You can’t make up these colorful stories

 

            Stories.

            There are so many stories sloshing around in my brain. On a rainy afternoon, I made a list of a half-dozen. I’ll use some names. Some I won’t. You’ll see why.

Courthouse buzz

            Dewey Willis was not a big man, but he knew how to make a mighty big stir. He had had all the red-tape runaround that he could stand. I don’t remember what caused Dewey’s temper tantrum, but I’ll never forget the chaos that he caused at the Wayne County Courthouse.

            And it was a big buzz—cleaning out the government offices—when he flung a hive of angry bees down the historic hallway.

            He got into a little trouble for the mayhem.

            But Dewey had the last laugh.

Interview with mayor

            The town’s mayor was a barber. I enjoyed stopping by for visits. His shop had two chairs, his and another for visitors.

            One day when he and his scissors weren’t busy, the mayor was in a mood to reminisce about his Army days. “Yeah,” he said, “they gave us an IQ test. And I damn near made a hundred.”

            I choked a laugh.

And managed to say, “Incredible.”

‘You misquoted me’

            The gentleman was old enough to be my daddy. I thought he might rip off his belt and try to whip me.

He snarled, “You misquoted me.”

            “I have my notes. Would you like to see them?”

            His face flashed fire-engine red.

            “Would you like to listen to the tape on my recorder?”

            He jerked as if he really was going to snatch off his belt.

            Instead, he fumed, “You just ‘misunderheard’ what I said.”

            Well, I guess that I did.

Book of stories

            John Strickland parked his blue-and-white Dodge pickup in the alley between his fish market and the newspaper.

            I couldn’t resist chatting with the always savvy and sometimes barefoot businessman. His life was a book of colorful stories. Here’s one of my favorites:

            “We grew up poor on the edge of the Altamaha River. We ate so many cooters [turtles] out of the swamp that out of the back door looked like a hard hat factory.”

 John didn’t die a poor man.

During his life, he sold mountains of white crystallized earth out of Ludowici sand pits.

Yeah, John was a book of stories.

I loved ’em all.

Campaign promise

            Alex Hopkins was a timber baron, and he enjoyed embellishing his reputation as a bona fide dirt-road sport. He could go toe-to-toe with John Strickland, reeling off colorful you-can’t-make-up-this-stuff stories. He was bona fide entertainment, too.

            Once, Alex ran for a seat on the county commission. One morning, he dropped by The Press-Sentinel. From my down-the-hall office, I could hear him in the lobby. As if he had swallowed a coffee cup of John’s sand, he growled, “If I am elected, they are going to tell the truth, or there will be a fistfight every first Tuesday.”

            A few more votes, and Alex would have won.

            And I have always wondered what if he had.

Congressman’s request

            Remember when you got a free pecan log when you gassed up at Stuckey’s?

            Eastman’s W.S. Stuckey had a string of those teal-blue, steep-roofed gas stations that sold candy by the truckloads. His son, Bill Stuckey, was our 8^th District congressman.

            And now Bill’s daughter, Stephanie, is reviving her family’s roadside heritage with pecans as a key ingredient in her business plan.

Go, Stephanie.

            But I digress.

            Congressman Stuckey brought his campaign to the Wayne County Press, circa 1972.

            As a rookie ad salesman, I was just listening.

            Publisher Elliott Brack asked, “Congressman, how can we help you?”

            Rep. Stuckey responded, “Elliott, you can help me by endorsing my opponent. Your endorsements are the kiss of death.”

            Nah, you can’t make up stuff like this.   

                

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com   

Newspapers are soul and conscience of community

 

           Preachers and columnists are expected to say something.

           And sometimes, they repeat their messages.

           This is National Newspaper Week.

You may recognize parts of this “sermon.”

           Flash back to 1958.

I considered myself a 10-year-old businessman, investing my money to make money.

When the 3 o’clock bell at Orange Street Elementary School rang, I jumped on my red Schwinn and pedaled as fast as I could to the back door of The Jesup Sentinel. For a nickel each, Brian Kirby would sell to me a stack of Bill Rhoden’s weekly newspaper. With my basket stuffed, I would race over to shift change of Sea Island Shirt Factory on Cherry Street.

