Here’s a guarantee for Rick Bragg’s next book

       Words.

Some folks are good saying them. Others are good when writing them.

My friend Rick Bragg is not just good in both categories. The Pulitzer Prize-winning author and columnist is spectacular. A self-effacing, self-described product of a poor-white-trash upbringing in rural Alabama, Rick has written a library shelf of books. I’ve read them all, plus everything else that I could find with his byline.

I am certain that Rick has boosted the magazine readership—particularly of men folks—in Southern Living and Garden & Gun. And on the speaking circuit, his audiences roar with approval.

I know.

Saturday night, I once again witnessed howling laughter and thunderous applause that Rick erupts when he speaks.

Rick was the keynote speaker of the annual Southern LitFest in Newnan. The Wadsworth Auditorium was filled with his fans, and I had the honor of introducing him. I wish you had been there. 

To hear not me but Rick.

I told the crowd, “Country artist Kenny Chesney had a chart-topping hit, ‘You Had Me from Hello.’ Rick Bragg had me in his fan club after just 20 pages into his first book, All Over But The Shoutin’. The autobiographical tribute to his saintly mom is my kind of reading. It’s right up there with a hot buttered cathead biscuit, slathered with mayhaw jelly. Even better.”

From memory, I pulled Rick’s line about the man who abandoned his wife and three sons. He wrote, “Most men have backbones. My daddy had starch. His khakis were so stiff, you could slice bologna with them.” Rick told the crowd, “My daddy was sorry, a drunk.” But he worships his almost-90-year-old mother, Margaret Marie Bundrum Bragg. 

Rick has an 11th book in the works, about an old Bronco that he and brothers Sam and Mark drove. Sitting backstage before Saturday night’s event, Rick told me the backstory. A year from now, Bronco Boys will join his list of best-sellers. 

To best describe the featured speaker, I shared paragraphs from a 2002 GQ magazine article, headlined “For a Vegetable, I’ll Have White Gravy.” Rick wrote:

“I always wanted some washboard abs. But I always seemed to want some baby back ribs.

“Washboard abs are hard to get. Baby back ribs are $6.99.

“Washboard abs come with size 32 jeans, good overall cardiovascular health and, if you believe the infomercials, beautiful women. Baby back ribs come with coleslaw and a Wet-Nap. (I ate a Wet-Nap, in Sylacauga, Alabama, but that is another story.)

“Washboard abs come with—screw it. I am a man, what I like to believe is a real man, a Southern man.

“If God meant for me to have washboard abs, he would have left me in the hay fields of Calhoun County, slinging 50-pound bales up on the flatbed. He would have left me standing in the middle of rocks, making—as the song goes—little ’uns outta big ’uns in the red-hot sun.”

That’s classic Rick. 

        As dirt-road Southerners say, “He puts it down where the goats can get at it.”

        I told the Saturday-night crowd—as Rick stood in the curtain wings—that my wife and I have been married for 57 years. We must have played hooky from middle-school recess and eloped. Pam and I don’t fuss, but we do tangle over who gets to first read Rick’s back-page column in Southern Living.

I found a way to win, every time. I race to beat her to the mailbox to savor my friend’s column on the walk back to the house.

         I predict folks will race to get their hands on Rick’s upcoming Bronco Boys. 

        Here’s my promise:

        If you don’t like it, I will eat a Wet-Nap, too.

        Yeah, Rick’s that good.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Jim Minter was a Georgia journalism giant

 

            If you are old enough, you know exactly where you were when JFK was shot or when Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon. Who can forget that Sept. 11, 2001, morning, when those evil hijackers dropped America to its knees?  

And then there are the milestone moments in our personal histories. I will never forget that June evening in 1982, sitting on a seaside bench on Jekyll Island. I was talking with a Georgia giant of journalism, the editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Jim Minter had an idea.

He saw possibilities.

In the background, I could hear the Atlantic’s waves lapping. But I concentrated on Jim’s low, almost grumbling voice. Within 15 minutes of back-and-forth exchanges, my soon-to-be treasured confidant charted a career path that I’ve been following for 44 years.

Jim’s idea was that I should talk with his boss, Tom Wood, president of Atlanta Newspapers Inc. Tom was looking to make a change. Tom and I had met through our serving on the boards of the Georgia Press Association and UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. Our mutual friend, Jim, thought Tom and I would be a good fit as business partners.

The hardest ship to keep afloat is a partnership, but Tom and I have been perfect partners. We brought different—but complementing—disciplines into Community Newspapers Inc. If you asked us to paint a room, I’d tackle the task with a roller and a sprayer. Tom—with his CPA acumen—would handle the windows and trim.

