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

Memory-making adventure in Alaska

 

            How long does it take to get from Homer, Georgia, to Homer, Alaska?

            Well, that depends.

            Northeast Georgia’s Homer is 33 miles from where I live. And the journey to Alaska took me 76 years, seven months, 27 days, 10 hours and 36 minutes.

            But why did I wind up 4,578 miles from home anyway?

            In our family of 16—when vacation travel is on the ballot—popular vote rules. Alaska was this year’s winner. The soundtrack of the adventure was Dionne Warwick’s song “Trains and Boats and Planes.” We rode them all. And after 10 days of rambling around in America’s 49^th state, here’s a sampler pulled from my mental backpack:

§  The museum on the Fairbanks campus of the University of Alaska was a good first stop for a short course on the state’s history, people, nature and wildlife. A walk through the botanical garden was a preview of the floral wonders awaiting. Flowers flourish in Alaska’s almost endless days of sunshine. And if you think cold weather kills mosquitoes, think again. Those pesky blood-suckers could be Alaska’s state bird.

§  An eight-hour ride south—sitting in the glass dome of the Wilderness Express, atop the tail-end railcar of the Alaska Railroad—gave us a panoramic view of the rugged beauty. Every scene was a postcard-worthy photograph. For some of our eight grandchildren, this was their first train ride.

§  Talkeetna, an unincorporated village of 997 people, captivated everyone. To accentuate its laidback culture, Aurora (a cat) is the honorary mayor. And if you walk to the dead end of Main Street—chocked with a mishmash of eclectic architecture—you might get a look at North America’s king of mountains, Denali, aka Mount McKinley.

§  On our river-raft float, both guides pleaded, “Take my picture.” They were startled by the clear view of the 20,310-foot king and his court of adjoining mountains that are typically shrouded in clouds. Twice, grandsons and their dads, with Denali in the background, caught salmon in the Chulitna River. In excited unison, they reported, “Incredible.” (Yes, on every family trip, fishing poles and tackle are carry-on “luggage.”)

§  There wasn’t a universal favorite, but Homer was high on everyone’s list. The Homer Spit is a 4.5-mile-long skinny finger of earth that sticks into the heart of Kachemak Bay. The salt air, raucous seagulls, chatter about catching halibut and salmon, snow-capped mountains, and boats of every kind said to me, “This is the Alaska that I imagined.”

§  A 15-minute water-taxi ride delivered us to the off-the-grid Odyssey Lodge, perched on the hillside of a high-tide island. From kayaking to hiking to pointing out breathtaking vistas to meals to remember, the eager-to-please staff made it happen.

§  And Alan, Emily and Eric, along with their spouses and their children, made a “first” happen for Odyssey. The lodge’s water taxi took 14 of our family to China Poot Bay’s Kachemak Bay State Park, which has no facilities, and dropped them off for eight hours of unguided exploring and fishing. Pam and I chose books over sloshing around in the rain.

            With his flyrod, grandson Wyatt Wilson caught and released a guesstimate of 40 rainbow trout. His dad, Tom, said, “The salmon were stacked so thick in the stream, it seemed as if you could walk across their backs to the other side.” Alan, Eric and Tom froze and lugged home 60 pounds of wild salmon filets in their coolers.

            Sitting around the dinner table in Anchorage, I was quizzed about my favorite memory. I recapped all of the above before choosing.

As a grandfather, I cherished most the smiles, the wide-eyed wonderment, the nonstop laughter and the arm-in-arm best-buddies camaraderie of our eight grandchildren. All along the way, strangers complimented Wyatt, Hayes, William, Henry, Fenn, Bayard, Smith and Stella on their politeness, congeniality and obvious love for each other.

            That memory will keep me smiling forever.

I am a lucky grandpa.

But I didn’t have to experience the Homer-to-Homer-and-back trip to discover that.

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

 

One of the highlights of the 10-day Alaska adventure was rafting down the Chulitna River in Talkeetna and getting a rare view of North America’s tallest mountain, unobstructed by clouds. With Denali, aka Mount McKinley, in the background are, from left, Dink NeSmith, Heather NeSmith, William NeSmith, Fenn NeSmith, Alan NeSmith, Emily N. Wilson, Smith Wilson, Wyatt Wilson, Henry Wilson, Hayes Wilson, Tom Wilson, Stella NeSmith, Eric NeSmith, Connell NeSmith, Bayard NeSmith and Pam NeSmith.

 

We’re in race backwards with coal

 

            From the campaign stump, Donald Trump vowed he could end the Russia-Ukraine War on his Day One in the White House.

            Months after taking office, he admitted, “That was an exaggeration.”

