‘It is more blessed to give than to receive’

 

“In everything I did, I showed you that by this kind of hard work we must help the weak, remembering the words the Lord Jesus himself said: ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’”  Acts 20:35 NIV

 

            Regardless of your faith, the Apostle Paul’s admonishment in Acts 20:35 should be a caution to every one of us. Tearing into Christmas packages is exciting, especially when the spirit of Santa lives under your roof. You listen to squeals brought about by Barbie dolls, bicycles, iPads, video games and all the gifts that put smiles on faces.

            But we shouldn’t stop there. When’s the last time you put a smile on a stranger’s face? How about your children? Have they discovered the blessing of giving to people they don’t know?

            When the presents are exchanged at your house, try this. Load up your family, and take them to the nearest nursing home or retirement center. Ask for permission to visit with the residents. You don’t have to buy anything. Just a stack of child-made cards will work magic. Lonely faces will light up like the brightest Christmas tree.

            Most of us know this simple truth. But sometimes it takes a gentle tap on the shoulder to remind us. My tap came with a phone call years ago. My 89-year-old mother had taken a tumble, broken a bone and needed rehabilitation for a few months. She was making progress, but my regular visits to see her were therapeutic for me, too.

            After a couple of days in the hospital, Mother was assigned to a rehab facility. My initial focus was on her. We wanted to meet everyone who was entrusted with her care. We found the staff was caring and professional. But unfortunately, I had become so absorbed in Mother’s challenges that I was looking without really seeing.

I confess.

And shame on me.

            Thank goodness, as I walked toward room 102, my eyes finally opened. I started looking to the right and left. In those rooms were people’s mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, brothers, sisters and friends. I slowed my stride, trying to make eye contact with other residents. A pause, a hello and a friendly wave almost always brought back a smile. One by one, I learned their names. And when they heard their names, each smile burst into a grin.

            I hurt for my mother. I wanted her back walking the halls of her retirement community and slipping notes of encouragement under doors of her friends. Card-writing was her personal ministry. She did her part to keep the post office in business. She missed teaching Sunday school and going to church. She wanted out of the wheelchair. Marjorie NeSmith believed that she was really 69. She couldn’t believe that there would be 90 candles on her next birthday cake.

            But what put Mother into rehab became an unforgettable lesson for her children and grandchildren. For our family, it was a gift, one that presented itself each time we visited her. By looking around, we saw how blessed we had been. The late Dr. Norman Vincent Peale reminded us to be kind to our neighbors, for they are having as much trouble as we are. Oftentimes more.

            Just after Christmas in 2014, Mother, 90, went to Heaven to join my dad. The lessons learned during her final months will always remain a cherished gift. That’s why during this season of receiving—regardless of our faith—we should heed Christ’s words, echoed by Paul. The greatest blessing is giving. Insist that your children put down their toys for an afternoon. Take them to a nursing home or retirement center.

Visit strangers.

Make new friends.

And by giving joy, your children (and you) will experience the magic of receiving joy, too.

Merry Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

‘Memory Lane’ is my other name for Cherry Street

            Every time that I drive through the heart of downtown Jesup, my mind scrolls through the 1950s and 1960s. I can see the long-gone storefronts and the faces inside the establishments of my youth.

   I can hear familiar voices, especially Ralph Grantham’s.

            When the tall barber nodded in my direction and said, “Next,” I knew it was time to climb into his chair. I will never forget the day that he said, “This time, buddy, you don’t need to sit on the board.” I felt almost grown, not having to sit on the booster board across the arms of his chair.

            For a kid, Jack’s Barber Shop on Cherry Street was as close to a man’s world as you could get. I can still hear the buzz of the clippers and smell the butch wax and Clubman talc. But what I liked most was the atmosphere, the chatter between the barbers and the men who were waiting in wooden school-auditorium chairs along the wall.

            Proprietor Jack Jackson was on the left. My barber, Ralph, was in the middle. And Herbert Dent—known as the “new man”—was next to the plate glass window.

When I was about 18, I went to the shop for a haircut. Ralph wasn’t there. I asked Herbert to “lower my ears.” And on a whim, I asked for a shave. For years, I had watched Jack, Ralph and Herbert wrap hot towels around the faces of men. I thought my time had arrived. Herbert’s straight razor didn’t get much whisker resistance on my face. If he was snickering, I didn’t hear it.

But I digress.

Jack’s Barber Shop was also where I got my first business-world rejection. I haven’t forgotten that, either. I had dreamed about being the shop’s shoe-shine boy. There were air conditioning and a Coca-Cola machine in the backroom, behind the curtain. I imagined how glorious it would be, shining shoes and listening to the men banter back and forth.

