Lessons to be learned from a gone-wrong prank

Have you paid attention to the recent news in Gainesville? If you haven’t, you should. When I saw 

the Hughes family photo, I thought about the dozens of times that I have posed for similar photos.  You 

have, too.  And you probably agree that nothing, absolutely nothing, is more precious than family.

The Hughes’ family picture was taken before March 6. The parents and their two sons were all smiles. 

But if the photo was taken today, someone would be missing. Jason Hughes, a beloved husband and 

father, was killed.

  

Why?

What started out as a harmless prank ended in tragedy.

How?

At North Hall High School, there is a junior-senior tradition to roll people’s yards with toilet paper 

(TP). Seems it’s a competition to see who can roll the most yards without getting caught. 

Jason Hughes, a 40-year-old math teacher and coach, knew his yard was a TP target.  He had waited for 

the prank to happen and rushed outside to greet the students. It was supposed to be a fun stunt, 

something to laugh about on Saturday morning.

         But in the dash to “catch” the prankers, the popular teacher slipped and fell into the path of one of 

the escaping vehicles. The students stopped to give Jason Hughes first aid until an ambulance with 

flashing red lights arrived. 

        Blue lights came, too.  Five 18-year-olds were hauled to jail. The truck’s driver faced charges of 

first-degree vehicular homicide and reckless driving. The other four pranksters were charged with 

criminal trespassing and littering on private property.

        Gainesville is miles away. But every one of us should feel the community’s sadness and heartache. 

Such a senseless death. Why, why, why?

        This could have played out in any of our towns. And what happened in Hall County can’t be called 

back. But it can be a teachable moment. A warning about how what seemed like a good idea at the time 

can quickly turn into horror.

        Despite my silver hair, believe it or not, I was once a teenager.  I hope that our grandchildren 

didn’t inherit too many of my prankster/practical joker genes.  Thinking back 60 years, I shudder at the 

foolish things my friends and I did. If we had thought about it, we would have probably rolled a mile or 

two of TP. 

        Jason’s widow, Laura, is a math teacher at North Hall. She loves those five students, just as her 

husband did. And what she has done is a teachable moment in forgiveness. 

        She successfully pleaded with the prosecutor to drop all charges against the pranksters. The 

family’s statement read, “Our family is determined to prevent a separate tragedy, ruining the lives of 

these students. This would be counter to Jason’s lifelong dedication of investing in the lives of these 

children.”

         

        I don’t know Laura Hughes. But I know that she is a strong woman of faith. She has the heart and 

love to provide this powerful testimony of forgiveness.  

        There is no way to undo the horror that has happened.

        But we can do a minimum of these things: 

        1. Pray for the Hughes family.

        

        2. Pray Jason Hughes’ legacy will remain “alive.”

        3. Pray for the teenagers and their families.

        4. Pray this will be a “teachable” lesson for all ages.

    

        Amen.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Big Dink could have written book on ‘affordability’

        Affordability.

A political buzzword.

A reality.

Growing up in the NeSmith household, I never—no, not once—heard my dad utter the word “affordability.” But he could have written a book on the subject. His mantra was to live below your means, even if we had to make do without a family car.

And we did, twice.

During my toddler days, we sometimes rode to church in the funeral home’s grave-digging truck. The next time was in junior high. Big Dink or Mother would chauffeur my date and me in a blue-and-white Ford station wagon, which doubled as an ambulance. 

I remember being embarrassed. But the experiences were life lessons, just as important as my DNA. My dad got his money-management instincts during the Great Depression. He and his siblings had to do the best they could with whatever they had. Which wasn’t much.

When my parents were in their 70s, Mother said to my dad, “Honey, you said that we needed to save our money for old age.” And then she asked, “How much older do we have to get?”

Journey with me back to August 1967. It was during our after-church lunch of pot roast—cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions—when Mother asked me a question. 

        “Where are you going to live your sophomore year at UGA?”

“I’m supposed to live in the fraternity house.”

“I don’t think you will get much studying done there.”

Looking at my dad, she said, “I think he needs an apartment.”