When the ladies turned off their sewing machines, I turned my nickels into dimes before the ink dried on that week’s edition of local news.

Yes, sir.

I was smitten with being in business, the newspaper business.

But as life happens, I took detours. Over the next dozen years, I sampled a variety of jobs before coming right back to where I was on my Schwinn.

In 1971, thanks to Elliott Brack and Dr. Lanier Harrell (then owners of the Wayne County Press), I got a chance to return to what enamored me in 1958. And for 54 years, ink has been coursing through my veins. As long as my heart is ticking, I plan to keep my keyboard clicking.

If you are reading this, thank you.

In the early 1980s, Ted Turner made a prediction. I heard him say, “In 10 years newspapers will be dead.” He vowed cable news would be the assassin. In his futuristic rant, he didn’t envision that cable TV would be besieged by an onslaught of technology-driven options, too.

Nonetheless, Ted was right.

The newspapers that aren’t reinventing themselves in this surging digital revolution are being forced to unplug their presses. This newspaper vows to be a survivor.

Why?

I believe the community newspaper plays a crucial role in our democracy. And a healthy democracy must have a voice and an advocate, especially in rural America, where you and I live. And I am adamant. I will never live in a community without a newspaper.

Why?

A newspaper should be the community’s soul and conscience, just as it should be a mirror that reflects the good, the bad and the ugly. Regardless, people have a right to know.

I believe one of the key missions of a newspaper is to shine lights into dark corners. The Washington Post trumpets, “Democracy dies in the darkness.”

Amen.

Furthermore, the newspaper is the thread and the skill to stitch together stories that produce a unique “quilt.” And as that quilt wraps around the community, it gives us a sense of place, a smorgasbord of information, updates in the marketplace, and a forum to share ideas and opinions. Add to that, a newspaper should provide a spark to inspire us to do better.

Hello, 2025.

There is no denying that the internet and social media are major disruptive competitors to newspapers and multiple other businesses. Consider how Amazon and e-commerce have affected traditional retailers. Ted made some valid points. If newspapers don’t continually reinvent themselves, they will die.

  But hold on.

  Don’t rush to write this newspaper’s obituary.

  There’s only one newspaper in the world that is 100 percent devoted to this community. You are reading it on newsprint or your electronic screen. Our commitment is to be relevant, compelling, credible, and the most complete package of local news and information available. And, of course, to be innovative.

  It’s National Newspaper Week.

  We thank you, our readers and advertisers, for being our partners.

  Together, we step into the future.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

 

September 2025 was a month to color ‘blue’

 

            If you were asked to paint this past September, what pastel would you pick for the month?

            My choice would be blue.

            Blue is my favorite color.

            But there’s a flip side to beautiful blue, as in “I’m in a blue mood.”

            Yeah, this past month made me that kind of blue.

 

Sept. 11, 2001

            First, there was the 24^th anniversary of 9/11. The senseless loss of innocent lives always makes me sad. More than that, the demonic deeds of terrorists didn’t stop on Sept. 11, 2001.

            I join others in praying that this Pearl Harbor-type horror will never strike American soil again. And then there are those ugly reports of death and destruction in the Middle East.

I am an eternal optimist, but much of what’s in today’s news makes me blue, very blue.

 

Classmates dying

            September was a sad month for Jesup High School’s Class of 1966. Every year, we lose more and more of our friends. But last month, four classmates died before mid-September.

            My dear friend and mentor, the late Dr. Lanier Harrell, reminded me that “dying is a part of living.” But that doesn’t make it any easier. Now that they are gone, it’s our role to keep alive the memories of Winston Purcell, Grady Marr, Jean Hatton and Larry Brannen.

            Our class elected Larry “Mr. JHS.” Now, he joins “Miss JHS,” Tricia Bennett Armstrong, in our reel of unforgettable memories.

Doc was right.

But that doesn’t make me any less blue.

