Buffaloes lost, but Dawgs and our family won

 

            The Georgia Bulldogs are gearing up for 2026’s kickoff.

            But let’s roll back the clock 20 years to a game in Athens.

            With a name like Ralphie, you’d think the University of Colorado’s mascot would be a boy. But it’s not. The burly bison should have pink bows on its curled horns.

            On Sept. 23, 2006, when Ralphie romped through the gap in Sanford Stadium’s fabled hedges, UGA’s English bulldog mascot didn’t know what to think. Apparently, the Dawgs didn’t know, either. Georgia salvaged a 14-13 win in the last 46 seconds.

            But there’s another victory that didn’t flash on the endzone’s Jumbotron.

            It started with a three-minute conversation during the game, a chat that evolved into a historic win for our family.

            While Ralphie was chewing her cud and Uga was lounging in his air-conditioned doghouse, the two-legged Buffaloes were scaring the two-legged Dawgs. Trying to take my mind off the game, I walked away from the window in the president’s box. I struck up a conversation with then-president Dr. Michael Adams’ senior event planner.

            Heather Hammond was and still is an auburn-haired beauty from Fitzgerald. She has a songbird voice and a sunny smile. We had known each other for several years through her work with the university.

            “Heather,” I said, “if there is no one special in your life, I know someone whom you might like to meet.”

            Wrinkling her nose, she asked, “Who?”

            “Well, he’s a young businessman and outdoorsman in South Georgia,” I said. “He’s in his 30s, and he has never been married. And he’s just about given up on finding the right young lady to take to dinner or go to the movies.”

            Animated expression is one signature of Heather’s personality. Arching her eyebrows, she said, “Oh, my, that sounds like my luck.”

            I countered, “But there are so many eligible bachelors in a university town.”

            “Yes, but they’re college boys,” she said. “I’m way past that. Who is he?”

            “He’s our older son, Alan,” I answered. “Like you, he’s a graduate of the University of Georgia. He is publisher of the Tribune & Georgian in St. Marys.”

            Opening her purse, Heather pulled out a business card. “My email address is right here if Alan would like to contact me,” she said. We chit-chatted for a few more minutes before peeking out the window to see what was going on between Ralphie’s cleated Buffaloes and our Dawgs.

            I mailed Heather’s card to Alan. Eventually, he sent an email of introduction to her. They exchanged emails for a couple of months, before Alan drove north for six hours.

            By summer, Alan and Heather were standing barefoot on the beach of a barrier island. On Aug. 11, 2007, they exchanged vows before a tiny congregation of family and friends.

Another story is how out-of-nowhere howling winds, salty waterspouts and a pop-up monsoon tried to wreck the wedding. Instead, it was just a testament to how the couple would endure in their 20 years of togetherness.

            After defying Mother Nature’s wrecking ball, our family was huddled again the next year. Three days before Thanksgiving, we were in the Brunswick hospital to welcome the birth of William Alan Jr. Two years later in November, William was joined by his brother, Samuel Fenn NeSmith. Today, William is a senior at Tallulah Falls School, and Fenn is a sophomore. Both are scholar athletes, with their dreams focused on UGA, of course.

            Imagine if Ralphie hadn’t trotted between that gap in Sanford Stadium’s iconic hedges. And try to imagine if Pam and I hadn’t been there to witness it?

            I can’t.

            Happy 19^th anniversary, Alan and Heather.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A few secrets to long-lasting relationships

 

            The hardest ship to keep afloat is a partnership.

            Surely, my parents quarreled during their 50-plus years of marriage. But when they argued is the $64,000 Question. Big Dink and Margie didn’t involve others, especially my sisters and me, in their differences.

            Couples do face occasional rough seas in their partnerships. I remember reading about an interview with Ruth, the wife of evangelist Billy Graham. She was asked, “How is it being married to one of the most famous men in the world?”

            “Oh, it’s wonderful,” Mrs. Graham said.

            “But don’t you ever have disagreements?” the reporter quizzed.

            “Sure,” she said, “all couples disagree from time to time.”

            “Well, Mrs. Graham,” he asked, “did you ever consider divorce?”

            “Oh, heavens, no,” she fired back, “but murder, yes!”

 

            Giuseppe’s secret

            And then there’s the story about Giuseppe’s secret to a long marriage.

