Words of old hymn are befitting for Mother’s Day

 

           “Precious memories how they linger; how they ever flood my soul.”

            As we sang those words last Sunday morning, I thought about the upcoming Mother’s Day. And precious memories of Marjorie Vines NeSmith flooded my soul.

            If Mother were alive, she’d be 100 on Oct. 11. Instead, she died at age 90. On her deathbed, she clutched our hands and whispered to my sisters and me, “Please don’t worry about me. I can’t lose. If I live, God allows me to spend more time with all of my loved ones here on earth. If I die, I can’t lose. Because I will be in Heaven with your daddy.”

            Her final words were “I love you.”

            On the way home from church, I scrolled through these memories that keep Mother’s spirit alive in my soul:

§  Mother was a talker. She grew up in an era when Lucky Strike cigarettes had a slogan: “LSMFT, Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco.” Her girlfriends had another interpretation: “Let’s Stop Margie from Talking.”

§  But talking helped pay for sisters Sandy and Sheila and me to go to college. She was the receptionist for Rayonier, the pulp mill with 1,000 or more workers. Mother was legendary for recognizing voices and remembering names. Children could call the mill’s switchboard, and Margie would know their voices and connect them with their mother or father. When she retired, two people did her job.

§  You could hear her smile in Mother’s voice. I’ve had people tell me—dozens of times—that they’d call the mill just to hear her voice. One man told me, “If I was having a bad day, I would call Rayonier. Margie would make me smile.”

§  Sister Sandy was 6. I was 4. A bar of chocolate Ex-Lax disappeared from the medicine cabinet. Mother quizzed both of us. We shook our heads. “Well,” Mother said, “the truth will come out.” And did it ever. I smiled—because it wasn’t me.

§  On Feb. 9,1964, Mother made the First Baptist’s youth choir smile, too. My friends and I were fretting about missing the Beatles’ American debut on The Ed Sullivan Show, which was being televised that Sunday night. Mother, the youth director, said, “Shhhhh. Here’s what you do. Sing your special song, and while Brother Jenkins is praying, quietly slip out and go home.” That’s what we did. And when the reverend opened his eyes and turned around to thank the youth, he was baffled by the empty choir loft. Sixty years later, Mother is still their hero.

§  Mother thought all Baptist boys should go to Mercer University. Better yet, they should attend Brewton-Parker for two years and then go to Macon. “But Mother,” I said, “I want to go to the University of Georgia.” “It’s so big,” she countered. “You should pray about it.” I did. When she asked, “Well, what did you and the Lord decide?” I said, “Mother, I’ve narrowed it down to two places: Vietnam or UGA.” She barked, “Go, Dawgs!”

§  No doubt you’ve heard the post office is struggling and losing money. One reason is that it is missing Mother’s tsunami of cards, notes and letters. She didn’t start the day without sticking stamps on a stack of handwritten missives. She called writing her ministry. A friend—battling cancer—showed me more than 350 notes of encouragement that he had received. A doctor’s desk drawers are stuffed with uplifting messages in my mother’s distinctive penmanship. He professed her words had healing power for him, his staff and his patients.

            In the South, old-timers would say, “That boy (or girl) could make a preacher.” Indeed, Marjorie Vines NeSmith could have. She had a scripture for every occasion. And if she was asked to give thanks before a meal, you could count on the biscuits being cold.

            But that didn’t bother our three, Alan, Emily and Eric. They were convinced that their grandmother had a direct line to God’s desk in Heaven. They never faced a big test unless Grandmother had lifted a prayer for them.

            Yes, indeed.

            “Precious memories how they linger; how they ever flood my soul.”

            Happy Mother’s Day. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Sharecropper’s son plows way to fame and fortune

 

           America was built by defying the odds. If you are looking for a modern-day example, let me take you back to 1941. We’ll start with a birth in a sharecropper’s shack on the banks of Alligator Creek, in the backwaters of Baker County, Georgia.

            You could count on one hand the parents’ years of formal education. And before the child left home, the family had lived in 10 different tenant houses, with daddy always plowing another man’s mule.

