A few secrets to long-lasting relationships

 

            The hardest ship to keep afloat is a partnership.

            Surely, my parents quarreled during their 50-plus years of marriage. But when they argued is the $64,000 Question. Big Dink and Margie didn’t involve others, especially my sisters and me, in their differences.

            Couples do face occasional rough seas in their partnerships. I remember reading about an interview with Ruth, the wife of evangelist Billy Graham. She was asked, “How is it being married to one of the most famous men in the world?”

            “Oh, it’s wonderful,” Mrs. Graham said.

            “But don’t you ever have disagreements?” the reporter quizzed.

            “Sure,” she said, “all couples disagree from time to time.”

            “Well, Mrs. Graham,” he asked, “did you ever consider divorce?”

            “Oh, heavens, no,” she fired back, “but murder, yes!”

 

            Giuseppe’s secret

            And then there’s the story about Giuseppe’s secret to a long marriage.

            Don Perno, who’s family’s roots are in Italy, always had a “good Italian joke” for me. This one is for my former formal-wear haberdasher.

            During the weekly seminar for husbands at St. Peter’s Catholic Church, the priest asked Giuseppe to report on his secret to staying married to the same woman for 50 years.

            Giuseppe replied, “Well, I’ve tried to treat her nice and spend money on her. But best of all, I took her to Italy for our 25th anniversary.”

“Giuseppe, you are an amazing inspiration,” the priest responded, “Please tell all the husbands what you are planning for her to celebrate your 50th anniversary.”

            With a big grin, Giuseppe said, “I going back to pick her up.”

           

Gladys’ secret

And for a little religious balance, I’ll share one from my church, the Baptists.

            The preacher’s sermon was on forgiving your enemies. He forgot Billy Sunday’s advice: “Very few souls are won after 20 minutes.”

            After 30 minutes of bearing down on forgiveness, the preacher asked people in the congregation to raise their hand if they had an enemy whom they wanted to forgive.

            Three hundred hands shot skyward. The preacher noted the raised hands. All except one—Mrs. Gladys on the back row—had raised a hand.

            The minister offered a few scriptures. He asked the question with a different twist, “How many of you have an enemy who you hope will forgive you?” Everyone waved a hand, except Mrs. Gladys.

            Surprised, he said, “OK, lower your hands.”

            “Mrs. Gladys,” he said, “I have asked everyone to raise his or her hand if they had anyone they wanted to forgive or vice versa. Both times you didn’t raise your hand.”

            Mrs. Gladys nodded.

            “Well then, Mrs. Gladys,” he said, “if you’ve lived 93 years and you don’t have any enemies you want to forgive or any enemies from whom you seek forgiveness, I believe you have a better sermon to share than the one I just preached. Would you mind coming to the pulpit and sharing your story?”

            Mrs. Gladys reached for her walker.

            Everyone waited as the matriarch of the congregation crept toward the rostrum. With help, she ascended the platform.

            “Now, Mrs. Gladys,” the preacher said, “please tell us how you have managed this relationships miracle.”

            With a quick glance to Heaven, she smiled and replied, “I have outlived all the old biddies.”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A reading trip around the world in 38 pages

 

            Words.

            My love affair with printed words goes back to my days of sitting in Mother’s lap and listening to her read. The Little Engine That Could was my favorite book.

            And then there was grammar school’s Weekly Reader. I couldn’t wait until the next edition. Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were probably the first books that I read by myself.

            These days, I always have a stack of books within reach. I like magazines, too. Perhaps my favorite is THE WEEK. There are several things that I enjoy about it. Number one is that it’s the kind of publication that you can read in snippets, as you have time.

            Next, I like the variety of topics. There’s news, photographs, cartoons and opinion pieces. Some of the opinions I like. Others I don’t.­

            Another big plus of THE WEEK is that if you read or just scan the topics, you’ve made a lap around the globe. The content is pulled from dozens of publications. The pieces are short, and I like that, too.

