Hinson’s last phone call was powerful, from his heart

 (Editor’s note: Hinson Mosley called last month. I didn’t need caller ID. His voice was distinctive. I say “was.” Hinson died Sept. 1. When I learned of his death, I reflected on our last conversation. Hinson was bedridden and fading. Now I realize my friend was calling and saying, “Goodbye.” His last words were, “I love you and your family.” Powerful and from his heart. That was Hinson. Here’s what I wrote, in 2020, as the foreword to his book God Knew). 

        Looks can be deceiving. If you’re meeting Hinson Mosley for the first time—and he’s dressed in sweat-stained denim—you might make a mistake by thinking you are looking at a fellow who hasn’t strayed too far from the plow hitched behind his mule. And if you aren’t careful, you might think that again when he speaks in his signature aw-shucks monotone. 

But stop right there, or you’ll be going down the wrong dirt road.

Hinson is proud that his roots are deep in rural Georgia’s soil. He’s felt the prick of sharp cotton hulls as he’s plucked the fluffy white bolls from stalk after stalk on rows seeming to reach the horizon. He’s no stranger to back-breaking labor or grease under his fingernails. Put a wrench in his hands, and Hinson knows where and how to turn it. 

For the people who know—really know—Hinson Mosley, they saw something more than a master pulp-mill instrument technician or dawn-to-dusk farmer/mechanic. His slow-speaking tone didn’t fool them at all. They saw and heard more, much more. Those are the people who encouraged him to do more than fix industrial or agricultural equipment. They wanted him to go to Atlanta and take his commonsense wrench to what needed fixing in state government. That’s how Hinson came to represent his District 171 constituents in Georgia’s House of Representatives.

I had known Hinson for years, but I knew his in-laws better. During my college summers, I worked for his future father-in-law, Don Lawson. Don was general manager of Rayonier. In the late 1980s I was director of the Adult 1 Sunday School Department, and Don was my Sunday school teacher at First Baptist Church. We served as fellow deacons.

In 1974 Hinson married Linda Lawson. Linda had taught with my wife, Pam, at Jesup’s Orange Street Elementary School. For 50-plus years, Pam has worn the diamond that I bought with my $2.725-per-hour pulp-mill paychecks. 

When First Baptist Church on Brunswick Street opened its door, the Lawsons and NeSmiths had our customary pews. I can still hear the way Linda’s mother, Irene, livened up the sanctuary when she sat down at the organ. Improvising as she went up and down the keyboard, Irene could knock the dust off musty old hymns. 

When Hinson ran for public office, I got to know him better.

I remember our first conversation about his candidacy. His opponent was one of my boyhood Sunday school teachers. Hubert Howard was also my personal and corporate attorney. Hinson said, “I know you’ve got to support Hubert, but I have one request. If you can’t help me, please don’t hurt me.” We shook hands, and the rest is history. Hinson went to Atlanta, and Hubert kept on being my attorney, trusted adviser and friend.

In time, Hinson and I got to know each other as friends, too. When he calls, I know that he has been thinking about an idea. In his unrushed, pensive way, he trusts me to be a sounding board, and I’m always ready to listen.

I’ve always believed there’s a book in every life. For years, Hinson has talked about putting his story between the covers of a book. Somewhere along the way, Hinson quit talking and teamed with his wife and Joy Waters Fowler to make his dream come true. He drilled into the Great Depression and the day—Oct. 21, 1932—that he was born. From that start, Hinson layered story after story into a thick and very readable stack of memories.

As you turn the pages, you will discover why God Knew is the perfect title. Just days into this world, pneumonia almost robbed the author of the next 88 years. Hinson is convinced the Lord had other plans. God knew—He really knew—where the Honorable Hinson Mosley was going in life. 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Telling their stories keeps people ‘alive’

By Will Bacon

     Growing up in Wayne County, Georgia, meant growing up among people whose names and 

personalities became part of the landscape itself.

     Jesup and the Oglethorpe community were the center of my world, but Wayne County stretched into 

Gardi, Screven, Odum, the Altamaha River, pine forests, farms and dirt roads. What I remember most 

now, though, are the people who gave those places life.

     

     As a boy, I worked for Ralph Smith at Jesup Pharmacy as a “soda jerk.” Later, I topped, suckered 

and helped string tobacco near Beck’s Dairy. I loaded and hauled watermelons for my Uncle Tyler 

Surrency. As I got older, I worked at S&R Men’s Shop with Mr. Jimmy Sullivan and Don Miller, 

helping sell Gant shirts, Hart Schaffner & Marx suits, and Bass Weejuns.