            Poverty, illiteracy, bigotry and the absence of hope crushed the spirits of most children of sharecroppers. The odds were worse under Karl’s leaky, rusted-tin roofs. With diamondback-like fangs, his father’s temper struck without warning. Employing calloused hands and a cold-as-well-water heart, Cecil beat his second son, denying paternity. His caustic words stung as much as his farm-hardened fists.

            Most children would have crumpled, but his mother was the polar opposite of Cecil. He was filled with anger. Elsie was steeped in love. She braved beatings, too, but she never stopped whispering words of encouragement to Karl and his three siblings.

             In the mid-1950s, the world was watching Elvis swivel his hips, but two men—Bill Tom Reeves and Joe Vines—were watching Cecil and Elsie’s son. What they saw was something Karl hadn’t seen yet—his academic potential.

            Vines, Baker County High School’s principal, teamed with Reeves, a math teacher, to challenge Karl. The mentors encouraged him to hitch up his brainpower. Karl’s mediocre grades skyrocketed. Before long, the student was teaching the math class. College was mentioned, but Karl balked. College required money. He had none.

            Joe Vines, my mother’s oldest brother, was an optimist. He drove Karl to Statesboro to tour Georgia Teachers College. Enthusiasm bubbled in the 18-year-old, but he was still broke. Uncle Joe had a plan. On the way back home, he detoured to Leary to visit his friend Bill Sheppard,

the Ford dealer.

             The businessman extended a handshake loan of $532 to underwrite Karl’s first two quarters. Scholarships and part-time jobs paid for the balance of a bachelor’s degree, followed by a master’s and then a doctorate.

            Now it’s 2024.

            I’ve read—again—Dr. Karl Peace’s Paid in Full. His autobiography subtitle could have been “Defying the Odds.”

            Dr. Peace doesn’t live in the other man’s house on Alligator Creek anymore. He purchased that farm and built his own dwelling there. The mules are gone, but there’s a stable of 40-plus vintage automobiles.

            Most days, though, Dr. Peace is in Statesboro, where he is a part-time faculty member of his alma mater, Georgia Southern University (GSU.) He was named its Georgia Cancer Coalition Distinguished Cancer Scholar. But sandwiched between two professorial careers is an astounding rise to prominence in the pharmaceutical industry.

            Big names such as A.H. Robins, SmithKline and Warner Lambert/Parke-Davis sought the services of Dr. Karl Peace, world-class problem-solver. Eventually, he founded his own research company that rewarded him with unimaginable wealth, considering his hardscrabble upbringing.

            Dr. Peace’s GSU scholarships pay tribute to Bill Tom Reeves and Joe Vines. But his philanthropy doesn’t stop there. More than 20 scholarships have been funded. To honor his late wife, he donated $2.5 million to create the Jiann-Ping Hsu College of Public Health at GSU, the first school of public health in the University System of Georgia.

            What the biopharmaceutical statistician has done with his checkbook is beyond calculation. But what he has accomplished with his life over the past 83 years is even more impressive.

            Dr. Karl Peace defied the odds.

            And won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

There are pieces of heaven on Earth

 

“On Earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.”

–Jules Renard, French author, 1864-1910

            On April 21, the eve of Earth Day, I did one of my favorite things. I walked outside to see what mural God had painted in the western sky. There it was, as if He had used a spatula to spread rainbow sherbet across the horizon behind the lake. The sunset was stunning.

            And then I turned around.

            The full moon was tucked into the pastel-colored clouds of the eastern sky. I call that phenomenon a reverse sunset. Whatever its name, it’s a footnote to Renard’s reflection.

            Since I was a barefoot boy, I’ve been in love with nature. As a father and grandfather, I have done my best to make sure that the next two generations share my love and respect for the outdoors.

            I wish that I could have sat on Rachel Carson’s front porch and talked about nature with an American pioneer of protecting the environment. Even as she was fighting cancer and dying, Carson was fighting to save the earth. She proclaimed, “The more clearly we can focus our attention on the wonders and realities of the universe about us, the less taste we have for the destruction.”

            On Earth Day 2024, as I write these words, I think about Carson and what she would have to say about:

§  Georgia Power’s reluctance to do the right thing and get all of its toxic coal ash out of our groundwater.

            Our state’s big utility is such a vital economic engine for us, and it does so many good things. That’s what makes the poisonous coal-ash pollution so perplexing. Georgia Power and its parent, the Southern Company, have made billions from burning coal. So, why aren’t they willing to reinvest enough of those billions to clean up its environmental mess?

