March 28, 2024

If the Okefenokee isn’t worth saving, what is?

 

            With a nod to William Shakespeare, the question is To mine or not to mine?”

            If you are talking about the Okefenokee, I have made my opinion clear. The humongous blackwater swamp is a treasure, and nothing—absolutely nothing—should be attempted that will risk harming our irreplaceable gem of nature.

            But it ain’t that simple.

            One of the first rules of journalism is to follow the money.

            And while money talks, big money screams.

            Those big-money screams under the Gold Dome are keeping our leaders from saying, “Twin Pines Minerals, take your draglines elsewhere. The Okefenokee is too valuable to prostitute for titanium or any other minerals.”

            But, oh, no.

The Alabama miners have done their best to pave a route to Trail Ridge, the eastern lip of the Okefenokee, with dollars, a bunch of them. An army of Twin Pines lobbyists and strategic campaign contributions have tamped down efforts of the General Assembly to do what millions believe is the right thing—save the swamp. If the Okefenokee isn’t worth saving, what is?

Where is Georgia’s Department of Natural Resources (DNR) board on this? If that governor-appointed group isn’t our stalwarts for protection of the environment, who—pray tell—is? Back when this Twin Pines proposal surfaced, I made a personal appeal to each board member. One DNR board member replied, “You’d be surprised how little we get to decide.”

Duh.

Under DNR’s organizational umbrella is Georgia’s Environmental Protection Division (EPD). That unit granted a “draft permit” but left the matter open until after an April 9 deadline for a 60-day public-comment period. Already more than 100,000 have commented. (You can comment by going to TwinPines.Comments@dnr.ga.gov.) I am an eternal optimist. But short of a miraculous change of attitude, Twin Pines is going to get what it bought.

Why?

The big money and lobbyists have helped the General Assembly find an excuse to say no—invasion of private property rights. Twin Pines owns the property and presumes the right to gouge and drain enormous holes in Trail Ridge next to the Okefenokee. In addition, our leaders appear to believe the miners’ will-do-no-harm scientists rather than independent experts who are waving the warning flags.

Whom would I trust? It wouldn’t be Twin Pines Minerals or its scientists.

Now about private property rights.

I am a private property owner. I want my rights, too, but there are commonsense restrictions. For example, I cannot do something on my property that will harm my neighbor’s property. The Okefenokee National Wildlife Refuge is Twin Pines’ neighbor, in a big way, all 438,000 acres. The fear is that mining will have a negative impact on the swamp’s hydrology. Simply, nearby deep digging will drain too much water for ecological sustainability.

Want a private-property-rights analogy?


I am an advocate of the First Amendment, which gives you and me the right to voice our opinions. That’s what I’m doing right now. However, there are some commonsense restrictions. We cannot shout “fire” in a crowded theater if there’s no fire. We don’t have the right to libel or slander someone. I add, “Your freedom of speech ends within a quarter-inch of my nose.” As for private property rights, Okefenokee’s “nose” is the boundary line separating Twin Pines and the swamp.

Remember cartoonist Walt Kelly’s Okefenokee philosophical possum, Pogo? Pogo mused, “We have met the enemy, and he is us.” If Georgians give up on protecting the Okefenokee Swamp, truer words have never been spoken. 


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

March 21, 2024

‘Sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits’

 

            Althea Poppell, Barbara Bilfelt, Mildred Jones, Gussie Richardson, Sara James, Ila Warren and Nanelle Bacon had something in common. My early educators didn’t know about ADHD (attention-deficit hyperactivity disorder). Instead, my first seven teachers knew that I had AIP.

            What’s that?

             I can hear Nanelle Bacon right now.

            “Good Lord, son, you have ants in your pants (AIP)!”

            She was just announcing what my other teachers already knew. That was 1960, and I still have trouble sitting still.

Hyperactivity is why I flunked my retirement in 2021. After 65 days, I had to address my squirming. The remedy was founding a nonprofit and helping rescue a 148-year-old newspaper before it fell into its grave. For 28 months, I’ve been working harder for free than during my final years of receiving a paycheck.

Now The Oglethorpe Echo is thriving, thanks to a partnership with UGA’s Grady College of Journalism and Mass Communication, a super-smart staff, and a team of eager volunteers. I will never totally disconnect myself from the newspaper. But now, I just don’t have to be the first one in the office or the last one to leave.