     At the time, I thought I was simply working.

     Looking back, I realize I was being introduced to Wayne County through its people.

     Each of those people had their own way of doing things, his own expectations, his own personality, 

and his own place in the community. They taught me lessons without announcing them as lessons. You 

learned by watching. You learned to show up, to work, to speak to people, to treat customers well, and 

to understand that your name and your word mattered.

     My own family was part of that same fabric. Early in their careers, both of my parents taught at 

Piney Grove School, where Dad also served as principal. Dad was also a minister, and I often tagged 

along when he stopped by the funeral home to visit the family of a church member or friend who had 

died. Dink’s father was the undertaker and funeral director, so the connection between our families 

goes back many years.

     I did not understand it then, but funeral homes were places where stories were told. People gathered 

to remember what someone had done, something funny they had said, how they had helped another 

person, or simply what it had meant to know them.

     Years later, after college, I returned to Wayne County, married a wonderful Cherokee Lake 

sweetheart, and went to work at Rayonier alongside Bob McCrary and Gerald DeWitt. Angie worked 

for Glenna Parker, who had taken over the insurance business where she herself had worked for 

“Snooky” Littlefield. Once again, our lives were intertwined with familiar Wayne County names and 

stories. Eventually, education and opportunity carried our family elsewhere.

     But the people of Wayne County traveled with me.

     In my own work as a minister and marriage and family therapist, I have heard thousands of stories. 

Over time, I have come to understand that our stories are one of the ways we keep one another alive.

Ralph Smith and Uncle Tyler, Jimmy Sullivan and Don Miller, Bob McCrary and Gerald DeWitt, 

Glenna Parker and Snooky Littlefield—these names and so many others belong to the Wayne County I 

remember. Some are gone now, but when I speak their names and remember the lessons, laughter, work 

and ordinary days we shared, they are present again.

     In People Die Twice, Dink helps us understand why those stories matter. We die once when life 

leaves us, but there is another kind of death that comes when our names are no long spoken and our 

stories are no longer told.

     So we tell them.

Will Bacon is a retired minister and the son of the late Rev. James E. and Nanelle Bacon. The following was written as the foreword of Dink NeSmith’s upcoming book, People Die Twice, Second Time Stories Stop.

Alabama foot log was original link to our families

     Two girls were born in “the other LA”—Lower Alabama—in 1900.

     The McNeal family lived on one side of a tea-colored creek.

     The Mercer family lived on the opposite bank. 

     Before mothers ever tied bows onto the pigtails of their daughters, Essie McNeal and Katie Mercer spawned a friendship that spanned 80-plus years. 

     When the girls were 10 years old, Ezra McNeal and Will Mercer hitched their mules to wagons. And with a pop of the reins, they rolled toward “Jawja,” where they had heard schools were better. 

     Pulling up to the Flint River, Will drove his wagon onto a ferry and settled in Mitchell County. My great-grandpa, Ezra, clucked to his mules and ordered, “Whoa,” on the west side, in Baker County.

     Essie and Katie stayed in touch through marriage, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. And one of their most memorable visits was in 1968, sipping Christmastime eggnog.

     But I’m getting ahead of myself. 

     Eleven months earlier, I had been frazzled as rush chairman for my UGA fraternity. Over Sunday lunch, I realized I didn’t have a date for that night’s party for our new pledges. In mid-bite, I dropped a piece of fried chicken and announced, to no one in particular, “I don’t have a date.” 

     Spunky Good, from Camilla (Mitchell County), piped up, “I know just the girl. She’s a beautiful freshman. She’s a good friend of my sister Ouida. Want me to call her?”

     “Thanks,” I said, “I can do that.” 

     Spinning the blind-date roulette wheel was my only option. Back then, you phoned Brumby Hall’s front desk. The receptionist scanned a list of 1,000 names and rang the room. Pamela Leigh Shirah answered the phone.

     If she hadn’t told me what she would be wearing, I could not have found Pam among the throng of coeds in the high-rise dormitory’s rotunda. 

     Spunky was right. 

     She was special. 

     Then came the second date. 

     We sat on steps in the coliseum’s nosebleed section to watch our Bulldogs take on basketball phenomenon Pistol Pete Maravich and his LSU Tigers. With a hook shot from half court, among other feats, the Pistol was dazzling. But I was being bedazzled by the hazel-eyed brunette sitting beside me.