            Here’s a glance at a typical table of contents:

            News

            Main story

            Controversy of the Week

            U.S. at a Glance

            World at a Glance

            Best U.S. Columns

            Best European Columns

            Best International Columns

            Technology

            Health & Science

            I’ve skipped a few topics, but I always pore over the editorial-cartoon section. As soon as I discovered Thomas Nast (1840-1902) and his political cartoons in journalism class, I was hooked. Politicians have always been easy targets for cartoonists.

            The “People” page draws me in, too. The Rolling Stones were a part of my youth’s soundtrack. I’ve just read how frontman Mick Jagger, 82, fights his ego and stays young, bouncing all over the stage.

            Arts

            Books

            Author of the Week

            Art & Music

            Film & Architecture

            Television

            I slow down in this section. Books, movies and music hold my interest. I’m always in the hunt for a good read or movie to add to the must-see list.

            Leisure

            Food & Drink

            Consumer

            Property

            What I eat and drink is plain vanilla compared to what’s featured here. I don’t spend much time on those subjects. However, I never miss the two pages of real estate listings. I’m not in the market, but I am curious about what is selling and for how much from coast to coast.

The categories vary. The feature that I read most recently was about “Homes built in the 1960s.” A townhouse in Chicago is listed for $5,995,000, and the “Steal of the Week” is a California cottage selling for $519,000.

Ummm, no thanks on either.

            Business

            News at a Glance

            Making Money

            Best Columns

            From “The bottom line” column, in the June 19, 2026, edition, I learned that there are 16 U.S. colleges and universities that cost more than $100,000 per year.

            Right here at home, we have outstanding choices for far less. UGA and Georgia Tech are perennially among the nation’s best. And aren’t we glad Gov. Zell Miller hatched HOPE scholarships?

            Other

            Obituaries

            The Last Word

            Puzzle page

            Reading cartoonist Pat Oliphant’s obituary (1935-2026), I learned about his career of “flaying the powerful.” For examples, he pictured Richard Nixon as a gangster and Bill Clinton as a carnival huckster.

            The longest piece is near the end. I just read “How the Amish use AI.” Who would have imagined? But Erik German’s article explained how “buggies and chatbots can exist side by side.”

            If crossword puzzles are your thing, the back page is for you.

            And there you have it, THE WEEK.

            A smorgasbord read around the world in 38 pages.  

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

  One touch.

That’s all it takes.

And I’m back in the middle of Georgia’s hosting the Centennial Olympics.

I keep the metal tube—with its intricate engravings and wooden handle—on an oak bookcase in my office. I must walk past it to get to the file room and copier. I don’t have to touch the Olympic torch that I carried in 1996. But I do to make sure that I never forget that incredible summer, filled with I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening experiences.

I can thank two friends.

Billy Payne

Billy and I connected at UGA. He was a standout defensive end for the Bulldogs and a student body president. Bringing the Olympics to Atlanta was his dream. The Atlanta lawyer gave up his day job to rally Georgians into becoming believers, too. 

        How can we ever forget International Olympic president Juan Antonio Samaranch’s “It’s Atlanta!” announcement? And as 1996 approached, Billy called to invite Pam and me to be presidential ambassadors on his team.

        Pat Allen

        Pat and I connected through Leadership Georgia in the 1980s. And less than a decade later, the banker—who was also chairman of the Athens chamber of commerce—called. Pat asked, “How would you like to chair a newly formed group called Athens 96?”

        That put me in the middle of helping coordinate four competitions (the most outside Atlanta) that were coming to Athens and the University of Georgia. What followed was four years of intense planning.

        Thirty years later, here are a few other Olympic memories:

        Vince Dooley

        To create a soccer venue, UGA had to remove its iconic hedges. As machines were ripping out the famous greenery, Coach Dooley called and asked, “Hey, how would you like some of Sanford Stadium’s hedge?”

        I hustled over and retrieved two clumps—one for me and one for my friend Joe Phelps. Years later, I reported, “Coach, thought you’d like to know that my hedge is doing fine.” And Vince quipped, “That’s good, Dink, but you really can’t kill privet hedge.” 

