It takes teamwork to make The Echo’s dream work

 

     If you’re reading this, I have two words: Thank you.

     Nov. 4, 2021, seems as if it was last week. That’s when the new era of The Oglethorpe Echo began its partnership with UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication was launched.

     And thanks to you, we are now in our fifth year and growing.

     This novel idea would not have succeeded without your loyalty and support. The model being used by your 152-year-old newspaper has attracted attention from across America and as far away as South Africa.

     Other communities are envious and would like to have similar arrangements for their newspaper.

     In September 2021, when Ralph Maxwell told me that his family was closing The Echo, I thought, “Oh, no. What can we do?” Minutes into that conversation, a mental light bulb flickered.

     Call it a dream, if you will, but Ralph was quick to shake my hand.

     And thank the Lord, Dean Charles Davis of Grady College came to my rescue. Within days, he had assembled the core of his leadership team, professors Dr. Amanda Bright and Andy Johnston. Both seasoned newspaper professionals were up to the challenge. The professors have mentored approximately 200 journalism students who have gained real-life experience at The Echo. Incredible. Thank you, Amanda and Andy.

     I like the catch phrase: “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

     Teamwork is exactly why you are reading the only newspaper in the world that loves Oglethorpe County. And thank goodness, you love The Echo, too.

     Our team has many contributors, including:

●      Readers have embraced the newspaper. Thanks to expanded news coverage and the addition of a website and multiple social media platforms, The Echo’s readership is at an all-time high and notching higher. Many of you will always want a printed edition to hold in your hands. And we acknowledge that many of you are fans of the digital age. The Echo brings you a variety of ways to click on to what’s happening in our community. Thank you, readers.

●      Without readers, there wouldn’t be advertisers. And with The Echo’s readership growing, more and more advertisers are turning to the newspaper to champion their marketing messages. I have always believed that advertising is news, too. News that tells what products and services are available. I preach that you must first be a good business to survive. Strong advertising support has made The Echo a good business, and we aim to survive. Thank you, advertisers.

●      Donors are all-stars on our Team Eco, too. From the start, we organized the newspaper’s ownership under the umbrella of a nonprofit organization. That means tax-deductible donations can be made to The Oglethorpe Echo Legacy, Inc. Right now — November through December — your dollars (up to $1,000) can be tripled, thanks to The Echo’s membership with the Institute of Nonprofit News. That means your $25 donation becomes $75 or your $100 contribution triples to $300. Last year, many of you contributed $1,000 for a $3,000 impact to the newspaper’s rainy-day fund. A key mission of our nonprofit organization is to build a rainy-day fund so that the newspaper can weather unpredictable economic turbulence. The Echo is 152 years young, and we want it to continue to be Oglethorpe County’s most trusted and complete source of news and information for years into the future. Thank you, donors.

●      The engine of energy on Team Echo is our staff. Trisha Bearden is our office manager. Lourdes Boyd is marketing director. Valerie Argo is office manager. Assisting them are volunteers who are always asking, “What more can we do to help?” Barbara Cabaniss is captain of our volunteer team. Today, our lead volunteers are Anne Garner and Cindi Johnson.

     So, what do I do? The best explanation is that I’m the “kid with a bicycle pump who keeps air in the tires so that we keep on rolling.” My mission is to help in any way that I can.

     I love Oglethorpe County, and I love its newspaper.

     The Oglethorpe Echo’s success is your success.

     It takes a team to make the dream work. Thank you, everyone.

     Go, Team Echo.

     P.S.: Don’t forget the deadline for contributions is Dec. 31, 2025.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

The state of Georgia is always on my mind

 

     The fascination came early. Before I was 15, I was hooked.

     Decades later, I’m still like a kid in the candy store. I struggle to decide what I like best. That’s why I can never get enough.

     Georgia is always on my mind.

     When our daughter Emily was in pigtails, we would slip through the Altamaha River swamp in a flatbottom boat. In a hushed voice, I pointed out the young buck with velvet on his antlers.

     And there were tiny wood ducks trailing their mother in the oxbow lake. Her eyes got big when we spied a sofa-sized alligator sunning on the muddy bank.

     Our then 10-year-old was trying to listen, but she was distracted by the hum of mosquitoes. Wrinkling her nose, she whined, “Daaaaad, why does God make mosquitoes, ticks and red bugs anyhow?”

     Propping the paddle on my knees, I leaned forward and said, “That’s His reminder that we aren’t in Heaven, yet.”

