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

Class of 1966, has it really been 59 years?

 

            For the most part, I am a planner. I keep an old-school booklet-type calendar so that I can see a month’s list of commitments at a glance.

            But then again, I have a belief that you can’t be too structured.

            Why?

            Because if it wasn’t for spontaneity and flexibility, some of the best things in life would never happen.

            For months, boyhood buddies—Pete Hires and Randall Bramblett—and I had been planning a few kick-back days of reminiscing about growing up in Jesup. We might even fish. Pete was bringing his son and a grandson from Massachusetts.

            There were suggestions that the excursion could turn into a mini reunion for our Class of 1966.

Members of the Class of 1966 attending the April 9 mini-reunion include, from left, Randall Bramblett, Eddy Parson, Paula Sharpe Peede, Mary Lloyd Pipkin, Judy Bennett Phelps, John Oglesby, Jack Jones, Marie Dent, Alice Barnes Kicklighter, Herschel Daniel, Michael Henry, Laotha Odum Carswell, Jerry Moseley, Edna Ruth Byrd Williamson, Delinda Ogden Pattie (teacher), Jimmy Watson, Beverly Westberry Leaphart, Patty Barr Sutker, Judy Sosebee Byrd, Bill Cheshire, Paula Eubanks, Larry Thompson, Ronald Anderson, Kenny Bryant and Dink NeSmith, host. Not pictured is Howard Powell.

            But Pete’s schedule took a different turn. A New England surgeon had other ideas for our classmate. And a pair of crutches don’t work too well in a boat. Pete & Co. had to punt.

            Here’s where spontaneity kicked in.

            Beverly Westberry Leaphart and Edna Ruth Byrd Williamson stepped up. Give those two ladies a task, and the details will fall into place before you can say, “Jesup Yellow Jackets.”

            Herschel Daniel, Randall and I had our assignment. We made sure the armadillo holes were filled. We couldn’t have our “old” friends tripping in the moonlit yard.

Patty Barr Sutker, Alice Barnes Kicklighter, Laotha Odum Carswell and a host of others were on the swat team to make the suppertime get-together come off without a hitch. Patty and her husband, Larry, got recognition for driving 1,100 miles round-trip for the backslapping and neck-hugging occasion.

Class president Jimmy Watson’s roasted-oyster table drew a crowd. Special guests were Roy and Delinda Pattie. Our class helped christen Miss Delinda Ogden in her first year of teaching. And Eddy Parson’s wife, Donna, was the official photographer.

Oh, yes, we called Pete and passed the phone around.

And we promised Pete that we’d plan another get-together for our 60^th reunion.

It’s going on the calendar, as soon as Beverly and Edna tell us when. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A prayer and ‘Superman’ win over the ‘Nerds’

 

            How were we to know?

            Know what?

            That we should have been paying closer attention.

            To whom?

            The “nerds.”

            Who were or are they?

            The socially awkward brainiacs in college dorms who were plotting to take over the world. And many dropped out of college to get an earlier start on the technology coup d’etat.

            Where were we in the early rumblings of this revolution?

            We were out doing what most college kids do. We were having fun and singing with The Tams, “Be young, be foolish, but be happy.”

            Sixty years later, we know better. We weren’t just foolish. We were dumb. Those nerds—and their brainiac children and grandchildren—now rule the world, which means they control our lives.

            Google these names: Bill Gates, Paul Allen, Larry Page and Mark Zuckerberg, just to name a few.

            Oops, don’t forget Elon Musk.

He’s the richest man on the globe and the second-most-powerful person in America. Maybe the world.

            In the 1980s radio/cable TV entrepreneur Farnell O’Quinn advised, “Write this down. The future will be all about cellular phones.” At the time, my friend had no inkling that the internet was soon to be the next big thing to magnify the power of his prediction.

            I guess that I was a poor listener on that, too.

But now, try to get along without your cell phone.

Our smartphones store more data and do more functions than the early computers that wouldn’t fit inside a 40-foot trailer being pulled by a Peterbilt big rig.

My cell phone—bless its heart, if it had one—has become my mobile office. With the handheld device, I manage text messages, send and receive emails, maintain contact lists, and navigate in unfamiliar territory. It’s a calculator and a camera. These days, my trusty Nikon mostly collects dust.

Oh, yeah, I talk on my phone, too.

And I could play video games, place bets, post whatever on social-media platforms and do a plethora of other things, but I don’t.

