An uncle’s lucky coin toss was a win for our family

 

              With a flip of a coin between two bachelors, she came into our family.

               And I don’t remember a time when Aunt Edith wasn’t in my life.

               I was 6 years old in 1954, when Edith Usry married my mother’s younger brother, Billy Vines. He and his older brother, Joe, were my heroes. They didn’t have sons, so they introduced me to the outdoors—hunting, fishing, dogs, Jeeps, boats and campfire yarns, along with love and respect of nature. Joe died in 1963. That’s a story for another day.

               But what did a coin toss have to do with all this?

               Back in March, I called Uncle Billy’s widow to hear her voice and reminisce.

               Edith Usry was a brand-new 1952 graduate of Berry College when she accepted a third-grade teaching job in Newton, south of Albany. The roots of my mother’s people run deep along Baker County’s Highway 91 and the Flint River. But Edith knew no one, except her roommate Margeurite and their widowed landlord, Mrs. Maude McCloud.

               Margeurite shopped at the Suwanee Store on the courthouse square. The grocery was owned by Billy’s buddy H.C. McClain. In between 93-year-old giggles, Aunt Edith told how H.C. asked Billy, “Why don’t you and I take those new teachers on a double date?”

               And to decide who would escort whom to the Baker County High School basketball game, the bachelors flipped a coin. (Joe was the coach and school principal.) Billy “won” Edith for the night, but she soon won his heart, too. They were married in 1954. H.C. and Margeurite married, too.

               Billy and Edith’s honeymoon was in his mother’s farmhouse on the Colquitt Highway. From Newton, you could get there before Hank Williams finished wailing “Kaw-Liga” on Camilla’s WCLB-AM. And that’s where we met, Nanny’s house. My granddaddy had died. Billy helped save the family farm, while his young bride taught in town.

               Before long, the newlyweds moved to Newton. When I look at my right hand’s palm, I see the scar, and I’m sitting on the backsteps of their red clapboard house. Aunt Edith was cleaning corn. I volunteered to help and asked her to give me a knife. I might have been 8.

“You sure you know how to do this?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When we talked in March, Aunt Edith was still apologizing for my gashing a half-moon slit in the pad of my palm. In retrospect, it was a good-parenting experience for when their daughters, Vicky and Beverly, were born. And for me, the scar is a reminder of how much I loved being in the home of my hero and his bride.

Around 1960, Riverview Plantation—across the Flint in Mitchell County—hired Uncle Billy as a dog-handler and quail-hunting guide. I spent two glorious summers there, working in the tobacco patches for $3 per day. Aunt Edith kept my tobacco-tar-stained clothes washed and country cooking on the table. I was a happy city boy turned farmhand.

In an ironic twist, my wife, Pam, grew up in the Hopeful community with Cader Cox, the second-generation owner of Riverview. Cader and I bonded in his daddy’s “bakker” patches, and we’re best of friends today. After I notified my family of Aunt Edith’s death, Cader was the next person I contacted.

Uncle Billy died in 2003.

Mother died 11 years later.

That left Aunt Edith as my living link to the past.

After Uncle Billy’s death, she eventually moved to Bainbridge to live with Beverly.

               Without fail, Aunt Edith called on my birthday.

She always brought up that corn-cleaning mishap. I think it was so that she could apologize again. And then, we’d laugh. I will carry Aunt Edith’s loving, distinctive voice to my grave.

Yes, sir.

Uncle Billy won the coin toss.

And that meant our family did, too.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

The University of Georgia was right choice in 1966

 

           All I wanted was a half-gallon carton of organic milk.

But when I cracked open the cooler’s door, I heard one girl tell the other, “Put that back.”

            “I thought you said that we needed this.”

            “Yeah, but I’m not buying anything. My parents are coming tomorrow, and I want them to buy the groceries.”

            That brief exchange between UGA coeds was a hint at how savvy and smart today’s students are. If you haven’t heard, look at these numbers:

§  The freshman class of 6,200-plus has an average GPA of 4.17.

§  The average SAT score is 1356 out of a perfect 1600. The average ACT score is 31 out of a possible 36. Their academic accolades stack even higher.

            All this underscores a very obvious fact.

            I am most fortunate that I was accepted into UGA when I was.

            My high school grades were competitive, but my SAT score would have gotten my application tossed into the trash. Unless I had been an exceptional athlete. And I wasn’t.

            Listening to the coeds put me into a time machine, spinning backwards to 1965. At suppertime, we talked about where I’d go to college.

            If I had listened to my mother, I would never have moved into room 212 of Oglethorpe House in September 1966. “The University of Georgia is too big,” she said. “You’ll get lost among all those 14,000 students.”

