Welcome to Joiner's Corner

During our Unadilla school days John Offenberg was much younger than me. Now we’re almost the same age. That happens gradually and gains momentum over time.

John knows a lot of old stories about some of the unique individuals of his hometown. “Unadilla has had more characters per capita than anybody, anywhere,” he said with a knowing grin. 

There are too many to cover, even if limited to Hall of Fame contenders. Plus many of the stories aren’t mine to tell. It’s best that families pass them on or let them fade. Here’s a sampling from a recent sit-down with John.

Mr. Ira Farmer warrants the character title because of physical toughness. He was run over by a loaded pulpwood truck, which crushed his pelvis, damaged his spleen, and broke multiple ribs. When the emergency room doctor asked if he’d taken anything for pain, Mr. Farmer said, “I took two aspirin yestiddy evening.” That was the day before the accident. 

Someone commented to his son-in-law, H. T. Moats, how remarkable it was Mr. Farmer survived. H.T. explained nonchalantly, “He was in a sandbed.”  

H.T. was equally durable. Two people were required to run the earliest chainsaws. H.T. and another man would operate one all day long with only short breaks. Not many could handle such a grueling job at that pace.

He also survived a horrific mishap, a near fatality caused by staying too long at Bryce Broxton’s beer joint. H.T. left The Bloody Bucket and stretched out on the ground behind a station wagon to nap. The car belonged to a lady friend of Mr. Broxton’s, who had stopped by to see him. When she left she backed over H.T’s head, then pulled forward to see what she hit. It was a cringeworthy injury but didn’t put him out of circulation.

A lot of stories from the mid 1900s involved The Bloody Bucket. Some remained close to the truth, while others have been gently embellished. A memorable street fight originated there when a man reached for his knife. The other fellow ran across Highway 41 to a gas station that never closed and borrowed a sawed-off cue stick. The cue stick pounded out an enduring truce.  

One of my favorite stories about The Bloody Bucket involved Rev. A. B. Hosea, beloved pastor of Unadilla First Baptist decades ago. When he surprised the crowd one day, men began hiding their beers. He told them that wasn’t necessary, that he came to invite them to join a newly-formed Sunday School Class. The class gained a few members, and Brother Hosea gained a ton of respect.

Eubilla, a dance hall just south of town, no doubt had several characters on hand one infamous night. Young men from Pinehurst, Vienna, and Unadilla met there for a three-town showdown. Recollections vary as to details, but all have the same ending. A young Harold Owens, new to Unadilla by marriage, stepped forward when a challenge to the town was issued. With a single swing he attained folklore status. Years later he made an excellent mayor.

John is probably right about Unadilla having more characters than other places. He has plenty of stories to make a solid case. That kid from school is 70 now and still lives in the town he loves. He hopes its old tales aren’t soon forgotten. 

I share that hope with John, and can say one thing with confidence. If the State of Georgia opens a Characters Hall of Fame, Unadilla has a good shot at getting the longest hall.

An undated scribbled note included some potential column topics. “The First Sign of Spring,” came from a conversation with my mother. When I told her I had seen a robin in her yard she reminded me that, “Robins are the first sign of spring.” 

Mama has spent countless hours watching birds through her kitchen windows. Her dishwasher spent some lonely decades as she worked at the sink. That’s been a great place to admire nesting doves, mockingbirds, brown thrashers, and hummingbirds. The robins don’t stay long but always come as ambassadors of spring. 

Another topic was “Imperfect Ambition.” I was thinking about the challenge of having the right amount of ambition in our careers. Too little reflects a lack of motivation. Too much can result in neglecting important things like family, or even shortchanging God. Jesus put it in perspective. “What shall it profit a man if he gains the whole world but loses his soul?”

On the bottom of the small notepad I’d written a question for a possible column sequel to “Points to Ponder.” “Would the apostle Paul be welcome in today’s pulpits?” He would in some, but many would require a tempered message. It concerns me that Paul’s teachings have lost favor among many Christians. If we disregard Paul, Jesus is probably next.  

“The Fourth Cross” was written on the back of that same pad. Three wooden crosses are on a hill overlooking the Tillie Miller Bridge at Carabelle, Florida. When we occasionally pass that way, my attention is always drawn to those crosses. Perhaps a fourth should be added to remind us to, “Take up thy cross and follow me.” I tend to follow him better when the path is easy, not when it involves carrying a cross.