By the time that I was in the second grade, Big Dink had taught me the art of making a cotton shine rag pop. I was ready for the Kiwi-polish-and-horsehair-brush big-time in Jack’s. I had heard men in the shine chair bark, “Watch the socks!” I knew to be careful, especially with the liquid sole and heel dressing.

One Saturday morning, after a buzz cut by Ralph, I decided to approach Jack—Mr. Jackson, of course—and ask him for a job. Without stopping the snipping of his scissors, he nodded in the direction of the shine stand and said, “Sorry, son, I’ve already got a shoe-shine boy.”

Talk to men my age, and they can rattle off their barbershop stories. I have Screven friends who made weekly pilgrimages to Jewell Brinkley’s for their dollar haircuts. He was famous for “holding court” and working the crowd where men were waiting for their turn to get a nod and hear “next.”

One of Jewell’s favorite antics was to tease young boys. As he was brushing off the clippings from a lad’s shoulders, he’d wink at the other men and ask, “OK, son, I’ve got some smell ’um here. Do you want gal bait or coon pee?” Most 10-year-old boys would never say that they had a girlfriend. So, they left Jewell’s thinking they smelled like raccoon urine.

But it was really “gal bait.”

Memories are my happy place.

For my 40^th birthday, Big Dink bought and restored Jack Jackson’s 1900-vintage barber’s chair. It’s a treasure that occupies a corner of my office. For my 77^th birthday, I climbed into it and leaned back.

When I closed my eyes, I was on Cherry Street—my Memory Lane—and stepping into Jack’s Barber Shop. 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

If you missed this 60 Minutes program, go back and watch it

 

           There aren’t many TV programs that I will rearrange my schedule to watch. CBS’s 60 Minutes is on top of that short list. Well, second if you count the Georgia Bulldogs during football season.

And you know that I was glued to the flat screen Saturday night, watching the Dawgs redeem themselves, 28-7, by rolling the Tide back to Alabama. Maybe, just maybe, Georgia has finally shooed Nick Saban’s ghost into retirement, too.

As the immortal Larry Munson barked, “You can’t spell Sugar [Bowl] without UGA!”

Now, did you watch 60 Minutes on Dec. 7?

If you didn’t see it, find a way to pull it up and pay attention to the segment on artificial-intelligence-driven chatbots. The centerpiece was on a technology company, character.ai, and especially its impact on preteens and teens. Watch and listen to parents tell how they believe an artificial intelligence (AI) robot convinced their 13-year-old to kill herself.

Scary. Very scary.

Robots don’t have children or grandchildren. That’s why human thinking must always rule, especially when appropriate guardrails are needed.

I know that my old-school “intelligence” is considered “artificial” by many who are driving the new-age technology explosion. But we should remember that AI robots don’t have hearts or what my grandmother called walking-around common sense.

 

Tilly Norwood

            Have you seen Tilly?

            Tilly is both beautiful and charming. And she doesn’t have to miss sleep learning her lines. An AI computer loads her brain with the touch of a button or two. For her creators, she’s the rage of the future. But to many living-and-breathing actors in Hollywood, Tilly is causing them to rage in anger.

Their question is “Will future AI-generated Tillys take the jobs of real actors?”

That’s a very good question, and it’s not confined to Hollywood. Robots are already making cars and more.

60 Minutes talked about people—real people—having human-like relationships with AI robots. All this new technology is fascinating. But come on, folks. Let’s not lose our old-fashioned walking-around common sense.

 

Marjorie Taylor Greene

            Never say never.

            Right?

            Well, I watched the 60 Minutes segment on Marjorie Taylor Greene (MGT). Until recently, I never agreed with much of what the congresswoman had to say, especially in the fire-breathing tone that made her both famous and infamous.

            Here’s what I would have never believed to come out of her mouth. MGT is calling for Americans to be more civil and tone down our political rhetoric.

            Amen, Rep. Greene.

            Regardless of our political affiliations, the other sides aren’t our enemies. They are Americans in these United States. And we all have the sacred right to have our own opinions and freedom of speech.

            And I was shocked—but pleased—to read what she said at a recent town hall meeting in Murray County. MGT lashed out at a proposed biowaste digester in her district. Here’s what she said, “This is a beautiful, rural county. Beautiful mountains, beautiful streams. People fish in these streams. They swim in these streams. This is pristine, beautiful land. And don’t any one of you act like you care about the environment if you want to build that.”

            On being a good steward of our natural resources, I never imagined Marjorie Taylor Greene and me to be preaching the same environmental gospel.

