People Die Twice is new book set for 2026

 

(Note: On my 2026 to-do list is to publish a book that memorializes friends. People die a second time when stories and memories about them stop. I don’t want that to happen. Here’s the preface of upcoming People Die Twice.)

               Friends tease me, but I don’t mind.

               They say that I mostly write about dead people.

               Billy Cheshire is one of those believers.

               Billy and I were Yellow Jackets on the 1964 and 1965 Jesup High School football team. As a quarterback, he was good enough to win a Florida State University scholarship in Tallahassee. As a lightweight lineman, I was good enough to win a letterman’s jacket and a ride in the backseat of Big Dink and Margie’s Buick, all the way to Athens and the University of Georgia. He’s a retired CPA, and I’m still clicking these keys.

               Billy’s dad was my 12^th-grade government teacher. Bill Cheshire kept the class engaged, especially when he turned on his deadpan humor. His son inherited that quick, straight-faced wit.

               Except this one time.

               When I walked up to greet my old teammate, Billy snapped, “You almost gave me a heart attack.”

               “What?”

               “I saw Ernie Bowen’s picture in your column. And I thought, ‘Oh Lord, Ernie has died!’”

               “What?”

               “Yeah, you know, you are always writing about the dead. My heart almost stopped. Had Ernie died?”

               And then he cracked one of those signature “Cheshire” grins. Glad we could both laugh.

               The reason that our beloved football-equipment manager’s photo was in my column was that I had attended Ernie and Dale’s daughter’s UGA law school graduation. Three years earlier, I had toured Casey and her parents on the Athens campus, introducing them to the law school’s associate dean and a superior court judge. I wasn’t about to miss her graduation celebration.

               Billy was wrong about Ernie’s passing away (praise the Lord), but he was right about this. Over my 55-year career, I have written more than 200 columns about friends who have died. I can’t count the eulogies delivered. I contend, “People should be remembered.”

               And I believe, as others have professed, “People die twice.”

               First, the heart stops.

               Next, the stories and memories stop.

               My hope is to do what I can to keep those stories and memories rolling forward.

               In 1998, when I gave my dad’s eulogy, I said, “So many of you have asked, ‘What can I do?’”

               And my answer was, “Please save your favorite Dink NeSmith Sr. stories. Share them with his great-grandchildren, whom he never had the joy of holding in his arms. Help keep him ‘alive.’”

               When a friend or family member dies, that’s what all of us can do. It’s a gift of love and respect that can keep giving, over and over, for generations. That’s why I wanted my book, The Last Man to Let You Down, My Daddy the Undertaker, in the hands of his great-grandchildren.

I barely knew either of my grandfathers. And I didn’t want that to happen to our eight grandchildren. As one of my dear mentors, the late Dr. J.W. Fanning, preached, “Only words live forever.”

               Amen.

               Billy’s not the only classmate who has mentioned my writings about deceased people. Edna Byrd Williamson and I were chatting at a Class of 1966 reunion when she said, “They say that you have a file on everyone in Wayne County.”

               “Why would they say that, Edna?”

               “Because you seem to remember everything about everybody.”

               I couldn’t help but laugh, but I took my friend’s remarks as a compliment.

               No, I don’t have a file on everybody.

               On a side note, our children—Alan, Emily and Eric—believe I can remember the day that I was born. Really, I can’t. I tease, “But I do remember the ride home from the hospital. My dad was driving Harrison Funeral Home’s black Cadilliac hearse that doubled as an ambulance. I was in the back, lying on a plush pillow in a chocolate-brown metal basket. And Mother had her hand on my head, as she cooed to her only son.”

We all have different skills. I can’t do calculus or quantum physics. But my memory is pretty good, so far. And maybe that’s why I am anxious to get as many words written, the sooner the better.

What you are holding in your hands, People Die Twice, is an effort—through a collection of personal columns and eulogies—to keep the people within these pages “alive” by not forgetting them.

Billy, Edna and everyone, I confess.

I have been blessed—beyond measure—with friends and acquaintances.

I loved them before they died the first time.

And I vow to help keep their stories and memories “alive.”

Long after their hearts stopped.       

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Be careful when arguing with a mule man

 

           Many of my citified friends chuckle when they find me in the barn, trimming Maggie’s mane or cleaning her hooves. Few could distinguish among a mule, a horse and a donkey. Over the past 30 years, I have kept a variety of all three in our pastures.

Randy Leggett sold me my original mules, Ruby and Rose. As long as they lived, the mammoth mules were star attractions for visitors. And today, folks want to feed Maggie to feel her velvet nose snuffle food from their outstretched hands.

