Time for new chapter in 570 Prince Ave.’s history

 

            

            Oooooooh, no.

            That was my initial reaction to the selling of the University of Georgia’s president’s house on Prince Avenue. From 4,100 miles away in Edinburg, Scotland, I couldn’t believe what I was reading in 2023. The asking price would be an estimated $5 million.

 I texted President Jere Morehead to express my concern and objection. He explained that it was the decision of the University System of Georgia Board of Regents and that he supported it.

            I’m a fan and a friend of Jere Morehead. Still, the news stung. I wanted to know more.

The 1857 mansion is a showpiece. It’s also a money pit. The grand old “lady” is really showing her age. She needs multimillion-dollar electrical, HVAC and other upgrades. The Regents felt the money would be better invested in educating students.

            As a former chairman of the Regents, I get that.

            So, why did I get upset in the first place?

            As a past president of UGA’s Alumni Association, I was echoing what thousands of other UGA alums also felt.

The first time I walked through the gate of that picket fence, I was smitten with the Grant-Hill-White-Bradshaw House. That was almost 60 years ago. President Fred C. Davison had invited student leaders for a backyard picnic. Every time since, I was flooded with memories as I crunched the pea-gravel path toward the towering steps to the veranda.

Since the 1960s, I’ve been fortunate to bond with UGA presidents Davison, Henry King Stanford, Charles Knapp, Michael Adams and Jere Morehead. My dad once joked that I’ve been involved in every campus organization except the Women’s Glee Club. And that meant a lot of visits to 570 Prince Ave.

The University System of Georgia Board of Regents 

is selling the 570 Prince Ave. mansion that has served 

as the home of UGA presidents since 1949. The board 

believes the money is better invested in 

educating students.

The most special occasions were brunches before the Bulldogs kicked off in the fall. Following the meal and fellowship, we’d board buses for a blue-light escort to Sanford Stadium. If you bleed red and black, what’s not to love about that?

I am grateful for every one of those experiences. And I am especially appreciative of Chuck Knapp, who was president from 1987 to 1997. Several times, he invited my boyhood friend Joe Phelps and his wife, Judy, to join the pregame festivities. After a particular victory, Chuck said, “Joe, you are a good-luck charm. When you are in the president’s box, the Dawgs are undefeated. You are always welcome.” Joe left his wheelchair in 2018, but he took that high praise to Heaven.

UGA presidents started living in the mansion the year after I was born, 1949. President Adams was the first to move to a private residence. President Morehead, coincidentally, purchased our former Five Points home from the person who had bought it from us. That means the stately house—with the magnificent front-yard gingko tree and white picket fence—is vacant.

Since that 2023 announcement, there’s been considerable moaning and speculation as to what will happen to 570 Prince Ave. Naturally, I am sad to see the tradition end. But it is time for a new chapter in the history of the Classic City’s architectural treasure.

So, what now?

Dr. Jeff Payne, a retired Gainesville eye surgeon, has a plan. With the Board of Regents’ approval, he will move forward with the purchase. Recently, we visited with Jeff and listened to his vision for the 5-acre property. He promises to preserve and protect the historical house, while creating a revenue stream that supports those goals.

The stately structure will be the centerpiece of a planned hotel and event venue. Low-rise construction will be in the expansive backyard, mostly unseen from Prince Avenue. His investment will be a windfall for the Clarke County tax digest.

I have known Jeff for almost 30 years. He is not a real estate novice. He has multiple holdings, including a hotel. One of his daughters, a UGA student, lives in a historic house in Athens. Jeff is not a faceless outsider.

Of course, I would have preferred more of the old days.

But today is today.

And Jeff has the knowledge, the passion and the wherewithal to follow through on what is very well the best possible outcome.

My “oh, no” is now an “oh, yes.”     

   

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Hallelujah, an emu joins our barnyard menagerie

 

         Ink is in my blood.

But I’ve never said, “Today I am going to get some ink on my skin.”

However, if I did, I might tattoo this phrase: “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

Have you ever muttered that, too?

But this isn’t a complaint.

It’s a follow-up on a story that kicked off a little over 100 days ago. At the time, it did seem like a good idea. After all, one of the missions of grandparents is to create memories for their children’s children.

And I don’t believe grandsons William and Fenn NeSmith will ever forget the March evening that I handed them a Styrofoam cooler. When they opened the lid and saw the two oval objects, their eyes were almost as big as the two hefty emu eggs.

