Felix was more than an articulate ‘man of the cloth’

 

            The phone call rattled my soul.

            The Rev. Dr. Felix Haynes, 81, had died.

            The articulate “man of the cloth” was a biblical scholar and deliverer of poignant sermons. But Felix was much more than a preacher. He was a friend to thousands.

And I was one of the fortunate ones.

            Felix knew my family inside and out. When he accepted the call to our church, my parents embraced him. Their combined chemistries were a potent, servant-minded ministry. Felix once told me that when a need for comfort arose in the congregation—as attentive as he was—he couldn’t beat Big Dink and Margie to the scene.

When my dad was dying in 1998, and when my mother was fading away in 2014, Felix was by our sides. And he carried that compassion into the pulpit, knowing exactly what to say during their funerals. Felix’s style was eloquent in a storytelling way that exuded warmth and easy understanding.

I consider myself a voracious reader, but I am a rookie compared to Felix. We recommended books to each other. He was a serious bookworm and an avid collector of rare books.

One time Felix called, “I have something for you.” That “something” was more than I could tote—boxes and boxes of books. They are treasures in my collection on sagging shelves. And when I read and reread each one, I will hear Felix saying, “You are really going to like this one.”

Go back to 2016 with me.

This episode underscores the depth of his loyalty and our friendship.

Wayne County was in danger of becoming the largest toxic-coal-ash dump in America. I was neck-deep in research and effort to keep that horror from happening. Felix said, “I know someone you need to meet.” When he was studying in Louisville’s seminary, Felix was Wendell Berry’s pastor at Port Royal Baptist Church.

I knew of Wendell Berry’s fame as a celebrated author, the first living member to be inducted into the Kentucky Writers Hall of Fame. He’d written more than 40 books: novels, collections of short stories, essays and poems.

But the gentleman farmer, who drives a well-dented pickup truck, is more than a masterful wordsmith. Wendell Berry, despite his genteel demeanor, is a legendary defender of the environment. In a word, he is fearless. Wendell doesn’t back down from pollution-minded bullies. He is a give-it-his-all steward of God’s natural resources.

Felix was adamant: “Let’s go see him.”

A phone call and 672 miles later, we were sitting around an oak table in Wendell and Tanya Berry’s kitchen. And when we shook hands, I could tell from his grip that this great-grandfather could still split his own firewood.

 We talked. He listened. He talked. We listened. He had been following our David-and-Goliath saga. With a chuckle, Wendell said, “When you grab a bear by the tail, you can’t turn loose.”

I still have his follow-up handwritten note: “Remember, David won.”

On the eight-hour ride home, Felix shared a Wendell quotation: “There are no sacred and unsacred places; there are only sacred and desecrated places. My belief is that the world and our life in it are conditional gifts.”

Amen.

Wendell’s words will resonate with me until “I’ll Fly Away” is sung over my ashes.

Without Felix, I doubt that I ever would have had the opportunity to spend an afternoon with Wendell Berry.

But then again, I was one of the fortunate ones.

Felix Haynes was my friend.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Lots to observe and love in ‘country living’

 

The 7-year-old visitor wrinkled her nose.

She had a question.

“Is this what you call country living?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “I like it,” she said.

            “Me, too.”

            And here’s why.

            Yogi Berra said, “You can observe a lot just by watching.” In “country living,” there’s so much to observe, such as:

▪       Curious George, our 300-pound llama, enjoys chasing our 1,500-pound mule around the pasture. The comedy ends when Maggie brays, “Enough of this.” And she starts kicking. The observation makes me laugh.

▪       Two black fox squirrels hang out in our yard. The other day, a divebombing mockingbird had one of the ebony squirrels hightailing it for the woods. Mockingbirds are a fussy bunch, but I like their brassiness. I especially enjoy observing them chase crows.

▪       Pam first observed this and called me. A mama fox and her two kits were at our front door, as if they were coming for a visit. I circled the house in my truck and snapped a photo. Cute, but I know these critters are rabies-prone.

▪       This time of year, the purple martins put on a show. If I’m near their condo on a pole, I stop and observe their aerial antics. They make me smile.

▪       We have an occasional visitor down by the lake, but I look for it every day. And when I observe the bald eagle—perched on top of the dead pine tree—I always take a few minutes, Yogi, to watch and wonder where it will go next.

