How one Yankee fell in love with Georgia

 

            The young couple had just driven 756 miles from Pittsburgh. They weren’t quite sure of what to expect in Southeast Georgia. Barbara and Andy Marks would soon find out.

 The U-Haul—stuffed with their possessions—was sitting at the Elm Street curb in Jesup. As they checked out the empty cottage, rented from L.G. and Peachy Aspinwall, they heard a knock.

            Their first guest was a preacher. After brief introductions, the minister suggested that the trio pray. Grabbing a metal folding chair, the lone piece of furniture in the room, he improvised an altar and asked them to kneel.

            With their heads bowed, Barbara and Andy peeked to make eye contact with each other. That’s when they noticed Nassau, their golden retriever. The puppy was sniffing the Man of God’s heels.Then, Nassau hiked a hind leg. Yes, he did. And when the reverend stood up, his white socks were yellow.         

            That’s the first memory of my hometown for the Ivy League grad and his beautiful bride, who looked like Ali MacGraw’s sister. (Remember Ali and Ryan O’Neal in the blockbuster movie Love Story?) Not long after that, Pam and I met the Yankee newcomers, forging a friendship that has spanned a half-century.

            Andy and Barbara’s background was more than 756 miles apart from Pam’s and my South Georgia upbringings. One of Andy’s prep school baseball teammates was a future United States president. After their graduation from Phillips Academy, Andy went to Princeton. George W. Bush went to Yale and later to the White House.

Andy had come to Wayne County to manage a company that was involved in the construction of pulp-mill giant Rayonier’s Unit C. When the project was complete, our friends packed to return north. I advised, “Now that you have Georgia sand in your shoes, you’ll be back.”

That was 1973.

Barbara was expecting their first child, Buffy. And Pam was expecting our first, Alan. Eight years later, the phone rang. “Hey, Dink, this is Andy. You were right. We’re back. In Columbus.”

But I am getting ahead of myself.

 

 

 

 

 

While they were in Jesup, Barbara and Andy were frequent guests in our mobile home in Westberry Trailer Park. The New Moon was so small that we joked that we had to go outside to change our minds. Andy volunteered to put his construction skills to work. Together, we built a privacy fence so that we could dine under the glow of tiki torches and the stars.

To celebrate their first Fourth of July in the South, we took them to Pam’s family’s farm, Shirahland, in Southwest Georgia. To commemorate the holiday, we aired up four mammoth tractor inner tubes. Floating in the pond, we feasted on cold watermelon, waiting for dark and the fireworks.

And then there was that 1981 we’re-back call.

Columbus is near Auburn University. Pam stayed with Barbara while Andy and I took the kids to the 1986 game. The   Dawgs upset the Tigers, 20-16, but we didn’t hang around to woof, woof. That’s the infamous night that Auburn turned on the fire hoses. We barely missed getting drenched.

And then there was that Saturday in Athens when Barbara and Andy were showered with Southern hospitality. They joined us at UGA president Fred Davison’s house for a pre-game lunch. Andy sat next to Fred on the police-escorted bus to Sanford Stadium. Later, Andy said, “All those years at Princeton, and I never even came close to its president.” Andy was smitten. I can still hear his infectious laugh.

Stories, so many stories.

Soon after they returned to Georgia, Andy introduced me to his friend Jimmy Yancey. Andy said, “Start buying Columbus Bank and Trust stock. And oh, yeah, load up on something new that CB&T has started, Total Systems.” I am glad that I listened. Jimmy’s bank became Synovus. He became more than my banker. Jimmy has been a friend and confidant ever since. Thank you, Andy.

On March 20, Jimmy called.

Andy had been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis.

Minutes later, I was talking to Andy.

In a matter-of-fact way, he explained his situation. I could hear Barbara talking in the background.

And then suddenly, we were back on Elm Street. Andy was reliving his and Barbara’s horror, watching Nassau soak the preacher’s socks.

We ended our conversation laughing.

I had no idea that would be the next-to-the-last time that I would hear his voice.