            The best I can figure is that Georgia Power knows it doesn’t have to worry having its hands slapped by the Public Service Commission or the General Assembly. History shows that Georgia Power gets what it wants, including massive profits. And profits are a good thing, especially when an adequate portion is used to protect our natural resources. For the energy powerhouse and all of us, every day should be Earth Day.

§  Twin Pines Mining’s insistence on digging where it shouldn’t, near the Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge.

            The late Albert Einstein, one of the world’s most famous geniuses, won the 1921 Nobel Prize. But his smarts extended beyond physics. He said, “Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better.”

            When you inventory the vast riches of Georgia’s natural resources, what’s more obvious than the “nature” of the Okefenokee Swamp? Why are our leaders so reluctant to wade in the swamp debate and say, “No, Twin Pines, you can’t risk harming a treasure that cannot be replaced”?

            It doesn’t take an Albert Einstein mind to understand that danger.

            Imagine this. A sawmill wants to set up shop in one of America’s sacred redwood forests because the demand for that unique wood has spiked. How many hundreds of years does it take to grow those stately beauties?

            As the saws are being oiled, do you think the citizens of the Pacific coast and the rest of America will remain silent? When it comes to protecting those sanctuary-like forests of towering redwoods and the giant Sequoias, every day should be Earth Day.

            Why can’t there be the same reverence for Georgia’s Okefenokee?

            I go back to what the Frenchman said: “On Earth there is no heaven, but there are pieces of it.”

            Georgia’s unspoiled nature is a testament to those “pieces.”

            Amen?

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

How one Yankee fell in love with Georgia

 

            The young couple had just driven 756 miles from Pittsburgh. They weren’t quite sure of what to expect in Southeast Georgia. Barbara and Andy Marks would soon find out.

 The U-Haul—stuffed with their possessions—was sitting at the Elm Street curb in Jesup. As they checked out the empty cottage, rented from L.G. and Peachy Aspinwall, they heard a knock.

            Their first guest was a preacher. After brief introductions, the minister suggested that the trio pray. Grabbing a metal folding chair, the lone piece of furniture in the room, he improvised an altar and asked them to kneel.

            With their heads bowed, Barbara and Andy peeked to make eye contact with each other. That’s when they noticed Nassau, their golden retriever. The puppy was sniffing the Man of God’s heels.Then, Nassau hiked a hind leg. Yes, he did. And when the reverend stood up, his white socks were yellow.         

            That’s the first memory of my hometown for the Ivy League grad and his beautiful bride, who looked like Ali MacGraw’s sister. (Remember Ali and Ryan O’Neal in the blockbuster movie Love Story?) Not long after that, Pam and I met the Yankee newcomers, forging a friendship that has spanned a half-century.

            Andy and Barbara’s background was more than 756 miles apart from Pam’s and my South Georgia upbringings. One of Andy’s prep school baseball teammates was a future United States president. After their graduation from Phillips Academy, Andy went to Princeton. George W. Bush went to Yale and later to the White House.

Andy had come to Wayne County to manage a company that was involved in the construction of pulp-mill giant Rayonier’s Unit C. When the project was complete, our friends packed to return north. I advised, “Now that you have Georgia sand in your shoes, you’ll be back.”

That was 1973.

Barbara was expecting their first child, Buffy. And Pam was expecting our first, Alan. Eight years later, the phone rang. “Hey, Dink, this is Andy. You were right. We’re back. In Columbus.”

But I am getting ahead of myself.

 

 

 

 

 

While they were in Jesup, Barbara and Andy were frequent guests in our mobile home in Westberry Trailer Park. The New Moon was so small that we joked that we had to go outside to change our minds. Andy volunteered to put his construction skills to work. Together, we built a privacy fence so that we could dine under the glow of tiki torches and the stars.

To celebrate their first Fourth of July in the South, we took them to Pam’s family’s farm, Shirahland, in Southwest Georgia. To commemorate the holiday, we aired up four mammoth tractor inner tubes. Floating in the pond, we feasted on cold watermelon, waiting for dark and the fireworks.

And then there was that 1981 we’re-back call.