One scribbled note was a song idea given to me by a former coworker, Judy Daniels. I’ve not gotten around to writing it, but did pen one verse with her quote as the closing line. “I’m getting tired of living on grits, having some butter might help a bit. I hope I don’t reach the end of my wits, cause I’m too old to work but too broke to quit.”

Some notes I’d made from a book about the history of South Georgia Banking Company pertained to “Willie the Wizard – The Human Slide Rule.” Born in Omega, Georgia, Willis Dysart had uncanny abilities in math. Audiences were amazed by feats of multiplication, determining square roots, and instantly converting time elapsed from years into days, hours, and minutes. For mental calculations, he was the alpha of Omega.

A note dated 8/1/2020 listed two funeral songs that used to be popular but have faded from the scene. “Precious Memories” and “Just One Rose Will Do” were standards a half century ago. Below the song titles I’d recorded a memory from my days of working at Bowen-Everett Funeral Home in the late 1970s. 

I don’t remember any details of the service or anything about the family. It was, however, the most unique wreath I had ever seen. Among a circle of flowers was an old-style rotary telephone. Gold letters on a banner across the wreath proclaimed, “Jesus Calls.”

Whether we’re dancing with robins in the spring of life, living in the too old to work but too broke to quit stage, or somewhere else along the journey, one thing is for certain. We need to be ready when Jesus calls. That’s not just my opinion. Paul said it too.  

I drove to Leesburg, Georgia, in mid June to see Clete and Deborah Sinyard. A column series in 2023 offered a glimpse of Clete’s 20 years of military service, focusing on his first tour of Vietnam. He joined the Army at 17, anxious for adventures beyond a two-mule Alabama farm. An extra dose of bravado led to a leadership role in an elite group called the Pathfinders. Their motto sums up their daring missions, “First In – Last Out.”

After 12 months in the jungle he returned to America for less hazardous duty. Three years later he began his second Vietnam tour, this time serving in special operations, known as SOG. Letters on one of his Boonie hats represent the full name: MACVSOG – Military Assistance Command, Vietnam Studies and Observations Group.

Deborah, a friend since childhood, greeted me in the driveway. We found Clete on the back side of their property, picking blackberries. “This is Clete’s little slice of heaven,” Deborah said, noting how much he enjoys the garden. A dozen or so laying hens added to the ambience, as did the porch swing under a big shade tree. Norman Rockwell wouldn’t have changed a thing. 

I was there to learn about Clete’s recent return to Vietnam. When I was writing the previous columns he said he had no desire to go back. This opportunity, however, was one he couldn’t refuse. He was one of eight SOG veterans invited to participate.

Donnie Edwards, a former pro-football player, made the arrangements through his Best Defense Foundation. Everything was paid for, plus Edwards travelled with the group and took others to assist, including a doctor and a nurse. 

Marble Mountain was a place they visited that Clete knew very well. The SOG base camp was located between its twin peaks which border the ocean. The mountain has caves which Clete had explored decades ago, some with openings that face the sky. Missions to Laos, Cambodia, and North Vietnam were launched from Marble Mountain. Studying and observing is a lot more dangerous than it sounds. 

Best Defense Foundation had arranged for a short outing into Cambodia. When Clete suggested that might not be a good idea, his SOG partners agreed. Cambodia once had a $5000 bounty on him. He laughs about it, knowing that’s in the past, but he wasn’t inclined to see if someone might remember. 

“Peaceful,” is how Clete described today’s Vietnam. “It was so peaceful,” he said several times, marveling at the change. The Vietnamese people were very welcoming and the scenery lovely. Hostility has been preempted by hospitality.   

Even spider holes can now evoke laughter instead of trepidation. The hand-dug pits, often positioned along jungle pathways, were just big enough to hide an enemy combatant. A wooden top, camouflaged with leaves and debris, could be quickly removed to facilitate an ambush. On this trip, however, SOG veteran Jim Shorten lowered himself into a spider hole and got stuck. A video captured him ignoring their guide’s repeated pleas of, “Too big! Too big!” 