▪       Once we had a small herd of Belted Galloway cows, nothing more than pasture ornaments. Today we “have” the best cows ever. They graze over the fence in neighbors’ pastures. I like to observe and hear their mooing, but without the responsibilities or expenses. (Well, unless they get out. Then, we go help round ’em up.)

▪       People ask, “Why do you have those llamas?” They, too, are pasture ornaments. And excellent lookouts. Our llamas are sentinels, posting themselves on the highest ground. If you observe their fuzzy banana-shaped ears standing at attention, something is going on or somebody is coming.

▪       Living in the backyard shrubbery is an almost-tame mother rabbit. When you talk to her, she seems to listen. And if you wait, you can observe a pair of tiny Peter Cottontails hop into view.

▪       My afternoon “cocktail” doesn’t have a drop of liquor in it. When the catfish feel the vibration of my truck’s tires, the lake’s surface ripples. By the time I open the metal feed can, a frenzied school of 10-pound cats are swirling for their supper. It’s calming to sit on a bench and observe the turtles, waiting for their turn at what’s left of the chow.

▪       The afternoon ritual includes observing a great blue heron. As soon as I toss the floating pellets, Willie—with his 6-foot wingspan—swoops down and parks on the dam. Herons are opportunistic predators. Willie is waiting for his opportunity to spear a small bream for his supper, too.

            Why do I call the giant bird Willie? He got his moniker from the infamous bank robber of the Great Depression. When asked why he robbed banks, Willie Sutton said, “Because that’s where the money is.” And our Willie knows where his evening meal is waiting.

▪       The late afternoons have a bonus observation—magnificent setting suns, each unique. It’s as if God used a spatula to smear rainbow sherbet across the sky. Only our Creator can paint pictures that beautiful.

            And there’s something else that I observe when I am wandering around the farm. I can see my neighbors across the way. Well, not really. But I know they are over there on all four sides. And we share the same commitment: Neighbors help neighbors. We call it the Smithonia Way.

            If my chainsaw is broken, someone has one to lend.

            Should someone’s lights go out, I have a generator to loan.

            That’s the way it works where we live.

            You can observe it every day.

            Yes, ma’am.

            I don’t just like country living.

I love it. 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Big Dink stories help keep my father ‘alive’

            Sunday is Father’s Day.

            Oh, I wish mine were still here so that I could tell him how much I loved him. Even though he died in 1998, Big Dink’s DNA is at work inside me. And so many stories keep him “alive.”

            My daddy didn’t squeak when he walked, but Big Dink—a child of the Great Depression—was tight with his money. “It’s not how much you make that’s important,” he preached. “It’s how much you don’t spend. Live below your means, and you’ll always have enough money.” He walked the walk and left plenty of stories in his footprints.

            Here’s one of my favorites:

            Among his first employees at NeSmith Funeral Home was a bachelor, Buck Bishop, who lived in Joyce Brown’s boarding house across the railroad tracks in Jesup. Buck regaled listeners with stories about the thriftiness of his boss. I can still hear Buck laughing about the fence-building project.

            Big Dink had just taken down a tiny Jim Walter house in the backyard. In 1957 he built my little sister, Sheila, a playhouse in that spot. And he wanted to connect the new structure to the funeral home with a 10-foot span of privacy fence to hide hearse washing and such.

            With the list of materials, Buck walked across the street to Hodges Hardware. Standing behind the customer counter were Chuck Anderson, Harry Rogers, Robert Hayes and proprietor Jimps Hodges. When they looked at the list, they howled with laughter. Big Dink had spelled out the exact number of boards and the lengths required. What tickled Chuck and Harry most was their friend’s request for 56 10-penny nails.

            Chuck said, “You need to walk back and tell Dink that we sell nails by the pound, not by the piece.” Buck balked and said, “Uhhh … how about you let me count out 56 nails and then you can weigh them?”

            Harry urged Chuck, “Let Buck count ’em.”

            Harry was accustomed to sawing boards for their tightwad neighbor, so he had an idea. When he turned off the radial-arm saw, Harry got a broom and a paper sack. Sweeping up the sawdust, he said, “Buck, tell your boss that I’m sending him this.”

            When the funeral-helper-turned-fence-builder got back to the project site, he said, “Dink, Harry thought you might like to have the sawdust, too. He knows you don’t want to waste anything.”