But from the beginning of my mule era, friends would ask, “Why don’t you just get a Harley or a sailboat or an RV?”

My answer is always the same, “Thanks, but mules suit me just fine.”

And then some friends remind me that I have a set of golf clubs. I do, somewhere. But that’s when I tell them about my friend Gene.

Don’t be fooled by Gene’s overalls, his boots or his cheek full of chaw. He grew up on a farm on a red-clay road. But he’s made a handsome living up on the hard road, selling tractors and equipment. That’s how I got to know him and learn about his mules.

If you want to talk mules or horse-drawn farming, Gene’s your man. If he doesn’t have what you need, he knows where to get it. Under his cap is an encyclopedia of mule-related knowledge.

When Gene goes to mule events, he draws a crowd. People congregate to admire his blue-ribbon mules. They want to hear what he has to say. His advice is blue-ribbon, too. Gene is not one of those Texans who are, as they say, “All hat and no cattle.”

Years ago, Gene got the itch to have a team of 20 mules, similar to the ones in the long-ago Borax TV ad. He already had the big-rig truck and trailers to transport his dream. But his wife pushed back.

Frustrated, she blurted, “Why don’t you just play golf like other men your age?”

Gene thought a minute and replied, “Well, Honey, I could, but then I’d have to join the country club.”

“Gene, as much as you have spent on your mules, you could certainly afford the dues.”

“But then, Hon, I’d have to learn to drink.”

“Why’s that, Gene?”

“For some golfers, their favorite hole is the club’s bar, the 19^th.”

“Well, Gene, you are a well-disciplined man. You have never drunk alcohol, and I believe you can still reject that temptation.”

“But then, Hon, I’d have to buy a new Lincoln Town Car.”

“Gene, that’s crazy. I already have a new Lincoln Town Car.”

“That’s right, Hon, but a few of those golfers have girlfriends. I might get one, as well. And if my girlfriend saw all those other girlfriends with a new Lincoln, then she’d want one, too.”

Throwing up her hands, the mule man’s wife surrendered, “Gene, why don’t you just keep those durn mules?”      

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Scrubbing ‘colored’ toilet helped pop idyllic ‘bubble’

  

            Compared to today, the 1950s were snail-like in news dissemination.

            Before sunrise, the Savannah Morning News skidded on the sidewalk, with damp-from-dew St. Augustine grass acting as a backstop at 111 W. Orange St. During daylight hours, WBGR had a noon newscast. Since we lived in the back of the funeral home, the “Mortuary Hour”—which lasted 10 minutes, maybe—was the most-listened-to broadcast. I can still hear Glenn Thomas Jr.’s baritone voice on the AM station.

            And if you rotated the antenna just right, you might get 30 minutes of news on one of three TV channels—two in Savannah, the other in Jacksonville. That is, if Harvey Stuckey had waved his magic repairman’s wand over our 19-inch Majestic black-and-white TV. My sisters and I always pleaded, “Please, Mr. Stuckey, you have to fix it. Daddy won’t buy another.” And until Matlock and Wheel of Fortune emerged decades later, Big Dink could have lived without a TV.

            I wasn’t intentionally sheltered in Southeast Georgia. I was just absorbed in a simple, Mayberry-like life: Orange Street Elementary School, First Baptist Church, Little League, Boy Scouts and outdoor stuff, such as riding my bike with buddies to skinny-dip in the Black Hole. Starting with my dad in the 1930s, three generations of NeSmith boys splashed in that secret-but-not-so-secret blackwater swimming hole.

            The world was changing. But I was living inside an idyllic “bubble.” The Russians scared us into the Space Age with Sputnik, but I was oblivious to the mounting civil-rights movement with Rosa Parks, Dr. Martin Luther King, John Lewis and others.

            I knew there were black schools and white schools, but as a preteen, that’s all I had ever known. We didn’t have a maid, so separate bathrooms—as dramatized in the movie The Help—weren’t an issue in our tiny apartment. Mother scrubbed our floors and even ironed my dad’s boxers.

            And I knew Big Dink embalmed bodies for Tom Johnson, who owned Royal Funeral Home, the community’s black mortuary. Years later, I learned Mr. Johnson didn’t have an embalmer’s license. I figured my dad was just helping a friend. And he was.

            By 1960, my eyes started to see things outside my bubble. For 35 cents an hour, I did more than pump gas at Pope’s Texaco. There were no leaf blowers. I swept the concrete apron, every day, with a push broom. And I sanitized three restrooms: ladies, men’s and colored.