But at this moment, my cell phone is useless. I am locked out. Maybe a finger fumbled and pushed the wrong button.

I went to the cell-phone store. That’s where I go to really feel stupid. But even the whiz kid couldn’t reset my passcode. Nick was nerdy-nice and instructed me to call the 800 Apple hotline.

I did, and I was greeted by a young man with a cheerful Latino lilt in his voice. (And that reminded me that I am woefully behind in my Spanish lessons.)

Jesus—not the son of God—wanted to help. However, he said that unless my data was backed up in the iCloud, I would lose everything stored in my cell phone.

Whaaaaat?

I have hundreds, maybe thousands, of contacts that were once at my fingertips on an old-school Rolodex. And—bless his heart, too—Jesus was saying that I would have to kiss all that goodbye.

But hold on.

Enter Michael.

In his early years on our corporate team, I dubbed him “Wonder Boy.” But after 20-plus years, he’s long since been elevated to “Superman.” He’s our company’s technology wizard. He’s not a nerd, but he can “geek” with the best of them.

Michael could sense the rising panic in my voice, so he said, “Go find something to do, and let me see what I can do.”

As I was walking out of his office, I was mumbling about the horror of losing my gazillion photos and my digital Rolodex. And then I lifted a prayer to the real Jesus.

In the meantime, Michael was putting on his tight blue suit, the one with the big “S” on the chest.

Heh, heh, heh.

“Superman”—and a listening Lord—saved the day, again.

And all my cell-phone stuff.

It was just hiding in the cloud.

Heh, heh, heh.

I am still too dumb in this fast-changing world.

But take that, nerds. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Cursive writing could become this century’s hieroglyphics

 

            Most days, the news is like slicing a soccer-ball-sized onion. The headlines will make your eyes water with frustration, anger or fear—mass murders, disappearing jobs, tariffs on a yo-yo string, trade wars or panic over prices. But beneath all that, there’s a significant story that’s getting barely a whisper of notice.

            Under the onion-like layers of odorous news is the likelihood that cursive handwriting will go the way of ancient hieroglyphics. And that would really stink. I am a communicator. Words and pictures have been keeping breakfast, lunch and supper on my plate for 54 years.

            Yes, I know.

            Technology has shifted my industry into overdrive, but that’s no excuse for laziness. The world has gone ga-ga over keyboards, so why waste time learning cursive? After all, if you’ve got two thumbs to text, why would you want to bother with gripping a pen or pencil to scratch out a note?

            I’ll tell you why.

            One of my dearest mentors, the late Dr. J.W. Fanning, opined, “Only words live forever.” There is absolutely nothing that replaces the value or impact of a sincere, handwritten note. I have a shoebox of Dr. Fanning’s words stored in a fireproof safe. Over the 15 years he wrote to me, I could see the years taking a toll on his penmanship, but that just makes the letters even more priceless.

            My mother, who lived a full 90 years, called note-writing her ministry. Rolls of stamps flew off her desk as she produced as many as 12 notes a day. Before the rooster opened its eyes, she’d already crafted a half-dozen notes. I remember one recipient–who was struggling in a family crisis—said, “I have more than 100 letters from your mother. I keep them in a desk drawer. When I’m having a bad day, I read a few of her letters. It’s the medicine I need.” And he was a doctor.

            Yes, I know.

            This is 2025, not 1955.

            Still, how many emails and text messages do you get a day? If you’re someone like me, there’s a never-ending tsunami of electronic words. If each word weighed a pound and was plopped into the oceans, the Pacific would meet the Atlantic around Omaha. Sure, some messages are heartfelt and meaningful. I appreciate my friends staying in touch, but I have a treasured file for handwritten correspondence.

            My second-grade teacher, Ms. Barbara Billfelt, wrinkled her nose when she looked at my hen-scratching on Blue Horse ruled paper. My handwriting still reeks. It will make your eyes water.

Nonetheless, I believe pen and ink bring out the better side of people. In our rapid-fire, got-a-new-communications-gadget-every-day world, civility and common courtesy are slipping, too. It’s too easy to rat-a-tat-tat-rat off an angry email.

            Yes, I know.

            This sounds like the rumblings of a dinosaur, but I believe children would become better adults if their parents insisted that they write thank-you notes. A grandparent may be impressed by a grandchild’s tweet of appreciation. But a handwritten note will be placed in an honored spot, behind a magnet on the refrigerator door.