As I drove home, one thought echoed in my mind. “It was so peaceful,” Clete had said, obviously pleased to find it that way. At seventeen he was hungry for adventure. At 79 he values peacefulness. Returning to Vietnam was a blessing for Clete. Back home in Leesburg there’s an ongoing blessing of a peaceful garden. I’m thankful for a young man who so willingly served our country. And I’m glad an old soldier has found a little slice of heaven in his own backyard.

“Not Enough Aprons” was written on a scribbled note as a column idea. Sean Dietrich, my favorite columnist, had mentioned aprons in his daily musings on January 9, 2021. His reflections caused me to do some pondering. I’m thinking today’s homes need more aprons. 

“Understanding God” was another column idea. I’ve touched on it before, so I’ll limit this to a couple of thoughts. I’ll confess to being dismayed that I don’t have a better understanding of God. But when the suffering of innocents causes me to ask why, it’s helpful to consider what Steve Sanders said in our Sunday School class.

Steve was quoting a preacher he’d heard on television, possibly T. D. Jakes. The pastor posed a question that I’d never really considered. “What kind of a God would he be if we could understand him?” 

A red-headed theologian from Texas summed it up nicely in a song. Willie Nelson’s lyrics begin with questions for God then end with the answer. “Now when I pray my prayer is one. I pray his will not mine be done. After all, I’m just a man. And it’s not for me to understand.”

An email from Jim Hamrick was printed and added to my stack of notes in April of 2021. Jim, like his late father Harry Hamrick, has a knack for subtle humor. He posed an interesting question that seems worth considering. “Why is abbreviated such a long word?”

Two ideas for devotionals were in my scribbled notes. I’ve written about them before so I’ll limit this to a quick mention. My brother, Jimmy, had given an unproductive pear tree a severe trim with a chain saw in 2019. Our mother, who is addicted to pear preserves, was shocked at how much he had cut. To our surprise, however, the next summer that tree yielded the best pear crop in a long time. It reminded me that sometimes people need pruning too. The unpleasant process can make us more productive. 

The other devotional idea mentioned Mr. John Bonner, a fine Christian gentleman who taught Sunday School for decades. He had a remarkable knowledge of scripture and a gift for explaining how to apply it. There was an occasion at Vienna First Baptist, perhaps a teacher’s meeting, where Rev. Ellis Taff told us he had visited with Mr. John that past Monday.

Ellis asked the group, “What do y’all think John Bonner was doing?” We didn’t know so we waited for him to tell us. “He was studying his Sunday School lesson,” Ellis said with a knowing smile. Then he shared some advice I’ve found helpful. “If John Bonner needs to begin studying his lesson on Monday, that might be a good idea for some others.”

“Schandenfreude” was a word I was introduced to in an article by Dr. Jim Denison. l wrote the odd term down because of its definition: “The pleasure we derive from another person’s misfortune.” We’ve probably all had some, “He had it coming,” moments. But Christ said to, “Pray for your enemies,” and to, “bless those who persecute you.” We can’t have it both ways.

It’s hard to know how to end such a rambling column, so I’ll just close with two thoughts. First, I don’t want a God I can understand. He wouldn’t be worthy of worship. And secondly, even though I don’t understand God, I believe he understands me. That’s what really matters.

My scribbled notes about “Silver Linings” mentioned Burroughs Corporation. They gave me a wonderful career opportunity right out of college. It only took 18 months to fail, an embarrassing outcome I was not prepared for. 

Life was easy growing up with loving parents and good friends in rural Georgia. After that came Valdosta State College, four years which I sometimes enjoyed too much. I apologize if the next part sounds boastful, but it’s integral to an honest story.

As a freshman I won the Mr. V.S.C. contest. Delta Chi fraternity sponsored me because I could play piano. The girls in the audience would have crowned someone else, but gray-haired judges enjoyed my medley. It was rather comedic as 15 guys paraded across stage in tennis attire holding rackets, then in rented tuxedos. Talents were widely diverse. Terry Fields, superb shortstop on the V.S.C. baseball team, recited “Casey at the Bat.” Tommy Whiddon played a classical piece on the organ. The only other contestant I remember is Denny Clark. I don’t recall Denny’s talent, but swooning young ladies applauded him for just smiling.