The next morning, we left Jesup before 5 a.m. By 9, we were looking at our first and last college-town apartment. Why? Because the manager told Big Dink, “It’s $200 per month.”

“Two hundred a month!” he gasped. “That’s more than my house payment.”

        Turning to me, my dad asked, “Have you ever been in a house trailer?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I.”

Minutes later, we pulled into Flamingo Mobile Homes on the Atlanta Highway. Tom Collins showed us a three-bedroom, two-bath model. “Too big. He doesn’t need this much,” my dad said. 

Tom took us to a 40-foot, two-bedroom, one-bathroom New Moon. The price was $2,995, plus $125 for a GE washer. Big Dink said, “We’ll take it.” The payments were $61.83 a month. Then, he asked me, “Don’t you have a fraternity brother who could rent the extra bedroom?” Will Shankle jumped at $60 per month. Chalk up another Big Dink lesson on living within your means.

In 1971 Pam and I hauled that New Moon to Jesup. I had a job at the Wayne County Press, salary of $700 per month. Pam made less, teaching first grade at Orange Street Elementary. With her first check, we bought a metal utility building. Her next take-home earnings paid for a dryer to put in the shed. And her third payday bought our first color TV. Thrilled, we agreed, “We don’t need another thing.”

        Until two years later.

        Our first child was on the way. More space was a necessity. Realtor Nubbin Keith showed us a custom-built brick home for $32,000. I thought, “Whoa, the monthly payments would have to be more than $300.” We settled for a 90-year-old house. Our monthly mortgage was $99.45. 

        And then we wanted a new car. I told banker Linton Lewis that our car payment couldn’t be more than our mortgage. He asked, “How does $98.50 sound?” I parked a 1974 Pontiac Grand Prix, silver with a black half-vinyl top, in our Brunswick Street backyard.

        If my dad were alive today, he’d be 104.

        But Big Dink’s health would be in peril.

        Today’s “unaffordability” would surely give him a heart attack. 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Happy 50th birthday, Emily

 

“There are only two lasting bequests we can hope to give our children. One of these is roots, the other, wings.”

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

March 2, 2026

Dear Emily:    

Yesterday, you were in pigtails.

            Today, you are 50 years old.

            Emily, you couldn’t have been more than 10 years old when I begged, “Please leave your hair in pigtails.”  I loved the bouncing ribbons. The bows were as bright as your smile.

            Even then, you said, “Dad, I can’t be a little girl forever.”

            Indeed, you couldn’t.

            Emily, we’ve never had trouble communicating. You look at me with those big, beautiful blue eyes, and the words tumble from the depths of your soul.  I don’t need a seismograph to warn of mood eruptions. Your eyes flash as if they were juiced with neon and 110 volts.

I learned early that when your tears start, brace for a typhoon.  And I know when the storm clouds pass, your 1,000-watt beam returns as quickly as it departed. You have an indomitable bounce-back spirit.

In 1999, as you were wrapping up your UGA degree, you said, “Dad, you asked what I want as a graduation gift. Now, I know.  Why don’t you sit down?”

I did.

Leaning over, you said, “I want to go to India and backpack. I will be gone for 35 days.”

My mind told my mouth, “Hush.”

You continued, “I’ll go with the National Outdoor Leadership School. NOLS is a worldwide program. And I’ve always wanted to hike in the mountains of the Himalayas.”

Emily, you reached over and grabbed my wrist to check my pulse.

“It’s not a kick-back vacation, Dad. We will learn to survive in the wilderness. It’s hard. Sometimes dangerous. I have to be in great shape.”

When I sighed, you said, “You know that I love challenges. You have always encouraged me to be an individual and make my own paths. This is what I want to do.”

I couldn’t help but smile.

Poise had replaced your pigtails.

My little girl had become a woman.

And I knew that when you returned, Tom Wilson, a UGA classmate, would be waiting for you, too. A diamond on your finger was the promise of a wedding in July.

Fast-forward to 2012.

“Dad, Tom and I are expecting our fourth son.”

“Oh, my, Em. Four children? What were you thinking?”

