s hand, don’t do so with a limp clasp. I am not advising a bone-crushing grip, but use one that says, “Hey, I’m alive, and I’m glad to see you.” This may sound silly, but watch yourself—in a mirror—as you practice this over and over.

§  Watch who and what influences you

            Friends are one of life’s great treasures. But peer pressure is a two-edged sword. The sooner you embrace that fact, the sooner you’ll recognize when to opt out of a situation that you’ll one day regret. Jails and graveyards are full of people who were pressured by peers to “try this” or “go faster.” Saying no can be difficult and even embarrassing. Strive to be a leader, not a follower.

§  Watch how you use the internet

            By the time you were born, the internet had become king. Social-media platforms dominate how people communicate. With a click, you can spread your message around the globe. Don’t forget that what you launch into cyberspace will follow you beyond your teenage years. And one day, that “clever” or “cruel” post can rise up, cutting you and your aspirations. I’m a free-speech advocate. But the fact you can say something doesn’t mean you should.

            “Dum, dum, dum-da-dum, dum ….”  

            I think Sir Edward Elgar is saying the “quart jar” is full.

            Congratulations, 2025 grads.

 Good luck.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Hayes, you are a role model for your peers

 

“Santa came early in 2006.

            “He left his reindeer munching North Pole hay. The harness with jingle bells was hanging on a peg in the barn. There was no time to hitch the sleigh, so Santa used his frequent-flyer miles and jetted south on Sept. 18.

“And he had a cool ride down the Wilson Family chimney in Senoia, Georgia, since it would be months before a match was set to the kindling.”

That’s what I wrote 18 years ago.

            And this is what I write today:

 

Dear Hayes:

            Indeed, Santa did come early in 2006.

            You are one of the grandest gifts anyone could ever receive. I remember the day you were born. I especially recall the back-and-forth conversation your mother and her mom (your MyMa) had about your name.

            “Emily, why are you calling him Hayes?”

            “Mom, I like Hayes.”

            “But it’s not a family name.”

            “Mom, he’s my baby, and I could name him Domino’s Pizza if I wanted to.”

            And when we held you for the first time, we fell in love with you and your name. Hayes fits just right. But we would have loved you even if your nickname had been “Pepperoni.”

            All of God’s children are born with special gifts. Two of your gifts are a light-up-the-room smile and a gentle disposition. Your mother and grandmother call it your “sweetness.” Your smile and the love that you exude do make you “sweet.”

            But that doesn’t make you a softie.

            Quite the contrary.

            Growing up with three brothers and a nature-loving dad, you had to be rumble-and-tumble tough. Paddling a canoe, sleeping on a sandbar, and eating whatever you caught or shot instilled a passion for the outdoors.

            And when you were no more than 6, you showed your agility and athleticism. Dressed in Spider-Man mask, you spread your arms and legs and walked up door facings with your hands and bare feet. Time after time, adults would beg, “Please, Hayes, can you do that again?” And you would, over and over.

            That was eager-to-please Hayes.

            When you got a little older, you traded the red-and-blue costume for cleats, shoulder pads and a helmet. You enjoyed football, but you found two sports that you liked even better.

            You had a knack for wrestling. Training and discipline took you to the state tournament in Macon. Counting middle school, you’ve competed in the state track-and-field meet six times as a pole vaulter. Even the real Spider-Man would be impressed with your up-and-over achievements.

            You have established that you are a rugged outdoorsman, a gifted athlete and an honor-roll student. I applaud you. But most of all, I am impressed by the mature and caring young man who you’ve become. You are a gentleman and a role model for your peers. Good manners will take you where money never will. And your smile makes everyone smile.

            In August, you’ll begin your college career at the University of North Georgia. As you pack your SUV for the trip to Dahlonega, make extra room for the abundance of love and support that I’ll always have for you.

            I am proud of you, Thomas Hayes Wilson.

           

            Love,

            Grandpa

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com