Jim was right.

But now, there’s a new challenge.

Jim Minter, 95, died on May 27.

Tom and I have lost one of our dearest friends and most ardent cheerleaders. I can’t imagine my life without the benefit of Jim’s wise counsel and never-ending encouragement.

Jim Minter was the only child of a Fayette County farmer/postmaster and a beloved teacher for whom a school is named. He grew up in tiny Inman during the Great Depression. He was no stranger to mules or blisters on his feet from tight brogans. In retirement, Jim purchased and restored the community’s train depot and post office, across from his boyhood home. It was a classic venue for his fellowship with family and friends. I treasure my happy times there.

Jim rose to the upper tiers of our profession, mentoring a legion of journalists. Perhaps the most famous of his mentees was Lewis Grizzard. No one understood the say-it-like-he-sees-it humorist and nationally syndicated columnist more than Jim.

Jim got his start as a sports reporter. Listening to him talk about Wally Butts, Bear Bryant, Bobby Dodd, Ty Cobb and a host of other athletic immortals put you right there on the front row of history reporting. It was the same for politics. He knew who did what and when—the good, the bad and the ugly. With his Google-like recall, I urged him to write a book. With his signature self-effacing chuckle, he’d just say, “Nahhhh.”

For months, Jim had been telling me that he was fading. My friend was miserable. He’d lost his mobility, even giving up riding to the mailbox on his lawn mower. He could say the most in a few words as anyone I know. For his wisdom-sharing savvy, Jim was my Star Wars Yoda.

Three weeks ago, without calling, I drove to McBride Road in Fayette County and knocked on the door. Jim’s caregiver greeted me. Downstairs, Jim was in his library with his loyal Labrador, Sam. Anne, his wife of 70 years, joined us.

Something told me to call Tom and patch him in on the speaker phone. The three of us bantered back and forth, scrolling through old stories. We laughed and laughed some more. And when I hung up, it hit me. Why didn’t I record our 30-minute conversation? Oh, the memories.

They say in the South, “If you see a box turtle on a fence post, you can know that it didn’t get there by itself.”

From a seaside bench on Jekyll Island in 1982, Jim Minter lifted this box turtle up onto a fence post. I’ll never forget that.

Thank you, my friend, my Yoda.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Eddie Dalton creation is a glimpse of AI’s future

  

            Food and music are very different.

            But when it comes to the taste of either, they are first cousins. You like it, or you can leave it.

            I understand eating liver can be good for you, but it’s a “no thanks” for me.

            And that’s a ditto for opera and rap music. If you love those genres, help yourself. But pile my plate high with non-pop/rock country and Motown’s rhythm and blues (R&B), and soul, led by Sam Cooke, self-proclaimed “King of Soul.” My all-time favorite tunes are “Carolina beach music.” Not to be confused with California’s Beach Boys.

I’m talking about The Diamonds, The Tams, The Embers, The Drifters, The Clovers, Jerry Butler, Bruce Channel, The Temptations, The Dominoes, The Showmen, The Platters, Maurice Williams & The Zodiacs, The Four Tops, Lloyd Price, The Catalinas, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, The Band of Oz and more.

Oops, can’t forget The Swinging Medallions. Arguably, “Carolina Girls” by The Chairmen of the Board is the No. 1 beach-music shag song.

Shag music was made famous along the beaches of the Carolinas but spread kudzu-like across the South. Back in my 1960s UGA days, fraternity-house jukeboxes were crammed full of get-your-feet-moving beach music. Leather soles of a gazillion Weejuns were worn thin, shagging on the dance floors.

Former newspaperman Roy White of Mullins, South Carolina, was a regular at Myrtle Beach. His wife had leather soles stitched to the bottom of his favorite tennis shoes, so he could slide and shag to beach music on Ocean Drive.

But I digress.

Right now, there’s a fractious debate about artificial intelligence (AI). But what has AI got to do with music and dancing?

Well, plenty.

And almost everything.

Case in point: Eddie Dalton.

Who?

Eddie Dalton, so far, has three iTunes Top 10. The skyrocketing star was imagined by Dallas Ray Little of Greenville, South Carolina, who writes the lyrics. But Eddie Dalton is AI-generated from voice to visuals. I became a fan the first time that I heard his music streaming through the dashboard of my truck.