            Don Perno, who’s family’s roots are in Italy, always had a “good Italian joke” for me. This one is for my former formal-wear haberdasher.

            During the weekly seminar for husbands at St. Peter’s Catholic Church, the priest asked Giuseppe to report on his secret to staying married to the same woman for 50 years.

            Giuseppe replied, “Well, I’ve tried to treat her nice and spend money on her. But best of all, I took her to Italy for our 25th anniversary.”

“Giuseppe, you are an amazing inspiration,” the priest responded, “Please tell all the husbands what you are planning for her to celebrate your 50th anniversary.”

            With a big grin, Giuseppe said, “I going back to pick her up.”

           

Gladys’ secret

And for a little religious balance, I’ll share one from my church, the Baptists.

            The preacher’s sermon was on forgiving your enemies. He forgot Billy Sunday’s advice: “Very few souls are won after 20 minutes.”

            After 30 minutes of bearing down on forgiveness, the preacher asked people in the congregation to raise their hand if they had an enemy whom they wanted to forgive.

            Three hundred hands shot skyward. The preacher noted the raised hands. All except one—Mrs. Gladys on the back row—had raised a hand.

            The minister offered a few scriptures. He asked the question with a different twist, “How many of you have an enemy who you hope will forgive you?” Everyone waved a hand, except Mrs. Gladys.

            Surprised, he said, “OK, lower your hands.”

            “Mrs. Gladys,” he said, “I have asked everyone to raise his or her hand if they had anyone they wanted to forgive or vice versa. Both times you didn’t raise your hand.”

            Mrs. Gladys nodded.

            “Well then, Mrs. Gladys,” he said, “if you’ve lived 93 years and you don’t have any enemies you want to forgive or any enemies from whom you seek forgiveness, I believe you have a better sermon to share than the one I just preached. Would you mind coming to the pulpit and sharing your story?”

            Mrs. Gladys reached for her walker.

            Everyone waited as the matriarch of the congregation crept toward the rostrum. With help, she ascended the platform.

            “Now, Mrs. Gladys,” the preacher said, “please tell us how you have managed this relationships miracle.”

            With a quick glance to Heaven, she smiled and replied, “I have outlived all the old biddies.”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

A reading trip around the world in 38 pages

 

            Words.

            My love affair with printed words goes back to my days of sitting in Mother’s lap and listening to her read. The Little Engine That Could was my favorite book.

            And then there was grammar school’s Weekly Reader. I couldn’t wait until the next edition. Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn were probably the first books that I read by myself.

            These days, I always have a stack of books within reach. I like magazines, too. Perhaps my favorite is THE WEEK. There are several things that I enjoy about it. Number one is that it’s the kind of publication that you can read in snippets, as you have time.

            Next, I like the variety of topics. There’s news, photographs, cartoons and opinion pieces. Some of the opinions I like. Others I don’t.­

            Another big plus of THE WEEK is that if you read or just scan the topics, you’ve made a lap around the globe. The content is pulled from dozens of publications. The pieces are short, and I like that, too.

            Here’s a glance at a typical table of contents:

            News

            Main story

            Controversy of the Week

            U.S. at a Glance

            World at a Glance

            Best U.S. Columns

            Best European Columns

            Best International Columns

            Technology

            Health & Science

            I’ve skipped a few topics, but I always pore over the editorial-cartoon section. As soon as I discovered Thomas Nast (1840-1902) and his political cartoons in journalism class, I was hooked. Politicians have always been easy targets for cartoonists.

            The “People” page draws me in, too. The Rolling Stones were a part of my youth’s soundtrack. I’ve just read how frontman Mick Jagger, 82, fights his ego and stays young, bouncing all over the stage.

            Arts

            Books

            Author of the Week

            Art & Music

            Film & Architecture

            Television

            I slow down in this section. Books, movies and music hold my interest. I’m always in the hunt for a good read or movie to add to the must-see list.

            Leisure

            Food & Drink

            Consumer

            Property

            What I eat and drink is plain vanilla compared to what’s featured here. I don’t spend much time on those subjects. However, I never miss the two pages of real estate listings. I’m not in the market, but I am curious about what is selling and for how much from coast to coast.

The categories vary. The feature that I read most recently was about “Homes built in the 1960s.” A townhouse in Chicago is listed for $5,995,000, and the “Steal of the Week” is a California cottage selling for $519,000.