            And then she added, “Besides, good Baptist boys should go to Mercer. Yes, Mercer would be perfect for you. But it would be even better if you went to Brewton-Parker Junior College and then transferred to Mercer in Macon.”

            “But Mother, I want to go to college in Athens.”

            “It’s a very big decision. You really should pray about this.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            A few days later, she asked, “Well, did you and the Lord discuss where you’d go next year?”

            “Yes, ma’am, we did. After praying about it, I have my choices narrowed down to two places: Vietnam or UGA.”

            She sighed and answered, “Go, Dawgs!”

            And when September arrived, I stuffed my assortment of Gant shirts, starched khakis, oxblood Weejuns, Gold Cup stocks, alligator belts and whatever else I needed into the trunk of Big Dink and Margie’s 1964 teal-blue Buick and headed to Athens. (Freshmen couldn’t have cars in 1966.)

            But then my dad said, “Athens is a long way from Jesup. It’s too far to go in one day.” We stopped short and spent the night in Greensboro.

            As we were settling into the Nathaniel Greene Motor Court, he asked the clerk, “Do you know a Dr. H.A. Thornton?” She smiled and pointed across the street. “He lives right there,” she said. Daddy walked over to say hello to a grade-school buddy from the 1930s.

            And then I heard the cackling of the I’m-not-going-to-buy-anything coed. That snapped me out of the time-machine fog.

            Now, it’s 2025.

I can’t believe it’s been 55 years since President Fred C. Davidson signed my diploma.

            And then I wondered, “What if I hadn’t gone to the University of Georgia?”

            In 1968 I had a blind date with a freshman, a South Georgia farmer’s daughter. Pam and I will celebrate our 56^th anniversary on Aug. 23. Our three children—Alan, Emily and Eric—met their spouses through UGA. Among the eight of us, there are 10 Georgia degrees. And on the days when our eight grandchildren were born, they, too, became lifetime members of the UGA Alumni Association.

            Yes, indeed.    

            The University of Georgia was the perfect choice.

            Savoring those thoughts, I walked out of the grocery store.

And, oh, with the half-gallon carton of milk.

            Go, Dawgs. 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Celebrating unexpected reunion with score of ‘old friends’

 

               What’s one of life’s most enjoyable surprises?

               For me, it’s reconnecting with old friends.

               For days now, I’ve been basking over the reunion with more than 100 unforgettable acquaintances. One by one—without saying a word—they spoke to me. And I still hear what they had told me years ago.

               Why were they silent?

               The answer is simple.

They couldn’t say anything.

               Books do their talking through written words. And since I learned to read, books have been among my best friends.

               As a Southerner, good books are much like a bag of hot boiled (green) peanuts.

               How’s that?

               I can’t get enough of either one.

               For me, peanut-boiling season kicks off with Labor Day weekend and college football. But I’ve spent days going through stacks and stacks of books reminiscing. Maybe it was Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn that got me into exploring what is printed between the covers of books.

               There was a time when my book diet was reading a minimum of one per week. In a good seven-day stretch, I could devour two. These days, the hunger is still there. But I’ve slowed down.

               Why?

               I must find time to deal with my ever-growing library of friends.

               Let me introduce you to a few. They may be your friends, too.

Rick Bragg

               The Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist/author is my favorite modern-day wordsmith. Last time we visited—in between his gnawing on barbecued ribs—he told me about an upcoming book, The Best Cook in the World, Tales from my Momma’s Table. In a word: delicious. His stories and Momma Bragg’s recipes.

Ferol Sams and Lewis Grizzard

               When my friend and mentor Pat Pattillo gave me the Fayetteville doctor’s Run with the Horsemen in 1982, I was hooked. One evening after a Dawg game in Athens, I was sitting on Loran Smith’s back porch between Dr. Sams (Sambo) and Lewis Grizzard. It was a contest between the two to see who could make us laugh the hardest. I went home with my ribs aching.

               Both are gone, but I believe I have read every book each one wrote. I often wonder how today’s speech police would react to Lewis Grizzard’s irreverent brand of commentary. Readers loved or hated him. And Lewis was delighted either way.

               John Grisham

               The Mississippi lawyer turned best-selling author has written enough books to make most bookshelves sag. I’ve read all 37. My favorites are among his first novels: A Time to Kill, The Firm and The Client.

               William C. Harris Jr.

               When the Savannah podiatrist wrote Delirium of the Brave, attorney Alvin Leaphart, an aspiring novelist, asked whether I knew William Harris. No, but I called someone who did. Savannah attorney Sonny Seiler, owner of Bulldog mascot, Uga, knew just about everyone in his hometown.