In my sophomore year I was elected president of Delta Chi fraternity, which prospered despite my leadership. Then came a term as president of the Student Government Association. After my junior year I spent the summer in Washington, D.C. in Senator Herman Talmadge’s office. Each intern made a cameo appearance on the televised Watergate Hearings. We thought we were famous. None of those were big accomplishments, but I was on a good roll and expected it to keep getting better.  

When Richard Gaddy interviewed me for a sales position with Burroughs he was impressed by my resume. Quite honestly, I was too. I patted myself on the back as I moved to Tallahassee to sell computers. Life was sweet and getting sweeter as wedding bells would soon be ringing.

Tallahassee was a great town and Burroughs a fine company. Richard was an exceptional boss and mentor. There was only one problem. I was terrible at sales.

Burroughs had a tremendous training program. Eight weeks of classroom instruction in Philadelphia and Tampa were interspersed over six months. Between sessions I went on sales calls with Richard and other experienced marketing reps like Bob Abernathy and Mike McClain. In Philadelphia I won the award for best product demonstration. Classroom performance, however, didn’t translate to real-world success. 

I dreaded telling Richard I was leaving, knowing he had placed his confidence in me. When I met with him and Doyle Perry, our Branch Manager, I expected them to bemoan their wasted time and resources. Instead they told me I was welcome to stay if I had any doubts. I had no doubts, but their compassionate gesture brought tears to my eyes.

Years went by before I began to understand how valuable the Burroughs training had been. Sales techniques, such as overcoming objections and dealing with irate customers, came in handy during five years of selling cars and 35 years in banking. It took me a while to realize the bumpy road at Burroughs helped smooth my career path. Decades later than I should have, I called Richard to thank him. 

A couple of good lessons came from that humbling experience. One was realizing that failing is not the same as being a failure. The best lesson though is something I still tend to forget. Even in the darkest clouds, there’s almost always a silver lining. It’s up to us to find it.

I found a scribbled note with “Silver Linings” written at the top. Below that I’d mentioned a long-ago example – a vehicle mishap involving David Fullington. We’ll get to that after covering a little background. 

David’s been a good friend since first grade at Pinehurst Elementary. He helped create some lasting memories there, like the gopher turtle he brought to school. The big fellow, who lived in David’s yard, was the star of recess. If we’d had “Show and Tell” David would have won. 

Another Pinehurst memory is from third-grade when I was the preacher in “A Tom Thumb Wedding.” Two second graders, Debra Peavy and Alex Everett, were the lucky couple. I don’t remember the play, just David’s unscripted line during our one rehearsal.

Debra was cute as pie and David had aspirations of becoming her boyfriend. Rehearsal was going fine until it was time for me to say, “You may kiss the bride.” David became the worst best man ever. “You better not kiss her,” he warned Alex. I guess our teacher overheard. The kissing scene was deleted. 

One more memory, then we’ll get to the main event. David and I were sophomores at Unadilla High School when we went on a double date in his 1958 Ford Galaxie. His Uncle, Tommy Davis, dealt in used cars and had sold him what seemed a fine ride for a country boy of sixteen.   

The black paint was shiny and the interior spotless. Even the engine was sparkling clean. David wanted to make a big impression on the gorgeous young lady and that’s what he did. She gasped when hot water spewed from under the dash onto her ankles. The burn wasn’t serious, but Cupid’s arrow was no match for a faulty heater core. Their first date was also their last.   

Now to the vehicle mishap. One afternoon during our senior year, David and I were in my 1964 Chevy Impala on the way to his house. As I turned off the highway onto the unpaved Lonesome Pine Road, the front end slid into the ditch. We laughed, thinking my careless driving had gotten us stuck in the sand.

We walked to David’s house to get a chain but only found a short rope in his father’s shop. David tied it to his car bumper and pulled on mine, which accomplished nothing except to destroy the rope. His father came home from work and saw that a tie rod had come loose on my car, which had rendered the steering wheel useless. Mr. John, a professional mechanic, adeptly fixed the problem. He then noticed the shredded strands on the shop floor.

With a mischievous grin he said to Daivd, “You little s.o.b. – You broke my favorite rope.” His colorful words were spoken with affection and tickled two teenage boys. That oddly tender moment still reminds me that love is sometimes expressed in unconventional ways. 

Over the years David and I have shared multiple laughs about that afternoon. A lot of time passed, though, before I saw a silver lining. If that tie rod had come loose in a different place or time, it could have been a sad occasion instead of a humorous one.