Neighbor Clyde Jones had given me two freshly laid emu eggs. He thought our grandkids would enjoy watching them hatch. William and Fenn won the big-green-eggs lottery. The Habersham County brothers, 16 and 14, accepted the challenge and bought a digital incubator. Before long—courtesy of Clyde—they had five emu eggs under their watch.

The next 52 days were an intense learning project as well as an adventure. I got regular reports. Each time, I praised them and asked, “How many other students at Tallulah Falls School know this much about emus?” They’d laugh and give me another flightless-bird factoid.

The success rate for emu-egg hatching is slim. But one day William’s and Fenn’s mom, Heather, came home for lunch and peeked into the incubator. A fuzzy creature had pecked out for its first look at the NeSmith family’s guest bedroom. When William got the call, he shouted, “Hallelujah!”

The newborn emu had its name—Halle.

William and Fenn wanted Halle to have at least one sibling. That wasn’t to be. Their dad, Alan, built a brooder box for the basement. The family became a research team, learning about emu diets and habits. Did you know that an emu loves eating kale? And one, LiMu, stars in Liberty Mutual’s TV commercials.

Halle spent her days in a 10-foot-by-10-foot backyard dog kennel. At night, she was carried—as if she was a puppy—back inside. That routine went on for several weeks. In 50 days, Halle was 36 inches tall.

 That’s when Alan called.

“Dad, it’s time for Halle to come to the farm.”

For more than 100 days, Alan’s family’s lives had pivoted around what had been in that Styrofoam box. So, Saturday was bittersweet for our Habersham Four. I drove up, pulling a trailer for the wire kennel. On the way back, William, Fenn and Halle rode with Alan.

In time, Halle will roam our pastures, adding a Jurassic Park-like feature to our menagerie. But for now, she still gets special treatment. She’s outside in the day, with plenty of shade in the kennel. And inside a barn at night. William installed a “nanny cam” for Halle. We can monitor what’s up with Halle 24/7. Hello, 2025.

Before William and Fenn went home, I took them to thank Mr. Jones. While the boys fed pieces of bread to a pair of 6-foot birds, Clyde gave them a short course on the Jones family’s three decades of emu experience.

Clyde and Peggy Jones had been feeding that pair for 30 years.

As my neighbor talked, I did the math. Emus—survivors of prehistoric times—can live 50 years. Imagine this possibility. One day, the grandchildren of William and Fenn could ask, “Why do we have this funny-looking bird that can’t fly?”

And the brothers could say, “Well, it all started with your great-great-grandpa. He said that it seemed like a good idea at the time.” 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Felix was more than an articulate ‘man of the cloth’

 

            The phone call rattled my soul.

            The Rev. Dr. Felix Haynes, 81, had died.

            The articulate “man of the cloth” was a biblical scholar and deliverer of poignant sermons. But Felix was much more than a preacher. He was a friend to thousands.

And I was one of the fortunate ones.

            Felix knew my family inside and out. When he accepted the call to our church, my parents embraced him. Their combined chemistries were a potent, servant-minded ministry. Felix once told me that when a need for comfort arose in the congregation—as attentive as he was—he couldn’t beat Big Dink and Margie to the scene.

When my dad was dying in 1998, and when my mother was fading away in 2014, Felix was by our sides. And he carried that compassion into the pulpit, knowing exactly what to say during their funerals. Felix’s style was eloquent in a storytelling way that exuded warmth and easy understanding.

I consider myself a voracious reader, but I am a rookie compared to Felix. We recommended books to each other. He was a serious bookworm and an avid collector of rare books.

One time Felix called, “I have something for you.” That “something” was more than I could tote—boxes and boxes of books. They are treasures in my collection on sagging shelves. And when I read and reread each one, I will hear Felix saying, “You are really going to like this one.”

Go back to 2016 with me.

This episode underscores the depth of his loyalty and our friendship.

Wayne County was in danger of becoming the largest toxic-coal-ash dump in America. I was neck-deep in research and effort to keep that horror from happening. Felix said, “I know someone you need to meet.” When he was studying in Louisville’s seminary, Felix was Wendell Berry’s pastor at Port Royal Baptist Church.

I knew of Wendell Berry’s fame as a celebrated author, the first living member to be inducted into the Kentucky Writers Hall of Fame. He’d written more than 40 books: novels, collections of short stories, essays and poems.

But the gentleman farmer, who drives a well-dented pickup truck, is more than a masterful wordsmith. Wendell Berry, despite his genteel demeanor, is a legendary defender of the environment. In a word, he is fearless. Wendell doesn’t back down from pollution-minded bullies. He is a give-it-his-all steward of God’s natural resources.