 A few days later, Alvin, his wife Beverly, Sonny and I were sitting in a booth at Johnny Harris’ restaurant with Dr. Harris. I enjoyed John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, but I really, really liked Delirium of the Brave.

Jimmy Carter

We met in 1970 on the UGA campus. Even in his 90s, he’d respond—in handwriting—to my letters. The 39th president was a prolific author and world-class fisherman. I’ve read most of his 32 books. Perhaps my favorite is An Hour Before Daylight.

 I recommend Jimmy Carter: Rivers & Dreams by Jim Barger Jr. and Dr. Carlton Hicks. I promise you’ll be educated on unexpected subjects. And the foreword, written by President Carter, is believed to be his last published piece before his death at age 100.

Brainard Cheney, Wendell Berry, Robert Ruark, Ernest Hemingway, Larry Brown, Willie Morris, Ludlow Porch, Jim Minter and a score of other “friends” prompted an unexpected reunion when Pam said, “See who’s here.”

And then she opened the door of a high-up and rarely thought-about cabinet.

There they were.

All 149.

Thanks for reading these words.

But please excuse me.

I must go.

               Old friends have surprised me with a visit.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Memory-making adventure in Alaska

 

            How long does it take to get from Homer, Georgia, to Homer, Alaska?

            Well, that depends.

            Northeast Georgia’s Homer is 33 miles from where I live. And the journey to Alaska took me 76 years, seven months, 27 days, 10 hours and 36 minutes.

            But why did I wind up 4,578 miles from home anyway?

            In our family of 16—when vacation travel is on the ballot—popular vote rules. Alaska was this year’s winner. The soundtrack of the adventure was Dionne Warwick’s song “Trains and Boats and Planes.” We rode them all. And after 10 days of rambling around in America’s 49^th state, here’s a sampler pulled from my mental backpack:

§  The museum on the Fairbanks campus of the University of Alaska was a good first stop for a short course on the state’s history, people, nature and wildlife. A walk through the botanical garden was a preview of the floral wonders awaiting. Flowers flourish in Alaska’s almost endless days of sunshine. And if you think cold weather kills mosquitoes, think again. Those pesky blood-suckers could be Alaska’s state bird.

§  An eight-hour ride south—sitting in the glass dome of the Wilderness Express, atop the tail-end railcar of the Alaska Railroad—gave us a panoramic view of the rugged beauty. Every scene was a postcard-worthy photograph. For some of our eight grandchildren, this was their first train ride.

§  Talkeetna, an unincorporated village of 997 people, captivated everyone. To accentuate its laidback culture, Aurora (a cat) is the honorary mayor. And if you walk to the dead end of Main Street—chocked with a mishmash of eclectic architecture—you might get a look at North America’s king of mountains, Denali, aka Mount McKinley.

§  On our river-raft float, both guides pleaded, “Take my picture.” They were startled by the clear view of the 20,310-foot king and his court of adjoining mountains that are typically shrouded in clouds. Twice, grandsons and their dads, with Denali in the background, caught salmon in the Chulitna River. In excited unison, they reported, “Incredible.” (Yes, on every family trip, fishing poles and tackle are carry-on “luggage.”)

§  There wasn’t a universal favorite, but Homer was high on everyone’s list. The Homer Spit is a 4.5-mile-long skinny finger of earth that sticks into the heart of Kachemak Bay. The salt air, raucous seagulls, chatter about catching halibut and salmon, snow-capped mountains, and boats of every kind said to me, “This is the Alaska that I imagined.”

§  A 15-minute water-taxi ride delivered us to the off-the-grid Odyssey Lodge, perched on the hillside of a high-tide island. From kayaking to hiking to pointing out breathtaking vistas to meals to remember, the eager-to-please staff made it happen.

§  And Alan, Emily and Eric, along with their spouses and their children, made a “first” happen for Odyssey. The lodge’s water taxi took 14 of our family to China Poot Bay’s Kachemak Bay State Park, which has no facilities, and dropped them off for eight hours of unguided exploring and fishing. Pam and I chose books over sloshing around in the rain.

            With his flyrod, grandson Wyatt Wilson caught and released a guesstimate of 40 rainbow trout. His dad, Tom, said, “The salmon were stacked so thick in the stream, it seemed as if you could walk across their backs to the other side.” Alan, Eric and Tom froze and lugged home 60 pounds of wild salmon filets in their coolers.

            Sitting around the dinner table in Anchorage, I was quizzed about my favorite memory. I recapped all of the above before choosing.

As a grandfather, I cherished most the smiles, the wide-eyed wonderment, the nonstop laughter and the arm-in-arm best-buddies camaraderie of our eight grandchildren. All along the way, strangers complimented Wyatt, Hayes, William, Henry, Fenn, Bayard, Smith and Stella on their politeness, congeniality and obvious love for each other.

