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

Jim Minter was a Georgia journalism giant

 

            If you are old enough, you know exactly where you were when JFK was shot or when Neil Armstrong took his first step on the moon. Who can forget that Sept. 11, 2001, morning, when those evil hijackers dropped America to its knees?  

And then there are the milestone moments in our personal histories. I will never forget that June evening in 1982, sitting on a seaside bench on Jekyll Island. I was talking with a Georgia giant of journalism, the editor of The Atlanta Journal-Constitution.

Jim Minter had an idea.

He saw possibilities.

In the background, I could hear the Atlantic’s waves lapping. But I concentrated on Jim’s low, almost grumbling voice. Within 15 minutes of back-and-forth exchanges, my soon-to-be treasured confidant charted a career path that I’ve been following for 44 years.

Jim’s idea was that I should talk with his boss, Tom Wood, president of Atlanta Newspapers Inc. Tom was looking to make a change. Tom and I had met through our serving on the boards of the Georgia Press Association and UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. Our mutual friend, Jim, thought Tom and I would be a good fit as business partners.

The hardest ship to keep afloat is a partnership, but Tom and I have been perfect partners. We brought different—but complementing—disciplines into Community Newspapers Inc. If you asked us to paint a room, I’d tackle the task with a roller and a sprayer. Tom—with his CPA acumen—would handle the windows and trim.

Jim was right.

But now, there’s a new challenge.

Jim Minter, 95, died on May 27.

Tom and I have lost one of our dearest friends and most ardent cheerleaders. I can’t imagine my life without the benefit of Jim’s wise counsel and never-ending encouragement.

Jim Minter was the only child of a Fayette County farmer/postmaster and a beloved teacher for whom a school is named. He grew up in tiny Inman during the Great Depression. He was no stranger to mules or blisters on his feet from tight brogans. In retirement, Jim purchased and restored the community’s train depot and post office, across from his boyhood home. It was a classic venue for his fellowship with family and friends. I treasure my happy times there.

Jim rose to the upper tiers of our profession, mentoring a legion of journalists. Perhaps the most famous of his mentees was Lewis Grizzard. No one understood the say-it-like-he-sees-it humorist and nationally syndicated columnist more than Jim.

Jim got his start as a sports reporter. Listening to him talk about Wally Butts, Bear Bryant, Bobby Dodd, Ty Cobb and a host of other athletic immortals put you right there on the front row of history reporting. It was the same for politics. He knew who did what and when—the good, the bad and the ugly. With his Google-like recall, I urged him to write a book. With his signature self-effacing chuckle, he’d just say, “Nahhhh.”

For months, Jim had been telling me that he was fading. My friend was miserable. He’d lost his mobility, even giving up riding to the mailbox on his lawn mower. He could say the most in a few words as anyone I know. For his wisdom-sharing savvy, Jim was my Star Wars Yoda.

Three weeks ago, without calling, I drove to McBride Road in Fayette County and knocked on the door. Jim’s caregiver greeted me. Downstairs, Jim was in his library with his loyal Labrador, Sam. Anne, his wife of 70 years, joined us.

Something told me to call Tom and patch him in on the speaker phone. The three of us bantered back and forth, scrolling through old stories. We laughed and laughed some more. And when I hung up, it hit me. Why didn’t I record our 30-minute conversation? Oh, the memories.

They say in the South, “If you see a box turtle on a fence post, you can know that it didn’t get there by itself.”

From a seaside bench on Jekyll Island in 1982, Jim Minter lifted this box turtle up onto a fence post. I’ll never forget that.

Thank you, my friend, my Yoda.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Eddie Dalton creation is a glimpse of AI’s future

  

            Food and music are very different.

            But when it comes to the taste of either, they are first cousins. You like it, or you can leave it.

            I understand eating liver can be good for you, but it’s a “no thanks” for me.

            And that’s a ditto for opera and rap music. If you love those genres, help yourself. But pile my plate high with non-pop/rock country and Motown’s rhythm and blues (R&B), and soul, led by Sam Cooke, self-proclaimed “King of Soul.” My all-time favorite tunes are “Carolina beach music.” Not to be confused with California’s Beach Boys.

I’m talking about The Diamonds, The Tams, The Embers, The Drifters, The Clovers, Jerry Butler, Bruce Channel, The Temptations, The Dominoes, The Showmen, The Platters, Maurice Williams & The Zodiacs, The Four Tops, Lloyd Price, The Catalinas, Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye, The Band of Oz and more.