I don’t know if God regularly intervenes in everyday matters or lets things work out in the natural order of his creation. What I do know is this. I treasure good memories made with old friends, and I’m thankful for silver linings, even those I fail to see. 

I kept a handwritten note in March of 2020 from an older gentleman who had read “Lessons From the Ladder.” Although we’d never met, he instantly attained favored status by saying nice things about the author.

In a world of electronic communications, it was nice to get an old-style letter. Hopefully, pen and paper won’t become extinct, although I have reservations about cursive writing. It sounds inappropriate for a Baptist.

A newspaper clipping from April of 2021 announced that Daybreak Pregnancy Care Center was holding an open house in their new location. The leading cause of deaths in America is reportedly abortions, followed by heart-related issues. I suppose the two are intertwined. Matters of the heart lead to all sorts of problems.

Jane and I went to Lake Eufaula in Alabama on April 16th. I drove as she made notes about sights along the road.    

“Lions in a Pasture” is another of my unwritten columns. Two large concrete lions guard a pasture on Highway 280 in Sumter County. I seldom pass that way, but when I do Isaiah 11:6 comes to mind. “The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid, and the calf and young lion and the fatling together, and a little child shall lead them.”

I don’t know if scripture inspired someone to place those unusual sentries among their cattle, but that’s the thought I ponder when going by. If anyone knows their story, I’d love to hear it.

The Rooster Hotel is near Smithville, Georgia. I made up that name and know nothing about the place except what can be seen from the road. Dozens of 55-gallon barrels with small openings at the bottom house what I’m guessing are roosters. Each bird was tethered with a light line to his private quarters. Some patrolled their yards while others perched atop their cylindrical homes. I’m guessing the hotel is pet friendly despite fowl service.

Fading white letters, D. M. Dismuke Co., are still legible on a vacant red-brick building. I read online that it was once a thriving business in a vibrant community of Terrell County. Although the structure is more elaborate than the country stores of my childhood, it reminds me of that era.

Eight country stores, including Joiner’s Store, were within five miles of our home. Original owners included my grandfather, Jim Joiner, along with Tap Owen, El Sparrow, Bivins Calhoun, J. H. Love, Dee Mashburn, Doc Mashburn, and Harold Nutt, who opened his place in the 1960s. Mr. Harold had severe physical challenges, yet wore a constant smile to compliment exceptional determination.

Those stores were all long gone when much to my surprise a new one came along. Carver’s Country Store was opened a few years ago in a farming community near Mock Springs, a Pulaski County landmark. While there are plenty of good reasons to stop by, my favorite is a chili dog topped with onions and mustard and washed down with Dr. Pepper.

The hands of time only go in one direction, but I’m learning that the turns offer a blessing – good memories get sweeter with age. As a country store with fading white letters pleasantly reminded me of childhood, I realized that quiet rewards are getting easier to find in sights along the road. That may sound odd to some, but one thing I am certain of. Old men who write handwritten letters will understand.

My scribbled notes from 2021 named two friends I planned to visit. I waited too long for one. Viewing doesn’t count.

I kept a newspaper column by Lanier Roberts about an experience from his youth. He and a cousin were playing on a sawdust pile when a man with a knife startled them. They fled, never knowing if the stranger meant them harm or just wanted to scare them away. It reminded me of a local story that circulated during my childhood.

Sheriff Johnny Johnson made headlines in Dooly County after finding a moonshine still inside a sawdust pile. The ingenious setup had a gas cooker and a hidden entrance. Sheriff Johnson had earlier caught a bootlegger and noticed wood shavings in his car trunk. It didn’t take him long to find the pile. 

A scribbled note from June of 2021 demonstrated Mr. Emmett Stephens’ quickness in finding clever lines. His son, Charles, told me a story about a Vienna City Council meeting that Mr. Emmett attended decades ago.

Charles said his father wasn’t involved in politics, but he felt strongly about some proposal scheduled for discussion. After Mr. Emmett expressed his opposition, a member of the council asked, “Emmett, who pulled your string?” Mr. Emmett said, “Nobody. I’m a self starter.”

