Twenty-five years later, Wayne County still is and will be home

For several years, our corporate office was in downtown Athens, 

across the street and diagonal to City Hall where another 

Jesup native, Alan Reddish, is Athens-Clarke County’s manager. 

The historic Civil War double-barrel cannon, on the corner of 

College Ave. and Hancock Ave. pointed at my desk.  I’d look out my office window 

and think: “If that thing ever fires, again, I’ll be blown 

all the way back to South Georgia.” 

     Sitting in Jerry Mosley’s barber chair, you get more than a haircut.  The squat, concrete-block building, in the alley behind Cherry Street, is the 50-yard line of chatter and miscellaneous information.  But when I told my high school classmate that I was moving from Jesup, he gasped, dropping his hands to his side.  Before he lifted the comb and scissors again, he said, “Man, I thought Manuel Noriega (the infamous Panamanian dictator) would have moved here before you ever left.”

     That was 25 years ago.

     Life-changing decisions are rarely simple, and uprooting my family wasn’t easy.  So, why did we move to Athens?  As much as I loved Wayne County, I hated the idea of missing any of our children’s growing-up years.  Our company had expanded over several states.  Staying in Jesup would have meant leaving on Monday—most weeks—and returning on Friday.  I couldn’t imagine missing Little League games, dance recitals and suppertime banter around the kitchen table.

     You get one chance with your children—before they leave home—and I didn’t want to miss that chance.  That meant our family needed to move to the geographic center of our newspapers, so I could make mostly day trips and be home in the late afternoons.  Around our oval oak kitchen table—on the corner of Ninth and Newcastle—suppertime became the forum for us to talk about where we’d go. 

     My first suggestion was Rabun County.  I painted a picture of living on a mountain lake, something entirely different from our customary piney flat woods.  My excitement was not universal, so I pitched living on Lake Lanier, with the mountains on the horizon.  Again, I was trying to create an adventure, giving them a totally different environment.  Alan’s, Emily’s and Eric’s faces cast their votes of rejection without ever opening their mouths.

     That’s when I asked, “Well, where would you like to live?”

     I’m not sure which one said it first, but it was clear that Athens was their choice.  Since their toddler days, they’d been packed into Oldsmobile station wagons and ferried up and down Highway 15 from Jesup to Athens—430 miles round-trip. They knew all the pit stops, including Holcomb’s Barbecue in White Plains.  It wasn’t a Bulldog football Saturday unless they shuffled their feet in sawdust on Holcomb’s floor while chomping on a bun filled with hickory-smoked pork.

     I think it was 14-year-old Emily who painted the picture for me.  With wide, expressive blue eyes, she said, “Dad, you know we love Jesup.  This is home, the only place we’ve ever known.  But we know we need to move, if we are going to be the kind of family we want to be.  Going to Athens will be like moving across town.  We know so many people there.  It’ll be the best of both worlds.  We’ll have all our old friends here, and we’ll have all our friends there.”

“Besides, Dad,” Alan said, “if we are going to move, now is the time.  Emily’s going into high school next year, and Eric will be in middle school.”  He insisted that he could spend his senior year in North Georgia.  Pam and I questioned him, but the soon-to-be-17-year-old stood firm.  He was ready to do what was best for all five of us.  A few years after the move, my dad said, “We see more of you now than when you lived across the street from us.”

     Looking back to 1990, our children were right.  Athens is the perfect location for our company’s headquarters. Emily was spot-on in her predictions. Our Athens friends—old and new—have made us feel welcome—very welcome.   And Jesup will always be home.  A D-8 Caterpillar couldn’t bulldoze our souls out of South Georgia or pull us away from our hometown friends.  In fact, it’s about time to roll down Highway 15 and turn left in Baxley on Highway 341, so I can climb into Jerry’s chair and hear what’s happening.

We must be reflective and grateful, for it could be worse

     Like smoke blown through a keyhole, a cloud of gloom can drift in and settle its funk onto your

shoulders.  And all of a sudden, your smile droops.  That’s what happened to me, as I read the news from random parts of the globe.  I got progressively dejected, wondering where the world is headed.

     Go with me:

     Longmont, Colo.

     Police allege a woman used a Craigslist ad to lure a pregnant woman to her home to buy baby clothes.  When the expectant mother showed up, the accused woman—a former nurse’s aide—knifed the victim and stole her 7-month-old fetus.

     What?

     New York City

     A hot plate sparked a Sabbath fire in Brooklyn.  The 45-year-old mother of eight “valiantly tried” to save her children, but seven died.  The mother and a 15-year-old daughter eventually escaped by jumping out a second-story window.  Hospitalized for their serious burns, the mother and her teenager are too injured to know the horrific news.

     Why?

     Mount Everest

     The 29,029-foot geographic icon attracts hundreds of ambitious climbers each year.  The tab for the adventure isn’t cheap, reportedly as much as $100,000 per person.  The price to the mountain isn’t a bargain either, earning Everest the moniker of “World’s Highest Garbage Dump.”  Grinnell College, in a report, estimates 12 tons of human feces are strewn along the trails each year.

     What? 

     Middle East

     Unrest should be the middle name of the Middle East.  Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan and now Yemen boil with turmoil and terror. Blame Bush.  Blame Obama.  Blame anyone you choose.  The United States or any other country doesn’t have a good track record of defusing that multi-nation time bomb.  America continues to pour blood and billions onto that conundrum.

     Why?

Nothing compares to friendly hometown service

     UGA freshmen didn’t have cars back in 1966, so my best transportation was wearing out the leather on the bottoms of my oxblood Weejuns.  One of my favorite destinations was Clayton Street, after a brief stop at the Varsity on the corner of College Avenue and Broad Street.

     There were other men’s stores, but the big three were: Dick Ferguson’s, Gunn’s, along with West

and Dean.  Gunn’s is gone.  Dick Ferguson’s, celebrating its 80th year, moved to Beechwood 20 years ago.  And now, George Dean’s Men’s Store is turning out its lights on Christmas Eve.

     Wayne Dean, who took over from his father, George, wasn’t quite ready to retire, but Zaxby’s really wanted his location in the middle of downtown.  With 45 years of retailing, he’s pushing in the clutch and shifting to another gear of selling.  He’ll keep his lines of merchandise and sell on an individual basis to his loyal customers.

    Since moving back to Athens in 1990, I’ve depended on Dick, Wayne and Gene Lewis at Lamar Lewis Shoes to keep me attired.  I like going into their stores.  You know them, and they know you.   They don’t have to ask what size, and they know my personal tastes.  And they’ll send me a bill at the end of the month.  

     One of my favorite services they offer is modern-day Pony Express.  With a call, Dick, Wayne, Gene or one of their associates will be standing outside with my merchandise.  All I have to do is stick my left hand out as I drive by.   There’s absolutely nothing to compare to hometown service.

     I joke with Dick that I do my initial shopping with him, through his windows, on the way to Beechwood Cinemas.  Wednesday, our son Eric and I visited George Dean’s one more time.  First, we stood on the Clayton Street sidewalk, perusing what was in the window, just as I did in 1966.  Eric still calls Wayne “Coach,” from Little League days.  

    Once inside 227 East Clayton Street, I paused and took it all in.  The high ceiling, the smell of new clothes and that nostalgic feel that took me back, way back.  It was old-home week, visiting, laughing, backslapping and reminiscing.  And, of course, we had to buy a few things.  I repeat: there’s absolutely nothing to compare to hometown service.