            That memory will keep me smiling forever.

I am a lucky grandpa.

But I didn’t have to experience the Homer-to-Homer-and-back trip to discover that.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

 

One of the highlights of the 10-day Alaska adventure was rafting down the Chulitna River in Talkeetna and getting a rare view of North America’s tallest mountain, unobstructed by clouds. With Denali, aka Mount McKinley, in the background are, from left, Dink NeSmith, Heather NeSmith, William NeSmith, Fenn NeSmith, Alan NeSmith, Emily N. Wilson, Smith Wilson, Wyatt Wilson, Henry Wilson, Hayes Wilson, Tom Wilson, Stella NeSmith, Eric NeSmith, Connell NeSmith, Bayard NeSmith and Pam NeSmith.

 

We’re in race backwards with coal

 

            From the campaign stump, Donald Trump vowed he could end the Russia-Ukraine War on his Day One in the White House.

            Months after taking office, he admitted, “That was an exaggeration.”

            In 2019 Georgia Power announced it was shutting down its coal-fired plants in favor of more solar. Here’s company senior vice-president Allen Reaves’ statement: “We are positioning Georgia as a leader in the Southeast in battery storage, which is critical to growing and maximizing the value of renewable energy for customers as we increase our renewable energy by 72 percent by 2024.”

            The Public Service Commission (PSC) praised and ballyhooed the decision.

            And I did, too, in an Aug. 7, 2019, column.

            But in recent weeks, the behemoth electricity-provider has changed its mind.

            Should we write off the 2019 announcement as an exaggeration, too?          

            I think not.

            Ditto for President Trump when he promised America the cleanest, safest water and air in the world. Let’s hope that’s not an exaggeration, too. However, our 45^th and 47th president has promoted coal as “clean and beautiful.”

            Scientific facts say otherwise.

Burning nasty coal poisons our air and threatens our water. Today, Georgia Power has a number of its coal-ash storage ponds sitting in groundwater and leaking. These cancer-causing heavy metals could contaminate our drinking-water supply.

            What’s Georgia Power doing about it?

            Monitoring.

            Apparently, the company believes time will cure the dangerous sores.

            In addition to backing out on its no-coal pledge, the situation is about to get worse. Rather than less coal, Georgia Power is planning to burn more. Seems we are entering a race backwards. And what does the PSC say?

            As expected, “a go for it.”

            Our utility watchdogs are elected. But when vacancies occur, the governor makes appointments. These men and women are charged to keep the best interest of Georgians in mind. But history doesn’t always reflect that. When Georgia Power says, “Frog,” the PSC watchdogs jump, usually into the utility’s lap. That goes for most of our Gold Dome leaders, too.

            If the fictional sleuth Sherlock Holmes was alive, he’d say to his assistant, “My dear Watson, they don’t call it Georgia Power for naught.” What Georgia Power wants is what Georgia Power gets.

            I have said this dozens of times. Georgia Power employs thousands of outstanding, dedicated people. It is a major contributor to our state’s healthy economy. We need Georgia Power, but that shouldn’t entitle it to do whatever it wants.

            Enter the gold rush for power-hungry data centers. Thanks to the explosion of artificial intelligence (AI), data centers are spreading over Georgia like industrial kudzu. Not everyone is happy about this, especially residential neighborhoods waking up to find the monstrous facilities near their backyards.

            But who’s the happiest?

            Georgia Power, of course.

            Well, its coal suppliers, too.

            Naturally, the PSC thought it was a good idea. The rationale was that it is better to burn coal than overstress the state’s power grid. Data centers are power-hungry, as are the noisy and increasingly unpopular crypto-mining operations.

            Data centers must also have fiber-optic connections to the rest of the world. Georgia communities are catching up with this technology requirement, so we’re attractive targets for the developers of these massive centers. Campuses, they call them.

            Data centers are also water hogs. For now, Georgia is water-rich. You’d think our citizens, especially our farmers, would want it to stay that way. In this data-center stampede, isn’t moderation a reasonable strategy?

            But in the meantime, Georgia Power is licking its bottom-line lips. Forget the risks to our irreplaceable natural resources. Pour on the coal. That seems to be the plan.

            I have a suggestion.

If Georgia Power is intent on backtracking on its no-coal commitment, it should pledge to use a significant portion of these data-center-windfall profits for cleaning up the mess of its leaking toxic-coal-ash ponds. Drain the ponds. Store the toxic materials in dry units on company property. Don’t spread the toxic industrial waste around the state.

Georgia Power, live up to your slogan: “A citizen wherever we serve.”

To do less will change the meaning of GP, the abbreviation of the company’s name.

GP, greedy polluter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com