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

Happy 250th birthday, America!

 

            Sometimes we remember.

Other times, we need to be reminded.

               That’s why a rusted MI917 Brodie helmet is perched on the top of the piano by our back door. You can’t come in or out without seeing George Washington Shirah Jr.’s World War I helmet.

               With a name like that, you know his 19^th-century parents were patriots. And so was their teenage son, who went to Europe to defend America’s freedoms. My wife’s granddaddy, George, brought back his “doughboy” headgear. It’s a treasured family heirloom. The Mitchell County farmer also brought back a pair of gas-poisoned lungs.

               Our children—Alan, Emily and Eric—never met their great-great-grandfather, who died at age 69 from emphysema, courtesy of Germany’s warfare fumes. But they know of his courage to face death to protect what’s precious to us, as we celebrate America’s 250^th birthday.

               In addition to Granddaddy George’s helmet, we have a file of family heroes from our nation’s “Greatest Generation.” Here are six on that fighting-patriots roster:

               Dink NeSmith Sr.

               Fresh out of high school, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and was shipped to the South Pacific. From the Philippines, as a medical corpsman, he brought home stories that have been handed down through the generations. Big Dink never talked about the death and gore. I always believed his sense of humor helped him counter the nightmares of the jungle atrocities. He hitchhiked home from the war to marry Margie Vines.

               Lamar Shirah

               When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, Lamar dropped the plow lines to his mules and hustled to the enlistment office. As a tall and strong farm boy, he was perfect to be a military policeman (MP). By coincidence, he served in the Philippines, too. As an MP, he was the bodyguard and driver for a general. His unit was preparing to invade Japan when the bombs were dropped. Instead, he got to come home and trade his mules for a tractor.

Joe Vines

We called him Bubba, the oldest of Mother’s siblings. He survived a German torpedo attack when his Navy ship was sunk in the North Sea. He lived to become an educator and coach. There are stories of him buying shoes so that sharecroppers’ children could play basketball. One of them endowed two scholarships at Georgia Southern University in his honor. But Uncle Bubba never knew. He and his wife died in a 1963 Eastman motel-room fire. He and his brother, Billy, instilled my passion for the outdoors.

               James NeSmith

               Uncle James was my dad’s older brother. When the war broke out, he tried to enlist but was turned away—too skinny. Family legend is that he purchased a stalk of bananas and ate them all. When he returned to the recruiter’s office, he barely tipped the scales in his favor. Uncle James served his country for 20 years in the Navy and earned the highest noncommissioned rank of chief. He would have been proud to see his grandson, James Jaehnig, serve America in the Navy for 20 years, too.

               Lillie N. Corwin

               Aunt Lillie was the oldest of W.C. and Anna NeSmith’s five children. She joined the Army and became a sergeant. After the war, she married a few times but wound up alone. I think that’s why she “adopted” me as her only child. One of my favorite memories is our trip to Washington, D.C.; New York City; Boston; and Vermont in 1960. In her declining years, Pam and I became the primary see-about-Aunt Lillie team. She never lost her wartime sergeant’s bark. At her funeral, I played a recording of Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way.”

               Johnny NeSmith

               Uncle Johnny was my dad’s younger brother. Their mother died when he was barely school-age. The oldest, Aunt Sue, became his de facto mother. He was a patriot, as well. The war against Germany and Japan was winding down, but he enlisted, too. First the Army and then the Navy. He was the first person whom I knew with a tattoo. Uncle Johnny had an entrepreneurial itch. He employed me to sell parched peanuts at the stockyard. Our special relationship lasted until he died too young at 63.

               As a veteran, I am proud to come from a lineage of veterans. Patriotism runs deep in our family, as noted by George Washington Shirah Jr.’s rusty helmet. We are grateful, as our nation celebrates its 250^th birthday. It has taken courage and sacrifice to give us this opportunity.

I pray your family or ours will never forget why we are free to say and sing, “Happy birthday, America!”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Black-and-white photo triggers link to old stories

 

            How do you step back 40 years in time?

            For me, it was “stumbling.”

I stumbled across an old black-and-white photograph—circa 1986—that led to an old poster. And that time-yellowed poster is tied to another story that goes back another 30 years.

            First story first.

            When Joe Frank Harris was Georgia’s 78^th governor, he made a push to crack down on drunk driving. The mild-mannered statesman from Cartersville wanted the Peach State’s roads safer. Our Jesup newspaper picked up on the idea, and The Press-Sentinel acquired two junk cars.

            One junker was parked on Wayne County High School’s campus and the other stationed on the lawn at the Chamber of Commerce. The newspaper supplied sledgehammers and invited anyone to take a swing and make a bash to emphasize the campaign.