If you think that I’m going to actually retire, I won’t. Somewhere out there, something has my name on it besides doing farm chores until sundown. Attending the games and activities of eight grandchildren will always be a high priority and a fun “something.”

A.A. Milne’s character Winnie-the-Pooh mused, “Sometimes I sits and thinks, and sometimes I just sits.” While I’ve been “sits-ing” and thinking, I created a short list of now-that-I-have-some-extra-time possibilities:

1. Twenty-six years ago, I took piano lessons. I wanted to see whether I could make music from the 88 keys before I was 50. I could—a little—but never for public listening. This time, I’d like to learn some “hot licks.” I loved watching gospel pianist Ray Lane make his upright piano jump. I once traveled to Mississippi to see Jerry Lee Lewis shuffle to his Yamaha grand and make it do “a whole lotta shakin’.” If I could live to 100, I might be able to play “Great Balls of Fire.” But I would have to do a whole lotta practicin’.

2. Ditto for the harmonica. Eric, our younger son, and I once spent a week at a blues camp in Clarksdale, Mississippi. Eric got to be good. I made our dogs dive under the couch. Now that the dogs are resting in peace, I dream about playing the “Orange Blossom Special.” But I might have to live to 105.

3. Juggling fascinates me. Years ago, I bought a teach-yourself-how-to-juggle kit. I read the book and watched the video. A couple of hours of that reminded me of the old Brylcreem jingle: “A little dab’ll do ya.” A little dab of that $9.95 investment didn’t pay off. Guess work got in the way, again.

4. Whistling is another intriguing skill. A few of God’s children are world-class whistlers. The rest of us just make silly noises. I’ve known people who could hook their pinkies in their mouths and call their dogs from three blocks away. I’d like to call my mule, Maggie, to the gate for her apple. If someone could teach me that shrill roll-your-tongue whistle in one afternoon, I’d pay $100. Any takers?

Meanwhile, you might ask, “Why don’t you take Winnie-the-Pooh’s advice and just ‘sits’?”

I can’t.

Why?

Seven teachers knew.

I was born with ants in my pants.


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

March 14, 2024

Connectivity is backbone of community

 

            Did you grow up singing “Dem Dry Bones?”

            I did.

            “[The] toe bone connected to the foot bone. [The] foot bone connected to the heel bone. …”

            Sitting in the back of Brunswick’s Glyndale Baptist Church, those silly lyrics scrolled through my mind. We were there to celebrate the life of Jan Bennett Oglesby, who had died on Feb. 13 in faraway Erfoud, Morocco. Jan had been married for 57 years to my lifelong friend John Oglesby.

            Morocco?

            Yes, Morocco.

            John and Jan were happiest globetrotting. Jan, a certified travel agent, orchestrated the couple’s adventures to 156 countries—at least once—and all seven continents. Morocco was a favorite destination. While John and Jan were dining with friends in Erfoud, she slumped into John’s arms and died.

            Tragic, yes, but as if scripted by Jan. The accomplished and fun-loving businesswoman drew her last breath in the arms of the man she adored and in the desert air of her beloved Morocco.

            So why was I silently humming “Dem Dry Bones?”

            The analogy is connectivity. How were the Bennetts connected to the pews of Brannens in the church? And how was I connected to those families and the Oglesbys? Jan’s mother, Jessie Lee, was a Brannen who married James Cameron Bennett. The NeSmith-Brannen bonds go back to the early days of the Great Depression.

            When my dad’s mother died Dec. 14, 1933, Grandma Brannen (Lydia Brannen) opened her arms and home to the five motherless NeSmith children. Friendships were forged between the families, and the relationships have carried forth for generations. Grandma Brannen’s nephew, Carey, was my first banker. In 2011 I gave his eulogy.

Thelma (Mrs. Arnie) Brannen was a godsend helping with our children, Alan, Emily and Eric. They called her “Branny” Brannen. We couldn’t have loved “Branny” more if she had been family. Her three daughters, Vivian, Janice and Susan, were at Jan’s funeral.

Janice married Randall Aspinwall, whose parents—Sine and Vada—owned The Pig restaurant. Randall and I were high school football teammates, along with his wife’s cousin, Larry Brannen. Before the funeral, I visited with Gary Priester. His mother—Gussie Brannen Priester—served me barbecue sandwiches on the counter in front of The Pig’s open pit.