Ummm, no thanks on either.

            Business

            News at a Glance

            Making Money

            Best Columns

            From “The bottom line” column, in the June 19, 2026, edition, I learned that there are 16 U.S. colleges and universities that cost more than $100,000 per year.

            Right here at home, we have outstanding choices for far less. UGA and Georgia Tech are perennially among the nation’s best. And aren’t we glad Gov. Zell Miller hatched HOPE scholarships?

            Other

            Obituaries

            The Last Word

            Puzzle page

            Reading cartoonist Pat Oliphant’s obituary (1935-2026), I learned about his career of “flaying the powerful.” For examples, he pictured Richard Nixon as a gangster and Bill Clinton as a carnival huckster.

            The longest piece is near the end. I just read “How the Amish use AI.” Who would have imagined? But Erik German’s article explained how “buggies and chatbots can exist side by side.”

            If crossword puzzles are your thing, the back page is for you.

            And there you have it, THE WEEK.

            A smorgasbord read around the world in 38 pages.  

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

  One touch.

That’s all it takes.

And I’m back in the middle of Georgia’s hosting the Centennial Olympics.

I keep the metal tube—with its intricate engravings and wooden handle—on an oak bookcase in my office. I must walk past it to get to the file room and copier. I don’t have to touch the Olympic torch that I carried in 1996. But I do to make sure that I never forget that incredible summer, filled with I-can’t-believe-this-is-happening experiences.

I can thank two friends.

Billy Payne

Billy and I connected at UGA. He was a standout defensive end for the Bulldogs and a student body president. Bringing the Olympics to Atlanta was his dream. The Atlanta lawyer gave up his day job to rally Georgians into becoming believers, too. 

        How can we ever forget International Olympic president Juan Antonio Samaranch’s “It’s Atlanta!” announcement? And as 1996 approached, Billy called to invite Pam and me to be presidential ambassadors on his team.

        Pat Allen

        Pat and I connected through Leadership Georgia in the 1980s. And less than a decade later, the banker—who was also chairman of the Athens chamber of commerce—called. Pat asked, “How would you like to chair a newly formed group called Athens 96?”

        That put me in the middle of helping coordinate four competitions (the most outside Atlanta) that were coming to Athens and the University of Georgia. What followed was four years of intense planning.

        Thirty years later, here are a few other Olympic memories:

        Vince Dooley

        To create a soccer venue, UGA had to remove its iconic hedges. As machines were ripping out the famous greenery, Coach Dooley called and asked, “Hey, how would you like some of Sanford Stadium’s hedge?”

        I hustled over and retrieved two clumps—one for me and one for my friend Joe Phelps. Years later, I reported, “Coach, thought you’d like to know that my hedge is doing fine.” And Vince quipped, “That’s good, Dink, but you really can’t kill privet hedge.” 

        Muhammad Ali

       With accepting Billy’s invitation to serve as ambassadors came a pair of royal blue blazers with special insignia. During the Games, international guests flowed in and out of our home. True to our South Georgia roots, we made sure every menu included samplings of grits. 

        Wearing those blue blazers, we traveled back and forth to Atlanta. Perhaps Billy’s best-kept secret was who would light the cauldron’s flame to signal the opening of the Centennial Olympics. We were among the masses who tested the limits of our vocal cords when Muhammad Ali appeared carrying a torch. 

        Mystery bomber

       A dark chapter of the 1996 story was the murderous bombing in the Centennial Olympic Park. Seven years later, Eric Rudolph was arrested in Andrews, North Carolina.

       Another bombing happened in our front yard. Perhaps it was a directed threat or a random act of vandalism. A pipe bomb obliterated our mailbox. I held a federal agent’s ankles as he hung out our son Eric’s upstairs window to dig out the 2-inch cap of the bomb from the side of the house. Fortunately, we were away at the time of the explosion. Alarmed, Billy called to check on us. The bombing still remains a mystery and a memory.

       Torch Run

       There was another call from Billy. He asked, “How would you like to carry the torch?” Even in his hectic schedule, he noticed that I hadn’t applied for the privilege. 

      What a friend.

      Thanks, Billy.

      Thanks, Pat.

      And there sits that torch.

     My Olympic memories will forever flicker.

Rainy-day traveling on hodgepodge highway

        Here I sit.