Gov. Harris came to town and took his turn. The then-50ish governor delivered a crushing blow to a junk car to tout his safety campaign and ours. We gave him a stack of our promotional bumper stickers to help spread the word.

(Please allow a slight detour to these stories. As a state representative, Joe Frank Harris was the go-to guy to answer questions about Georgia’s budget. So, when he ran for governor, his platform was simple. Three words—"No New Taxes”—moved him into the mansion on West Paces Ferry Road. Sound familiar?)

Now, back to the original stories.

As a part of the state’s push for safer roads, billboards were plastered everywhere. A menacing-looking state patrolman, wearing dark sunglasses, stared down from the billboards. His message was: “I HAVE A VERY LOW TOLERANCE FOR DRUNK DRIVING.”

I didn’t know the trooper until 2008.

(No, I didn’t meet him while his blue lights were flashing.)

But the man behind the dark sunglasses is the other story.

Eighteen years ago, I tried to solve a pair of family mysteries that had bumfuzzled me for a half-century. It started with NeSmith Funeral Home’s phone ringing. On the line was Verla Corry (Mrs. Francis) in Ludowici.

In labor and frantic, she pleaded, “Please come quickly!” Big Dink jumped into his 1956 Ford blue-and-white ambulance, turned on the whirling red light and raced across the Altamaha River. But on the way back to the hospital, Mrs. Corry cried out, “I can’t wait!”

My dad pulled over to the side of U.S. 301 and did what he had to do—deliver David Corry on Sept. 27, 1958. When Big Dink looked up, a state trooper was staring through the window. The lawman then slid behind the ambulance’s steering wheel and took off for Ritch-Leaphart Hospital.

Once they arrived, the big man, in the Smokey Bear hat, disappeared.

My dad died in 1998, never knowing who the trooper was.

In 2008 I wrote a column about the mystery. And before noon on the day the paper hit the streets, John Hammock called. “I am that fella.”

Shortly thereafter, John came to my office with a mini version of the billboard. We chatted. He autographed the poster. I thanked him. Now, I imagine Big Dink and John are in Heaven, laughing about the episode.

And all this started with my stumbling across an old black-and-white photograph.  

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Larry proved giants don’t have to be 10 feet tall

(Note: The following is an excerpt from Larry Walker’s eulogy, given June 14, 2026, at the Perry Methodist Church.)

“Friends are the siblings that God never gave us.” 

     –Mencius, Chinese philosopher 

                      …

       God didn’t give me a brother, but for Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. I say, “Thank you, Lord.” Larry became my honorary “big brother.”

       Thank you, Janice, Lawrence, Wendy, Russell and John Gray for this opportunity to reflect on Larry’s 84 years.

       If you tried to strip Larry’s love of and devotion to Perry from his soul, it would have sounded like ripping apart a piece of Velcro as long and wide as the Gnat Line. 

       Larry’s love affair with Houston County didn’t start when he first opened his eyes on March 9, 1942. But when Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. started toddling around his daddy’s farm-supply store, he began taking notice of his hometown. And by the time he quit squirming in Perry Methodist Church’s pews, Larry was in love with where he was born.

       How do you summarize Larry’s incredible life in a few minutes?

       Impossible.

       But when I think of my friend, I think of these indelible qualities:

       Family man

       Larry’s family made him smile. He loved to talk about them all, starting with his high-school sweetheart Janice Knighton, who became the mother of their four children. I dubbed Larry and Janice the King and Queen of the Gnat Line. He beamed when his nine grandchildren called him “Grandbuddy.” 

       Magnetic personality

       People were drawn to Larry. As a lawyer, people of all walks of life and colors were drawn to seek his advice—legal and otherwise. He listened. He cared. 

       And there was a fun-loving flipside to Larry’s magnetic personality. He was forever pulling friends together to swap stories. He nicknamed one group the Liar’s Club. In a word, Larry was fun.

       Statesman

       When Sam Nunn went to Washington as a United States senator, voters sent Larry to Atlanta to fill Sam’s seat in the General Assembly. Over 32 years, Larry was elected 16 times. 

       I believe Sam Nunn is the best United States president that America never had. And I say Larry, the statesman, could have been one of the best governors that Georgia ever had. 

Hometown booster

       You couldn’t be around Larry long without him bringing up his hometown. Every time I visited, he took me on a tour to see something new. He was excited to see the Larry Walker Arena being built at the Georgia National Fair. And I’d tease him by asking, “Now, is this Larry Walker Parkway named for Sen. Larry Walker III or his daddy?”