        Muhammad Ali

       With accepting Billy’s invitation to serve as ambassadors came a pair of royal blue blazers with special insignia. During the Games, international guests flowed in and out of our home. True to our South Georgia roots, we made sure every menu included samplings of grits. 

        Wearing those blue blazers, we traveled back and forth to Atlanta. Perhaps Billy’s best-kept secret was who would light the cauldron’s flame to signal the opening of the Centennial Olympics. We were among the masses who tested the limits of our vocal cords when Muhammad Ali appeared carrying a torch. 

        Mystery bomber

       A dark chapter of the 1996 story was the murderous bombing in the Centennial Olympic Park. Seven years later, Eric Rudolph was arrested in Andrews, North Carolina.

       Another bombing happened in our front yard. Perhaps it was a directed threat or a random act of vandalism. A pipe bomb obliterated our mailbox. I held a federal agent’s ankles as he hung out our son Eric’s upstairs window to dig out the 2-inch cap of the bomb from the side of the house. Fortunately, we were away at the time of the explosion. Alarmed, Billy called to check on us. The bombing still remains a mystery and a memory.

       Torch Run

       There was another call from Billy. He asked, “How would you like to carry the torch?” Even in his hectic schedule, he noticed that I hadn’t applied for the privilege. 

      What a friend.

      Thanks, Billy.

      Thanks, Pat.

      And there sits that torch.

     My Olympic memories will forever flicker.

Rainy-day traveling on hodgepodge highway

        Here I sit.

For the last two hours, my brain has been idling in neutral. There’s something about rain on a tin roof. Inducing laziness, I guess.

And then, I put on my thinking cap, shifting my gray matter into gear.

I can’t explain why my brain chose to ramble along this hodgepodge highway. But here are some stops along the way: 

Taylor Swift

The singing billionaire was named after a baldheaded music icon of my generation, James Taylor. I know Taylor Swift just married Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs. How could anyone not know that? I know that Taylor’s gazillion fans are called “Swifties.” But how can I not name one—no, not one—of her songs? 

        Duh.

Charlie Kirk

The conservative political activist and entrepreneur wasn’t as famous as Taylor Swift, but Charlie Kirk was on a rocket ride to stardom. Wherever he was, throngs of admirers gathered. And then one evil bullet—on a Utah college campus—silenced the co-founder of Turning Point USA. What a tragedy. And until his death, I had never heard of Charlie Kirk. How is that possible?

        Duh.

Rick Jackson

Friends tease me about my old-school Rolodex and the list of contacts on my cell phone. Both are packed with names, physical addresses, email addresses and phone numbers. Since my 1960s college days, I’ve been diligent about keeping up with how to get in touch with people. Regular calls and texts come asking, “Do you have so-and-so’s number?” Well, I guess I’m slipping.  

Until Rick Jackson threw his name and millions of dollars into the governor’s race, the health care businessman was a 100-percent unknown to me. And how was that possible? I’m scheduled to meet him soon. 

        But in the meantime, duh.

Lucy Hargrett Draper

My friends in the gray-hair set half-joke about reading the obituaries. One buddy says that his first exercise of the day is to read the obituaries. “If I don’t see my name,” he quips, “I celebrate.” I am a faithful reader of the obituaries.  The July 12 list of obituaries in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution is a good example. 

        Just before I clicked to turn the digital page, a familiar name—Lucy Hargrett Draper—caught my eye. Our paths rarely crossed, but I knew Lucy’s father well. Screven’s Dr. McKee Hargrett (Doc said his name “rhymes with Margrett”) ran for governor when Jimmy Carter surged past Carl Sanders to win in 1970. If Lucy’s dad or any of the other candidates had won, Jimmy and Rosalynn would never have lived in the White House. 

         And that’s not a “duh.”

         Summer sandwich

        All this wandering through a mishmash of topics has stirred my appetite. Summertime is a good time to be hungry. And I am especially happy that there’s an honor-pay produce stand between our farm and town.