“Another Day Old” might be my right-now theme song. Oh, I’ll never tune out the original Carolina beach music. But I encourage you to listen to Eddie on any of the streaming services. I feel as though he’s a blend of Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye and BB King. Check out this excerpt from “Another Day Old”:

“We’re just passing through time like the wind through the pines

Just small little pieces in a bigger design

But the older I get, the more that I know

There ain’t nothing wrong with being another day old”

Even if music, specifically Eddie’s, is not your thing, there’s a deeper message in what is happening with his creation. My friend’s cousin, a Nashville songwriter with a wall full of gold records, says AI is a disrupter of the way it used to be. Old-school songwriters might take weeks to create lyrics. AI can whip out the words in less than a minute. Maybe not as good, but good enough to compete with humans.

And that’s the point.

Where are we headed, enamored with this new “shiny thing?”

Will people—particularly students—stop using their brains?

Is AI a jobs creator or a job-busting disrupter?

Even Pope Leo XIV has published a manifesto of his AI concerns.

Does anyone really know?

While I’m trying to develop my opinion, Eddie sings a hint:

“Time don’t stop and it don’t rewind

But around every corner there’s some to find.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Elliott Brack’s purple pen inspired journalists to excel

  

            An old feed and seed store is why you are reading this.

            How’s that?

            Go back with me to 1962. What was once Strickland Feed & Seed was then the office of the Wayne County Press, an upstart weekly, a stone’s throw from the railroad tracks that split my hometown. That’s where I met Elliott Earl Brack.

We didn’t know each other, and that’s the rest of the story.

            As a member of the student council, I was on a mission to publish a telephone directory for the students of Jesup High School. The newspaper also had a print shop. Editor Brack introduced me to ink and paper. And as a bonus, he gave me a short course in advertising sales. We sold enough ads to pay the bill and bank a sizable profit.

            Four years later, I reconnected with Elliott. When I ran for UGA’s student senate, he printed my campaign materials. And a highlight of each week was receiving the Wayne County Press (WCP). It was just like a letter from home. He dubbed the WCP as “The People Paper.”

Elliott ran the newspaper as if his pants were on fire. He had the backbone and the guts to take on whatever needed taking on. He signed his editorials—EEB. He kept the community buzzing. Reading the letters to the editor was a must.

Fast-forward to 1971.

After graduating from Georgia in 1970, I completed my basic and advanced training for the Army National Guard. Pam had earned her degree, too. I was contemplating law school.

And then there was that phone conversation with EEB.

“We’ve got too many lawyers in Jesup already,” he said. “You’ve got a journalism degree. Why don’t you come home? We are trying to buy the Jesup Sentinel. You can be a partner with Dr. Lanier Harrell and me. I can run one of the newspapers. You can run the other.”

The story is much more complicated, but that’s the gist of it. Nonetheless, I was hooked. Within two weeks, Pam and I were in Jesup. She was preparing to teach first grade at my alma mater Orange Street Elementary. And I was enrolled in EEB’s community-journalism crash course. If he had known how little I knew, he wouldn’t have made the offer. It’s a good thing the purchase of the Jesup Sentinel stalled for five years.

In 1973 I was tossed into the deep end. Elliott and his family moved to Athens for what was to be a year. He was asked to be a visiting professor at UGA’s Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. And then I got a call from EEB.

“Beside being a college professor,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to run a daily newspaper.” Bob Fowler had recruited him to be the vice-president and general manager of the Gwinnett Daily News in Georgia’s fastest-growing county. On Dec. 27, 1976, EEB and Doc cashed out. I stayed in, and The Press-Sentinel was born.

And for the 50 years since—even though he hasn’t been my boss or my partner—EEB “graded” my papers with a purple Flair pen. I relished every mark and comment because I respected his wisdom and opinion. I could wallpaper my office with his colorful comments.

When I got a message to call EEB’s son, Andy, I had an inkling of what I was about to hear. Elliott Earl Brack, 90, had died. Just hours earlier, I had read one of my mentor’s 10,000-plus columns. He was a thought-provoking journalist until the very end.

EEB’s passion for journalism was infectious. His son, Andy, is a newspaper publisher. My sons, Alan and Eric, have ink in their veins, too, as successful publishers. We all benefited from EEB’s tutelage. His purple messages will be indelible influences for the rest of our lives.

It all goes back to 1962 and that visit to the old feed and seed store. A pants-on-fire newspaperman planted a “seed” of possibility in my 23-year-old brain. And that’s why you are reading this. I can’t imagine having done anything else for the past 55 years.

But if EEB could read this, he’d scribble, in purple ink, “You wrote too long.”