            In 2019 Georgia Power announced it was shutting down its coal-fired plants in favor of more solar. Here’s company senior vice-president Allen Reaves’ statement: “We are positioning Georgia as a leader in the Southeast in battery storage, which is critical to growing and maximizing the value of renewable energy for customers as we increase our renewable energy by 72 percent by 2024.”

            The Public Service Commission (PSC) praised and ballyhooed the decision.

            And I did, too, in an Aug. 7, 2019, column.

            But in recent weeks, the behemoth electricity-provider has changed its mind.

            Should we write off the 2019 announcement as an exaggeration, too?          

            I think not.

            Ditto for President Trump when he promised America the cleanest, safest water and air in the world. Let’s hope that’s not an exaggeration, too. However, our 45^th and 47th president has promoted coal as “clean and beautiful.”

            Scientific facts say otherwise.

Burning nasty coal poisons our air and threatens our water. Today, Georgia Power has a number of its coal-ash storage ponds sitting in groundwater and leaking. These cancer-causing heavy metals could contaminate our drinking-water supply.

            What’s Georgia Power doing about it?

            Monitoring.

            Apparently, the company believes time will cure the dangerous sores.

            In addition to backing out on its no-coal pledge, the situation is about to get worse. Rather than less coal, Georgia Power is planning to burn more. Seems we are entering a race backwards. And what does the PSC say?

            As expected, “a go for it.”

            Our utility watchdogs are elected. But when vacancies occur, the governor makes appointments. These men and women are charged to keep the best interest of Georgians in mind. But history doesn’t always reflect that. When Georgia Power says, “Frog,” the PSC watchdogs jump, usually into the utility’s lap. That goes for most of our Gold Dome leaders, too.

            If the fictional sleuth Sherlock Holmes was alive, he’d say to his assistant, “My dear Watson, they don’t call it Georgia Power for naught.” What Georgia Power wants is what Georgia Power gets.

            I have said this dozens of times. Georgia Power employs thousands of outstanding, dedicated people. It is a major contributor to our state’s healthy economy. We need Georgia Power, but that shouldn’t entitle it to do whatever it wants.

            Enter the gold rush for power-hungry data centers. Thanks to the explosion of artificial intelligence (AI), data centers are spreading over Georgia like industrial kudzu. Not everyone is happy about this, especially residential neighborhoods waking up to find the monstrous facilities near their backyards.

            But who’s the happiest?

            Georgia Power, of course.

            Well, its coal suppliers, too.

            Naturally, the PSC thought it was a good idea. The rationale was that it is better to burn coal than overstress the state’s power grid. Data centers are power-hungry, as are the noisy and increasingly unpopular crypto-mining operations.

            Data centers must also have fiber-optic connections to the rest of the world. Georgia communities are catching up with this technology requirement, so we’re attractive targets for the developers of these massive centers. Campuses, they call them.

            Data centers are also water hogs. For now, Georgia is water-rich. You’d think our citizens, especially our farmers, would want it to stay that way. In this data-center stampede, isn’t moderation a reasonable strategy?

            But in the meantime, Georgia Power is licking its bottom-line lips. Forget the risks to our irreplaceable natural resources. Pour on the coal. That seems to be the plan.

            I have a suggestion.

If Georgia Power is intent on backtracking on its no-coal commitment, it should pledge to use a significant portion of these data-center-windfall profits for cleaning up the mess of its leaking toxic-coal-ash ponds. Drain the ponds. Store the toxic materials in dry units on company property. Don’t spread the toxic industrial waste around the state.

Georgia Power, live up to your slogan: “A citizen wherever we serve.”

To do less will change the meaning of GP, the abbreviation of the company’s name.

GP, greedy polluter.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

 

 

Charles Barr’s story is about defying the odds

 

            Have you ever wondered, “Why am I here?”

            My high school classmate Patty Barr Sutker did.

            And her father’s handwritten notes answered that question.

            From the day Charles Barr was born in 1915 in New York City, the odds were against him. Without the loving support of parents, he grew up in St. Agnes’ Home for Crippled Children in White Plains, New York. Nuns nurtured the future certified public accountant.

Chuck Barr was excellent with details. He had a distinguished business career, giving tax advice to a legion of clients in my hometown. But one battlefield mistake is why Patty is “here” and could share the details from her daddy’s World War II diary.

Here’s Chuck’s wartime account, further corroborated in a 2000 letter from a fellow crew member, Robert E. (Bob) Cook.

Chuck was 26 when he enlisted. Despite suffering from persistent air sickness, he was determined to do his patriotic duty in the skies over Western China. As a member of the 14^th Air Force—made famous by its leader, Gen. Claire Chennault—Chuck flew as a B-24 bombardier in the 308^th Bomb Group.