Columbus is near Auburn University. Pam stayed with Barbara while Andy and I took the kids to the 1986 game. The   Dawgs upset the Tigers, 20-16, but we didn’t hang around to woof, woof. That’s the infamous night that Auburn turned on the fire hoses. We barely missed getting drenched.

And then there was that Saturday in Athens when Barbara and Andy were showered with Southern hospitality. They joined us at UGA president Fred Davison’s house for a pre-game lunch. Andy sat next to Fred on the police-escorted bus to Sanford Stadium. Later, Andy said, “All those years at Princeton, and I never even came close to its president.” Andy was smitten. I can still hear his infectious laugh.

Stories, so many stories.

Soon after they returned to Georgia, Andy introduced me to his friend Jimmy Yancey. Andy said, “Start buying Columbus Bank and Trust stock. And oh, yeah, load up on something new that CB&T has started, Total Systems.” I am glad that I listened. Jimmy’s bank became Synovus. He became more than my banker. Jimmy has been a friend and confidant ever since. Thank you, Andy.

On March 20, Jimmy called.

Andy had been diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis.

Minutes later, I was talking to Andy.

In a matter-of-fact way, he explained his situation. I could hear Barbara talking in the background.

And then suddenly, we were back on Elm Street. Andy was reliving his and Barbara’s horror, watching Nassau soak the preacher’s socks.

We ended our conversation laughing.

I had no idea that would be the next-to-the-last time that I would hear his voice.

Andy died on April 11.

Stories, so many stories.

You left a legacy of love, leadership and laughter, my friend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A pair of epiphanies set course for this lad

 

          Ed grew up in a Mayberry-like tiny town, so small that both city limit signs could be nailed—back-to-back--on the same post. But small didn’t deter Ed, who distinguished himself at the University of Georgia. And until he died 50 years later, he was one of the most respected physicians in a large Georgia community.

          When I needed medical advice in his field, I was glad to have Ed’s name and telephone number in my old-school Rolodex. And if I wanted some good-humor medicine, I could count on Ed to prescribe that, too. In short, the good doctor was funny. Most of his stories had a philosophical bent, always with a ticklish twist. Take the time when he was 5 years old.

          That was the year of back-to-back epiphanies. “I became a cynic and a Republican within a matter of a few weeks,” Ed said. I can relate to the first revelation. My parents and Dr. Bob Miller used the same line on me: “After your tonsils are out, you can have all the ice cream you want.” Well, that was all a reluctant first-grader needed to hear.

          Ed and I both chomped on that ice cream bait.

          We lived 200 miles apart and didn’t know each other, but we both looked forward to all the ice cream we could eat. But after the ether wore off, our throats felt as if they’d been scrubbed with barbed wire. Ice cream was the last thing we craved. Swallowing water felt like gulping sandspurs. The thought of ice cream was torturing.

          Once you’ve been duped, you rarely forget. And that’s why Ed declared he’d been a cynic for almost 65 years. But his first-grade life lessons didn’t stop there. The next setting was a church-sponsored Easter egg hunt. The baby-faced cynic became a Republican, even before he knew the difference between Roosevelt and Eisenhower.

          How’d that happen?

          There was a throng of kids—standing with their empty baskets, waiting for the adults to stop talking, so the egg hunt could commence. Smart

lad that he was, Ed could listen and look around at the same time. He could see the Sunday School teacher hadn’t hidden the pink, blue and yellow eggs very well. “This will be easy,” he figured.

          Sure enough, when the teacher said “go,” Ed skipped the first few gears and jumped into overdrive. While the girls sashayed and the bashful boys stared at their navels, Ed was busy scooping up eggs. And when the hunt was over, the teacher asked all of the children to come forward and show what they had found.

          One by one, the egg-hunters held up their baskets. This one had two eggs. That one had three eggs. Some of the hunters had just one or none. When Ed muscled up his overflowing basket for inspection, he was proud of his 37 finds. But rather than be complimented on his industriousness, the teacher said, “Now, Ed, we want you to put all your eggs on the table. And everybody else put theirs there, too.”

          “Everybody is going home with the same number of eggs,” she announced.

          And right then, Ed—the child cynic—decided to become a Republican.

(A version of this column was first published on April 14, 2014.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com