February 6, 2025

Don’t forget this key to long-lasting relationships

 

            After 57 years of Valentine’s Day celebrations, I’ve learned that there’s one element that must be in the equation of a long-lasting relationship. Humor isn’t the only factor, but I believe that it’s essential in the mix.

            For a case in point, let’s go back 30 years.

            We were at our Lake Hartwell farm, standing in the kitchen on Valentine’s Day.

“Pam,” I said, “over the years, I have given you lots of jewelry and flowers. But this year, I wanted to give you a very special ruby and a rose.”

            She smiled and said, “That’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”

            Then, she waited for me to hand her the gifts.

Instead, I pointed out the window. “They’re out there, standing by the fence. Their names are Ruby and Rose.”

            First, she stared at the enormous strawberry-roan draft mules, and then she looked at me. With a wry smirk, she said, “Oh, how nice. Now we have three jackasses on this farm—the two standing in the pasture and the one who brought them here.”

            That was 1995, and we are still laughing about that one.

            (As long as the magnificent mules were alive, they were the grande dames of our critter collection.)

            Both our families’ roots are deep into Southwest Georgia soil. All of Pam’s people were farmers. Before her dad died, he restored and gave to me the horse-drawn implements that he and his father used in Mitchell County. Across the Flint River, in Baker County, my mother’s family must have plowed thousands of miles behind mules, too.


            While we have bought our groceries from money made in town, the digging-in-the-dirt DNA is sown into our souls, too. That’s why we live on a farm. Different people have different hobbies. Ours is piddling with projects, planting a few things and “decorating” our pastures with four-legged “ornaments.” Our menagerie of comical critters is entertainment for us, our grandkids and guests.

            And it all started with the gift of Ruby and Rose.

            Since 1995, we’ve had a variety of barnyard pets. The mix included mules, horses, Belted Galloway (Oreo) cows, Royal Palm turkeys, Bantam chickens, miniature donkeys, llamas, Great Pyrenees dogs and barn cats.

            I have never declared, “Today, I am going to get some cats.” But several years ago, a pregnant feral female just picked our farm to birth three kittens. I must confess, “The four felines have been fun.” Three live at the mule barn, and their mother is in charge of the storage barn. When the cats came, the rat-and-mice problem vamoosed.

Rascal, Bubba, Sister and Mamma each have their distinct personalities. But they all want two things: food and a generous scratch behind their ears. Bubba is my “dog.” As I do my chores, he follows me around. Sometimes he perches on a fence post to watch and to make sure I’m doing things right. And for his supervision, he expects an extra scratch or two.

Oops.

How could I forget the goat era?

Ever since 1955, when Steve Strickland and I pooled our crumpled dollar bills to buy a $4 goat at his granddaddy’s stockyard, I had wanted another goat. Actually, I imagined goats. Circa 1994, we started with four. Billy goats come into the world with one thing on their minds. Yep, we blinked and had a herd of 75 goats.

Today, we have zero.

But we really miss those animated kids, kicking and frolicking in the pasture. Goats have more playful personalities than most people.

That gives me an idea. After all these Valentine’s Days, I am running out of creativity for Feb. 14. So, I’m thinking about a starter pair of nanny goats. We could name them Ruby and Rose.

I wonder whether Pam will laugh this time.

Stay tuned.      

 


 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

January 30, 2025

Three of President Donald Trump’s promises

 

            Somewhere among my shelves of books is a New York Times best-seller, circa 1987. I helped to make it popular by being one in the masses who purchased the 372 pages about a Big Apple real-estate phenom, Donald J. Trump.

            The Art of the Deal catapulted Trump into the national spotlight and helped to make the enterprising entrepreneur a household name. You know the rest of the story. And we are learning more every day, as he is wasting no time plowing into his second term behind the big desk in the Oval Office.

            Let’s pause and go back nine years.

            In 1976, one of the most popular TV commercials was “You asked for it; you got it—Toyota.” (The featured Toyota Corolla listed for $2,789.)

            Last November’s election results are a first-cousin flashback to that commercial. “You asked for it; you got it—Trump.”

            “The Donald” (as he was first known) and I were born into different worlds—two years apart. He came out of his mother’s womb clutching a silver spoon. My mother clutched my sister and me, as we bounced to church in the funeral home’s gravedigging truck that belonged to Big Dink’s boss.

But I wouldn’t change a thing, and I definitely wouldn’t switch places with Donald J. Trump in 2025.