     I once heard, “All the way to Heaven should be heaven.” And if you take time to soak up the majesty of God’s gifts to Georgia, life can be heavenly. But still, I can’t decide which part of our state that I like the best.

     If I’m wading through wiregrass beneath a canopy of longleaf pines with my eyes fixed on the quivering tail of a bird dog — crouched and locked in a point — I think, “It can’t get any better than this.”

     Over a supper of fried quail and cathead biscuits, I always offer a special blessing of thanksgiving.

     I will never forget the night in Atlanta, when Alan and Eric showed my dad how to do the Tomahawk Chop. (You could do that back then.) Unbelievable. Our Braves were in the World Series, and three generations of NeSmith fellas were there and chanting.

     There were those unforgettable times in Sanford Stadium watching Herschel Walker do Herculean things with the pigskin.

     How about the night 85,000 roared, “USA, USA, USA!” as our women won the soccer gold medal in the 1996 Olympics?

     And then there were the Dawgs’ back-to-back national championships.

     How do you beat that?

     Well, spend a weekend camping in Rabun County. See the mountain laurel shouting with color, sniff the crisp air and listen to a grandson squeal as he reels in a feisty, walking-on-it’s-tail rainbow trout.

     And then savor that moment over a campfire, backlit by a navy-blue sky filled with twinkling stars.

     Pretty special, huh?

     When we were 14, Pete Hires and I rode a Trailways bus from Jesup to Augusta to witness the Masters. We marched with Arnie’s Army. The Golden Bear, Jack Nicklaus, earned his first green jacket.

     I never return to Amen Corner, nestled in flaming azaleas, that I don’t find myself back in 1963 and wondering, “What could be more glorious?”

     Watching the sunrise over the Atlantic can’t be forgotten either.

     Whether you are just outside the breakers off Cumberland Island, catching trout or kayaking in a tidal creek — with a bald eagle gliding overhead — few places are more picturesque than our coast. And then there’s the oyster roast on the beach.

     Oh, my.

     I’m a sucker for small towns, back roads and country stores.

     That’s how I found Providence Canyon, snug on the Alabama line. With Tom’s peanuts and a 6-ounce Coke, I watched the sun slip behind Georgia’s Grand Canyon.

     I congratulated myself for wandering off my planned route, just to behold the spectacle.

     But there’s one spectacle that I don’t have to travel far to see. It’s right here in Oglethorpe County. Sunsets in Smithonia are something to behold, too.

     This past summer, I was sitting on a lakeside bench, watching the catfish in a feeding-frenzy and waiting for my favorite time of day: sunset.

     The only thing that could have made it better was if I had asked Spotify to play Ray Charles singing “Georgia on My Mind.”

     And then I heard the tale-tell hum of a mosquito.

     As I slapped my neck, I smiled and thought of Emily.  

     That pesky insect was one of God’s reminders that I wasn’t in Heaven, yet.  

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Lindsay Scott almost wore a Tennessee-orange ‘24’

 

(Note: Fourth-quarter miracles aren’t anything new for the Georgia Bulldogs. I pulled this column from my 2010 files. And Coach Vince Dooley called the 1980 Buck-to-Lindsay ‘miracle’ perhaps the greatest play [at the time] in Bulldog history. The Dawgs take on the Florida Gators in Jacksonville on Saturday.)

 

"Lindsay Scott 35, 40, Lindsay Scott, 45, 50, 45, 40 ... run Lindsay! ... Well, I can't believe it. Ninety-two yards and Lindsay got in a foot race … I broke my chair.”

                                                                                                —Larry Munson

 

            Georgia had Herschel, but Florida had the fading clock and 92 yards of grass to protect their 21-19 lead in Jacksonville. If you've ever barked for the Bulldogs, you know 1980's history was written a different way.

            Up in the broadcaster's booth, Larry Munson growled, "Florida in a stand-up five, they may or may not blitz. They won't. Buck back, third down on the 8, in trouble, got a block behind him. Gonna throw on the run."

            Where were you when Lindsay Scott snared Buck Belue's pass? Many of our friends had already fled the Gator Bowl. A few lucky ones were back in their RVs with TVs tuned to see the catch that punched Georgia's ticket to New Orleans for a national championship.

            With a tiny transistor radio glued to my ear, I witnessed Lindsay and the Bulldogs run into the history books. Above the pandemonium, I heard Munson gasp, "We were gone. I gave up—you did, too. We were out of it and gone. Miracle!"