Southern drawl

       If you knew Larry and you were blindfolded, you could pick his slow, syrupy voice out of 1,000 others. I’ve saved my last voicemail from Larry. I want to hear his distinctive Southern drawl all the way to Heaven, where I will see him again. 

Avid reader/writer 

       Larry loved words. He and I were a two-man book club. The shelves of our personal libraries are filled with “you-need-to-read-this” books. His popular newspaper columns became books, Life on the Gnat Line and Tales from Georgia’s Gnat Line. Our favorite bookstore was Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi.

       Outdoorsman

       I can’t count the times Larry asked, “When are we going fishing?” or “Don’t you want to go quail hunting?” Even with his health declining, he kept his competitiveness. Our last time in a boat, Larry whooped to our buddies, “Hey, look at this one!” 

       Music man 

       For Larry, a close second to books was music. Right behind music was barbecue. We shared the same appetite for all three. As a state representative, Larry helped Ray Charles’ version of “Georgia on My Mind” become our state’s official song. And how can I ever forget our road trip to hear Jerry Lee Lewis in Tunica, Mississippi?

       Visionary 

       Larry Walker had the vision to see around the corner and into the future. A good example is the sprawling complex along I-75 that is known at the Georgia National Fair. As a young father, he watched children getting their livestock ready to show at the state fair in Macon. He told me, “All they had were two spigots and a mud puddle.” That was the spark that set him on fire to create something better. That something better draws a million people a year to Perry.

       Larry and I had a mutual friend, Jim Minter. When Jim was editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, he wrote a column labeling the decision to put the state fair in Perry a “boondoggle.” Later, Jim changed his mind. It became a good-natured joke among the three of us. And sometimes when I drove by on I-75, I’d call Larry and say, “Col. Walker, looks like there are only 10,000 cars at the ‘boondoggle’ today.”

Larry’s life was a testimony of how one visionary person can make a huge difference. Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. proved you don’t have to be 10 feet tall to be a giant.

There’s an Irish proverb: “A best friend is like a four-leaf clover, hard to find and lucky to have.” I am grateful that Gov. Sonny Perdue appointed both of us to the University System of Georgia’s Board of Regents. That’s where I was lucky to find Larry, my best friend.

Henry Ford said that your best friend brought out the best in you. That’s what Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. did for me and countless others.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Here’s a guarantee for Rick Bragg’s next book

       Words.

Some folks are good saying them. Others are good when writing them.

My friend Rick Bragg is not just good in both categories. The Pulitzer Prize-winning author and columnist is spectacular. A self-effacing, self-described product of a poor-white-trash upbringing in rural Alabama, Rick has written a library shelf of books. I’ve read them all, plus everything else that I could find with his byline.

I am certain that Rick has boosted the magazine readership—particularly of men folks—in Southern Living and Garden & Gun. And on the speaking circuit, his audiences roar with approval.

I know.

Saturday night, I once again witnessed howling laughter and thunderous applause that Rick erupts when he speaks.

Rick was the keynote speaker of the annual Southern LitFest in Newnan. The Wadsworth Auditorium was filled with his fans, and I had the honor of introducing him. I wish you had been there. 

To hear not me but Rick.

I told the crowd, “Country artist Kenny Chesney had a chart-topping hit, ‘You Had Me from Hello.’ Rick Bragg had me in his fan club after just 20 pages into his first book, All Over But The Shoutin’. The autobiographical tribute to his saintly mom is my kind of reading. It’s right up there with a hot buttered cathead biscuit, slathered with mayhaw jelly. Even better.”

From memory, I pulled Rick’s line about the man who abandoned his wife and three sons. He wrote, “Most men have backbones. My daddy had starch. His khakis were so stiff, you could slice bologna with them.” Rick told the crowd, “My daddy was sorry, a drunk.” But he worships his almost-90-year-old mother, Margaret Marie Bundrum Bragg. 

Rick has an 11th book in the works, about an old Bronco that he and brothers Sam and Mark drove. Sitting backstage before Saturday night’s event, Rick told me the backstory. A year from now, Bronco Boys will join his list of best-sellers. 

To best describe the featured speaker, I shared paragraphs from a 2002 GQ magazine article, headlined “For a Vegetable, I’ll Have White Gravy.” Rick wrote:

“I always wanted some washboard abs. But I always seemed to want some baby back ribs.

“Washboard abs are hard to get. Baby back ribs are $6.99.

“Washboard abs come with size 32 jeans, good overall cardiovascular health and, if you believe the infomercials, beautiful women. Baby back ribs come with coleslaw and a Wet-Nap. (I ate a Wet-Nap, in Sylacauga, Alabama, but that is another story.)