     Now, back to that eggnog sipping at Shirahland, Pam’s dad’s farm. 

     Pam and her family remembered me as a 12- and 13-year-old, when I had attended Hopeful Baptist Church with my Uncle Billy’s family. I lived with them for two summers, while working in Riverview Plantation’s tobacco patches. 

     And during that Yule gathering, our grandmothers, Essie and Katie, told us how our two families were linked. As young girls, they scooted back and forth to each other’s houses over a foot log that stretched across the creek.

     Then came the spring of Pam’s sophomore year. 

     She called her folks and announced we’d be coming for a weekend visit.

     When we arrived Friday night, Pam’s dad stayed up past his bedtime. He was expecting me to bring up “the subject.” About 11 p.m., he said, “Good night.” And he went looking for his pajamas.

     After Saturday’s breakfast, her dad asked whether I’d like to check on the crops. In his 1966 pea-green Ford pickup, we rode for three hours, looking and talking. And as he pulled back into the yard, under the pecan tree, he looked at me and said, “Don’t you have something you want to ask me?”

     “Yes, sir. I’d like to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

     “Well, I have two questions. First, do you love Pam?”

     “Yes, sir, I do love Pam.”

      “How to you plan to take care of her?”

     “I wish that I could tell you how we will manage. But I have always believed that where there’s a will, there’s a way. I promise to take care of Pam, and we’ll finish our education.” 

     We shook hands, and that was that.

     On Aug. 23, 1969, Lamar Shirah parked his peanut picker to escort his older daughter to the altar. I remember Katie and Essie—arm in arm and smiling—on that night inside Hopeful Baptist Church. They sported it-was-meant-to-be looks on their 69-year-old faces.

     And it has been. 

     For 57 years.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Rick Jackson will keep Georgia moving forward

        When Rick Jackson announced his campaign for governor, had you ever heard of him?

I had not.

And that was surprising.

Starting with my January 1966 Gold Dome visit with Gov. Carl Sanders, I have known every Georgia governor since. That’s not a boast. But when Jimmy Carter, Lester Maddox, George Busbee, Joe Frank Harris, Zell Miller, Roy Barnes, Sonny Perdue, Nathan Deal and Brian Kemp tossed their hats into the ring, they weren’t strangers.

But health care businessman Rick Jackson was a 100 percent unknown to me. And when he won the Republican nomination by defeating Lt. Gov. Burt Jones, I decided it was time to pick up the phone.

In fairness to Democrat candidate Keisha Lance Bottoms, I have followed her political career since she was mayor of Atlanta. More on that later.

Reaching into Jackson’s campaign network, I asked one of his operatives to arrange a one-on-one with the billionaire businessman. If Rick has a chance to become Georgia’s 84th governor, I wanted to know what’s behind the man who is willing to spend more than $150 million of his own money to get the job.

Thanks to Brian Robinson, I got that opportunity Aug. 5.

Here’s what I knew before our sit-down:

Rick’s life is a Horatio Alger’s up-from-your-bootstraps story. His childhood was a poverty-stricken wreck—an absent father and an alcoholic mother. Moving through five foster homes, he was bullied and called no-good white trash. At 19, he used those misfortunes as rocket fuel to launch his career.

In our meeting, I told Rick that my childhood couldn’t have been more different. Big Dink and Margie—with modest means and abundant encouragement—showered my sisters and me with daily affection. And when each of our parents died, their last words were “I love you.”

Rick married at 19. The young Jacksons started out in a single-wide trailer, and he sold used cars. I laughed and said, “Pam and I married at 20. Our first home was a single-wide mobile home, and I sold used cars before going off to Army basic training. You and I entered business on borrowed money, but to compare our financial balance sheets is laughable. “

Years ago, a political strategist explained, “Only negative advertising moves the campaign needle.” I don’t like character-assassinating trash talk, but that’s today’s sad state of politics. And I said as much to Rick. 

I went on to add that I understand candidates—Democrat and Republican—huddle to support each other. However, I do not support the egotism and dysfunction that has taken over Washington. And I explained that I believe character and credibility are essential for leaders. 

This is what I believe about Rick Jackson. His personal story is one that exemplifies what is possible in America. He demonstrates how hard work and common sense solve problems. I trust his business savvy to keep Georgia fiscally sound while continuing our state’s legacy of robust jobs creation. 