In President Trump’s inaugural address he said that he was saved from a would-be assassin’s bullet for a reason. I quote from his transcript, “I was saved by God to make America great again.”  I am grateful the man behind that Pennsylvania rifle was a lousy shot. Violence has no place in America, including what happened on Jan. 6, 2021, at the Capitol, outside and inside.

There’s something else—besides Trump’s 78 years of gilded life —that is different between us. It’s his leadership style. One of my beloved mentors was Dr. J.W. Fanning, co-founder of Leadership Georgia, who introduced me to the philosophy of Gen. George Marshall.

The World War II hero described a leader as a person who exerts an influence that makes you want to do better than you thought you could. President Trump’s autocratic, proverbial bull-in-a-china-shop approach doesn’t do that for me.

But evidence so far—whether you like it or not—demonstrates that President Trump is determined to keep his campaign commitments. Here are three of those promises that I hope won’t be forgotten in his frantic scramble to shake up Washington and the world:

§  On Jan. 20, 2025, President Trump declared in his inaugural address that there would be a “revolution of common sense.” He added, “It’s all about common sense.” I am an advocate for common sense, too, but our definitions may differ.

§  President Trump promised that America would have the cleanest, safest water and air on the planet. I would say to that, “Yes!” Among the liberties sacred to Americans should be the assurance that the air that they breathe and the water that they drink will cause no harm. Whether you are rich or poor, those two are absolute necessities for a “great” America.

                    We cannot afford to let the MAGA slogan morph into “Make America Greedy                     Again,” as in allowing polluters to put profits ahead of responsible stewardship of                     our natural resources. During President Trump’s first administration, he installed                     foxes in our nation’s environmental henhouse. I believe common sense would                     suggest, “Let’s not do that again.”

§  President Trump promised to restore free speech in America. I thought we had that freedom since the ratification of the Constitution’s First Amendment on Dec. 15, 1791.  But, if our 47th president wants to champion that right, common sense suggests we shout, “Hallelujah!”

I respect Donald J. Trump’s right to his own opinions.

And I hope that he respects my First Amendment rights, too.


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

January 23, 2025

UGA professor’s challenge might be why you are reading this

 

            By the way he strutted, you could tell that the young professor was enjoying his command of our journalism class. Sharply dressed in a glen-plaid sport coat, a starched oxford-cloth shirt, a striped-silk tie, crisp khakis and spit-shined oxblood Weejuns, he pushed his tortoiseshell eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and gave us a menacing stare.

            “I need you to know,” he scowled, “that I have never given an A+, and I don’t expect to give one this quarter.”

            If I had been sitting in a quantum physics or calculus class, I would have murmured to myself, “Your record is safe with me, professor.”

            But the textbook that he was thumping—as if he was the Rev. Billy Graham—was The PRESS and AMERICA, An Interpretative History of Journalism.

            Wait a minute.

            (I just walked over and plucked the book, heavy-enough-to-be-a-doorstop, from a shelf.)

            This class wasn’t about using a slide rule or asking my brain to become Rhodes Scholar-smart. He was talking about one of my favorite subjects—history. All I had to do was listen, read and memorize.

            The challenge was on.

            His tests were multiple-choice.

            If you attended every class, you had a hint of what he thought was important. At night, I sat at the kitchen table of my New Moon mobile home, rereading the day’s material. I must have worn out a handful of blue-ink Bic pens underlining and scribbling in the margins.

            (I just paused, again, and thumbed through the book’s 801 pages. The musty smell took me back to 1969 and UGA’s Grady School of Journalism and Mass Communication.)

            In those days, printer’s ink hadn’t flirted with my veins. But I figured a journalism degree would be a good springboard into law school. Little did I know that the bespectacled professor was helping to redirect my future.

            He introduced me to John Peter Zenger, whose 1735 libel-trial victory continues to resonate today. While Zenger became a hero for free speech, it was his “Philadelphia lawyer,” Andrew Hamilton, who persuaded the court to free his client.

            On page 745, I reread what textbook author Edwin Emery wrote:

            “The obligations of any newspaper to its community are to strive for honest and comprehensive coverage of the news, and for courageous expression of editorial opinion in support of basic principles of human liberty and social progress.”

            That, readers of The Press-Sentinel, is why ink still courses through my veins.


            I am convinced—more than ever—that strong newspapers help to build strong communities. I hope that you don’t want to ever live in a community without a newspaper, either. What you are reading at this moment is not the national media. We are your hometown newspaper.

We are now in our 160th year of serving Wayne County’s readers and advertisers. We sit next to you at church. We visit with you in the grocery store. We cheer with you at ball games. We are neighbors. We hug your necks at funerals. And when you hurt, we hurt, too.