            For years, I carried a cassette of that play in my car. If I needed a boost, I'd listen to Larry beg Lindsay to run. Goose bumps would sprint up and down my spine. The magic still works.

            Friday afternoon, my spirits were sagging, so I clicked on a Web link to watch Buck hit Lindsay, one more time. Pumped, I picked up the phone and dialed my friend, Larry Munson.

An hour later, I was sitting at his dining room table. Larry and I began rewinding the clock to 1980, as we leafed through Robbie Burns' new book, BELUE TO SCOTT! At 88, Larry's no longer the voice of the Bulldogs, but he's still a rabid Dawg.

Back and forth we swapped stories from that glorious November afternoon. That's when I told him about a trip to Lindsay's home his senior year at Wayne County High School. (Recruiting rules didn't prohibit those kinds of visits in the 1970s.)

            Coach John Donaldson, Dr. Hurley Jones and I had heard Coach Johnny Majors was frequenting the Scotts' home. We had to go to 596 State St., too. When Lindsay saw our car turn the corner, he dropped his basketball and bolted. Watching the orange number 24 Tennessee jersey disappear around the corner, we almost backed out of the driveway. But, instead, we got out and knocked on the door.

            Lindsay's parents, Raymond and Johnnie Mae, ushered us into the family room where we talked for about two hours. Then the back door creaked open. Sheepishly, Lindsay announced, "I've been thinking about going to Tennessee."

            John and Hurley talked about their playing in Sanford Stadium. Lindsay began to warm up to the idea of switching his orange jersey for a red one. "Lindsay," I said, "Tennessee is a fine school, but Knoxville is a long way from Jesup. Would you like for your family and friends to be able to see you play?"

            He nodded.

            "Well, hundreds of your hometown friends go to games in Athens," I said. "It'd be easier for your family to watch you play for the Bulldogs. Think about Jacksonville. Imagine how many people from Jesup would be cheering for you during the Georgia-Florida game."

Lindsay smiled and said, "I think I'll go to Georgia."

            Coaches Vince Dooley and Mike Cavan closed the deal.

            And the rest is Larry-broke-his-metal-steel-chair-with-about-a-5-inch-cush-ion history. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

 

You can’t make up these colorful stories

 

            Stories.

            There are so many stories sloshing around in my brain. On a rainy afternoon, I made a list of a half-dozen. I’ll use some names. Some I won’t. You’ll see why.

Courthouse buzz

            Dewey Willis was not a big man, but he knew how to make a mighty big stir. He had had all the red-tape runaround that he could stand. I don’t remember what caused Dewey’s temper tantrum, but I’ll never forget the chaos that he caused at the Wayne County Courthouse.

            And it was a big buzz—cleaning out the government offices—when he flung a hive of angry bees down the historic hallway.

            He got into a little trouble for the mayhem.

            But Dewey had the last laugh.

Interview with mayor

            The town’s mayor was a barber. I enjoyed stopping by for visits. His shop had two chairs, his and another for visitors.

            One day when he and his scissors weren’t busy, the mayor was in a mood to reminisce about his Army days. “Yeah,” he said, “they gave us an IQ test. And I damn near made a hundred.”

            I choked a laugh.

And managed to say, “Incredible.”

‘You misquoted me’

            The gentleman was old enough to be my daddy. I thought he might rip off his belt and try to whip me.

He snarled, “You misquoted me.”

            “I have my notes. Would you like to see them?”

            His face flashed fire-engine red.

            “Would you like to listen to the tape on my recorder?”

            He jerked as if he really was going to snatch off his belt.

            Instead, he fumed, “You just ‘misunderheard’ what I said.”

            Well, I guess that I did.

Book of stories

            John Strickland parked his blue-and-white Dodge pickup in the alley between his fish market and the newspaper.

            I couldn’t resist chatting with the always savvy and sometimes barefoot businessman. His life was a book of colorful stories. Here’s one of my favorites:

            “We grew up poor on the edge of the Altamaha River. We ate so many cooters [turtles] out of the swamp that out of the back door looked like a hard hat factory.”

 John didn’t die a poor man.

During his life, he sold mountains of white crystallized earth out of Ludowici sand pits.

Yeah, John was a book of stories.

I loved ’em all.

Campaign promise

            Alex Hopkins was a timber baron, and he enjoyed embellishing his reputation as a bona fide dirt-road sport. He could go toe-to-toe with John Strickland, reeling off colorful you-can’t-make-up-this-stuff stories. He was bona fide entertainment, too.

