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