For the last two hours, my brain has been idling in neutral. There’s something about rain on a tin roof. Inducing laziness, I guess.

And then, I put on my thinking cap, shifting my gray matter into gear.

I can’t explain why my brain chose to ramble along this hodgepodge highway. But here are some stops along the way: 

Taylor Swift

The singing billionaire was named after a baldheaded music icon of my generation, James Taylor. I know Taylor Swift just married Travis Kelce of the Kansas City Chiefs. How could anyone not know that? I know that Taylor’s gazillion fans are called “Swifties.” But how can I not name one—no, not one—of her songs? 

        Duh.

Charlie Kirk

The conservative political activist and entrepreneur wasn’t as famous as Taylor Swift, but Charlie Kirk was on a rocket ride to stardom. Wherever he was, throngs of admirers gathered. And then one evil bullet—on a Utah college campus—silenced the co-founder of Turning Point USA. What a tragedy. And until his death, I had never heard of Charlie Kirk. How is that possible?

        Duh.

Rick Jackson

Friends tease me about my old-school Rolodex and the list of contacts on my cell phone. Both are packed with names, physical addresses, email addresses and phone numbers. Since my 1960s college days, I’ve been diligent about keeping up with how to get in touch with people. Regular calls and texts come asking, “Do you have so-and-so’s number?” Well, I guess I’m slipping.  

Until Rick Jackson threw his name and millions of dollars into the governor’s race, the health care businessman was a 100-percent unknown to me. And how was that possible? I’m scheduled to meet him soon. 

        But in the meantime, duh.

Lucy Hargrett Draper

My friends in the gray-hair set half-joke about reading the obituaries. One buddy says that his first exercise of the day is to read the obituaries. “If I don’t see my name,” he quips, “I celebrate.” I am a faithful reader of the obituaries.  The July 12 list of obituaries in The Atlanta Journal-Constitution is a good example. 

        Just before I clicked to turn the digital page, a familiar name—Lucy Hargrett Draper—caught my eye. Our paths rarely crossed, but I knew Lucy’s father well. Screven’s Dr. McKee Hargrett (Doc said his name “rhymes with Margrett”) ran for governor when Jimmy Carter surged past Carl Sanders to win in 1970. If Lucy’s dad or any of the other candidates had won, Jimmy and Rosalynn would never have lived in the White House. 

         And that’s not a “duh.”

         Summer sandwich

        All this wandering through a mishmash of topics has stirred my appetite. Summertime is a good time to be hungry. And I am especially happy that there’s an honor-pay produce stand between our farm and town.

        Squash, peas, beans, corn, okra, watermelons, cantaloupe, leafy vegetables, tomatoes and more are there for the picking. Out of the coolers, of course. And then there are friends who stop by with a “mess” of this or that from their gardens. In the immortal words of Tennessee Ernie Ford, “Bless their pea-picking hearts.”

        Right now, my mind is lasered on those big red tomatoes on the kitchen counter. I do pray there’s a loaf of white bread, some Duke’s mayonnaise, salt and pepper within easy reach. 

       The bacon and lettuce can wait.

       Duh, I’m out of here.

Yeah, it’s been hotter, much hotter

        Whew!

As I was working on the farm—with sweat dripping off my nose—I wondered, “Has it ever been this hot?”

And then I remembered.  

Summer of 1957.

Baker County, Georgia.

Pilgrims Home Free Will Baptist Church.

But first, how did my great-grandparents’ church get that name?

My mother’s grandparents, Ezra and Susie McNeal, along with their children, rattled into Southwest Georgia in a mule-drawn wagon around 1910. They came east from Alabama because they had heard schools were better on this side of the Chattahoochee. 

But as they rolled through the countryside, children ran alongside the clattering spectacle, shouting, “Are y’all gypsies?” Ten-year-old Essie McNeal, my grandmother, teared up and asked, “Mamma, are we gypsies?” Ma McNeal, in a soothing voice, said, “No, honey. We aren’t gypsies. We are pilgrims headed to ‘Jawja.’” 

As soon as they got settled, the McNeals helped organize the Pilgrims Home Free Will Baptist Church. And that’s where I was sitting 45 years later, wedged between my grandmother (Nanny) and her baby brother, my Great-Uncle Bud, in what seemed like a puddle of perspiration.

