Blue-ribbon service brings customers back over and over

 

            As the old saying goes, “You shouldn’t judge a book by its cover.” But I think that’s what happened when I stepped out of my muddy truck. And my farmhand attire matched the dented 2004 GMC Sierra. Those two things might have sent a signal.

            With an I-couldn’t-care-less glance, the person at the front desk barely looked up. I knew exactly what I wanted: a metal sign. I detailed the specifications. There was a silent pause.

            “It’d be $500. And that doesn’t include installation.”

            “Oh, I plan to install it myself. Thank you.”

            Driving back to the farm, I thought about some early lessons in customer service:

§  Watching Big Dink at NeSmith Funeral Home, I witnessed how to treat customers without prejudging them. More than once, I observed men in scuffed brogans unzip the bib on their frayed overalls and extract a roll of hundred-dollar bills that was—as we say in the countrified South—“big enough to choke a mule.”

§  My name was stitched in red thread on the starched olive-drab Pope’s Texaco uniform. And as a 12-year-old, I learned how to look people in their eyes and count the change in the customer’s outstretched hand. Mrs. Cora Pope drilled, “Never put the money into the register drawer until the customer has agreed that you have given them the correct change.” Yes, I washed every windshield, checked the oil and offered to sweep the floor mats. And I was trained to say, without fail, “Thank you. See you next time.”

§  By 16, I had an air-conditioned job on the 50-yard line of popularity in downtown Jesup. S&R Men’s Shop was the place for fellas of all ages to go. Jimmy Sullivan was a master in making you feel special. When you walked into his store, you were greeted with genuine warmth. And whether you walked out with or without one of the shop’s signature black bags with its gold logo, you were glad you visited S&R.

§  While I was waiting for Uncle Sam’s call to army boot camp, I needed a paycheck. The Athens Banner-Herald wouldn’t hire me, but Trussell Ford did. A gaggle of veteran salesmen scoffed when I jumped up to greet a woman whom they declared unable to buy a car. They didn’t know about those overalls and the mule-choking wads of “Benjamins.” Not only did Mary Alice buy “the prettiest car that she’d ever seen”; she sighed, “I don’t even know how to drive.” I delivered a happy customer and the maroon station wagon to her cotton-mill house.

I didn’t study customer service at the University of Georgia, but I did at NeSmith Funeral Home, Pope’s Texaco and S&R Men’s Shop.

            Enough of that.

            What about the sign?

            A friend recommended a place.

            I had driven past the company dozens of times, but I had never thought about stopping. But when I did, I was greeted by a friendly hello and a smile. Within minutes, I was introduced to the owner.

            I explained what I wanted.

            He nodded and said, “Sure. We can do that for about $200.”

We shook hands.

I drove away in my muddy pickup.

            When I returned to get the sign, he said, “That’ll be $150.”

            He thanked me for choosing his business.

            The sign is hanging in the barn.

            One day, I might need another.

Guess where I will go to get it?                 

        

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

America, it’s time we looked in the mirror

     Mark Twain was no Billy Sunday-like evangelist, but he got it right about sermons. The famous author and the fire-breathing preacher believed that very few souls are saved after 20 minutes.

     I once heard Dr. Douglas Jackson of Gardi Baptist Church put it another way. He said, “The five “Bs” of a good sermon are “Be brief, brother, be brief.” As one who has polished hundreds of hard pews with my skinny behind, I say, “Amen.”

     Some of the most succinct sermons aren’t heard. They are seen on country-church marquees. With a quick glance, the point of the “sermon” packs the punch of a lightning bolt. Enough said, except for an altar call and the benediction.

     Perhaps my favorite message was posted on New Springfield Baptist Church’s marquee in Siloam, south of Greensboro.

     Siloam is a speck of a community on Highway 15, but it has its own ZIP code. I don’t know where in the Bible to reference what I saw, but the phrase sounds biblical. Similar to something you’d read in the Old Testament’s book of Proverbs.

     But actually, English theologian Benjamin Whichcote (1609-1683) said something very similar.