Oops, can’t forget The Swinging Medallions. Arguably, “Carolina Girls” by The Chairmen of the Board is the No. 1 beach-music shag song.

Shag music was made famous along the beaches of the Carolinas but spread kudzu-like across the South. Back in my 1960s UGA days, fraternity-house jukeboxes were crammed full of get-your-feet-moving beach music. Leather soles of a gazillion Weejuns were worn thin, shagging on the dance floors.

Former newspaperman Roy White of Mullins, South Carolina, was a regular at Myrtle Beach. His wife had leather soles stitched to the bottom of his favorite tennis shoes, so he could slide and shag to beach music on Ocean Drive.

But I digress.

Right now, there’s a fractious debate about artificial intelligence (AI). But what has AI got to do with music and dancing?

Well, plenty.

And almost everything.

Case in point: Eddie Dalton.

Who?

Eddie Dalton, so far, has three iTunes Top 10. The skyrocketing star was imagined by Dallas Ray Little of Greenville, South Carolina, who writes the lyrics. But Eddie Dalton is AI-generated from voice to visuals. I became a fan the first time that I heard his music streaming through the dashboard of my truck.

“Another Day Old” might be my right-now theme song. Oh, I’ll never tune out the original Carolina beach music. But I encourage you to listen to Eddie on any of the streaming services. I feel as though he’s a blend of Otis Redding, Marvin Gaye and BB King. Check out this excerpt from “Another Day Old”:

“We’re just passing through time like the wind through the pines

Just small little pieces in a bigger design

But the older I get, the more that I know

There ain’t nothing wrong with being another day old”

Even if music, specifically Eddie’s, is not your thing, there’s a deeper message in what is happening with his creation. My friend’s cousin, a Nashville songwriter with a wall full of gold records, says AI is a disrupter of the way it used to be. Old-school songwriters might take weeks to create lyrics. AI can whip out the words in less than a minute. Maybe not as good, but good enough to compete with humans.

And that’s the point.

Where are we headed, enamored with this new “shiny thing?”

Will people—particularly students—stop using their brains?

Is AI a jobs creator or a job-busting disrupter?

Even Pope Leo XIV has published a manifesto of his AI concerns.

Does anyone really know?

While I’m trying to develop my opinion, Eddie sings a hint:

“Time don’t stop and it don’t rewind

But around every corner there’s some to find.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Elliott Brack’s purple pen inspired journalists to excel

  

            An old feed and seed store is why you are reading this.

            How’s that?

            Go back with me to 1962. What was once Strickland Feed & Seed was then the office of the Wayne County Press, an upstart weekly, a stone’s throw from the railroad tracks that split my hometown. That’s where I met Elliott Earl Brack.

We didn’t know each other, and that’s the rest of the story.

            As a member of the student council, I was on a mission to publish a telephone directory for the students of Jesup High School. The newspaper also had a print shop. Editor Brack introduced me to ink and paper. And as a bonus, he gave me a short course in advertising sales. We sold enough ads to pay the bill and bank a sizable profit.

            Four years later, I reconnected with Elliott. When I ran for UGA’s student senate, he printed my campaign materials. And a highlight of each week was receiving the Wayne County Press (WCP). It was just like a letter from home. He dubbed the WCP as “The People Paper.”

Elliott ran the newspaper as if his pants were on fire. He had the backbone and the guts to take on whatever needed taking on. He signed his editorials—EEB. He kept the community buzzing. Reading the letters to the editor was a must.

Fast-forward to 1971.

After graduating from Georgia in 1970, I completed my basic and advanced training for the Army National Guard. Pam had earned her degree, too. I was contemplating law school.

And then there was that phone conversation with EEB.

“We’ve got too many lawyers in Jesup already,” he said. “You’ve got a journalism degree. Why don’t you come home? We are trying to buy the Jesup Sentinel. You can be a partner with Dr. Lanier Harrell and me. I can run one of the newspapers. You can run the other.”

The story is much more complicated, but that’s the gist of it. Nonetheless, I was hooked. Within two weeks, Pam and I were in Jesup. She was preparing to teach first grade at my alma mater Orange Street Elementary. And I was enrolled in EEB’s community-journalism crash course. If he had known how little I knew, he wouldn’t have made the offer. It’s a good thing the purchase of the Jesup Sentinel stalled for five years.

In 1973 I was tossed into the deep end. Elliott and his family moved to Athens for what was to be a year. He was asked to be a visiting professor at UGA’s Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. And then I got a call from EEB.