Growing up in Jesup, starting at age 8, I always had a job. But I wish that I had “enrolled”—as a teenager—in Elliott Brack’s School of Community Journalism at the Wayne County Press. I would have given up my courtroom ambition for the newsroom sooner. But I do give credit to the cocksure professor for sparking an interest that morphed into a passion for journalism.

Now, I’m in my 54th year of telling the “who, what, when, where, why and how.”

And after all these years, I still savor the satisfaction of earning the top grade from a professor who said that he’d never given an A+. Without him, you probably wouldn’t be reading this.

Challenges.

I love them.    

That’s why I am pleased the preppy professor taunted me to study harder and learn more about newspapers.

But most of all, I am especially grateful for you—our readers and our advertisers—of The Press-Sentinel.

Together, as neighbors, let’s keep the press (and digital platforms) rolling.


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A grandpa’s mission: Be a memory-maker

 

            If you asked me to count my one-on-one memories of both grandfathers, I wouldn’t need all my fingers. Starting with the firstborn, I was determined to change that with our eight grandchildren.

            Wyatt Wilson and I drove to New Orleans for the 2020 Sugar Bowl to see Georgia beat Baylor, 26-14.

            In 2022, his brother, Hayes, and I spent three days in Atlanta for the Peach Bowl. How could we ever forget that 42-41 nailbiter over Ohio State?

            And on Dec. 30, 2024, their cousin, William NeSmith, and I boarded Amtrak in Toccoa. The 13-hour ride took us to New Orleans and the 2025 Sugar Bowl. By now, you may have guessed that all 16 of our barking family wear red and black. In fact, when our family gathers for a meal, every one of the 32 feet under the table belongs to lifetime members of the UGA Alumni Association.

With the birth of each grandchild, Grandpa presented them with a lifetime, paid-in-full membership. Each of their parents—and their grandparents—met their spouses, courtesy of UGA.

Woof, woof!

            The train ride was a new twist for the mental scrapbook. That Amtrak experience was a first for 16-year-old William. Here are some of the memories of the week-long ramble:

§  Going, we traveled in comfortable coach seats. On the return, we were lucky to snare a roomette. We chose our meals from a menu, and all three were delivered to our door. We could snooze, snack, read or swap stories. When we stepped off the train in Toccoa—even at 1:10 a.m. Saturday—William and I were thumbs up on rail travel.

§  Another stroke of luck put us in the hotel with the Bulldog team and coaches. William got a chance to visit with quarterback Gunner Stockton, UGA president Jere Morehead, and a host of other university faculty and alumni.

§  I was really lucky to have William as my tech guy. With his smarts and his smartphone, he navigated our walking tour of New Orleans. When our Bulldog-red Nikes (courtesy of Santa’s elf) needed a rest, he booked Uber rides on his phone. And with his Amtrak app, William could show me exactly where we were along the tracks.

§  At Mother’s cafĂ©, I witnessed William eat his first po’ boy. Fried shrimp, of course. At the French Quarter’s Brennan’s, he forked his first-ever Oysters J’aime. He was a good sport about it. But he preferred the filet mignon, followed by a dish of their world-famous Bananas Foster. The Big Easy’s signature powdered-sugar-dusted pastry, beignets, made us both smile.


§  After our dinner at the iconic restaurant, we took a brisk walk down Bourbon Street. We had no idea of the terror that was yet to come. When my phone lit up at 6 a.m., we learned of the horror hours earlier. From our hotel window, William had a front-row seat to contemplate the sea of blue lights below brought about by evil. We prayed for victims and families of the mind-boggling tragedy.

§  Three of William’s great-grandfathers fought in World War II—two in the South Pacific and one in France. That’s why the World War II Museum was a must. And if I had my way, every high school student in America would watch the introductory give-you-goosebumps film, Beyond All Boundaries.

§  Inside Ceasars Superdome, we sat next to a friend and Dawg legend, Kirby Moore. I had already coached William to watch—on YouTube—No. 14 quarterbacking the famous Moore-to-Hodgson-to-Taylor flea-flicker pass that beat Bear Bryant’s Bama, 18-17, in 1965.

Woof, woof!

§  Since 1981, when Herschel ran and leaped over the Fighting Irish, Dawg fans didn’t think that you could spell “Sugar” without UGA. But when William and I—wearing our Bulldog-red Nikes—searched for our bus to take us back to the Marriott, we didn’t hear any barking. Instead, Notre Dame’s leprechauns were dancing a victory jig, 23-10.