“Washboard abs come with—screw it. I am a man, what I like to believe is a real man, a Southern man.

“If God meant for me to have washboard abs, he would have left me in the hay fields of Calhoun County, slinging 50-pound bales up on the flatbed. He would have left me standing in the middle of rocks, making—as the song goes—little ’uns outta big ’uns in the red-hot sun.”

That’s classic Rick. 

        As dirt-road Southerners say, “He puts it down where the goats can get at it.”

        I told the Saturday-night crowd—as Rick stood in the curtain wings—that my wife and I have been married for 57 years. We must have played hooky from middle-school recess and eloped. Pam and I don’t fuss, but we do tangle over who gets to first read Rick’s back-page column in Southern Living.

I found a way to win, every time. I race to beat her to the mailbox to savor my friend’s column on the walk back to the house.

         I predict folks will race to get their hands on Rick’s upcoming Bronco Boys. 

        Here’s my promise:

        If you don’t like it, I will eat a Wet-Nap, too.

        Yeah, Rick’s that good.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Jim Minter was a Georgia journalism giant

 

            If you are old enough, you know exactly where you were when JFK was shot or when Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon. Who can forget that Sept. 11, 2001, morning, when those evil hijackers dropped America to its knees?  

And then there are the milestone moments in our personal histories. I will never forget that June evening in 1982, sitting on a seaside bench on Jekyll Island. I was talking with a Georgia giant of journalism, the editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Jim Minter had an idea.

He saw possibilities.

In the background, I could hear the Atlantic’s waves lapping. But I concentrated on Jim’s low, almost grumbling voice. Within 15 minutes of back-and-forth exchanges, my soon-to-be treasured confidant charted a career path that I’ve been following for 44 years.

Jim’s idea was that I should talk with his boss, Tom Wood, president of Atlanta Newspapers Inc. Tom was looking to make a change. Tom and I had met through our serving on the boards of the Georgia Press Association and UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. Our mutual friend, Jim, thought Tom and I would be a good fit as business partners.

The hardest ship to keep afloat is a partnership, but Tom and I have been perfect partners. We brought different—but complementing—disciplines into Community Newspapers Inc. If you asked us to paint a room, I’d tackle the task with a roller and a sprayer. Tom—with his CPA acumen—would handle the windows and trim.

Jim was right.

But now, there’s a new challenge.

Jim Minter, 95, died on May 27.

Tom and I have lost one of our dearest friends and most ardent cheerleaders. I can’t imagine my life without the benefit of Jim’s wise counsel and never-ending encouragement.

Jim Minter was the only child of a Fayette County farmer/postmaster and a beloved teacher for whom a school is named. He grew up in tiny Inman during the Great Depression. He was no stranger to mules or blisters on his feet from tight brogans. In retirement, Jim purchased and restored the community’s train depot and post office, across from his boyhood home. It was a classic venue for his fellowship with family and friends. I treasure my happy times there.

Jim rose to the upper tiers of our profession, mentoring a legion of journalists. Perhaps the most famous of his mentees was Lewis Grizzard. No one understood the say-it-like-he-sees-it humorist and nationally syndicated columnist more than Jim.

Jim got his start as a sports reporter. Listening to him talk about Wally Butts, Bear Bryant, Bobby Dodd, Ty Cobb and a host of other athletic immortals put you right there on the front row of history reporting. It was the same for politics. He knew who did what and when—the good, the bad and the ugly. With his Google-like recall, I urged him to write a book. With his signature self-effacing chuckle, he’d just say, “Nahhhh.”

For months, Jim had been telling me that he was fading. My friend was miserable. He’d lost his mobility, even giving up riding to the mailbox on his lawn mower. He could say the most in a few words as anyone I know. For his wisdom-sharing savvy, Jim was my Star Wars Yoda.

Three weeks ago, without calling, I drove to McBride Road in Fayette County and knocked on the door. Jim’s caregiver greeted me. Downstairs, Jim was in his library with his loyal Labrador, Sam. Anne, his wife of 70 years, joined us.

Something told me to call Tom and patch him in on the speaker phone. The three of us bantered back and forth, scrolling through old stories. We laughed and laughed some more. And when I hung up, it hit me. Why didn’t I record our 30-minute conversation? Oh, the memories.

They say in the South, “If you see a box turtle on a fence post, you can know that it didn’t get there by itself.”

From a seaside bench on Jekyll Island in 1982, Jim Minter lifted this box turtle up onto a fence post. I’ll never forget that.

Thank you, my friend, my Yoda.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com