The only heat relief was cardboard stapled on a stick with a picture of The Last Supper on one side and Bramblett Funeral Home’s ad on the other. I was flapping the gnat knocker so hard that Uncle Bud whispered, “Slow down, bubba, you are going to sling Jesus and His disciples off that fan.”

“But Uncle Bud, I am dying. My throat is parched.”

He offered me a piece of Juicy Fruit gum. I shook my head and mouthed, “Water. I need water.”

That’s when Uncle Bud pointed at the preacher’s pitcher of water on the side shelf of the pulpit. With a nudge, he said, “Go get you a drink.” 

The congregation wasn’t even singing “Just as I Am,” but I hit the aisle.

When I looked back at Uncle Bud, he nodded, and I climbed up on the rostrum. When I tugged on Brother Cattret’s coattail, the preacher paused his fire-and-brimstone sermon in mid-sentence.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, sir, I sure would like some of your water.”

He poured me a glass.

And I said, “thank you.”

As I was gulping down the water, I got a glimpse of Nanny. She didn’t know what a laser beam was, but her white-hot stare made me sweat even more.

The ride home in the cab of her baby-blue Ford F-100 pickup was graveyard-quiet. When we turned off Hwy. 91, the truck coasted to the front-yard gate. As I grabbed for the door handle to escape, Nanny caught my arm.

“Don’t come in until you go out back and cut a switch from the peach tree.”

“Yes, ’um.”

I might add that Nanny could curl the bark on a chinaberry tree with her sharp tongue. Looking back, I guess the Lord gave her some sway, considering the burdens of a dead-too-soon husband and a cotton-bale-of-farm debt on her weary back.

Remember, this was 1957. 

Nanny was a God-fearing, when-the-doors-open regular at Pilgrims Home. As loving as she could be, she was also a staunch believer in “spare the rod and spoil the child.”

When I handed her the switch, Nanny hoisted the flimsy peach branch toward Heaven and grabbed a handful of the back of my J.C. Penney’s T-shirt. Lifting me up, she thundered, “You can give your heart to Jesus, but your ‘a double s’ is mine!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

If I could have gotten my hands on another glass of Brother Cattret’s ice water, I wouldn’t have drunk it.  

I would have tried to sit in it.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Happy 250th birthday, America!

 

            Sometimes we remember.

Other times, we need to be reminded.

               That’s why a rusted MI917 Brodie helmet is perched on the top of the piano by our back door. You can’t come in or out without seeing George Washington Shirah Jr.’s World War I helmet.

               With a name like that, you know his 19^th-century parents were patriots. And so was their teenage son, who went to Europe to defend America’s freedoms. My wife’s granddaddy, George, brought back his “doughboy” headgear. It’s a treasured family heirloom. The Mitchell County farmer also brought back a pair of gas-poisoned lungs.

               Our children—Alan, Emily and Eric—never met their great-great-grandfather, who died at age 69 from emphysema, courtesy of Germany’s warfare fumes. But they know of his courage to face death to protect what’s precious to us, as we celebrate America’s 250^th birthday.

               In addition to Granddaddy George’s helmet, we have a file of family heroes from our nation’s “Greatest Generation.” Here are six on that fighting-patriots roster:

               Dink NeSmith Sr.

               Fresh out of high school, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and was shipped to the South Pacific. From the Philippines, as a medical corpsman, he brought home stories that have been handed down through the generations. Big Dink never talked about the death and gore. I always believed his sense of humor helped him counter the nightmares of the jungle atrocities. He hitchhiked home from the war to marry Margie Vines.

               Lamar Shirah

               When Japan bombed Pearl Harbor on Dec. 7, 1941, Lamar dropped the plow lines to his mules and hustled to the enlistment office. As a tall and strong farm boy, he was perfect to be a military policeman (MP). By coincidence, he served in the Philippines, too. As an MP, he was the bodyguard and driver for a general. His unit was preparing to invade Japan when the bombs were dropped. Instead, he got to come home and trade his mules for a tractor.

Joe Vines

We called him Bubba, the oldest of Mother’s siblings. He survived a German torpedo attack when his Navy ship was sunk in the North Sea. He lived to become an educator and coach. There are stories of him buying shoes so that sharecroppers’ children could play basketball. One of them endowed two scholarships at Georgia Southern University in his honor. But Uncle Bubba never knew. He and his wife died in a 1963 Eastman motel-room fire. He and his brother, Billy, instilled my passion for the outdoors.