I admire how Rick embraced the experiences of his childhood to support today’s foster children. He preaches, “It’s not your fault that you are a foster child. But it’s your fault if you do not take advantages of the opportunities available to you.” And Rick, as they say, “puts his money where his mouth is” with his foundation’s investments in disadvantaged youth.

Gov. Brian Kemp has been an exceptional leader in some tumultuous times. (Remember COVID-19?) So, I asked my friend about Rick Jackson. This is what our governor said: “For Georgians still struggling to afford groceries, pay their rent or provide for their family, Rick Jackson knows how you feel because he’s been there. As your 84th governor, he will fight for every Georgian—no matter your zip code or circumstance—each and every day. I also know Rick will continue the last 24 years of strong conservative leadership by continuing to cut taxes, keep our communities safe, improve education, and bring good-paying jobs to every corner of our state.”

On Nov. 3, Georgia voters can choose between a Democrat or a Republican. I respect everyone’s individual right to vote for whomever.

Here’s how I made my decision: 

        I evaluated the performance records of both candidates. How did Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms lead Atlanta during her tenure? What has Rick Jackson accomplished in his career? And then I decided, in my opinion, which candidate is better suited to keep Georgia moving forward.

My choice was easy.

I am voting for Rick Jackson.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Buffaloes lost, but Dawgs and our family won

 

            The Georgia Bulldogs are gearing up for 2026’s kickoff.

            But let’s roll back the clock 20 years to a game in Athens.

            With a name like Ralphie, you’d think the University of Colorado’s mascot would be a boy. But it’s not. The burly bison should have pink bows on its curled horns.

            On Sept. 23, 2006, when Ralphie romped through the gap in Sanford Stadium’s fabled hedges, UGA’s English bulldog mascot didn’t know what to think. Apparently, the Dawgs didn’t know, either. Georgia salvaged a 14-13 win in the last 46 seconds.

            But there’s another victory that didn’t flash on the endzone’s Jumbotron.

            It started with a three-minute conversation during the game, a chat that evolved into a historic win for our family.

            While Ralphie was chewing her cud and Uga was lounging in his air-conditioned doghouse, the two-legged Buffaloes were scaring the two-legged Dawgs. Trying to take my mind off the game, I walked away from the window in the president’s box. I struck up a conversation with then-president Dr. Michael Adams’ senior event planner.

            Heather Hammond was and still is an auburn-haired beauty from Fitzgerald. She has a songbird voice and a sunny smile. We had known each other for several years through her work with the university.

            “Heather,” I said, “if there is no one special in your life, I know someone whom you might like to meet.”

            Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “Who?”

            “Well, he’s a young businessman and outdoorsman in South Georgia,” I said. “He’s in his 30s, and he has never been married. And he’s just about given up on finding the right young lady to take to dinner or go to the movies.”

            Animated expression is one signature of Heather’s personality. Arching her eyebrows, she said, “Oh, my, that sounds like my luck.”

            I countered, “But there are so many eligible bachelors in a university town.”

            “Yes, but they’re college boys,” she said. “I’m way past that. Who is he?”

            “He’s our older son, Alan,” I answered. “Like you, he’s a graduate of the University of Georgia. He is publisher of the Tribune & Georgian in St. Marys.”

            Opening her purse, Heather pulled out a business card. “My email address is right here if Alan would like to contact me,” she said. We chit-chatted for a few more minutes before peeking out the window to see what was going on between Ralphie’s cleated Buffaloes and our Dawgs.

            I mailed Heather’s card to Alan. Eventually, he sent an email of introduction to her. They exchanged emails for a couple of months, before Alan drove north for six hours.

            By summer, Alan and Heather were standing barefoot on the beach of a barrier island. On Aug. 11, 2007, they exchanged vows before a tiny congregation of family and friends.

Another story is how out-of-nowhere howling winds, salty waterspouts and a pop-up monsoon tried to wreck the wedding. Instead, it was just a testament to how the couple would endure in their 20 years of togetherness.

            After defying Mother Nature’s wrecking ball, our family was huddled again the next year. Three days before Thanksgiving, we were in the Brunswick hospital to welcome the birth of William Alan Jr. Two years later in November, William was joined by his brother, Samuel Fenn NeSmith. Today, William is a senior at Tallulah Falls School, and Fenn is a sophomore. Both are scholar athletes, with their dreams focused on UGA, of course.

            Imagine if Ralphie hadn’t trotted between that gap in Sanford Stadium’s iconic hedges. And try to imagine if Pam and I hadn’t been there to witness it?

            I can’t.

            Happy 19^th anniversary, Alan and Heather.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

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