Without warning or explanation—in 2010—the simple instruction was: “See that Dink NeSmith gets these.” And with that, the unidentified visitor exited the White County News in Cleveland, Georgia.
Three days later, our son Alan handed me those two large envelopes from the stranger and said, “Let’s show these to Grandmother.” I escorted Mother into her living room. Before his brief preamble, Alan retrieved a box of Kleenex.
He knew there’d be no creaking hinges as she opened the paper vault of family memories. But as the contents of the packages were spread across her knees, her grandson and I knew tears would be spontaneous. With one glance, her chin quivered as she dabbed her eyes with a tissue.
“It’s Joe,” she said softly as she caressed his 1944-era photo. It was snapped soon after her big brother and some of his sailor buddies had been scooped from the icy waters of the North Sea when the Germans torpedoed their ship. Marjorie Vines, my mother, was the second-oldest sibling. Billy and sister Bobbie came years later.
Joe—they called him “Bubba”—was more than a big brother. When Howell Vines died young, Joe replaced his father as the family’s rudder. When his little brother’s promising high school football career was threatened by fumbles in algebra class, Joe and Billy huddled on the kitchen table, night after night, until algebraic equations were as easy to run over as linebackers.
Joe was born to teach. Because he had the handsome ruggedness of the Marlboro Man and a gift for kindling inspiration, the students of Baker County High School were drawn to their principal. He taught. He coached basketball. Joe Vines made an impact in this tiny Southwest Georgia community that was home of two economic extremes—the plantation rich and those barely scraping by.
Joe and his teacher-wife, Anna Bee, were among the few in the middle. Their only child, a son, did not survive birth. Joe also was born to be a mentor for boys. As soon as I was old enough to climb into his Jeep, I became Uncle Billy and Uncle Joe’s shadow. He never grumbled when I snarled his reel with backlash, but he always cheered when I hooked a bream or catfish.
He taught me that a bird dog can be a man’s best friend. Sitting in his lap, I learned to steer his Jeep. Before I was allowed to put a shell in my .410, he trusted me to retrieve the hunting buggy, while his English setter retrieved the quail.
Uncle Joe was a man’s man, but I once saw him crushed. He lost his campaign to be the county’s school superintendent. Years later, I was told that absentee ballots—from the graveyard—killed his chances. The same thing happened to Jimmy Carter that year. But my uncle didn’t have the know-how or connections, as the future U.S. president did, to call in the feds to investigate the corruption and undo the wrongdoings.
I believe that election defeat helped to kill my idolized uncle, too.
On the evening of May 12, 1963, Joe and Anna Bee were in Eastman’s Stuckey Inn. Some speculated that he had been drinking. No doubt one or both of them had been smoking in bed. When the couple awoke, Joe gathered Anna Bee into his arms. In the smoky haze, he stumbled through the wrong door. They collapsed in the bathroom.
The next day Wayne County High School baseball coach Jim Collins knocked on Mrs. Mary Hodges’ door. I was summoned from her Latin class.
That was 61 years ago.
But as I watched Mother’s eyes moisten—as she squeezed a second Kleenex—suddenly, the tragedy was yesterday.
And my mother died in 2014, never knowing who sent the treasured package.
(A version of this column was first published on Nov. 10, 2010.)
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