“Beside being a college professor,” he said, “I’ve always wanted to run a daily newspaper.” Bob Fowler had recruited him to be the vice-president and general manager of the Gwinnett Daily News in Georgia’s fastest-growing county. On Dec. 27, 1976, EEB and Doc cashed out. I stayed in, and The Press-Sentinel was born.

And for the 50 years since—even though he hasn’t been my boss or my partner—EEB “graded” my papers with a purple Flair pen. I relished every mark and comment because I respected his wisdom and opinion. I could wallpaper my office with his colorful comments.

When I got a message to call EEB’s son, Andy, I had an inkling of what I was about to hear. Elliott Earl Brack, 90, had died. Just hours earlier, I had read one of my mentor’s 10,000-plus columns. He was a thought-provoking journalist until the very end.

EEB’s passion for journalism was infectious. His son, Andy, is a newspaper publisher. My sons, Alan and Eric, have ink in their veins, too, as successful publishers. We all benefited from EEB’s tutelage. His purple messages will be indelible influences for the rest of our lives.

It all goes back to 1962 and that visit to the old feed and seed store. A pants-on-fire newspaperman planted a “seed” of possibility in my 23-year-old brain. And that’s why you are reading this. I can’t imagine having done anything else for the past 55 years.

But if EEB could read this, he’d scribble, in purple ink, “You wrote too long.”

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

UGA’s Grady College introduced me to Tom Johnson

  

            Tom Johnson and I met, circa 1980, while serving on the advisory board of UGA’s Henry W. Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication. He was publisher of the Los Angeles Times, and I was publisher of The Press-Sentinel and several South Georgia newspapers. We also share a connection by serving on the Richard B. Russell Foundation. Tom’s friendship and advice over the decades have been priceless.

            This past winter, Tom was in Athens to talk about his new book, DRIVEN: A Life in Public Service and Journalism from LBJ to CNN. My friend autographed a stack of DRIVEN for me to give to family and friends. If you haven’t read the splendid, history-packed book, I recommend it to you.

In 1990 Ted Turner recruited Tom to serve as president of CNN. Tom’s tenure at the revolutionary 24-hour news service started with a bang—the Gulf War. We are publishing Tom’s reflections about his most-famous former boss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

 

 

 

My years with Ted Turner

 by Tom Johnson 

   

            Yes, he could be outrageous.

            When a little girl fell into a well in Texas and the rescue of “Baby Jessica” unfolded live on TV, CNN’s ratings skyrocketed. Ted joked maybe CNN should place candy bars around other wells.

            Yet, you could also find him in war-torn regions poking sticks in the ground searching for land mines that children were stepping on, blowing themselves up.

            He was complicated.

Until I met Ted, I thought Lyndon Johnson was the most complex person I had ever known. Before I accepted the job as CNN’s president, I told him, “Ted, before you hire me, you need to know that I battle depression.”

            He shot back, “Hell, pal, let me tell you about me.” That’s all he said. It was classic Ted: disarming, revealing and removed, all at once.

            He was impatient with a restless energy that could make him difficult. If you were late for a meeting with him, it was almost a death sentence. I think the reason he hated delay was that he couldn’t wait to get to the future.

            Above all, Ted Turner was a visionary.

When he founded CNN as a 24-hour news channel, the other networks provided only morning and evening news shows. They would break into regular programming only for major events.

Ted saw the need for an around-the-clock news network. He envisioned CNN as a truly global channel that would provide honest, reliable, unbiased information to people around the world, especially in countries where independent news was suppressed.

            When I was considering accepting the job, I asked Ted what he would expect of the next president of CNN. He said, “I want us to make CNN the absolute best news network on the planet.”

When I asked him, “What are your policies about news?” he said, “Be fair.”

He wanted reporters to report, anchors to anchor and neither to editorialize. He wanted news to be the star, not the personalities.

            My first day at CNN was Aug. 1, 1990. The following day, Iraq’s Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait. I told Ted that if we were to be the premier news source for a possible war between the U.S. and Iraq, it could cost as much as $30 million over budget. His answer startled me: “You spend whatever you think it takes, pal.”

            With Ted’s total support, we established a special communications link, so that when all other networks lost their transmission capabilities from Baghdad, all eyes turned to CNN.

            Over the 11 years I was with Ted, we covered so many other stories—the fall of the Soviet Union, the O.J. Simpson trial, the Balkan wars, the impeachment of Bill Clinton, the Waco siege, the death of Princess Diana.

            What would those years have been like without CNN?

Ted told me that the most important thing he did in life was raising his five children. A close second was creating CNN.