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

UGA’s Grady College introduced me to Tom Johnson

  

            Tom Johnson and I met, circa 1980, while serving on the advisory board of UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. He was publisher of the Los Angeles Times, and I was publisher of The Press-Sentinel and several South Georgia newspapers. We also share a connection by serving on the Richard B. Russell Foundation. Tom’s friendship and advice over the decades have been priceless.

            This past winter, Tom was in Athens to talk about his new book, DRIVEN: A Life in Public Service and Journalism from LBJ to CNN. My friend autographed a stack of DRIVEN for me to give to family and friends. If you haven’t read the splendid, history-packed book, I recommend it to you.

In 1990 Ted Turner recruited Tom to serve as president of CNN. Tom’s tenure at the revolutionary 24-hour news service started with a bang—the Gulf War. We are publishing Tom’s reflections about his most-famous former boss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

 

 

 

My years with Ted Turner

 by Tom Johnson 

   

            Yes, he could be outrageous.

            When a little girl fell into a well in Texas and the rescue of “Baby Jessica” unfolded live on TV, CNN’s ratings skyrocketed. Ted joked maybe CNN should place candy bars around other wells.

            Yet, you could also find him in war-torn regions poking sticks in the ground searching for land mines that children were stepping on, blowing themselves up.

            He was complicated.

Until I met Ted, I thought Lyndon Johnson was the most complex person I had ever known. Before I accepted the job as CNN’s president, I told him, “Ted, before you hire me, you need to know that I battle depression.”

            He shot back, “Hell, pal, let me tell you about me.” That’s all he said. It was classic Ted: disarming, revealing and removed, all at once.

            He was impatient with a restless energy that could make him difficult. If you were late for a meeting with him, it was almost a death sentence. I think the reason he hated delay was that he couldn’t wait to get to the future.

            Above all, Ted Turner was a visionary.

When he founded CNN as a 24-hour news channel, the other networks provided only morning and evening news shows. They would break into regular programming only for major events.

Ted saw the need for an around-the-clock news network. He envisioned CNN as a truly global channel that would provide honest, reliable, unbiased information to people around the world, especially in countries where independent news was suppressed.

            When I was considering accepting the job, I asked Ted what he would expect of the next president of CNN. He said, “I want us to make CNN the absolute best news network on the planet.”

When I asked him, “What are your policies about news?” he said, “Be fair.”

He wanted reporters to report, anchors to anchor and neither to editorialize. He wanted news to be the star, not the personalities.

            My first day at CNN was Aug. 1, 1990. The following day, Iraq’s Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. I told Ted that if we were to be the premier news source for a possible war between the U.S. and Iraq, it could cost as much as $30 million over budget. His answer startled me: “You spend whatever you think it takes, pal.”

            With Ted’s total support, we established a special communications link, so that when all other networks lost their transmission capabilities from Baghdad, all eyes turned to CNN.

            Over the 11 years I was with Ted, we covered so many other stories—the fall of the Soviet Union, the O.J. Simpson trial, the Balkan wars, the impeachment of Bill Clinton, the Waco siege, the death of Princess Diana.

            What would those years have been like without CNN?

Ted told me that the most important thing he did in life was raising his five children. A close second was creating CNN.

            He was a man of many accomplishments. He won the America’s Cup, the renowned sailing race. He bought the Atlanta Braves and transformed them from one of baseball’s worst teams into one of its best.

You could call those rich man’s toys, but Ted cared far more deeply about the planet. In 1998 he donated $1 billion and created the United Nations Foundation to fund humanitarian causes such as helping refugees, fighting disease and clearing land mines.

He worked with former Sen. Sam Nunn to reduce the dangers of nuclear weapons with the Nuclear Threat Initiative.

He was a passionate steward of the land. Over the years, he acquired and worked to restore 2 million acres, cleaning the streams, removing the cattle, and reintroducing bison, gray wolves, and native plants and grasses. His bison herd now numbers over 45,000 head. On those lands, you can see what the Native Americans saw when they roamed there.

No mention of Ted’s life can ignore the love he had for Jane Fonda. They were remarkable together, sharing both passion and purpose in the common cause for peace.

Ted was dashing and charismatic with the neatly trimmed mustache of a Hollywood leading man of yesterday. He was a swashbuckler whose bravado exuded the promise of daring, romantic adventures.

Ted was a maverick like no one I have ever known.

We will miss you, pal. 

 

Tom Johnson, right, signs copies of his book for Dink 

NeSmith, left, in Athens, Georgia, last winter.