“Dad, this is what I was thinking. Tom is a wonderful husband, a loving father and a great provider. For us, it’s all about family. This will be the last child that I can have. But if God puts another on our doorstep, we’ll love that baby, too.”

On Jan. 30, Smith (short for NeSmith) Wilson turned 13. I can’t imagine our family without him or his brothers, Wyatt, Hayes and Henry, and their cousins, William, Fenn, Bayard and Stella.

Amen, Emily.

Life is all about family.

And about the people you love.

Your heart is as big as Senoia, your adopted hometown.

Family, friends, church and community know that they can count on you. If you see something that needs doing, you don’t wait to be asked. You just get it done. Emily, you make the Energizer Bunny look lazy.

You amaze me. You are a gushing fountain of ideas. You are artistic, creative, inquisitive, fun-loving and funny with an infectious laugh. You are an entrepreneur, a thrift-shop explorer, a party planner, an acclaimed cook and an accredited interior designer. You are a maestro managing so many moving parts. And as a fitness buff—in your spare time—you became a certified hot-yoga instructor. You are truly a renaissance woman.

Emily, I am proud of you.

Your roots go deep, and your wings keep you soaring.

I can’t wait to see what “mountain” you climb next.

I love you.

Happy birthday.

            Dad

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Roscoe was prophetic about two 2026 political issues

  

            A collection of memorabilia is on the walls and shelves of my office. Among the items is a yellow-faded campaign poster of Roscoe Emory Dean Jr., from when he ran for governor in 1980. The former state senator lost, but the issues listed on his poster were prophetic.

   Stick with me.

            Back in the 1970s, I asked, “Senator, how’s your campaign going?”

            Plucking a cigar from his lips, Roscoe said, “It’s going to be a long, hot summer.” That was 50 years ago, and that’s exactly what we’re facing in Georgia today.

            I have no clue who is going to win what race. But Roscoe’s failed-bid-for-governor poster targets two issues: high taxes and high electric rates. Sound familiar?

            In the 1940s, when most Jesup boys were chasing balls, Roscoe was batting around grandiose political dreams. In high school, he helped Homerville’s Iris Blitch win a seat in Congress. At the University of Georgia, he gave Christmas trees to every sorority house, hoping the young ladies would remember his name.

And while at UGA, he befriended a student leader and gifted debater from Enigma. Both Roscoe and Bobby Rowan—still in their 20s—would become Georgia state senators. And at different times, each ran for governor and lost.

Bobby was later elected to the Georgia Public Service Commission (PSC), and he did a splendid job advocating for his constituents. I loved my visits with Bobby. All were deep dives into Roscoe Dean history, often humorous.

Bobby urged me to write a Roscoe book, but I’ve never gotten around to it. Oglethorpe County veterinarian Dr. Ed Rowan’s dad died in 2021. I missed a good chance. Bobby was a walking encyclopedia about Roscoe’s deeds and misdeeds.

In one of our conversations, Bobby and I agreed on this. Roscoe was a nemesis of Georgia Power. Roscoe should have run for the PSC. The cigar-smoking populist would have been an Altamaha River “snapping turtle.” Roscoe wouldn’t have turned loose of the utility until it thundered.

But Roscoe’s ambition (and his mother’s) was to be governor. And in the process, he did two unfortunate and very sad things. He burned through his family’s fortune, and he wound up in federal prison.

Roscoe was convicted of conspiring to import drugs to finance his 1980 gubernatorial campaign. And until his death, he told me, over and over, “There were never any drugs involved.”

Some believe Roscoe’s enemies entrapped him. Maybe. Regardless, Roscoe got hopelessly tangled in his web of ambitions and ruined his life. Even worse, he brought disgrace and misfortune to his family.

Roscoe Sr. was a humble man and a onetime real estate baron whose holdings included extensive timberlands and rental properties. Before he died, attorney Joe Thomas told me a story that defined the senator’s father. C.L. McCarthy, Joe’s father-in-law, owned as much as 20,000 acres in Camden County.