     Here's Pastor Roi Johnson’s 13-word sermon: “A person is never so empty as when he is full of himself!”

     That’s a humbling thought.

     I am sure there have been times when I was guilty of that.

     How about you?

     America, take a look around.

     There’s no better place to focus on that marquee sermon than the I-am-right-and-you-are-wrong political turmoil that threatens to crumble the foundation of our 249-year-old nation.

     When terrorists struck on 9/11, Kate Smith’s “God Bless America” was dusted off and sung from coast to coast. It took a crisis to pause the polarized bickering. Arm-in-arm, “We the people” rallied to recover. And now, almost a quarter century later, perhaps we should rewrite that classic tune to ask, “God help America.”

     As sure as the sun rises and sets, there are hate-filled terrorists plotting to do harm to our beloved homeland. They’ve done it once, and they can do it again. That’s frightening.

     But what’s even more alarming is that these evil ones are savoring what seems to be America’s flirting with a path of self-destruction by incessant poking of sharp sticks in each other’s eyes.

     I don’t care what political-party affiliation you profess. The ultra extremes of all the parties don’t do anything to pull us together. Just the opposite. Rather than the United States of America, we are evolving into the Squabbling States of America.

     America, we need to look in the mirror and ask, “Really, is this what we want?”

     For me, the question goes deeper, much deeper.

     Is that what we want for our children, our grandchildren, our great-grandchildren and their children’s children?

     I pray not.

     And I pray the Siloam marquee sermon — a person is never so empty as when he is full of himself — would resonate across America.

     Author Mark Twain, evangelist Billy Sunday and the eloquent Gardi minister are gone.

     But Dr. Jackson, I do hope that I have abided in your Five Bs.                      

    

    

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

An uncle’s lucky coin toss was a win for our family

 

              With a flip of a coin between two bachelors, she came into our family.

               And I don’t remember a time when Aunt Edith wasn’t in my life.

               I was 6 years old in 1954, when Edith Usry married my mother’s younger brother, Billy Vines. He and his older brother, Joe, were my heroes. They didn’t have sons, so they introduced me to the outdoors—hunting, fishing, dogs, Jeeps, boats and campfire yarns, along with love and respect of nature. Joe died in 1963. That’s a story for another day.

               But what did a coin toss have to do with all this?

               Back in March, I called Uncle Billy’s widow to hear her voice and reminisce.

               Edith Usry was a brand-new 1952 graduate of Berry College when she accepted a third-grade teaching job in Newton, south of Albany. The roots of my mother’s people run deep along Baker County’s Highway 91 and the Flint River. But Edith knew no one, except her roommate Margeurite and their widowed landlord, Mrs. Maude McCloud.

               Margeurite shopped at the Suwanee Store on the courthouse square. The grocery was owned by Billy’s buddy H.C. McClain. In between 93-year-old giggles, Aunt Edith told how H.C. asked Billy, “Why don’t you and I take those new teachers on a double date?”

               And to decide who would escort whom to the Baker County High School basketball game, the bachelors flipped a coin. (Joe was the coach and school principal.) Billy “won” Edith for the night, but she soon won his heart, too. They were married in 1954. H.C. and Margeurite married, too.

               Billy and Edith’s honeymoon was in his mother’s farmhouse on the Colquitt Highway. From Newton, you could get there before Hank Williams finished wailing “Kaw-Liga” on Camilla’s WCLB-AM. And that’s where we met, Nanny’s house. My granddaddy had died. Billy helped save the family farm, while his young bride taught in town.

               Before long, the newlyweds moved to Newton. When I look at my right hand’s palm, I see the scar, and I’m sitting on the backsteps of their red clapboard house. Aunt Edith was cleaning corn. I volunteered to help and asked her to give me a knife. I might have been 8.

“You sure you know how to do this?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When we talked in March, Aunt Edith was still apologizing for my gashing a half-moon slit in the pad of my palm. In retrospect, it was a good-parenting experience for when their daughters, Vicky and Beverly, were born. And for me, the scar is a reminder of how much I loved being in the home of my hero and his bride.

