There are pieces of heaven on Earth

 

“On Earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.”

–Jules Renard, French author, 1864-1910

            On April 21, the eve of Earth Day, I did one of my favorite things. I walked outside to see what mural God had painted in the western sky. There it was, as if He had used a spatula to spread rainbow sherbet across the horizon behind the lake. The sunset was stunning.

            And then I turned around.

            The full moon was tucked into the pastel-colored clouds of the eastern sky. I call that phenomenon a reverse sunset. Whatever its name, it’s a footnote to Renard’s reflection.

            Since I was a barefoot boy, I’ve been in love with nature. As a father and grandfather, I have done my best to make sure that the next two generations share my love and respect for the outdoors.

            I wish that I could have sat on Rachel Carson’s front porch and talked about nature with an American pioneer of protecting the environment. Even as she was fighting cancer and dying, Carson was fighting to save the earth. She proclaimed, “The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we have for the destruction.”

            On Earth Day 2024, as I write these words, I think about Carson and what she would have to say about:

§  Georgia Power’s reluctance to do the right thing and get all of its toxic coal ash out of our groundwater.

            Our state’s big utility is such a vital economic engine for us, and it does so many good things. That’s what makes the poisonous coal-ash pollution so perplexing. Georgia Power and its parent, the Southern Company, have made billions from burning coal. So, why aren’t they willing to reinvest enough of those billions to clean up its environmental mess?

            The best I can figure is that Georgia Power knows it doesn’t have to worry having its hands slapped by the Public Service Commission or the General Assembly. History shows that Georgia Power gets what it wants, including massive profits. And profits are a good thing, especially when an adequate portion is used to protect our natural resources. For the energy powerhouse and all of us, every day should be Earth Day.

§  Twin Pines Mining’s insistence on digging where it shouldn’t, near the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge.

            The late Albert Einstein, one of the world’s most famous geniuses, won the 1921 Nobel Prize. But his smarts extended beyond physics. He said, “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.”

            When you inventory the vast riches of Georgia’s natural resources, what’s more obvious than the “nature” of the Okefenokee Swamp? Why are our leaders so reluctant to wade in the swamp debate and say, “No, Twin Pines, you can’t risk harming a treasure that cannot be replaced”?

            It doesn’t take an Albert Einstein mind to understand that danger.

            Imagine this. A sawmill wants to set up shop in one of America’s sacred redwood forests because the demand for that unique wood has spiked. How many hundreds of years does it take to grow those stately beauties?

            As the saws are being oiled, do you think the citizens of the Pacific coast and the rest of America will remain silent? When it comes to protecting those sanctuary-like forests of towering redwoods and the giant Sequoias, every day should be Earth Day.

            Why can’t there be the same reverence for Georgia’s Okefenokee?

            I go back to what the Frenchman said: “On Earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.”

            Georgia’s unspoiled nature is a testament to those “pieces.”

            Amen?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

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