Roscoe Sr. heard that his fellow timberman was in a financial tight. So, he gathered $25,000 cash in a Winn-Dixie grocery sack and presented it to his friend. Roscoe Sr. apologized, “This is all I could raise.” McCarthy, surprised, handed it back and said, “I don’t know where you heard that, Roscoe, but I’m OK. Thank you.”

 In his final years, Roscoe Sr. borrowed money to pay his Georgia Power bill. Once in my office to repay a loan, he shook his head and said of his wife, “I believe Lilly would cut off her right arm for Roscie.” And she all but did.

In 2016 their son died in the Baxley hospital. But his last address was in Jesup public housing.

As I look at that faded poster, I think about what could have been. Bobby Rowan was right. Roscoe’s “calling” was on the PSC. He would have—using his favorite phrase—blasted much of what’s going on with today’s power bills as “a sham and a farce.”

But misguided illusions of grandeur took Roscoe down the wrong path.

And into infamy.

What a tragedy.

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

 

            Have you ever imagined that you’d be president of the United States?

            And if you lived at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave., what would be on your to-do list?

            Having 300 million Americans and billions of people around the globe watching your every move would be a scary thought. But for the sake of conversation, let’s say I was sitting behind the big desk in the Oval Office.

            What would I do?

            I believe that I’d start with a list of what I would NOT do.

§  For example:

§  Lead with a “my-way-or-the-highway” authoritarian style

§  Let my ego influence my actions

§  Advocate freedom of speech but penalize those who exercise their rights of free speech

§  Call my critics scumbags, idiots, losers, cowards, crooks, traitors and worse

§  Insist members of other political parties or of different opinions are enemies

§  Say hateful things about people who have died—i.e., Rob Reiner

§  Be addicted to social media, blasting a tsunami of tweets

§  Live by a double standard: Rules for me and another set of rules for everyone else

§  Make promises that can’t be kept—i.e., end the Russia-Ukraine war on “Day One”

§  Exaggerate whenever possible

§  Rely on my own set of facts versus the truth

§  Pardon the Jan. 6 rioters

§  Pardon drug lords and other notorious criminals

§  Flip “the finger” at hecklers

§  Enjoy blaming former residents of the White House

§  Allow myself or my family to profit from my being president

§  Put my name on the Kennedy Center or anything else

§  Destroy a section of the White House without asking for approval

§  Host an Ultimate Fight Championship (UFC) match on the White House lawn

§  Have events at any of my properties that would profit me

§  Ignore real and perceived conflicts of interest

§  Be obsessed with retribution against my enemies

§  Abruptly change the name of the Gulf of Mexico

§  Force Canada to become our 51^st state

§  Bully Denmark into giving Greenland to U.S.

§  Poke a sharp stick into the eyes of our NATO allies

§  Play footsie with Vladimir Putin, Russia’s dictator

§  Neuter the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA)

§  Make EPA “Environmental Pollution Advocate”

§  Declare that coal is “beautiful”

§  Label all of my ideas “beautiful”

§  Endanger America’s natural resources and environment

§  Ignore science in making decisions

§  Rule the Federal Reserve

§  Censor, control and/or punish the media

§  Drip the White House with gilded gold

§  Be preferential to billionaire buddies

§  Wield tariffs without knowing consequences

§  Sue everybody who disagrees with me

§  Sue the United States government

§  Rewrite history to suit my beliefs

§  Scoff at things that I don’t like—such as “affordability—and call them “scams”

§  Expect Congress to kowtow to my demands

§  Flaunt possibility of a third term

§  Take over and nationalize elections

§  Keep the country/world in chaos

§  Change Department of Defense to Department of War

§  Appoint unqualified people to leadership roles

§  Let “thin skin” dominate my reactions

§  Profess to be a Christian and act otherwise

OK, that’s enough.

My idea was simply to let you know what I wouldn’t do if I were president of these United States. And to get you to think about what you would or wouldn’t do while in the Oval Office.

I have visited the White House twice, but I never aspire to live there. Besides, based on today’s political climate, I would be unelectable. But if I were on a ballot, it wouldn’t be as a Republican or a Democrat. The extremes of both parties are troublesome.

I’d be representing a new party, CSA.

What’s that?

Common Sense America.

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com