               James NeSmith

               Uncle James was my dad’s older brother. When the war broke out, he tried to enlist but was turned away—too skinny. Family legend is that he purchased a stalk of bananas and ate them all. When he returned to the recruiter’s office, he barely tipped the scales in his favor. Uncle James served his country for 20 years in the Navy and earned the highest noncommissioned rank of chief. He would have been proud to see his grandson, James Jaehnig, serve America in the Navy for 20 years, too.

               Lillie N. Corwin

               Aunt Lillie was the oldest of W.C. and Anna NeSmith’s five children. She joined the Army and became a sergeant. After the war, she married a few times but wound up alone. I think that’s why she “adopted” me as her only child. One of my favorite memories is our trip to Washington, D.C.; New York City; Boston; and Vermont in 1960. In her declining years, Pam and I became the primary see-about-Aunt Lillie team. She never lost her wartime sergeant’s bark. At her funeral, I played a recording of Frank Sinatra’s “I Did It My Way.”

               Johnny NeSmith

               Uncle Johnny was my dad’s younger brother. Their mother died when he was barely school-age. The oldest, Aunt Sue, became his de facto mother. He was a patriot, as well. The war against Germany and Japan was winding down, but he enlisted, too. First the Army and then the Navy. He was the first person whom I knew with a tattoo. Uncle Johnny had an entrepreneurial itch. He employed me to sell parched peanuts at the stockyard. Our special relationship lasted until he died too young at 63.

               As a veteran, I am proud to come from a lineage of veterans. Patriotism runs deep in our family, as noted by George Washington Shirah Jr.’s rusty helmet. We are grateful, as our nation celebrates its 250^th birthday. It has taken courage and sacrifice to give us this opportunity.

I pray your family or ours will never forget why we are free to say and sing, “Happy birthday, America!”

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Black-and-white photo triggers link to old stories

 

            How do you step back 40 years in time?

            For me, it was “stumbling.”

I stumbled across an old black-and-white photograph—circa 1986—that led to an old poster. And that time-yellowed poster is tied to another story that goes back another 30 years.

            First story first.

            When Joe Frank Harris was Georgia’s 78^th governor, he made a push to crack down on drunk driving. The mild-mannered statesman from Cartersville wanted the Peach State’s roads safer. Our Jesup newspaper picked up on the idea, and The Press-Sentinel acquired two junk cars.

            One junker was parked on Wayne County High School’s campus and the other stationed on the lawn at the Chamber of Commerce. The newspaper supplied sledgehammers and invited anyone to take a swing and make a bash to emphasize the campaign.

Gov. Harris came to town and took his turn. The then-50ish governor delivered a crushing blow to a junk car to tout his safety campaign and ours. We gave him a stack of our promotional bumper stickers to help spread the word.

(Please allow a slight detour to these stories. As a state representative, Joe Frank Harris was the go-to guy to answer questions about Georgia’s budget. So, when he ran for governor, his platform was simple. Three words—"No New Taxes”—moved him into the mansion on West Paces Ferry Road. Sound familiar?)

Now, back to the original stories.

As a part of the state’s push for safer roads, billboards were plastered everywhere. A menacing-looking state patrolman, wearing dark sunglasses, stared down from the billboards. His message was: “I HAVE A VERY LOW TOLERANCE FOR DRUNK DRIVING.”

I didn’t know the trooper until 2008.

(No, I didn’t meet him while his blue lights were flashing.)

But the man behind the dark sunglasses is the other story.

Eighteen years ago, I tried to solve a pair of family mysteries that had bumfuzzled me for a half-century. It started with NeSmith Funeral Home’s phone ringing. On the line was Verla Corry (Mrs. Francis) in Ludowici.

In labor and frantic, she pleaded, “Please come quickly!” Big Dink jumped into his 1956 Ford blue-and-white ambulance, turned on the whirling red light and raced across the Altamaha River. But on the way back to the hospital, Mrs. Corry cried out, “I can’t wait!”

My dad pulled over to the side of U.S. 301 and did what he had to do—deliver David Corry on Sept. 27, 1958. When Big Dink looked up, a state trooper was staring through the window. The lawman then slid behind the ambulance’s steering wheel and took off for Ritch-Leaphart Hospital.