            There are arguments that cursive is irrelevant, even elitist. I believe that, even if you don’t have the swirling flair of John Hancock, a founding father of America, or Gordon Bishop, a late Wayne County ordinary (probate judge), penmanship is a worthwhile life-skill discipline.

It’s like learning to offer a firm handshake. Look people in the eye when you are talking to them. And I’ll add “no problem” is a stinky substitute for “you are welcome” or “my pleasure.” Good manners will get you into places where money never will.

            If we write off the value of teaching cursive, we will take a step backwards. And just like peeling an onion, that should make us “cry.”

(A version of this column was first published on Feb. 2, 2011.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Kenny and Dolly sang the gospel of friendship

 

Today the lyrics of Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers have been looping in my brain. Over and over, I keep hearing their song “You Can’t Make Old Friends.”

            Yes, my boyhood buddy and I are old.

But I’m not talking about that kind of old. Randall Bramblett and I met each other—when we were just 3—pushing Tonka trucks in the sandbox of Jack and Jill Kindergarten.

            During elementary school, he lived on the T.G. Ritch side of the tracks, and I lived on the Orange Street side. We reconnected at Jesup Junior High. And on a May night in 1966, principal C.E Bacon and Superintendent James E. Bacon handed us diplomas from Wayne County High School.

Fifty-nine years later, we still call it Jesup High.

            Monday night, Randall rode around our hometown and reminisced. We both were born in the Ritch-Leaphart Hospital that stood three stories tall on the corner of Cherry and Macon streets. We were pleased to see the number of cars parked along Cherry Street and the Strand theater’s marquee lighting up the rainy sky.

We remembered the arrival of color TV. Folks stood on the sidewalk to watch NBC’s peacock logo flash in full color on the screens inside Harper’s Hardware. Bill Littlefield’s family was the first of our friends to get a color TV set.  

            Cruising Cherry, we named the stores of the 1950s and ‘60s. Of course, we couldn’t forget Sara Few, proprietor of Wayne County Music. That’s where we bought our Beatles records. Next door, our classmate Marie Dent’s father, James, was a loan officer at American National Bank.

            And we laughed about buying our shoes at Yeomans’, where salesman Nubbin Keith used high tech to see whether we had growing room in our new shoes. We stuck our feet in an X-ray-type machine. And our toes haven’t fallen off yet.

            Driving on Southwest Broad Street, we recalled Kinky Fender’s A&P grocery. I slowed at the corner of 111 W. Orange Street. NeSmith Funeral Home was where stories inspired my book, The Last Man to Let You Down, My Daddy the Undertaker.   

            Further down South West Broad, we pulled over. Randall wanted a good look at the brick buildings that were once Peede & Bramblett Cabinet Company. He spent his youth sweeping sawdust there before winning a Rayonier scholarship and going to UNC in Chapel Hill.

Randall reeled off stories and memories of personalities who did the exquisite millwork. My friend is a masterful songwriter. I hope he writes a book, too.

            Lester Dixon was a notable Peede and Bramblett personality. During my early UGA days, Lester was assigned to the law school renovation project. Freshmen couldn’t have cars, so the talkative craftsman was my old-school Uber ride home and back. For the round-trip fare, I helped Lester unload building supplies when we got back to Athens on Sunday nights.

            When we crossed the railroad tracks to “his” side, Randall asked, “Do you remember when Old Waynesville Road was dirt?” House after house, we clicked off who once lived where. And that prompted me to take him to the “dream house” that we couldn’t afford. His daddy had custom built the house for George Weinstein, founder of the furniture-maker Waynline.

            In 1973, with our first child on the way, Pam and I needed to move out of our tiny mobile home. By this time, Nubbin Keith was selling real estate, and he showed us the Park Lane house whose then owner was Tax Commissioner Ira Spell. They were asking $34,000, but they would take $31,000. I told Randall that while we marveled at the Peede and Bramblett quality, we couldn’t afford a $300 house payment. We settled for a $14,000 house on Brunswick Street. Our monthly payment was less than $100.

            The soundtrack of our hometown ride-around was my friend’s latest album on Spotify.

            When I suggested Waffle House for supper, Randall said, “My favorite.” Over plates of All Star specials, the memories and laughter kept rolling.

Just like those Tonka trucks in Jack and Jill’s sandbox.

            Dolly and Kenny sang the gospel of friendship.

            You can’t make old friends.

            Right, Randall?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com