Around 1960, Riverview Plantation—across the Flint in Mitchell County—hired Uncle Billy as a dog-handler and quail-hunting guide. I spent two glorious summers there, working in the tobacco patches for $3 per day. Aunt Edith kept my tobacco-tar-stained clothes washed and country cooking on the table. I was a happy city boy turned farmhand.

In an ironic twist, my wife, Pam, grew up in the Hopeful community with Cader Cox, the second-generation owner of Riverview. Cader and I bonded in his daddy’s “bakker” patches, and we’re best of friends today. After I notified my family of Aunt Edith’s death, Cader was the next person I contacted.

Uncle Billy died in 2003.

Mother died 11 years later.

That left Aunt Edith as my living link to the past.

After Uncle Billy’s death, she eventually moved to Bainbridge to live with Beverly.

               Without fail, Aunt Edith called on my birthday.

She always brought up that corn-cleaning mishap. I think it was so that she could apologize again. And then, we’d laugh. I will carry Aunt Edith’s loving, distinctive voice to my grave.

Yes, sir.

Uncle Billy won the coin toss.

And that meant our family did, too.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

The University of Georgia was right choice in 1966

 

           All I wanted was a half-gallon carton of organic milk.

But when I cracked open the cooler’s door, I heard one girl tell the other, “Put that back.”

            “I thought you said that we needed this.”

            “Yeah, but I’m not buying anything. My parents are coming tomorrow, and I want them to buy the groceries.”

            That brief exchange between UGA coeds was a hint at how savvy and smart today’s students are. If you haven’t heard, look at these numbers:

§  The freshman class of 6,200-plus has an average GPA of 4.17.

§  The average SAT score is 1356 out of a perfect 1600. The average ACT score is 31 out of a possible 36. Their academic accolades stack even higher.

            All this underscores a very obvious fact.

            I am most fortunate that I was accepted into UGA when I was.

            My high school grades were competitive, but my SAT score would have gotten my application tossed into the trash. Unless I had been an exceptional athlete. And I wasn’t.

            Listening to the coeds put me into a time machine, spinning backwards to 1965. At suppertime, we talked about where I’d go to college.

            If I had listened to my mother, I would never have moved into room 212 of Oglethorpe House in September 1966. “The University of Georgia is too big,” she said. “You’ll get lost among all those 14,000 students.”

            And then she added, “Besides, good Baptist boys should go to Mercer. Yes, Mercer would be perfect for you. But it would be even better if you went to Brewton-Parker Junior College and then transferred to Mercer in Macon.”

            “But Mother, I want to go to college in Athens.”

            “It’s a very big decision. You really should pray about this.”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            A few days later, she asked, “Well, did you and the Lord discuss where you’d go next year?”

            “Yes, ma’am, we did. After praying about it, I have my choices narrowed down to two places: Vietnam or UGA.”

            She sighed and answered, “Go, Dawgs!”

            And when September arrived, I stuffed my assortment of Gant shirts, starched khakis, oxblood Weejuns, Gold Cup stocks, alligator belts and whatever else I needed into the trunk of Big Dink and Margie’s 1964 teal-blue Buick and headed to Athens. (Freshmen couldn’t have cars in 1966.)

            But then my dad said, “Athens is a long way from Jesup. It’s too far to go in one day.” We stopped short and spent the night in Greensboro.

            As we were settling into the Nathaniel Greene Motor Court, he asked the clerk, “Do you know a Dr. H.A. Thornton?” She smiled and pointed across the street. “He lives right there,” she said. Daddy walked over to say hello to a grade-school buddy from the 1930s.

            And then I heard the cackling of the I’m-not-going-to-buy-anything coed. That snapped me out of the time-machine fog.

            Now, it’s 2025.

I can’t believe it’s been 55 years since President Fred C. Davidson signed my diploma.

            And then I wondered, “What if I hadn’t gone to the University of Georgia?”

            In 1968 I had a blind date with a freshman, a South Georgia farmer’s daughter. Pam and I will celebrate our 56^th anniversary on Aug. 23. Our three children—Alan, Emily and Eric—met their spouses through UGA. Among the eight of us, there are 10 Georgia degrees. And on the days when our eight grandchildren were born, they, too, became lifetime members of the UGA Alumni Association.