Once they arrived, the big man, in the Smokey Bear hat, disappeared.

My dad died in 1998, never knowing who the trooper was.

In 2008 I wrote a column about the mystery. And before noon on the day the paper hit the streets, John Hammock called. “I am that fella.”

Shortly thereafter, John came to my office with a mini version of the billboard. We chatted. He autographed the poster. I thanked him. Now, I imagine Big Dink and John are in Heaven, laughing about the episode.

And all this started with my stumbling across an old black-and-white photograph.  

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Larry proved giants don’t have to be 10 feet tall

(Note: The following is an excerpt from Larry Walker’s eulogy, given June 14, 2026, at the Perry Methodist Church.)

“Friends are the siblings that God never gave us.” 

     –Mencius, Chinese philosopher 

                      …

       God didn’t give me a brother, but for Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. I say, “Thank you, Lord.” Larry became my honorary “big brother.”

       Thank you, Janice, Lawrence, Wendy, Russell and John Gray for this opportunity to reflect on Larry’s 84 years.

       If you tried to strip Larry’s love of and devotion to Perry from his soul, it would have sounded like ripping apart a piece of Velcro as long and wide as the Gnat Line. 

       Larry’s love affair with Houston County didn’t start when he first opened his eyes on March 9, 1942. But when Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. started toddling around his daddy’s farm-supply store, he began taking notice of his hometown. And by the time he quit squirming in Perry Methodist Church’s pews, Larry was in love with where he was born.

       How do you summarize Larry’s incredible life in a few minutes?

       Impossible.

       But when I think of my friend, I think of these indelible qualities:

       Family man

       Larry’s family made him smile. He loved to talk about them all, starting with his high-school sweetheart Janice Knighton, who became the mother of their four children. I dubbed Larry and Janice the King and Queen of the Gnat Line. He beamed when his nine grandchildren called him “Grandbuddy.” 

       Magnetic personality

       People were drawn to Larry. As a lawyer, people of all walks of life and colors were drawn to seek his advice—legal and otherwise. He listened. He cared. 

       And there was a fun-loving flipside to Larry’s magnetic personality. He was forever pulling friends together to swap stories. He nicknamed one group the Liar’s Club. In a word, Larry was fun.

       Statesman

       When Sam Nunn went to Washington as a United States senator, voters sent Larry to Atlanta to fill Sam’s seat in the General Assembly. Over 32 years, Larry was elected 16 times. 

       I believe Sam Nunn is the best United States president that America never had. And I say Larry, the statesman, could have been one of the best governors that Georgia ever had. 

Hometown booster

       You couldn’t be around Larry long without him bringing up his hometown. Every time I visited, he took me on a tour to see something new. He was excited to see the Larry Walker Arena being built at the Georgia National Fair. And I’d tease him by asking, “Now, is this Larry Walker Parkway named for Sen. Larry Walker III or his daddy?”

Southern drawl

       If you knew Larry and you were blindfolded, you could pick his slow, syrupy voice out of 1,000 others. I’ve saved my last voicemail from Larry. I want to hear his distinctive Southern drawl all the way to Heaven, where I will see him again. 

Avid reader/writer 

       Larry loved words. He and I were a two-man book club. The shelves of our personal libraries are filled with “you-need-to-read-this” books. His popular newspaper columns became books, Life on the Gnat Line and Tales from Georgia’s Gnat Line. Our favorite bookstore was Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi.

       Outdoorsman

       I can’t count the times Larry asked, “When are we going fishing?” or “Don’t you want to go quail hunting?” Even with his health declining, he kept his competitiveness. Our last time in a boat, Larry whooped to our buddies, “Hey, look at this one!” 

       Music man 

       For Larry, a close second to books was music. Right behind music was barbecue. We shared the same appetite for all three. As a state representative, Larry helped Ray Charles’ version of “Georgia on My Mind” become our state’s official song. And how can I ever forget our road trip to hear Jerry Lee Lewis in Tunica, Mississippi?

       Visionary 

       Larry Walker had the vision to see around the corner and into the future. A good example is the sprawling complex along I-75 that is known at the Georgia National Fair. As a young father, he watched children getting their livestock ready to show at the state fair in Macon. He told me, “All they had were two spigots and a mud puddle.” That was the spark that set him on fire to create something better. That something better draws a million people a year to Perry.