 

Courthouse fire

            Courthouses make a statement about a community. Wayne County’s governmental structure has been standing tall on Brunswick Street. since 1903. On Sept. 26, smoke billowed out of the historic bell tower.

            Within minutes after the attic blaze erupted, my phone was lighting up. Friends were right. I wanted to know.

            My emotions were twofold:

§  I prayed that no one was injured and that swift action could save the courthouse.

§  Of course, I was blue. There are so many personal courthouse stories in my mental archives. I was especially sad that there was absolutely nothing that I could do.

            In Septembers of the future, I hope that Wayne County can look back and say, “We did the right thing about our courthouse.”

            If we want an example of what’s possible, I suggest a case study on how Hancock County’s magnificent courthouse rose from the ashes of its 2014 fire. And for tips on what not to do, study what Hart County did after its 1967 fire. Its replacement courthouse looks as though Sputnik landed in Mayberry.

 

Bama, again?

            In the global picture, college football is just a game.

            But that’s nowhere near the truth if your blood runs “red and black,” as it does for Georgia Bulldog fans. (Or whatever colors signify your favorite team.)

            If you had high hopes of Georgia’s beating Alabama’s Crimson Tide, you went to bed sad on Saturday night. Yes, there were flickers of a second-half comeback miracle. But the Saban Curse—even though Nick’s not calling the plays anymore—still haunts the Red and Black.

            Three things haunt me: that fumble, that dropped TD pass and not kicking that field goal to tie the score.

But what do I know?

            I only know that I am blue Bama beat the Dawgs, again.

            Yeah, I am ready for something beyond September’s sadness.

            Hello, October. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

How one public figure sleeps well in a ‘glass house’

                 One of the most uncomfortable and challenging places to live is in the glass house of a public figure.

                  I know.

                  As a journalist for 54 years, I’ve lived inside transparent walls.

                  Is it easy?

                  Not always, but this is the career that I’ve chosen.

                  What is a public figure?

                  For the answer, attorney David Hudson, who is an expert on such matters and the First Amendment, referred me to Gertz v. Robert Welch, 418 U.S. 323 (1974).

                  Supreme Court Justic Lewis Powell opined, “The communications media are entitled to act on the assumption that public officials … have voluntarily exposed themselves to increased risk of scrutiny.”

                  But you don’t have to be an elected official to be a public figure. Famous folks and appointed officials can be, too. Even a private citizen can evolve into a public figure. An example would be that individual becoming an outspoken gadfly.

                  What’s a gadfly?

                  One description is a person who “annoys others, especially, by rousing them from complacency.” I guess that qualifies me as a gadfly, and I’ve known my share of others. One whom I admired most was the late H.J. Westberry. He made it his mission to hold elected officials accountable.

Other than a newspaper reporter, H.J. was often the only citizen attending Wayne County budget meetings. He was fearless in annoying the commissioners. His letters to the editor were razor-sharp. H.J. wanted to rouse other taxpayers to pay attention. In doing so, he became a public figure.

My high school principal was a public figure, too. C.E. (Charles) Bacon wasn’t bashful about speaking out. At the time, I knew zilch about the First Amendment.

 I can still hear him saying, “I may not agree with what you say, but I will fight to my death for your right to say it.” As a high schooler, I thought that was noble. In college, I learned he was paraphrasing Frenchman Voltaire.

H.J. and Charles died before the explosion of internet communications that pumps steroids into our constitutional right of free speech. But the pair wouldn’t have hidden behind walls of anonymity, where growlers often get ugly, real ugly.

You might ask, “Is that fair?”

According to the Supreme Court, comments don’t have to be fair. And that means the current laws make it difficult to libel a public figure. However, President Donald Trump is testing that. If people criticize him, he’s apt to haul them to court. (For examples, ask ABC and the New York Times.) Or, at a minimum, call them “corrupt,” a “scumbag” or a “whack job.” But, hey, he’s exercising his First Amendment rights, too.

Over decades of expressing my opinions, I have had plenty of hurtful barbs hurled at me. “Imbecile” is one of the kinder insults. Hateful comments can sting if I let them.