            Hear, hear, MGT.         

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Is technology making us smarter or dumber?

 

Yes, I know.

            I don’t need to be reminded that technology has lifted us to incredible heights. I benefit every day. Well, most of the time.

            And then there are those days when I feel stupid. Here are two examples: smartphones and smart TVs.

            When I am stumped on how to make my iPhone do something new and I don’t want to gnash my teeth, I hand it to a teenager. I believe babies come out of the womb reaching for a gadget, crying, “Give me something with a screen!” My generation was lucky to get a yo-yo by the time school started.

            Don’t get me wrong. My cell phone gets a daily workout. It’s a phone. An email sender/receiver. Ditto for text messages. It’s a quick researcher for want-to-know information, and it’s a stuff-in-your-pocket camera. But beyond that, I need a teenager to keep me from looking dumber.

You hear a lot about “brain rot” that comes from addiction to internet scrolling of low-quality content. You already know my brain can’t take much more rotting.

            And then there are these flat-screen, smart TVs that talk to you when you are fumbling with the clicker. A young friend insisted that I subscribe to YouTube TV. Oh, my.

            I am a guy who grew up with three channels to choose from. I don’t need 4,357 choices. All I want to watch is the news, 60 Minutes and a few other programs, ball games, and movies. The rest can’t compete with a good book. In the meantime, I’m not ready to give up. Yet.

            And then there are these smart vehicles.

            My truck talks to me. It vibrates my seat if it thinks I need reminding. I do like the “smart” lady who lives in the dashboard. I call her Matilda. Push a button on the steering wheel, and she’ll call anyone on my contact list. Hands-free talking. That’s good.

            I can also push a button and ask her to play songs of Jerry Lee Lewis, Alan Jackson, Ray Charles or endless other artists. I like that. But what I don’t like about Apple Car Play is that it tries to do my thinking.

On certain days, I go to certain places. When I crank up, Matilda’s friend will flash a message that tells me the specific destination, how many miles to go and how long it will take me to get there. What else does Matilda & Co. know about me?

            A popular app these days is Life360. If it’s on your smartphone, somebody is tracking your every movement and possibly how fast you are going to get there. I can see the safety benefits.

Now, baby boomers, imagine Life360 in the 1960s. Your parents could find you parked at The Pig Trail with your girlfriend or boyfriend. But you were supposed to be at a friend’s house studying for a chemistry test. How about that?

            Is technology making us smarter?

Yes and no.

When’s the last time you saw a cashier determine your change without depending on a computer? Today, how many people use a road map? Why would you need one with GPS? Good point. But what about the downside and the chance of developing LBS, Lazy Brain Syndrome?

            And now there’s the AI (artificial intelligence) rage.

            AI is promising to take us to new heights. Absolutely, we need to forge into the future. But how many people will AI leave behind, suffering from LBS?

            Yes, I know what you are thinking.

            My purported “intelligence” has always been suspected to be “artificial.”  

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Prayer of thanksgiving for two who taught beyond books

 

With ribbons of steel as its backbone, a railroad crossroad in the wilderness of Wayne County evolved into a community in the mid-1800s. Jesup became “The town that trains built.”

            One hundred years later, the north-south tracks had a profound influence on a skinny kid who moved from one side to the other. I finished the first grade with Mrs. Leslie Poppell at T.G. Ritch Elementary on the east side. But when NeSmith Funeral Home moved to 111 W. Orange St., my sisters and I would walk six blocks to Orange Street Elementary.

            Principal Tom James and his wife, Sara, may not have been standing on the front steps of the low-slung, built-in-a-hurry school to handle the surge of baby boomers and newcomers with Rayonier’s new pulp mill, but they embraced us quickly. And until they died, Tom and Sara never let us go, and vice versa.

            The New York Yankees had the powerful duo of Roger Maris and Mickey Mantle. Tom and Sara James were Orange Street’s Maris and Mantle. But the school’s faculty was brimming with other all-stars, too.

            The cadre of teachers created a sense of family. Alumni speak of those years as if they can still smell the chalk in the classrooms of Ila Warren, Hazel Eason, Gussie Richardson, Mildred Jones, Sara James and others.

            Sara James taught me more than fifth-grade subjects. With the swagger of an athlete and the grace of a sophisticated Southern lady, she could swat a softball over Sixth Street. With robin-egg-blue eyes, she looked at me and said in her signature smooth voice, “This is how you get into your batter’s stance. Hold the bat like this. And never take your eyes off the ball.”

            She didn’t take her eyes off her students, either.

