(Note: This column will be included in my upcoming book, People Die Twice, Second Time Stories Stop.)
Who’s the best Bulldog to ever play football for Georgia?
My generation would probably say, “Herschel Walker.”
But the “Greatest Generation” and plenty more history-savvy fans will bark, “Charley Trippi!”
One barking that claim in the 1940s was a strapping farm boy turned soldier in the Philippines. And when the Japanese surrendered, Lamar Shirah couldn’t wait to get back behind the plow in Mitchell County. But he wanted to make one more trip, first chance he got. Lamar had been following the gridiron phenom Charley Trippi.
So, when his pal Buddy Davis planted the idea of going to Atlanta to see Charley play, Lamar couldn’t drop his plow lines fast enough. On Dec. 1, 1945, at Grant Field, they witnessed a Trippi-led team wallop Georgia Tech, 33-0.
Lamar couldn’t have been happier, he thought.
Lamar and Buddy asked the beautiful ladies whether they’d like to ride around. Willene Lavender replied, “My daddy told me to never ride with strangers, but you can follow us to Wheeler’s Drug Store in Fort Valley.”
After chatting over Cokes at the soda fountain, Lamar asked, again, “Would you ladies like to ride around with us?”
Willene countered, “Thanks, but I live just two blocks from here. Would you like to come and meet my parents?” Lamar and Buddy took up the offer and followed them to the Lavender home on Peachtree Street.
When Willene started to introduce Lamar and Buddy, she blushed. She couldn’t remember their names. Never bashful, Lamar stuck out his calloused hand and said, “Pleased to meet you. I’m Lamar Shirah from Hopeful, Georgia, and this is my friend Buddy Davis.”
So far, so good.
Mrs. Lavender said, “You fellows must be hungry.” She disappeared into the kitchen and returned with sandwiches.
As the visit stretched into the afternoon, it was apparent the farmers weren’t in a hurry to get back to Southwest Georgia and their mules. And Charlie and Meddie Lavender were warming up to the two just-home Army veterans who had appeared with their daughter and her friend.
Lamar asked Willene, “Is there a place we can take you and Elaine to supper?” Heads nodded, and the foursome was off to Fay’s Restaurant in Macon. At 10:30 that evening, the Lavenders were waiting for Willene and Elaine to return with Lamar and Buddy.
Before the plowboys headed home, they exchanged addresses and telephone numbers with their new acquaintances.
The first impression was powerful enough that Lamar was back in Fort Valley the next week. Serious courting began, as Lamar began the back-and-forth trips to see Willene. Because his car didn’t have a heater, he’d wrap warm bricks in towels to keep himself from freezing during the cold commutes.
On Nov. 23, 1947, Willene and Lamar exchanged vows. Elaine sang at her best friend’s wedding. And Buddy was Lamar’s best man.
The new bride left asphalt and streetlights to move into a shanty—minus indoor plumbing—down a washboard dirt road. When Willene’s parents made their first visit to Shirahland, her dad said, “Sister, it must be love. Because there ain’t another damn thing down here.”
Charlie Lavender, the prosperous businessman, was right about love. But he was wrong about the couple’s future. Lamar became one of the most successful farmers in Mitchell and adjoining counties.
With his own hands, he built a house—many times expanded—for his wife and four children: Pam, Ray, Tim and Krista. In that home, the two former strangers—who had met at a traffic light—shared their love for 73 years. They died under that roof within 60 days of each other in 2020.
Years ago, I was invited to enjoy Tuesday breakfasts with a small group, mostly long-ago UGA baseball lettermen. I am one of the few that hadn’t played for their coach, Big Jim Whatley. The magnet drawing us together was Charley Trippi. The stories swapped could fill books.
Long before Charley died in 2022, at age 100, I told him how Lamar met Willene. I thanked him for inspiring my future father-in-law to go see him play football. Without Charley, there would not have been that farmer’s daughter for me to meet at UGA and later marry in 1969.
And that was one accolade Georgia’s greatest athlete never knew he had.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com