            Yes, indeed.    

            The University of Georgia was the perfect choice.

            Savoring those thoughts, I walked out of the grocery store.

And, oh, with the half-gallon carton of milk.

            Go, Dawgs. 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Celebrating unexpected reunion with score of ‘old friends’

 

               What’s one of life’s most enjoyable surprises?

               For me, it’s reconnecting with old friends.

               For days now, I’ve been basking over the reunion with more than 100 unforgettable acquaintances. One by one—without saying a word—they spoke to me. And I still hear what they had told me years ago.

               Why were they silent?

               The answer is simple.

They couldn’t say anything.

               Books do their talking through written words. And since I learned to read, books have been among my best friends.

               As a Southerner, good books are much like a bag of hot boiled (green) peanuts.

               How’s that?

               I can’t get enough of either one.

               For me, peanut-boiling season kicks off with Labor Day weekend and college football. But I’ve spent days going through stacks and stacks of books reminiscing. Maybe it was Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn that got me into exploring what is printed between the covers of books.

               There was a time when my book diet was reading a minimum of one per week. In a good seven-day stretch, I could devour two. These days, the hunger is still there. But I’ve slowed down.

               Why?

               I must find time to deal with my ever-growing library of friends.

               Let me introduce you to a few. They may be your friends, too.

Rick Bragg

               The Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist/author is my favorite modern-day wordsmith. Last time we visited—in between his gnawing on barbecued ribs—he told me about an upcoming book, The Best Cook in the World, Tales from my Momma’s Table. In a word: delicious. His stories and Momma Bragg’s recipes.

Ferol Sams and Lewis Grizzard

               When my friend and mentor Pat Pattillo gave me the Fayetteville doctor’s Run with the Horsemen in 1982, I was hooked. One evening after a Dawg game in Athens, I was sitting on Loran Smith’s back porch between Dr. Sams (Sambo) and Lewis Grizzard. It was a contest between the two to see who could make us laugh the hardest. I went home with my ribs aching.

               Both are gone, but I believe I have read every book each one wrote. I often wonder how today’s speech police would react to Lewis Grizzard’s irreverent brand of commentary. Readers loved or hated him. And Lewis was delighted either way.

               John Grisham

               The Mississippi lawyer turned best-selling author has written enough books to make most bookshelves sag. I’ve read all 37. My favorites are among his first novels: A Time to Kill, The Firm and The Client.

               William C. Harris Jr.

               When the Savannah podiatrist wrote Delirium of the Brave, attorney Alvin Leaphart, an aspiring novelist, asked whether I knew William Harris. No, but I called someone who did. Savannah attorney Sonny Seiler, owner of Bulldog mascot, Uga, knew just about everyone in his hometown.

 A few days later, Alvin, his wife Beverly, Sonny and I were sitting in a booth at Johnny Harris’ restaurant with Dr. Harris. I enjoyed John Berendt’s Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, but I really, really liked Delirium of the Brave.

Jimmy Carter

We met in 1970 on the UGA campus. Even in his 90s, he’d respond—in handwriting—to my letters. The 39th president was a prolific author and world-class fisherman. I’ve read most of his 32 books. Perhaps my favorite is An Hour Before Daylight.

 I recommend Jimmy Carter: Rivers & Dreams by Jim Barger Jr. and Dr. Carlton Hicks. I promise you’ll be educated on unexpected subjects. And the foreword, written by President Carter, is believed to be his last published piece before his death at age 100.

Brainard Cheney, Wendell Berry, Robert Ruark, Ernest Hemingway, Larry Brown, Willie Morris, Ludlow Porch, Jim Minter and a score of other “friends” prompted an unexpected reunion when Pam said, “See who’s here.”

And then she opened the door of a high-up and rarely thought-about cabinet.

There they were.

All 149.

Thanks for reading these words.

But please excuse me.

I must go.

               Old friends have surprised me with a visit.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com