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

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