            The 374^th Squadron had two primary missions: bombing the Japanese in China and transporting mechanical parts and supplies for American troops. The supply flights were into India over the Himalayas, known as The Hump.

On Aug. 21, 1943, during a big battle over Hankow, Chuck’s original plane, dubbed “Rum Runner,” was shot down. He wasn’t the bombardier that day. Only five of the original 14 planes escaped unscathed.

Patty’s dad beat that set of odds.

Bob Cook’s letter gave more details.

In May of 1943, Chuck’s squadron had a rushed directive. The haste was so quick that they didn’t have time to receive and load American bombs. Russian explosives were substituted, but the 1,000-pound bombs were too big to fit in the plane. Chuck and the crew trimmed a few inches off the tails of the bombs. Another challenge was that Chuck didn’t have the correct data on the Russian bombs.

Bombardier Barr’s projectile missed its intended target, a fuel storage area in an abandoned airfield in southwestern China. Instead, the altered bomb landed in the middle of a Japanese artillery compound and wiped it out. The Chinese were thrilled and hosted a banquet for their American allies.

            Here’s what Bob Cook wrote:

            “Nevertheless, the major did not like the miss of the original target and replace[d] Charles with another bombardier from the Jinx crew. The fickle finger of fate spared your dad as his substitute went down with the Rum Runner crew on 21 August 43 over Hankow.”

            Every loss of American life brings grief and sorrow back home.

            Indeed, “War is hell.”

Today that hell continues to rage in Ukraine, Gaza, Iran and Israel. You have to wonder if and when there will be a World War III. But we can be assured neither Russia nor China will be loaning us bombs.

But back to Chuck Barr.

            After obtaining his accounting degree from Manhattan College in 1941, he enlisted in the military. Following the war, he joined the Air Force Reserves and retired as a lieutenant colonel.

Before going overseas, Chuck married Phyllis Mack in 1942. And rising from his orphanage roots and after the war, Chuck got what he always wanted—a family. The couple had two children, Charlie and Patty. The Barrs moved to Jesup in 1953.

            I’ve known Patty since junior high.

            As we were preparing for our Class of 1966’s 59^th reunion, over PB&J sandwiches with Patty and her husband, Larry, my friend told this story.

            Chuck Barr defied incredible odds.

            There’s a remarkable story in every life.

            So, I ask, “What’s yours?” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Alex Howard proves ‘It’s a small world after all’

 

“It’s a world of laughter,

A world of tears.

It’s a world of hopes,

And a world of fears.

There’s so much that we share,

That it’s time we’re aware.

It’s a small world after all.”

—Lyrics by Richard M. and Robert B. Sherman

            How many times have you heard that tune?

            Walt Disney’s playgrounds made it famous.

            I haven’t been to Disney World in 30 years, but lately I’ve been humming it.

            Here’s why:

            All I wanted from the big box was a buggy full of light fixtures. What I got was a surprise, after all.

            Choices, so many choices and questions.

            The first associate was courteous but shrugged her shoulders when I rattled off questions. She signaled for help.

            Up walked a young man in an orange apron. His name badge announced: Alex. As an icebreaker, he said that he had just transferred from Ole Miss to UGA. And then he laughed and said, “This is my third Home Depot, so that makes me an electrical expert.”

            Alex was just joking. The college guy—with a mop of brown hair and a 1,000-watt smile—knew his lighting-department stuff, though.

            One by one, Alex answered my questions. He even gave Pam and me a crash course of the adjustable glow of LED light bulbs.

            With my buggy stacked high, I circled back to his I’m-new-in-town statement. With our family’s college “shopping cart” loaded with 10 UGA diplomas, I asked why he chose our alma mater.

            “I’m from Brunswick. I wanted to be closer to home.”

            (Actually, he is from Kingsland. But he usually says Brunswick because most folks don’t know where his hometown is. Our company publishes Camden County’s newspaper, the Tribune & Georgian.)

            “I’m from Jesup.”

            “Maybe you knew my great-grandfather?”

            “Probably.”

            “Hubert Howard.”

            And that’s when mental lightbulbs started popping.

            Hubert Howard’s family and our family’s friendship go way, way back. It was Alex’s turn to be surprised.

The doors of First Baptist Church rarely opened when all of both families weren’t there. Hubert, wearing his spit-shined wingtips and argyle socks, was one of my boyhood Sunday school teachers.

            When I was about 14, Hubert heard that I was thinking about a legal career. Somewhere—in my mountain of books—I have the paperback, So You Want to be a Lawyer, that he gave me. I toured his office. He pointed out where my one-day office could be, between him and his partner, Joe Thomas.

            Law school never happened, but Hubert Howard became my attorney for the rest of his career. A modest estimate would be 100 transactions. Pam was always more comfortable if Hubert was my legal guardian angel.