Andy died on April 11.

Stories, so many stories.

You left a legacy of love, leadership and laughter, my friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A pair of epiphanies set course for this lad

 

          Ed grew up in a Mayberry-like tiny town, so small that both city limit signs could be nailed—back-to-back--on the same post. But small didn’t deter Ed, who distinguished himself at the University of Georgia. And until he died 50 years later, he was one of the most respected physicians in a large Georgia community.

          When I needed medical advice in his field, I was glad to have Ed’s name and telephone number in my old-school Rolodex. And if I wanted some good-humor medicine, I could count on Ed to prescribe that, too. In short, the good doctor was funny. Most of his stories had a philosophical bent, always with a ticklish twist. Take the time when he was 5 years old.

          That was the year of back-to-back epiphanies. “I became a cynic and a Republican within a matter of a few weeks,” Ed said. I can relate to the first revelation. My parents and Dr. Bob Miller used the same line on me: “After your tonsils are out, you can have all the ice cream you want.” Well, that was all a reluctant first-grader needed to hear.

          Ed and I both chomped on that ice cream bait.

          We lived 200 miles apart and didn’t know each other, but we both looked forward to all the ice cream we could eat. But after the ether wore off, our throats felt as if they’d been scrubbed with barbed wire. Ice cream was the last thing we craved. Swallowing water felt like gulping sandspurs. The thought of ice cream was torturing.

          Once you’ve been duped, you rarely forget. And that’s why Ed declared he’d been a cynic for almost 65 years. But his first-grade life lessons didn’t stop there. The next setting was a church-sponsored Easter egg hunt. The baby-faced cynic became a Republican, even before he knew the difference between Roosevelt and Eisenhower.

          How’d that happen?

          There was a throng of kids—standing with their empty baskets, waiting for the adults to stop talking, so the egg hunt could commence. Smart

lad that he was, Ed could listen and look around at the same time. He could see the Sunday School teacher hadn’t hidden the pink, blue and yellow eggs very well. “This will be easy,” he figured.

          Sure enough, when the teacher said “go,” Ed skipped the first few gears and jumped into overdrive. While the girls sashayed and the bashful boys stared at their navels, Ed was busy scooping up eggs. And when the hunt was over, the teacher asked all of the children to come forward and show what they had found.

          One by one, the egg-hunters held up their baskets. This one had two eggs. That one had three eggs. Some of the hunters had just one or none. When Ed muscled up his overflowing basket for inspection, he was proud of his 37 finds. But rather than be complimented on his industriousness, the teacher said, “Now, Ed, we want you to put all your eggs on the table. And everybody else put theirs there, too.”

          “Everybody is going home with the same number of eggs,” she announced.

          And right then, Ed—the child cynic—decided to become a Republican.

(A version of this column was first published on April 14, 2014.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

There are two ways to get a miniature mule

 

            My wish list baffles most folks.

            I have never wanted a convertible, a motorcycle or an airplane.

            But for the past three years, I have wanted a miniature mule. No, not a donkey. I have five of those, plus a big red mule with black stockings. So, how do you get a miniature mule?

            There are two ways:

§  You breed a miniature donkey—a jack—with a mare miniature horse. And then you wait 11 to 14 months for a miniature mule to be born. That was my plan 36 months ago. Larry Walker loaned me Kickapoo, his miniature mare, to spend time with Otis, our miniature jack. The plan was for Larry to get the first miniature mule, and I’d get the second. So far, nada for both of us.

§  You buy two miniature mules, one for Larry and one for me. But where? Enter Robert McCurley. He walked into The Oglethorpe Echo to advertise two miniature mules for sale. I could hear him from my office, so I poked my head into the lobby. Our office manager started laughing. Tanya knew who was going to buy those tiny mare mules.

            She was right.

            One trip to Robert’s pasture, and I was smitten. We shook hands, and he delivered the 2-year-olds two days later. They’re in a separate stall, but the llamas, donkeys, Kickapoo, and Maggie, the big mule, are keeping their eyes on the new arrivals. Ditto for the three barn cats. They perch on a high stack of hay bales to watch the what’s-going-to-happen-next circus.