“[The] knee bone connected to the thigh bone. …”

            Circa 1958, Dink and Margie NeSmith took their brood to Cameron Bennett’s farm. I remember running barefoot and playing with Bennett children. There were eight of them, including John’s future wife, Jan. As the sun was setting, one of the Bennett boys asked my mother, “Mrs. NeSmith, can Henry spend the night with us?”

            “Henry? Who’s Henry?”

            The Bennett lad pointed at me and said, “That little boy over there.”

            What?

            Well, the Bennett kids had been stumbling with “Dink,” so I told them, “Just call me Henry.” (That’s my given middle name.)

            The next year, VFW’s Little League coach Ted Oglesby traded with Rayonier’s coach J.B. Smith for a skinny, buzzcut outfielder. Coach Oglesby said, “You look like a catcher.” His son, John, was the pitcher. We became more than teammates.

            And when the coach’s wife, Ruth, began her weekend graduate studies at the University of Georgia, she invited me to tag along with John. Without Mrs. Oglesby, I doubt that I would have discovered Athens.


Thanks to my connection with her, there are 10 UGA degrees among the eight adults in my immediate family. And on the days our eight grandchildren were born, I paid for their lifetime memberships in UGA’s Alumni Association to make sure all 16 of us were Red-and-Black “certified.”

            Near the end of Jan’s service, I slipped out and scooted back to Jesup for another must “connection.” As Joy Bland Kenerly was giving her mother’s eulogy, I eased into the back pew. To say Margie Bland’s life was as bold and colorful as her paintings would be an understatement.

When her late husband, Jim, was a bachelor, he was my first babysitter. David Bland’s wife, Arria (Fender), was a babysitter for our children. Now she’s a grandmother.  

If our ties to the Bland, Kenerly and Fender families were string, they could be rolled into a ball as big as Jim’s swamp-muddied International Scout. Remembrances of Margie deserve more ink, much more, but I’ll save those for another day.

Driving away from the First United Methodist Church, the lyrics of “Dem Bones” resurfaced. Just as the ankle bone is connected to the leg bone, I am connected to countless families and friends in my hometown.

After all, connectivity is the backbone of a community.        


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

March 6, 2024

Remembering visits from banker George Parrish

 

            Initially, all that I knew was his reputation as a “moody” banker.

            I didn’t know his wife, Mary, either. But as a child, I asked, “Mother, who’s the lady in the choir with a ‘nervous’ voice?” “Honey, that’s Mrs. George Parrish,” she said. “It’s called vibrato. That’s the way she sings.”

            George Parrish ran the American National Bank (ANB) on Cherry Street, beneath the old Ingleside Hotel. I first saw him in Ralph Grantham’s chair, getting his silver hair clipped in Jack’s Barber Shop, near the bank.

            When the dapper banker left, another customer said, “I went to see Mr. Parrish last week. I needed to borrow $500. So, I asked, ‘Mr. Parrish, did you take a bath this morning?’”

            “Why?”

            “Because they said that I was going to have to kiss your … ummmm … foot … if I was going to get the money.”

            George Parrish didn’t think that was funny.

But barbers Jack Jackson, Herbert Dent and Ralph howled, as did the patrons sitting in the chairs against the wall and waiting their turns under the cotton-cloth capes.

I told my dad what I had heard.


Big Dink had a story, too.

At the time, we had been living in cramped quarters in the rear of NeSmith Funeral Home. The five of us were packed in the space of a three-car garage. My dad went to see Mr. Parrish on a Monday morning about a loan. When he explained that he needed as much as $5,000 for a home-improvement loan, Mr. Parrish snapped, “We don’t make those.”

            End of discussion.

            A friend advised, “Oh, Dink, never ask Mr. Parrish for money on a Monday morning.”

The next week, on a Tuesday, Big Dink went to ANB to make the same request. Mr. Parrish reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a promissory note. In a few days, Cecil Griffis and his carpentry crew were sawing lumber in our back yard.

In the 1980s I met George Parrish Jr., an accomplished artist/illustrator who had studied with Norman Rockwell. Several pieces of George’s artwork hang in our home. He donated an exquisite railroad painting for the cover of a Wayne County history book that was published by The Press-Sentinel.