            Sara James poured her heart into teaching. She drilled beyond multiplication tables. What I learned the most never appeared on my report card. She taught me about me. She opened the lid on my 10-year-old imagination.

I am grateful Tom and Sara James took an interest in me. They instilled something that can’t be found in textbooks—self-confidence. As two of my early mentors, they taught me how to stand before a group and talk without my knobby knees buckling.

Tom said, “Always remember your principal is your pal.”  Indeed, he was. Later in life, I came to appreciate his motto: “The service you render is the rent you pay for the privileges of living on Earth.”

Twenty years ago, while I was visiting, Tom said, “Follow me.” We walked into the kitchen. He paused and pointed to a note on the refrigerator door. “See,” he said, “that tells everyone that you will do my eulogy.”  As I followed him back to the den, I slowed to dab the corners of my eyes.

            Five years later, I knelt between their La-Z-Boys and held hands with two of my favorite educators. As if I was following a ping-pong match, my pupils pivoted right and left, watching the eyes of Tom and Sara dance. Even though both were gravely ill, you could feel the adoration between them as they bantered back and forth in their soft voices.

            Tom talked of his prize-winning flowers and Kiwanis. Sara talked about golf, bridge, the Methodist church and her favorite subject—grandchildren. But the conversation—as it always did—bounced back to Orange Street Elementary.      

            Just as the railroad runs through the center of my hometown, the uplifting spirit of Sara and Tom James has run through my soul since 1954. And it always will.

As we pause to count our blessings in this special season, I offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the many fine teachers who have influenced my life.

Especially Tom and Sara James.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

When is a black eye worth it?

 

            When is the last time you sported a black eye?

            I’m not talking about something you said or did that put a figurative shiner on your face.

I’m talking about a punch that gave you a multicolored black circle around one of your eyes. If I took off my sunglasses, you’d see I’ve got one.

            How’d I get it?

An old-timer’s answer was, “It was my wife, my stove wood, and it ain’t none of your business.”

That’s not how I got my black eye.

The explanation goes back eight months. Neighbor Clyde Jones asked, “Would you like some emu eggs?” Five, to be exact. And I thought, “That might be fun for grandsons William and Fenn. If they could hatch one or more of those giant eggs, well, it’d be a memorable adventure.”

The Tallulah Falls School teenagers pooled their resources to purchase a digital incubator. The next 52 days were filled with research, anticipation and required rolling of the eggs. They were quick learners and became our family’s emu experts.

The hatch-rate odds were low, but one chick pecked its way out of the shell. And when that happened, 16-year-old William shouted, “Hallelujah!” For the next few months, “Hallie” was fed, watered, handled and exercised as if she were a puppy.

But when the “puppy” got to be 3 feet tall, Hallie needed a new home. Alan and his sons helped construct a chain-link enclosure—complete with a roof—next to my office in the barn. She has been a featured attraction for visitors.

Hallie especially loves being hand-fed kale by guests. Perhaps it was that leafy superfood, because Hallie has been shooting skyward. And she was bumping her head on the ceiling. Alan joked, “I grew up with Sesame Street’s Big Bird, and now we have one.”

The time came to move Hallie into the pasture. With helpers Randy and Michael, we fashioned a 6-foot-tall circular pen that gave Hallie access to her private barn stall. But taking down the old pen is how I got the shiner.

More on that in a minute.

When Clyde came over to check out the new barnyard arrangement, he asked, “How did you get her over here?” Thanks to neighbor Ellen’s horse trailer, Hallie rode in style. But Pam coaxed the 6-foot bird into the trailer with kale treats. And then Pam rode inside with a species survivor of dinosaur days.

For Hallie, the new pen was love at first sight. She had room to run. But she was the only one of the barnyard inhabitants that was excited. The mules, the llamas, the small horse, the miniature donkeys and the cats were terrified of the weird-looking “thing.” None of our menagerie will come close to her, even though they are separated by fences.

Maggie, a 1,600-pound mule, stares—from a safe distance—and keeps her ears cocked as if to ask, “What the heck is that?” Baby Llama Bean and his banana-eared buddies are making noises that sound like a horse with a sore throat. Bubba, Sister and Rascal, the ratcatchers, are staying a safe distance on top of hay bales. The next few weeks are going to be a barnyard soap opera.

Now, how about my black eye?

In taking down the chain-link ceiling of Hallie’s original pen, oops, a section slipped and whacked me in the face. I was lucky the contraption didn’t poke me in the eye, but I have evidence that it came close.

Hallie has been a memory-making adventure for more than William and Fenn.

Yes, even me, with my black eye.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com