            Until Robert’s son put halters on them, the mules had never been touched by human hands. In a word, the pair is wild. The closest that I’ve been to them is 3 feet.

            Sunday afternoon, I tried something different.

            I took a bucket of sweet feed into the stall and put it on the ground. A few feet away, I turned a 5-gallon bucket upside down and sat on it. For the next hour, I read a book and watched them out of the corner of my eye. And they watched me. I thought they might get curious and come over for a sniff. But if I moved, they made a mad dash—kicking up orange dust—around the 24-foot-square stall. So much for that theory.

            After watching a few YouTube videos, I had a better idea. I’d call friends who actually knew what to do. I’m not about to let these four-legged ladies outsmart me. Stay tuned.

            Oh, what are their names?

I haven’t decided yet. Thelma and Louise have been suggested, as well as Polly and Esther. Ummm, I’m going to let Larry participate in the naming rights.

            So, when did I get fascinated with mules? As a boy, I marveled at Coca-Cola baron Robert W. Woodruff’s quail-wagon mules on his Ichauway Plantation in Baker County. I decided then that one day I’d have a pair of big draft mules. I had to wait about 40 years.

In the early 1990s, I announced to my wife that I was giving her a ruby and a rose for Valentine’s Day. We were at our Lake Hartwell farm. Pam smiled and asked, “Where are they?” I pointed out the kitchen window and said, “There they are—your Ruby and Rose, the prettiest mules you’ll ever see.”

            And with that, she quipped, “Now we have three jackasses on this farm—the two in the pasture and the one who brought them here.”

            Yeah, I baffle her, too.       

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

If the Okefenokee isn’t worth saving, what is?

 

            With a nod to William Shakespeare, the question is “To mine or not to mine?”

            If you are talking about the Okefenokee, I have made my opinion clear. The humongous blackwater swamp is a treasure, and nothing—absolutely nothing—should be attempted that will risk harming our irreplaceable gem of nature.

            But it ain’t that simple.

            One of the first rules of journalism is to follow the money.

            And while money talks, big money screams.

            Those big-money screams under the Gold Dome are keeping our leaders from saying, “Twin Pines Minerals, take your draglines elsewhere. The Okefenokee is too valuable to prostitute for titanium or any other minerals.”

            But, oh, no.

The Alabama miners have done their best to pave a route to Trail Ridge, the eastern lip of the Okefenokee, with dollars, a bunch of them. An army of Twin Pines lobbyists and strategic campaign contributions have tamped down efforts of the General Assembly to do what millions believe is the right thing—save the swamp. If the Okefenokee isn’t worth saving, what is?

Where is Georgia’s Department of Natural Resources (DNR) board on this? If that governor-appointed group isn’t our stalwarts for protection of the environment, who—pray tell—is? Back when this Twin Pines proposal surfaced, I made a personal appeal to each board member. One DNR board member replied, “You’d be surprised how little we get to decide.”

Duh.

Under DNR’s organizational umbrella is Georgia’s Environmental Protection Division (EPD). That unit granted a “draft permit” but left the matter open until after an April 9 deadline for a 60-day public-comment period. Already more than 100,000 have commented. (You can comment by going to TwinPines.Comments@dnr.ga.gov.) I am an eternal optimist. But short of a miraculous change of attitude, Twin Pines is going to get what it bought.

Why?

The big money and lobbyists have helped the General Assembly find an excuse to say no—invasion of private property rights. Twin Pines owns the property and presumes the right to gouge and drain enormous holes in Trail Ridge next to the Okefenokee. In addition, our leaders appear to believe the miners’ will-do-no-harm scientists rather than independent experts who are waving the warning flags.

Whom would I trust? It wouldn’t be Twin Pines Minerals or its scientists.

Now about private property rights.