            Big Dink wasn’t ready to turn the prank loose just yet.

            “Buck,” he said, “please go back to Harry and Chuck. Ask them if they have some burnt motor oil. If I had some of that, I think we could mix it with this sawdust and make some pretty good floor-sweeping compound.”

            Later that afternoon, another across-South-West-Broad-Street neighbor walked over to watch Buck work.

            Benny Westberry was a big-rig driver for Colvin Oil Company. Benny and his boss, Earl Colvin, were legendary penny-pinchers, too. When it came to guarding their wallets, Big Dink, Benny and Earl could have been kinfolks.

            Standing on the sidewalk, Benny didn’t say anything for a few minutes. He didn’t want to interrupt Buck, who was on his hands and knees, scratching in the pine straw around the azaleas. When Benny couldn’t wait any longer, he asked, “Buck, what are you doing?”

            Buck glanced up and said, “I’m looking for one of Dink’s nails.”

            “Well, Buck, why don’t you just get another one out of the sack?
            “Uhh, Benny, I can’t do that.”

            “Why, Buck?”

            “Because, Benny, I bought 56 nails. Dink said that’s all I needed. And you know him. Dink can squeeze a nickel so hard that you can hear the buffalo bellow.”

            Sixty-eight years later, I’ve got a project underway.

            Even though I can’t see the carpenters rolling their eyes and snickering, I know that they are watching me pick up scrap lumber. Big Dink would have thought, “Surely, this can be used for something else.”

            Yes, Daddy, your DNA is pulsing through me.

            And I couldn’t be more blessed.

            Happy Father’s Day.    

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Georgia, what’s on your mind?

 

         If you asked me to name my 10 favorite songs, the answer wouldn’t be instantaneous. But I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you my top pick, “Georgia on My Mind.” Ray Charles sings it best. Willie Nelson is my runner-up.

Indeed, Georgia is always on my mind.

I have never wanted to live anywhere else.

In 1989 three partners and I bought a company based in Spartanburg. The Spartanburg-Greenville area is one of the Southeast’s most dynamic regions. But before we signed the documents, I knew that I wasn’t moving to South Carolina.  Instead, the headquarters was coming to Georgia. 

If you tried to separate my love for and loyalty to Georgia from my soul, well, imagine the roar of a 50-yard stretch of Velcro being ripped apart. That’s never going to happen. Nonetheless, I do wonder in which direction our beloved Peach State is aimed.

And that raises the question: “What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

Since the colony of Georgia was founded in 1732, you might consider that a silly question. But if you compare our state, age-wise, to its counterparts in Europe, Georgia is still in diapers.

Visionary leadership has helped Georgia to become the envy of most states. Atlanta and its world’s busiest airport have been magnets to draw waves of paycheck-creating investments. But I do wish more of that “wealth” could be distributed among jobs-starved rural Georgians.

When Sonny Perdue became governor in 2003, he was determined to make Georgia the best-managed state in the nation. He created the Commission for a New Georgia (CNG). I served with two dozen other business and industry leaders. CNG accomplished Gov. Perdue’s goal, while saving Georgia taxpayers millions of dollars.

Then came Gov. Nathan Deal. During his eight years in office, Georgia became the nation’s best state in which to do business. Jobs poured into Georgia. Gov. Brian Kemp and his team have kept that national distinction, luring billions of dollars of investment and tens of thousands of new jobs.

Much of my adult life has been spent as a booster. I’ve been a chamber of commerce president, chairman of an industrial development authority and vice-chair of the Georgia Chamber of Commerce. Gov. Deal offered me a seat on the state’s economic development board. I declined, but that’s another story. Today I am on an economic development authority. 

I know the value of jobs creation and the importance of easing the property-tax burden on homeowners. It is clear that our state is ultra-business- friendly. Georgia is on a rocket ride. And that brings me back to the question: 

“What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

When God was handing out geography, He dealt Georgia a “royal flush.” We couldn’t ask for more variety and beauty. I don’t advocate erecting “No Vacancy” signs on our state’s borders, but it’s time to consider where we’re headed. Georgia, being what it is, will not be denied more than its share of concrete and steel.

But you can chisel this into Elberton granite:

Georgia will never get more natural wonders such as North Georgia’s mountains and streams or South Georgia’s Okefenokee Swamp. I believe God expects us to be responsible stewards of our natural resources.