        Squash, peas, beans, corn, okra, watermelons, cantaloupe, leafy vegetables, tomatoes and more are there for the picking. Out of the coolers, of course. And then there are friends who stop by with a “mess” of this or that from their gardens. In the immortal words of Tennessee Ernie Ford, “Bless their pea-picking hearts.”

        Right now, my mind is lasered on those big red tomatoes on the kitchen counter. I do pray there’s a loaf of white bread, some Duke’s mayonnaise, salt and pepper within easy reach. 

       The bacon and lettuce can wait.

       Duh, I’m out of here.

Yeah, it’s been hotter, much hotter

        Whew!

As I was working on the farm—with sweat dripping off my nose—I wondered, “Has it ever been this hot?”

And then I remembered.  

Summer of 1957.

Baker County, Georgia.

Pilgrims Home Free Will Baptist Church.

But first, how did my great-grandparents’ church get that name?

My mother’s grandparents, Ezra and Susie McNeal, along with their children, rattled into Southwest Georgia in a mule-drawn wagon around 1910. They came east from Alabama because they had heard schools were better on this side of the Chattahoochee. 

But as they rolled through the countryside, children ran alongside the clattering spectacle, shouting, “Are y’all gypsies?” Ten-year-old Essie McNeal, my grandmother, teared up and asked, “Mamma, are we gypsies?” Ma McNeal, in a soothing voice, said, “No, honey. We aren’t gypsies. We are pilgrims headed to ‘Jawja.’” 

As soon as they got settled, the McNeals helped organize the Pilgrims Home Free Will Baptist Church. And that’s where I was sitting 45 years later, wedged between my grandmother (Nanny) and her baby brother, my Great-Uncle Bud, in what seemed like a puddle of perspiration.

The only heat relief was cardboard stapled on a stick with a picture of The Last Supper on one side and Bramblett Funeral Home’s ad on the other. I was flapping the gnat knocker so hard that Uncle Bud whispered, “Slow down, bubba, you are going to sling Jesus and His disciples off that fan.”

“But Uncle Bud, I am dying. My throat is parched.”

He offered me a piece of Juicy Fruit gum. I shook my head and mouthed, “Water. I need water.”

That’s when Uncle Bud pointed at the preacher’s pitcher of water on the side shelf of the pulpit. With a nudge, he said, “Go get you a drink.” 

The congregation wasn’t even singing “Just as I Am,” but I hit the aisle.

When I looked back at Uncle Bud, he nodded, and I climbed up on the rostrum. When I tugged on Brother Cattret’s coattail, the preacher paused his fire-and-brimstone sermon in mid-sentence.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, sir, I sure would like some of your water.”

He poured me a glass.

And I said, “thank you.”

As I was gulping down the water, I got a glimpse of Nanny. She didn’t know what a laser beam was, but her white-hot stare made me sweat even more.

The ride home in the cab of her baby-blue Ford F-100 pickup was graveyard-quiet. When we turned off Hwy. 91, the truck coasted to the front-yard gate. As I grabbed for the door handle to escape, Nanny caught my arm.

“Don’t come in until you go out back and cut a switch from the peach tree.”

“Yes, ’um.”

I might add that Nanny could curl the bark on a chinaberry tree with her sharp tongue. Looking back, I guess the Lord gave her some sway, considering the burdens of a dead-too-soon husband and a cotton-bale-of-farm debt on her weary back.

Remember, this was 1957. 

Nanny was a God-fearing, when-the-doors-open regular at Pilgrims Home. As loving as she could be, she was also a staunch believer in “spare the rod and spoil the child.”

When I handed her the switch, Nanny hoisted the flimsy peach branch toward Heaven and grabbed a handful of the back of my J.C. Penney’s T-shirt. Lifting me up, she thundered, “You can give your heart to Jesus, but your ‘a double s’ is mine!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

If I could have gotten my hands on another glass of Brother Cattret’s ice water, I wouldn’t have drunk it.  

I would have tried to sit in it.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com