I am a private property owner. I want my rights, too, but there are commonsense restrictions. For example, I cannot do something on my property that will harm my neighbor’s property. The Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge is Twin Pines’ neighbor, in a big way, all 438,000 acres. The fear is that mining will have a negative impact on the swamp’s hydrology. Simply, nearby deep digging will drain too much water for ecological sustainability.

Want a private-property-rights analogy?

I am an advocate of the First Amendment, which gives you and me the right to voice our opinions. That’s what I’m doing right now. However, there are some commonsense restrictions. We cannot shout “fire” in a crowded theater if there’s no fire. We don’t have the right to libel or slander someone. I add, “Your freedom of speech ends within a quarter-inch of my nose.” As for private property rights, Okefenokee’s “nose” is the boundary line separating Twin Pines and the swamp.

Remember cartoonist Walt Kelly’s Okefenokee philosophical possum, Pogo? Pogo mused, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” If Georgians give up on protecting the Okefenokee Swamp, truer words have never been spoken. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

‘Sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits’

 

            Althea Poppell, Barbara Bilfelt, Mildred Jones, Gussie Richardson, Sara James, Ila Warren and Nanelle Bacon had something in common. My early educators didn’t know about ADHD (attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder). Instead, my first seven teachers knew that I had AIP.

            What’s that?

             I can hear Nanelle Bacon right now.

            “Good Lord, son, you have ants in your pants (AIP)!”

            She was just announcing what my other teachers already knew. That was 1960, and I still have trouble sitting still.

Hyperactivity is why I flunked my retirement in 2021. After 65 days, I had to address my squirming. The remedy was founding a nonprofit and helping rescue a 148-year-old newspaper before it fell into its grave. For 28 months, I’ve been working harder for free than during my final years of receiving a paycheck.

Now The Oglethorpe Echo is thriving, thanks to a partnership with UGA’s Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication, a super-smart staff, and a team of eager volunteers. I will never totally disconnect myself from the newspaper. But now, I just don’t have to be the first one in the office or the last one to leave.

If you think that I’m going to actually retire, I won’t. Somewhere out there, something has my name on it besides doing farm chores until sundown. Attending the games and activities of eight grandchildren will always be a high priority and a fun “something.”

A.A. Milne’s character Winnie-the-Pooh mused, “Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.” While I’ve been “sits-ing” and thinking, I created a short list of now-that-I-have-some-extra-time possibilities:

1. Twenty-six years ago, I took piano lessons. I wanted to see whether I could make music from the 88 keys before I was 50. I could—a little—but never for public listening. This time, I’d like to learn some “hot licks.” I loved watching gospel pianist Ray Lane make his upright piano jump. I once traveled to Mississippi to see Jerry Lee Lewis shuffle to his Yamaha grand and make it do “a whole lotta shakin’.” If I could live to 100, I might be able to play “Great Balls of Fire.” But I would have to do a whole lotta practicin’.

2. Ditto for the harmonica. Eric, our younger son, and I once spent a week at a blues camp in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Eric got to be good. I made our dogs dive under the couch. Now that the dogs are resting in peace, I dream about playing the “Orange Blossom Special.” But I might have to live to 105.

3. Juggling fascinates me. Years ago, I bought a teach-yourself-how-to-juggle kit. I read the book and watched the video. A couple of hours of that reminded me of the old Brylcreem jingle: “A little dab’ll do ya.” A little dab of that $9.95 investment didn’t pay off. Guess work got in the way, again.

4. Whistling is another intriguing skill. A few of God’s children are world-class whistlers. The rest of us just make silly noises. I’ve known people who could hook their pinkies in their mouths and call their dogs from three blocks away. I’d like to call my mule, Maggie, to the gate for her apple. If someone could teach me that shrill roll-your-tongue whistle in one afternoon, I’d pay $100. Any takers?

Meanwhile, you might ask, “Why don’t you take Winnie-the-Pooh’s advice and just ‘sits’?”

I can’t.

Why?

Seven teachers knew.

I was born with ants in my pants.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com