Felix was adamant: “Let’s go see him.”

A phone call and 672 miles later, we were sitting around an oak table in Wendell and Tanya Berry’s kitchen. And when we shook hands, I could tell from his grip that this great-grandfather could still split his own firewood.

 We talked. He listened. He talked. We listened. He had been following our David-and-Goliath saga. With a chuckle, Wendell said, “When you grab a bear by the tail, you can’t turn loose.”

I still have his follow-up handwritten note: “Remember, David won.”

On the eight-hour ride home, Felix shared a Wendell quotation: “There are no sacred and unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places. My belief is that the world and our life in it are conditional gifts.”

Amen.

Wendell’s words will resonate with me until “I’ll Fly Away” is sung over my ashes.

Without Felix, I doubt that I ever would have had the opportunity to spend an afternoon with Wendell Berry.

But then again, I was one of the fortunate ones.

Felix Haynes was my friend.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Lots to observe and love in ‘country living’

 

The 7-year-old visitor wrinkled her nose.

She had a question.

“Is this what you call country living?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “I like it,” she said.

            “Me, too.”

            And here’s why.

            Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.” In “country living,” there’s so much to observe, such as:

▪       Curious George, our 300-pound llama, enjoys chasing our 1,500-pound mule around the pasture. The comedy ends when Maggie brays, “Enough of this.” And she starts kicking. The observation makes me laugh.

▪       Two black fox squirrels hang out in our yard. The other day, a divebombing mockingbird had one of the ebony squirrels hightailing it for the woods. Mockingbirds are a fussy bunch, but I like their brassiness. I especially enjoy observing them chase crows.

▪       Pam first observed this and called me. A mama fox and her two kits were at our front door, as if they were coming for a visit. I circled the house in my truck and snapped a photo. Cute, but I know these critters are rabies-prone.

▪       This time of year, the purple martins put on a show. If I’m near their condo on a pole, I stop and observe their aerial antics. They make me smile.

▪       We have an occasional visitor down by the lake, but I look for it every day. And when I observe the bald eagle—perched on top of the dead pine tree—I always take a few minutes, Yogi, to watch and wonder where it will go next.

▪       Once we had a small herd of Belted Galloway cows, nothing more than pasture ornaments. Today we “have” the best cows ever. They graze over the fence in neighbors’ pastures. I like to observe and hear their mooing, but without the responsibilities or expenses. (Well, unless they get out. Then, we go help round ’em up.)

▪       People ask, “Why do you have those llamas?” They, too, are pasture ornaments. And excellent lookouts. Our llamas are sentinels, posting themselves on the highest ground. If you observe their fuzzy banana-shaped ears standing at attention, something is going on or somebody is coming.

▪       Living in the backyard shrubbery is an almost-tame mother rabbit. When you talk to her, she seems to listen. And if you wait, you can observe a pair of tiny Peter Cottontails hop into view.

▪       My afternoon “cocktail” doesn’t have a drop of liquor in it. When the catfish feel the vibration of my truck’s tires, the lake’s surface ripples. By the time I open the metal feed can, a frenzied school of 10-pound cats are swirling for their supper. It’s calming to sit on a bench and observe the turtles, waiting for their turn at what’s left of the chow.

▪       The afternoon ritual includes observing a great blue heron. As soon as I toss the floating pellets, Willie—with his 6-foot wingspan—swoops down and parks on the dam. Herons are opportunistic predators. Willie is waiting for his opportunity to spear a small bream for his supper, too.

            Why do I call the giant bird Willie? He got his moniker from the infamous bank robber of the Great Depression. When asked why he robbed banks, Willie Sutton said, “Because that’s where the money is.” And our Willie knows where his evening meal is waiting.

▪       The late afternoons have a bonus observation—magnificent setting suns, each unique. It’s as if God used a spatula to smear rainbow sherbet across the sky. Only our Creator can paint pictures that beautiful.

            And there’s something else that I observe when I am wandering around the farm. I can see my neighbors across the way. Well, not really. But I know they are over there on all four sides. And we share the same commitment: Neighbors help neighbors. We call it the Smithonia Way.

            If my chainsaw is broken, someone has one to lend.

            Should someone’s lights go out, I have a generator to loan.

            That’s the way it works where we live.

            You can observe it every day.

            Yes, ma’am.

            I don’t just like country living.

I love it. 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

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