Oh, well.

I’m counting on the Lord and good luck to get our grandchildren and me to many more Bulldog bowl games.

Get ready, Henry. You’re up next.

And then it’ll be Fenn, followed by Bayard, Smith and Stella. In the meantime, I’ve run out of fingers and toes, counting the memories from 2025’s Sugar Bowl adventure.

How about you, William?


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

January 9, 2025

Jimmy Carter leaves 100-year legacy of making world better

 

            In 2017 three black SUVs streaked by our older son’s truck on South Georgia’s Corridor Z. His wife, Heather, turned and said, “Alan, there goes President and Mrs. Carter. I bet they are headed to the island.”

            When the SUVs turned into the Friendly Express in Waynesville, Alan pulled in, too. Sure enough, it was the Carters. They were taking a rest stop. As Alan walked toward the Carters, Secret Service agents signaled him to stop. That’s when Alan called out, “President Carter, I’m Alan NeSmith. We appreciate your help in the coal-ash fight.”

            The 39th president of the United States—sporting his famous grin—walked past his guards. Shaking Alan’s hand, he said, “Tell your daddy hey.” The Nobel Peace Prize winner didn’t have to do that. But Jimmy Carter was just being, well, Jimmy Carter.

            The peanut farmer and I met on the University of Georgia campus in the spring of 1970. I was chairing the Interfraternity Council’s political forum for gubernatorial candidates. There were seven Democrats in the race, but the real battle was between former Gov. Carl Sanders and the former State Sen. Carter from Plains.

            When the former state senator arrived in Athens that May, he said, “I want to meet some students and find out what’s important to them.” I suggested that we climb on a UGA bus. He talked to every student, front to back.

            In November, Carter beat his opponent—whom he dubbed Cufflinks Carl—to become Georgia’s 76th governor. Even though we met 55 years ago and stayed in touch, our friendship never reached fishing-buddy status. Nonetheless, the 39th president of the United States always listened and responded. Among my keepsakes are Jimmy Carter letters and handwritten notes, stretching back to 1970.



            Another special memory was during the 1996 Olympics. As a presidential ambassador for chairman Billy Payne, I hosted Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter at a rhythmic gymnastics event in UGA’s Stegeman Coliseum. Cordial as ever, the former president flashed his ear-to-ear smile when we talked about that 1970 bus tour with the UGA students.

            While I was serving on the University System of Georgia’s Board of Regents, Georgia Southwestern State University hosted some of our meetings. I was always fortunate to sit at the dinner table with President and Mrs. Carter. True to his recall, our discussions picked up where we had left off years ago. One time, we talked about the coincidence that my mother and he were students at the Americus college when Pearl Harbor was bombed on Dec. 7,
1941.

If people figure that Jimmy Carter was just another farmer who had fallen off the peanut wagon, they have figured wrong. I suggest that you read The Outlier: The Unfinished Presidency of Jimmy Carter by Pulitzer Prize-winning author Kai Bird. And if you want to know more about Carter’s humble dirt-road upbringing, I recommend the former president’s memoir, An Hour Before Daylight.

Over the holidays, I read JIMMY CARTER, RIVERS & DREAMS by Jim Barger Jr. and Dr. Carlton Hicks, St. Simons Island residents, who were fishing buddies of President Carter and First Lady Rosalynn. Even in their 90s, the Carters were flyfishing globetrotters. Among the book’s stories is how Jimmy Carter leveraged a fishing trip at Camp David to get Egyptian President Anwar Sadat and Israel Prime Minister Menachem Begin to agree to peace.

Several times, I thanked Jimmy Carter for two of his gubernatorial legacies. He kept his promise to reorganize Georgia’s government, creating these new agencies: the Department of Natural Resources and the Environmental Protection Division. Our philosophies on stewardship of natural resources were in sync.

And when Wayne County was on the verge of becoming one of the largest toxic coal-ash dumps in America, Jimmy Carter stood up for my hometown. He had one-on-one conversations with the waste company’s largest shareholder, Microsoft’s Bill Gates. The correspondence and handwritten reports on those meetings are in my fireproof file.

Regardless of your political opinion of Jimmy Carter, I believe that he was the ultimate role model for former presidents. While others profited from their famous status, he used his genius and sweat to make this a better world. The Carter Center’s global impact on health and human rights, along with his swinging hammers with Habitat for Humanity, are just two testaments.