            Up until that point, I hadn’t thought about a third restroom. I doubt many other white 12-year-olds had, either. Ignorance isn’t a good excuse. But not knowing did make it easier to be complacent about the racial divide. After more than a half-century, we’ve made huge strides. But we are not there, not yet.

            On MLK Day, I woke up thinking about Danny Stephens, who integrated Wayne County Junior High in 1965. It was relatively peaceful for everyone, except Danny, who endured taunting and bullying.

            The next year, I graduated from the county’s last non-integrated, non-consolidated high school. In the fall of 1966, Wayne County Training School, Odum High and Screven High were merged with Wayne County High School in Jesup.

            Fast-forward to 1998.

            Danny Stephens was knocking on my door. My dad had just died, and he came to give his condolences. Danny said some very nice things. And then he talked about his breaking another color barrier in the late 1970s. I had hired him as a photographer for our newspaper.

            I never thought of that, either. I had offered the job because Danny was interested and qualified.

But during our visit 20 years later, Danny told me about the suspicions that he had caused. He had to explain to the police why he was in a “white” neighborhood taking pictures. He was on assignment, taking photos for real estate ads.

            Now it’s 2026.

            News doesn’t creep anymore. It pulsates, 24-7.

            We’ve come a long way since the 1950s.

            But we’re not there, not yet.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Ole Miss can’t strip-sack Sugar Bowl memories

            If you are a superstitious Dawg, you had an inkling of what was going to happen in New Orleans. On New Year’s Day, Georgia played its 13^th time in the Sugar Bowl.

            And the immortal Larry Munson’s “Old Lady Luck” was not with the 2025 SEC Champions. The Dawgs had no answer for Trinidad Chambliss, the dart-throwing, scrambling “Houdini” quarterback of Ole Miss.

There was a flicker of hope right up to the final seconds. But again, the Red-and-Black barkers had a muzzled ride home. Grandson Henry Wilson and I were among them, all 16 hours on the train from the Big Easy to Toccoa.

But I am getting ahead of myself.

            I think that I’ve been to about half of Georgia’s appearances in the Sugar Bowl. My first trip was at the end of the 1968 season. Pam and I were dating. We rode in the backseat of her dad’s tan-and-brown Oldsmobile 98.

Thanks to her family’s connections, we celebrated New Year’s Eve upstairs in Pat O’Brien’s in the French Quarter. And we had upfront seats for shows of legends Pete Fountain and Al Hirt. But it was a bark-less ride home. The tusks of the Arkansas Razorbacks gashed Georgia, 16-2.

            Last year, grandson William NeSmith and I had another we-got-whupped train ride to Georgia, courtesy of the Fighting Irish, 23-10. But with Gunner Stockton taking the snaps, we saw encouraging prospects for the upcoming season.

            And that’s why, with every clickety-clack on Amtrak’s rails, Henry and I couldn’t wait to get to New Orleans. This was my fourth time taking a grandson to a bowl game. Three more grandsons and a granddaughter are awaiting their turns. It’s all about making memories.

            Here’s a snapshot:

§  Staying in the Hilton New Orleans Riverside, Henry was up close to the Georgia team, coaches, administrators and alumni. Henry got to talk—one-on-one—with President Jere Morehead. Looking ahead, the sophomore hopes to major in engineering or medicine. His brother, Wyatt, is already enrolled in UGA’s College of Engineering. At the game, Henry chatted with Gov. Brian Kemp.

§  Dining at the iconic Brennan’s was one of Henry’s favorite activities. He enjoyed the “Land and Sea” entrée, but he really liked his first taste of the restaurant’s “Famous Bananas Foster.” However, the always-hungry Henry put his blue ribbon on Daisy Mae’s steak-and-eggs breakfast.

§  We took a daylight stroll down Bourbon Street. If the line hadn’t been so long at Felix’s, Henry could have slurped a dozen raw oysters on the half-shell. Pat O’Brien’s was impossible to get inside, too. I really wanted us to tap our toes to the ragtime dueling pianos. But we heard plenty of Dixieland jazz along the French Quarter’s streets.

§  Uber delivered us to the historic Garden District to visit Dr. Percy Pierre, a New Orleans native. Since Henry is interested in engineering, I wanted him to meet my 87-year-old friend, who was our nation’s first Black person to earn a Ph.D. in electrical engineering. All eight of his great-grandparents were enslaved. Every moment with Percy is a history lesson.