    Alex laughed and nodded when I asked him whether he had ever heard his great-grandfather ask, “In an abundance of precaution, have I made myself perfectly clear?”

            Another customer needed the electrical pro’s help. So I said, “Well, welcome to UGA. If you want to hear more about your great-grandfather, you have a standing invitation to visit our farm.”

            Ten days later, Alex rolled through Historic Smithonia Farm’s gate.

            For three hours, it was story after story, including tidbits of Alex’s great-grandfather’s Ludowici heritage. I watched Hubert and Alta Lee’s sons—Hubert Jr., Lawton and Lee—grow up in church pews across the aisle. I smiled when Alex talked about his grandfather Lawton and his uncles.

            The Howard family can be proud of Alex. He’s smart, articulate, poised and all-around likeable. UGA is lucky to have him.

            Imagine, all that I wanted was a buggy full of light fixtures.

            But I got a bonus—a new friend.

            That’s why I drove away humming, “It’s a small world after all.” 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Time for new chapter in 570 Prince Ave.’s history

 

            

            Oooooooh, no.

            That was my initial reaction to the selling of the University of Georgia’s president’s house on Prince Avenue. From 4,100 miles away in Edinburg, Scotland, I couldn’t believe what I was reading in 2023. The asking price would be an estimated $5 million.

 I texted President Jere Morehead to express my concern and objection. He explained that it was the decision of the University System of Georgia Board of Regents and that he supported it.

            I’m a fan and a friend of Jere Morehead. Still, the news stung. I wanted to know more.

The 1857 mansion is a showpiece. It’s also a money pit. The grand old “lady” is really showing her age. She needs multimillion-dollar electrical, HVAC and other upgrades. The Regents felt the money would be better invested in educating students.

            As a former chairman of the Regents, I get that.

            So, why did I get upset in the first place?

            As a past president of UGA’s Alumni Association, I was echoing what thousands of other UGA alums also felt.

The first time I walked through the gate of that picket fence, I was smitten with the Grant-Hill-White-Bradshaw House. That was almost 60 years ago. President Fred C. Davison had invited student leaders for a backyard picnic. Every time since, I was flooded with memories as I crunched the pea-gravel path toward the towering steps to the veranda.

Since the 1960s, I’ve been fortunate to bond with UGA presidents Davison, Henry King Stanford, Charles Knapp, Michael Adams and Jere Morehead. My dad once joked that I’ve been involved in every campus organization except the Women’s Glee Club. And that meant a lot of visits to 570 Prince Ave.

The University System of Georgia Board of Regents 

is selling the 570 Prince Ave. mansion that has served 

as the home of UGA presidents since 1949. The board 

believes the money is better invested in 

educating students.

The most special occasions were brunches before the Bulldogs kicked off in the fall. Following the meal and fellowship, we’d board buses for a blue-light escort to Sanford Stadium. If you bleed red and black, what’s not to love about that?

I am grateful for every one of those experiences. And I am especially appreciative of Chuck Knapp, who was president from 1987 to 1997. Several times, he invited my boyhood friend Joe Phelps and his wife, Judy, to join the pregame festivities. After a particular victory, Chuck said, “Joe, you are a good-luck charm. When you are in the president’s box, the Dawgs are undefeated. You are always welcome.” Joe left his wheelchair in 2018, but he took that high praise to Heaven.

UGA presidents started living in the mansion the year after I was born, 1949. President Adams was the first to move to a private residence. President Morehead, coincidentally, purchased our former Five Points home from the person who had bought it from us. That means the stately house—with the magnificent front-yard gingko tree and white picket fence—is vacant.

Since that 2023 announcement, there’s been considerable moaning and speculation as to what will happen to 570 Prince Ave. Naturally, I am sad to see the tradition end. But it is time for a new chapter in the history of the Classic City’s architectural treasure.

So, what now?

Dr. Jeff Payne, a retired Gainesville eye surgeon, has a plan. With the Board of Regents’ approval, he will move forward with the purchase. Recently, we visited with Jeff and listened to his vision for the 5-acre property. He promises to preserve and protect the historical house, while creating a revenue stream that supports those goals.

The stately structure will be the centerpiece of a planned hotel and event venue. Low-rise construction will be in the expansive backyard, mostly unseen from Prince Avenue. His investment will be a windfall for the Clarke County tax digest.

I have known Jeff for almost 30 years. He is not a real estate novice. He has multiple holdings, including a hotel. One of his daughters, a UGA student, lives in a historic house in Athens. Jeff is not a faceless outsider.

Of course, I would have preferred more of the old days.

But today is today.

And Jeff has the knowledge, the passion and the wherewithal to follow through on what is very well the best possible outcome.

My “oh, no” is now an “oh, yes.”     

   

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com