            Once, Alex ran for a seat on the county commission. One morning, he dropped by The Press-Sentinel. From my down-the-hall office, I could hear him in the lobby. As if he had swallowed a coffee cup of John’s sand, he growled, “If I am elected, they are going to tell the truth, or there will be a fistfight every first Tuesday.”

            A few more votes, and Alex would have won.

            And I have always wondered what if he had.

Congressman’s request

            Remember when you got a free pecan log when you gassed up at Stuckey’s?

            Eastman’s W.S. Stuckey had a string of those teal-blue, steep-roofed gas stations that sold candy by the truckloads. His son, Bill Stuckey, was our 8^th District congressman.

            And now Bill’s daughter, Stephanie, is reviving her family’s roadside heritage with pecans as a key ingredient in her business plan.

Go, Stephanie.

            But I digress.

            Congressman Stuckey brought his campaign to the Wayne County Press, circa 1972.

            As a rookie ad salesman, I was just listening.

            Publisher Elliott Brack asked, “Congressman, how can we help you?”

            Rep. Stuckey responded, “Elliott, you can help me by endorsing my opponent. Your endorsements are the kiss of death.”

            Nah, you can’t make up stuff like this.   

                

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com   

Newspapers are soul and conscience of community

 

           Preachers and columnists are expected to say something.

           And sometimes, they repeat their messages.

           This is National Newspaper Week.

You may recognize parts of this “sermon.”

           Flash back to 1958.

I considered myself a 10-year-old businessman, investing my money to make money.

When the 3 o’clock bell at Orange Street Elementary School rang, I jumped on my red Schwinn and pedaled as fast as I could to the back door of The Jesup Sentinel. For a nickel each, Brian Kirby would sell to me a stack of Bill Rhoden’s weekly newspaper. With my basket stuffed, I would race over to shift change of Sea Island Shirt Factory on Cherry Street.

When the ladies turned off their sewing machines, I turned my nickels into dimes before the ink dried on that week’s edition of local news.

Yes, sir.

I was smitten with being in business, the newspaper business.

But as life happens, I took detours. Over the next dozen years, I sampled a variety of jobs before coming right back to where I was on my Schwinn.

In 1971, thanks to Elliott Brack and Dr. Lanier Harrell (then owners of the Wayne County Press), I got a chance to return to what enamored me in 1958. And for 54 years, ink has been coursing through my veins. As long as my heart is ticking, I plan to keep my keyboard clicking.

If you are reading this, thank you.

In the early 1980s, Ted Turner made a prediction. I heard him say, “In 10 years newspapers will be dead.” He vowed cable news would be the assassin. In his futuristic rant, he didn’t envision that cable TV would be besieged by an onslaught of technology-driven options, too.

Nonetheless, Ted was right.

The newspapers that aren’t reinventing themselves in this surging digital revolution are being forced to unplug their presses. This newspaper vows to be a survivor.

Why?

I believe the community newspaper plays a crucial role in our democracy. And a healthy democracy must have a voice and an advocate, especially in rural America, where you and I live. And I am adamant. I will never live in a community without a newspaper.

Why?

A newspaper should be the community’s soul and conscience, just as it should be a mirror that reflects the good, the bad and the ugly. Regardless, people have a right to know.

I believe one of the key missions of a newspaper is to shine lights into dark corners. The Washington Post trumpets, “Democracy dies in the darkness.”

Amen.

Furthermore, the newspaper is the thread and the skill to stitch together stories that produce a unique “quilt.” And as that quilt wraps around the community, it gives us a sense of place, a smorgasbord of information, updates in the marketplace, and a forum to share ideas and opinions. Add to that, a newspaper should provide a spark to inspire us to do better.

Hello, 2025.

There is no denying that the internet and social media are major disruptive competitors to newspapers and multiple other businesses. Consider how Amazon and e-commerce have affected traditional retailers. Ted made some valid points. If newspapers don’t continually reinvent themselves, they will die.

  But hold on.

  Don’t rush to write this newspaper’s obituary.

  There’s only one newspaper in the world that is 100 percent devoted to this community. You are reading it on newsprint or your electronic screen. Our commitment is to be relevant, compelling, credible, and the most complete package of local news and information available. And, of course, to be innovative.

  It’s National Newspaper Week.

  We thank you, our readers and advertisers, for being our partners.

  Together, we step into the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com