§  A must for all New Orleans trips is a visit to The National World War II Museum. My dad and Pam’s fought in the Philippines. I wanted Henry to get a feel for what his great-grandfathers, along with other brave men and women, had experienced in that brutal war.

§  If I had the power to write executive orders, I would require every American high school student to spend a day exploring the museum. And after watching the movie Beyond All Boundaries, a 250-word essay—reflections of what they saw—would be mandatory. Without victories in the Pacific and in Europe, we could be speaking Japanese and/or German.

Henry and I went to New Orleans to bark for our beloved Bulldogs. The same reason William and I were there last year. Both times, we had hoped for another chance at a national championship. But back-to-back, the scoreboard of Caesars Superdome said, “Not this year.”

On the clickety-clack ride home, I said, “Henry, during the Kirby Smart Era, we’ve been blessed. But we’ve also been spoiled. The Dawg Nation expects to win every game.”

“Look at this way, Grandpa. Think about all the other memories.”

That’s right, Henry.

Ole Miss can’t strip-sack those.

“And, Grandpa, we have next season.”

That’s right, Henry.

Go, Dawgs.

Woof, woof.

 

 

 

 

dinknesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Neighbor, one day we will have that reunion

 

            In 1951 a trio of 3-year-olds were pushing Tonka trucks in the sandbox of Jack & Jill Kindergarten. That was the nexus of a 74-year friendship among Pete Hires, Randall Bramblett and me.

            Last April we planned a few laidback days in the wilds of the Altamaha River swamp. We were hungry to relive memories of our youth. One thing led to another, and the idea morphed into a mini reunion of our Class of 1966.

            Randall and I would drive down from Athens. Pete, his son Justen, and grandson Carter would fly from New England. But as they say, “Life is what happens while you are planning to do something else.” Pete’s health grounded him in Massachusetts. The closest he got to the Altamaha gathering was a speaker-phone conversation with his classmates.

            Pete, Randall and I agreed, “Let’s regroup for the fall.”

            We hoped.

We prayed.

            But by October, Pete’s declining health kept him hospitalized. The three of us stayed in touch through calls, texts and emails. Pete got his Christmas wish—home for the holidays. On Jan. 3 Randall and I got a text from Genie, Pete’s wife. Our friend, 77, had died in his sleep.

            As the news soaked in, my mind drifted back to 1952.

            We lived next door to Aubrey and Kathleen Hires and their son, Pete. Mr. Hires, the county school superintendent, and my dad, the undertaker, both wore starched white shirts and ties. They called each other “Neighbor.” (For the past 30 years, Pete and I have called each other “Neighbor,” too.)

            It was Christmastime and frigid for South Georgia. Jack Frost had coated our yard’s St. Augustine grass with crunchy ice crystals. And my dad was worried. Mother’s father had died, and our family’s Dodge didn’t have a heater. He knew that we would shiver all the way to the Baker County funeral and back.

            I couldn’t hear Mr. Hires’ big wingtips crunching his way to our house, but I will never forget the knock on our back door. “Neighbor,” Pete’s dad said to Big Dink, “here are the keys to my new Buick. Take Margie and the kids to her daddy’s funeral.” His generosity wasn’t a random act of kindness. It was just who Aubrey Hires was.

In 1985 I was honored to be a pallbearer at his funeral. When Pete’s mother, Kathleen, died in 2020, she was living with him in Rhode Island. He asked me to deliver her eulogy. The COVID-19 crisis and other unreversible complications prevented the memorial. But Mrs. Hires died knowing that she was one of my all-time favorite teachers.

After graduation from Jesup High School, Pete, Randall and I scattered. Randall carried his Rayonier scholarship to UNC-Chapel Hill. A football scholarship took Pete to Duke. And I cruised to UGA in the backseat of my parents’ teal-blue Buick.

For the next several decades, the Jack & Jill graduates were scrambling to create our families and our careers. But we kept in touch through a common link—music, Randall’s music.

Pete could jam on his electric guitar. I can plink on a piano. And we shared a celebration of our friend’s success and fame as a musician, a singer and a songwriter. Chuck Leavell, keyboardist of the Rolling Stones, once told me that Randall was on his short list of the most gifted on the planet. Pete and I agreed. But as expected, Randall, our humble sandbox buddy, blushed.

When you have more “yesterdays” than “tomorrows,” you hear the clock ticking. For Pete, it was ticking too fast. That’s why the swamp reunion was to be so treasured. But, again, life is what happens when you are planning to do something else.

Neighbor, it won’t be along the Altamaha River. But one day—“when the roll is called up yonder”—we will have that reunion.

Won’t we, Randall?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com