Once, when I was getting skewered, the late Farnell O’Quinn advised, “That’s why God gives you two ears. One ear to let it go in, and another to let it go out.”

Fayetteville’s Dr. Ferrol Sams wrote some of my favorite novels. The late physician also had a “novel” retort to some of his critics. In The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, he said, “A man is judged by the stature of his enemies. I wish that more of mine had been giants rather than bleep ants.” You never got in the last word with Sambo.

I’m not that clever.

But if I had let every mean-spirited criticism fester, I would be an ulcerated wreck. Over the years, I’ve experienced “the good, the bad and the ugly” comments. As a public figure, I developed a strategy to help me sleep well in my proverbial glass house.

I concentrate on the “good” to plump my pillow.

But Farnell’s two-ears reminder helps me snore, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Retelling their stories keeps them ‘alive’

 

               When I was 10, my best friend was Schwinn.

               Well, not really.

               Schwinn made the bike that got me to my best friend’s house. I couldn’t wait to pedal 2 miles out the Waycross Highway to Phelps Dairy.

               Joe and I took turns spending the night at each other’s house.  We had to tiptoe at NeSmith Funeral Home. But when at Phelps Dairy, we could romp and not worry about raising the dead.

               Big Joe’s father founded Phelps Dairy in Waycross, and his son ran the distribution center in Jesup. My best friend’s daddy was a man’s man. Today he would be called a Navy SEAL. During World War II, he was a frogman. He was tough and funny.

               I loved to be around Big Joe. He’d take Joe and me hunting and fishing. And with his playful teasing, he was a perpetual high-jinks machine. His belly laughs could raise the dead.

               Joe was fire-plug stocky. I was skinny as a yardstick. Joe wanted to lose weight. I wanted to find whatever pounds he might lose. One day, a light bulb flickered inside my buzz-cut head.

               “Mr. Phelps, could I buy some of that milkshake mix that you sell to the Dairy Queen?”

               “Why?”

               “I want to gain weight.”

               I was convinced that I’d found a secret formula to bulk up my frame for football. I gulped down a half-gallon of the rich-in-eggs-and-Lord-knows-what-else concoction. My plumbing thought that I had swallowed a cherry bomb. I must have lost 5 pounds. I can still hear Big Joe’s raucous howls.

               In the 1950s, Mother brought home a waxed carton of Brand X milk.

“Oh, no, we can’t drink that,” I said.

               “But it’s all the store had.”

               “Mother, please don’t make me drink that.”

               “Why?”

               “Because Mr. Phelps said that drinking Starland milk will make you go blind.”

               Under duress, I drank “dangerous” Savannah milk.

               Several years later our junior high teacher gave us eye tests. When I tried to read the chart, Mrs. Nanelle Bacon screeched, “Good Lord, son, you are blind.  Tell your mamma to get you some glasses.”

               That afternoon, I raced home to report the scary news.

               “Mother, I tried to warn you. Remember, Mr. Phelps told me that drinking Starland milk would make me go blind?”

               When I retold that story to Big Joe, he guffawed so hard that I thought Phelps’ milk was going to squirt out his nose.

               And when he stopped laughing, Big Joe talked about the time when one of his country-store customers made a special request.

               “Joe, I need your help.  The Starland man hasn’t come back to get this milk that I can’t sell.  Will you take it and dispose of it for me?”

               Joe agreed, but that wasn’t the end of the story. 

In a few days, he bumped into his buddy, the Starland delivery guy. Joe said, “I took some of your milk and fed it to my hunting dogs.”

               “How’d they like it?”

               “Oh, it was so awful, my dogs had to lick their behinds to get the bad taste out of their mouths.”

(Note: Big Joe died in his 50s from emphysema, probably related to being gassed in World War II. In 2018 I gave my best friend Joe’s eulogy. His son, Joe III, is one of our son Alan’s best friends. These days, Joe III’s son, Griffin, is a pre-med sophomore at the University of Georgia. And when Griffin visits our farm, all these treasured memories flood my soul. Indeed, people die twice. First the heart stops. And next, the stories stop. My goal is to keep the stories of my friends “alive” as long as I live.)

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com