       Larry and I had a mutual friend, Jim Minter. When Jim was editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, he wrote a column labeling the decision to put the state fair in Perry a “boondoggle.” Later, Jim changed his mind. It became a good-natured joke among the three of us. And sometimes when I drove by on I-75, I’d call Larry and say, “Col. Walker, looks like there are only 10,000 cars at the ‘boondoggle’ today.”

Larry’s life was a testimony of how one visionary person can make a huge difference. Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. proved you don’t have to be 10 feet tall to be a giant.

There’s an Irish proverb: “A best friend is like a four-leaf clover, hard to find and lucky to have.” I am grateful that Gov. Sonny Perdue appointed both of us to the University System of Georgia’s Board of Regents. That’s where I was lucky to find Larry, my best friend.

Henry Ford said that your best friend brought out the best in you. That’s what Lawrence Cohen Walker Jr. did for me and countless others.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Here’s a guarantee for Rick Bragg’s next book

       Words.

Some folks are good saying them. Others are good when writing them.

My friend Rick Bragg is not just good in both categories. The Pulitzer Prize-winning author and columnist is spectacular. A self-effacing, self-described product of a poor-white-trash upbringing in rural Alabama, Rick has written a library shelf of books. I’ve read them all, plus everything else that I could find with his byline.

I am certain that Rick has boosted the magazine readership—particularly of men folks—in Southern Living and Garden & Gun. And on the speaking circuit, his audiences roar with approval.

I know.

Saturday night, I once again witnessed howling laughter and thunderous applause that Rick erupts when he speaks.

Rick was the keynote speaker of the annual Southern LitFest in Newnan. The Wadsworth Auditorium was filled with his fans, and I had the honor of introducing him. I wish you had been there. 

To hear not me but Rick.

I told the crowd, “Country artist Kenny Chesney had a chart-topping hit, ‘You Had Me from Hello.’ Rick Bragg had me in his fan club after just 20 pages into his first book, All Over But The Shoutin’. The autobiographical tribute to his saintly mom is my kind of reading. It’s right up there with a hot buttered cathead biscuit, slathered with mayhaw jelly. Even better.”

From memory, I pulled Rick’s line about the man who abandoned his wife and three sons. He wrote, “Most men have backbones. My daddy had starch. His khakis were so stiff, you could slice bologna with them.” Rick told the crowd, “My daddy was sorry, a drunk.” But he worships his almost-90-year-old mother, Margaret Marie Bundrum Bragg. 

Rick has an 11th book in the works, about an old Bronco that he and brothers Sam and Mark drove. Sitting backstage before Saturday night’s event, Rick told me the backstory. A year from now, Bronco Boys will join his list of best-sellers. 

To best describe the featured speaker, I shared paragraphs from a 2002 GQ magazine article, headlined “For a Vegetable, I’ll Have White Gravy.” Rick wrote:

“I always wanted some washboard abs. But I always seemed to want some baby back ribs.

“Washboard abs are hard to get. Baby back ribs are $6.99.

“Washboard abs come with size 32 jeans, good overall cardiovascular health and, if you believe the infomercials, beautiful women. Baby back ribs come with coleslaw and a Wet-Nap. (I ate a Wet-Nap, in Sylacauga, Alabama, but that is another story.)

“Washboard abs come with—screw it. I am a man, what I like to believe is a real man, a Southern man.

“If God meant for me to have washboard abs, he would have left me in the hay fields of Calhoun County, slinging 50-pound bales up on the flatbed. He would have left me standing in the middle of rocks, making—as the song goes—little ’uns outta big ’uns in the red-hot sun.”

That’s classic Rick. 

        As dirt-road Southerners say, “He puts it down where the goats can get at it.”

        I told the Saturday-night crowd—as Rick stood in the curtain wings—that my wife and I have been married for 57 years. We must have played hooky from middle-school recess and eloped. Pam and I don’t fuss, but we do tangle over who gets to first read Rick’s back-page column in Southern Living.

I found a way to win, every time. I race to beat her to the mailbox to savor my friend’s column on the walk back to the house.

         I predict folks will race to get their hands on Rick’s upcoming Bronco Boys. 

        Here’s my promise:

        If you don’t like it, I will eat a Wet-Nap, too.

        Yeah, Rick’s that good.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com