            He was a man of many accomplishments. He won the America’s Cup, the renowned sailing race. He bought the Atlanta Braves and transformed them from one of baseball’s worst teams into one of its best.

You could call those rich man’s toys, but Ted cared far more deeply about the planet. In 1998 he donated $1 billion and created the United Nations Foundation to fund humanitarian causes such as helping refugees, fighting disease and clearing land mines.

He worked with former Sen. Sam Nunn to reduce the dangers of nuclear weapons with the Nuclear Threat Initiative.

He was a passionate steward of the land. Over the years, he acquired and worked to restore 2 million acres, cleaning the streams, removing the cattle, and reintroducing bison, gray wolves, and native plants and grasses. His bison herd now numbers over 45,000 head. On those lands, you can see what the Native Americans saw when they roamed there.

No mention of Ted’s life can ignore the love he had for Jane Fonda. They were remarkable together, sharing both passion and purpose in the common cause for peace.

Ted was dashing and charismatic with the neatly trimmed mustache of a Hollywood leading man of yesterday. He was a swashbuckler whose bravado exuded the promise of daring, romantic adventures.

Ted was a maverick like no one I have ever known.

We will miss you, pal. 

 

Tom Johnson, right, signs copies of his book for Dink 

NeSmith, left, in Athens, Georgia, last winter.

 

Bonus comes with the ‘free-couch switcheroo’

  

          Call it the Laugh-of-the-Month, the “free-couch switcheroo.”

          What?

          The best way to explain the switcheroo is to start at the beginning.

Our oldest grandson has a math diploma. Now, Wyatt is pursuing a UGA environmental engineering degree. The 22-year-old lives in an apartment in one of our barns. He brought his dorm-room recliner from Young Harris. But he’d like a couch, too. His budget said, “No.”

Besides, Wyatt’s SUV needed a set of tires.

Still, his mind hadn’t turned loose of the couch thing.

One day, I heard Wyatt’s new tires crunching gravel outside my office. Stepping inside, he announced, “Grandpa, there a couch in someone’s front yard. It has a ‘FREE’ sign on it.”

“Yeah, I saw that, too.”

“It’s leather. I think I can clean it up.”

“Well?”

“Could I use the farm truck and go get it?”

“Sure, but wouldn’t loading it on a trailer be easier?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How about let’s go hitch the small trailer?”

Pretty soon, we were trucking to Colbert.

When we pulled onto the edge of the free-couch yard, the big brown sofa looked pretty good.  But when I got closer, I could tell why it was being offered for free. Most of the leather was in tolerable shape. Some spots weren’t.  And behind the cushions was evidence that a white dog had enjoyed the sectional-sitting apparatus, a bunch.

Wyatt was not demurred. 

After all, it was free. 

And he could clean it up.

Back at the farm, we toted the two sections and the stack of cushions into the barn and placed them outside his apartment.

“I’ll work on this after exams,” he said.

The next day, I walked across the road to check on the kitchen-remodeling project of our neighbors. My friend said, with a chuckle, “I saw you and Wyatt hauling that couch yesterday.”

One of the carpenters piped up, “Are you talking about that couch in Colbert?” 

“Yep, Wyatt wanted a couch.”

The carpenter had eyed it, too.

            The contractor spoke up, “If Wyatt needs a couch, I have one that I’ll give him. I’ll send you a picture tonight.”

            When the photo popped up on my phone, I showed it to Wyatt.

            “Grandpa, that looks pretty good.”

            “It’s being steam-cleaned. Free couch and free delivery.”

            That triggered the country-roadside-couch switcheroo.

            “Grandpa, think you could help me load this leather couch?”

            “Sure thing, Wyatt. But you need to make a big ‘FREE’ sign first.”

            Fifteen minutes later, the two-piece couch was sitting beside the road with a cardboard sign duct-taped to the leather.

            “How long will it take, Wyatt, for the couch to get a new home?”

            “Grandpa, it won’t take long.”

            He’d witnessed our neighbors use the “FREE” strategy to dispose of truckloads of unwanted items. Everything from dishes to ceiling fans, even concrete blocks.

            Wyatt was right.

            Within hours, I caught a glimpse of a pickup—loaded with a brown leather couch—headed toward Colbert, or it could have been Comer.

            The other new-to-him free couch will be “switcheroo-ed” any day now.

            With a grin, Wyatt said, “‘Free’ works, Grandpa.”

            And with the switcheroo, we got a bonus.

“Free” laughable memories.

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com