And we should always remember that his vision is responsible for doubling America’s national parks and saving millions of acres of Alaska’s irreplaceable wilderness.

Author of more than 30 books, Carter wrote in An Outdoor Journal, “It is good to realize that, if love and peace can prevail on earth … and if we can teach our children to honor nature’s gifts … the joys and beauties of the outdoors will be here forever.” I can’t think of a better blueprint for the future.

In his 1977 inaugural address, President Carter said, “To be true to ourselves, we must be true to others.” That short sentence defines his 100-year legacy of servant leadership. Jimmy Carter could have ignored my 1970 UGA invitation. He could have refused to endorse a book that Wayne Morgan and I produced in 2012 to help protect Georgia’s rivers. He could have passed on my plea to join our 2016 toxic coal-ash battle. And he certainly didn’t have to wave off his Secret Service agents so that he could shake Alan’s hand.

But he did.

And that “true to others” devotion is why Jimmy Carter must always be remembered.

 

(A version of this column was first published on Oct. 3, 2024, commemorating President Carter’s 100th birthday.)

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

January 8, 2025

For 2025, here’s my Don’t-Do List

 

            Ready or not, Happy New Year!

            Have you made a list of 2025 resolutions?

            I haven’t. Instead, I know what I won’t be doing. That’s an easier list to compile. And here’s what I’ve decided:

No shaved head

            Before shaved heads became the fashion rage for men, I could name only a few: Telly Savalas, Yul Brynner and Erk Russell.

            Erk, the shiny-domed defensive coach of UGA’s Junkyard Dogs, is gone. But I remember his famous quip: “All babies are born bald. God only covers the heads of the ones that He’s ashamed of.”

As a teenager, I worked for Jimmy Sullivan at S&R Men’s Shop. One day as I was dusting the rack of Stetsons, I asked my boss, “When do men start wearing hats?” He said, “Nobody will have to tell you. When your head gets cold, you’ll buy a hat.”


            As long as my silver possum-blond mop hangs on, I am going to forego the razor and a fedora.

No liver and onions

            As I moved through the Fort Campbell chow line, my stomach was growling. And I was thrilled when the Army cook slapped a big piece of fried meat on my metal tray. But my grin turned to a groan with the first bite.

Yuck, liver!

            I looked at my plate, and then I looked at the burly drill sergeant standing at the “slop” window. He had made it known, “Ain’t no soldier of mine goin’ hungry.” First, I tried mixing the liver with the apple pie. Still, yuck.

            So, when he was looking the other way, I wrapped the slab of nasty-tasting-to-me meat in a napkin and stuffed it into my olive-drab field jacket.

As we march into 2025, I am still not hungry enough to eat liver—with or without onions.

No hip-hop

            Once upon a time, I owned a radio station in Mitchell County. And when we piled into our Oldsmobile station wagon for a nighttime journey to visit Pam’s parents, Alan, Emily and Eric made a game of how quickly they could pick up the station’s signal. Usually, it was around Moultrie.

            One night, after listening for about 15 seconds, I punched the off button. The short stream of profanity was more than enough. Before getting to the grandparents’ farm, I detoured by the station and knocked on the door.

            The DJ asked, “Who are you?”

            “I am the owner of this station. And if my children can’t listen to what comes off of this tower, nobody will.”

            I love music. Sam Cook, Marvin Gaye, Ray Charles, the Tams, the Four Tops, the Temptations, Jackie Wilson, the Supremes, and don’t forget the Queen of Soul, Aretha Franklin. But hip-hop—no, thank you.

Nonetheless, I’ve become a fan of Snoop Dogg. I like Dogg’s playful personality, but I can’t name one of his songs. He is a genius, as are a host of other hip-hop artists. But for my personal taste, hip-hop is just the liver of music. Instead, please pile my plate high with Motown.

No tweeting

            One of my favorite movies is Cool Hand Luke, with Paul Newman. I’ll never forget the shotgun-toting captain’s line, “What we’ve got here is failure to communicate.”  

            Just the opposite is happening today. Communications are 24/7 from a zillion different directions. I acknowledge the presence and power of social media, but I’m happy to stick with the basics: email and texts.

            I am a hardcore advocate of freedom of speech. I encourage you to communicate however you wish. It’s America, after all. But don’t expect me to sign up for a half-dozen social-media platforms. And if you really want to impress me, pen a note and stick a stamp on the envelope with your handwritten words.

            The late Dr. Douglas Jackson preached, “The Five Bs of a good message are: Be brief, brother, be brief.”

And so is my list.

            Happy New Year!  


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com