Quality of life is one of our greatest assets. Every growth decision should consider that.  Georgia is in the enviable position of being choosy.  We shouldn’t be giving tax incentives to attract projects that we might regret later. One example—in my opinion—is the tsunami of electricity-gobbling data centers flooding our state.

Georgia Power Company now believes that it must backtrack on its promise to quit burning coal, so that it can feed these gargantuan data centers. And that means more poisonous heavy metals are likely to be leaking into our groundwater from unlined toxic-coal-ash ponds. Wouldn’t safe water and clean air be two of the basics of quality of life?

So, again, I ask, “What does Georgia want to be when it grows up?”

Sing it, Ray.

“Georgia, Georgia ….”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Men should get over latex-glove paranoia

 

               The physician’s assistant asked, “Mr. NeSmith, are you allergic to latex?”

               “No, ma’am. Not until I hear it snap on your wrist.”

               Ladies, you know what I am talking about.

               Women, compared to men, have to endure the most medical-exam indignities. As you are probed and mashed in the pursuit of good health, I admire your courage. Trips to the gynecologists start in your teen years.

               Men—given the chance—will put off their visits to the urologist for as long as they can. The most common reason is the dread of that latex-glove-involved exam. The thought of the indignity of that infamous digital rectal exam (DRE) is enough excuse for many men to delay, delay, delay.

               And, in my opinion, that is a mistake.

               The second-leading cause of cancer death in men is prostate cancer.

               Different urologists have different opinions about the effectiveness of screenings, especially in older men. Back-and-forth theories abound. Some doctors believe the treatments can be worse than the cancer.

               I am not a medical expert. But even at my age, I choose regular exams. Prostate cancer is common in my family, and I’ve been visiting a urologist for about 30 years.

               But I digress.

               In 1997, my dad was diagnosed with prostate cancer. The disease was slow-growing and was being monitored. I’ve heard doctors say that most older men will die with prostate cancer but not from it.

               But one Sunday afternoon, Big Dink, 76, sneezed.

               A rib cracked.

               X-rays revealed that the cancer had metastasized into my dad’s bones. His urologist said that what happened was a rarity. I don’t remember the exact medical terminology, but radiation did not halt the spread of the disease. Medically, everything possible was done. The seven-week countdown had begun.

               My parents moved into our home, as did sisters Sandy and Sheila. Pam was a champion keeping meals on the table and the house in order, as we rallied around our family’s patriarch. We showered the man we all called Granddaddy with love and prayers. Our requests to God were twofold: “Lord, we pray for a miracle. But if that’s not Your will, please don’t let him suffer long.”

               Eventually, hospice nurses joined the vigil.

               On a Sunday afternoon, Granddaddy’s urologist visited. He signaled the end was nigh. He advised that we should be diligent with our goodbyes. I called one of our newspaper cartoonists to come.

               In roundtable fashion, we told signature family stories that had been repeated over the years. As we reminisced, the artist sketched. Later that day, I sat in bed with my dad. One by one, I retold the stories depicted in the cartoons. We laughed. We cried. I can still feel Daddy squeezing my hand.

               On Tuesday, the last thing we heard him say was a soft, raspy “I love you.” And the last thing that he heard from his family was “We love you.”

               Prostate cancer has a history of finding NeSmith men.

               Since I turned 50, I’ve been seeing my urologist at least twice a year. And about a dozen years ago—after one of those latex-glove DREs—I had a procedure that removed prostate tissue, revealing a small amount of malignancy. The lingering question was, “Did that get it all?”

               Continued urology visits and tests have been encouraging. My PSA has remained low and unchanged. The Gleason number, a key indicator, is good, too. Again, in my opinion, you can’t be too vigilant.

               That brings me to former President Joe Biden. What happened to him might be what happened to my dad. The metastatic-bone cancer appeared “out of nowhere.”

 I am not a doctor, but I believe America’s 46^th president’s medical outlook is grim. Cancer doesn’t care whether you are a Democrat, a Republican, or whatever political affiliation. And when prostate cancer metastasizes into your bones—short of a miracle—the countdown is imminent.

               Men, doctors say that it’s likely most of us will die with prostate cancer.

               But we shouldn’t have to die from it.

               Nonetheless, if possible, I believe we should know what’s going on with our bodies.

               So, get over the latex-glove paranoia.

               Go see a urologist.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com