            I believe George Parrish Sr. had died by the time that I was invited to join ANB’s board of directors, when James Harper retired. I teased Pete Smith, the bank’s president, that I was put on the board—as a 30-something—to chauffeur longtime directors Dr. John Wolfe Sr. and Harvey York to the Brunswick meetings. Actually, it was an honor to just be in the car with them.

            By the time that I came along with borrowing needs, Mr. Parrish had turned over the vault to his understudy, Carey Brannen, who loaned me my first $3,000. Following Carey, Lonnie O’Quinn and Linton Lewis were my lenders. I could wallpaper my office with all those paid 90-day notes.

            I never got to experience the “moody” side of George Parrish. What I did enjoy was a courtly gentleman who took an interest in me. He’d stop by the newspaper office to “check on me.” One day, he said, “I want to give you something. I think you need this.”

            He was right.

            And since that day—50 years ago—I have shared hundreds of copies Wilfred A. Peterson’s prayer, “Slow me down, Lord.”

 

            I think George Parrish would be amused by this follow-up twist. When I was director of the senior adult Sunday school department at Jesup’s First Baptist Church, I handed out “Slow me down, Lord.” I told my Mr. Parrish story.

            There was a pause, and Rufus Robertson spoke up, “Little Dink, this is nice. But at our ages, we need a prayer to speed us up rather than slow us down.”


 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

February 29, 2024

Mother Nature is a shameless flirt

 

           What do three robins, four purple martins and a few million daffodils have in common?

            I discovered the answer last weekend.

I’ll tell you as soon as I swallow two Advils.

            OK, I’m back.

            The answer is Mother Nature is a shameless flirt.

Some February mornings, we had to scrape ice off our windshields. But by mid-afternoon, the mercury was bumping 70 degrees. “Ahhh, spring is almost here,” we say.

We know better.

Still, we grab our shovels to dig in the dirt.

Besides, how can you sit inside on such beautiful days? For me, it’s because I had ignored those cccccccold wintery days that sometimes chill us in March. Snow even.

On Feb. 23, I couldn’t stand it any longer.

After watching three robins scratch for worms and four purple martins check out their condo on a pole, I got antsy. But what really tipped me over the edge were all those millions of yellow blooming daffodils in yards and along the highways.

I like daffodils.

But wait a minute.

Those are jonquils.

Might be.


One source explained, “Daffodils are typically lightly scented while jonquils are highly perfumed.” I haven’t ever conducted a sniff test.

Is it tomatoes or “ta-mott-toes?”

I choose to eat tomatoes and pick daffodils. Let the botanists have the jonquil debate.

But what’s Mother Nature got to do with it?

She’s like Goldilocks. When Mother Nature is good, she is very good. And when Mother Nature is bad, she is very bad. Just look how California to New England has suffered this winter. Those poor folks haven’t had time to sniff jonquils or daffodils.

We’re lucky that Mother Nature has been kinder to us in Georgia.

On a surprisingly warm February afternoon, a friend must have read my mind. “How’d you like some daffodils?” he asked.

 “Sure.”

“Come with me.”

In an out-of-the-way pasture, there were thousands of daffodils. Some bunches were in full bloom. Others were just starting to show their color. A few hadn’t thought of it yet.

“It’s an old homeplace,” he said. “These daffodils have been coming back year after year for decades. Have all you want.”

With that, he grabbed a shovel and joined me in my happy digging. In about 30 minutes, we had loaded my pickup. I drove straight to the farm and started planting them. By supper, my back was barking, “You haven’t used a shovel lately, have you?”

The next day, my friend invited me again. This time, I was digging alone. But I had an audience—about 25 cows—encircling me. The bull moseyed over to my truck and took a sniff. He didn’t offer an opinion whether I was digging jonquils or daffodils. But he seemed to smile, suggesting that he and his harem had donated plenty of organic fertilizer to make the flowers so beautiful.

By sundown—on a second sunny day—all the daffodils were relocated. My back was barking again. Both mornings, I had scraped ice off my windshield. And the weather folks are predicting that the freezing nights aren’t over yet.

Mother Nature.

She’s a shameless flirt. She can be a goddess one day and a witch the next.

But I’m not complaining.

We’re blessed—thanks to a friend—with a plethora of bright yellow daffodils.

Come on, robins and purple martins.

With shovel in hand, I’m ready for spring.

And as for my aching back, there’s always Advil.


 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com