A. J. Jarvis, a former banker in Vienna, was mentioned in a note. He had suggested I write a column about old comics. Examples he gave included Smiley Jack, which I’m not familiar with, plus Dick Tracey and Snuffy Smith. As a longtime comic reader, I liked his idea. Liking without effort, though, doesn’t get things done.  

My favorites are gone from what Daddy called the funny papers, but I still read a few comics each day. When I was little Daddy would read them to me on Sundays and add bits of commentary. Snuffy Smith, Lil’ Abner, Beetle Bailey, and Little Orphan Annie were among his regulars. I don’t know how much reading the comics has impacted my life, but memories of sitting in my father’s lap are still a blessing.

A memo from April suggested Paul Harvey would be a good column topic. Years ago I was an ardent fan of his immensely popular radio program. I never wrote about him, but I do have a short personal story.

When Paul Harvey came to Valdosta State College in 1973 to make a speech, I was the Student Government President and had a chance to meet him. It surprised me when he asked if I knew Deke DeLoach and had I seen him. Deke soon joined us and was warmly greeted. I was impressed that Deke had never mentioned his family’s friendship with Mr. Harvey. It was a good lesson in choosing modesty.

After Mr. Harvey’s talk, he opened the floor for questions. A guy who was part hippie asked, “Do you think marijuana should be legalized?” Mr. Harvey flashed a huge grin. “I don’t think cigarettes should be legal!” he said. “Next question.” The audience, including a few aspiring hippies, laughed heartily. It was a splendid example of disagreeing without being disagreeable.

Deke DeLoach was a laid-back guy with an understated confidence. He had sort of a Peter Fonda vibe like in Easy Rider. I hadn’t thought about Deke in ages. Now I’m wondering what all roads he may have travelled. I’d love to know the rest of the story, but may have waited too long to ask. A scribbled note just became a sober reminder. Viewing doesn’t count.

My stack of scribbled notes is shorter, but still has a precarious tilt. I’ve grown a bit weary of sifting through papers, but recently found fresh motivation. We’ll get to that later.

I kept a sample letter of a common scam – trying to buy land for less than it’s worth. Legitimate buyers sometimes make unsolicited offers at decent prices. There are, however, countless solicitations which are far below market value.

Gazillions of unscrupulous proposals are made, knowing a few recipients will take the bait. Financial predators don’t mind taking advantage of people who can be manipulated. They also exploit very capable people who get careless. So be careful. If you’re leaning toward making a quick decision, it’s usually best to slow down.  

Another scribbled note contained several questions I had been pondering. Can a dog have a cat scan? Can a cat be dog-eared? Is a doggone cat gone because of the dog? It’s hard to sleep while searching for answers.

A newspaper clipping had a picture of Sonny and SuSu Burt announcing the sale of Daphne Lodge. I intended to write a story about them but never got around to it. Besides the excellent food and charming atmosphere, the lovely couple made customers feel like family. Like the bar on Cheers, it was a place where everybody knows your name.

One slip of paper had a potential column title, “Shadow Finds a Home.” My mother’s yard dog is 93 pounds of affection. He’s too friendly to be a protector but will knock you down if you’re carrying food. Here’s some background on that unwritten column. 

Shadow is the last survivor of three similar-looking stray dogs that found their way to my mother’s rural home. His ribs were showing when he came and he was afraid of people, as were Spot and Spottie before him. All three dogs, in different years, were apparently dropped off at the wet-weather creek near Mama’s home. Three strays went looking for mercy and found it. Perhaps there’s a lesson in their stories.

I’ve finished reviewing notes through 2022 and just got to one from October 3, 2021. Shannon Akin shared this high-school remembrance in our men’s Sunday School Class that Sunday. I know the date because I scribbled it on a church bulletin. It was about Mr. Hubert Yow, who taught agriculture at Vienna High School for decades.

Mr.Yow loved orange juice and kept some in a refrigerator in the ag building. Someone, however, began discretely depleting his supply. Mr. Yow spiked the juice with syrup of ipecac, a product used years ago to induce vomiting when a person swallowed poison. The mystery was solved, and Allen Cross lost his taste for orange juice.   

“Life Expectancy Plummets in U.S.” That newspaper article from September of 2021 included the 2020 chart. Men were pegged at an average of 74.5 years. I’m a bit weary of sifting through scribbled notes, but those statistics gave me new motivation. Rather than taking a break, maybe I should write a little faster. 

I’m hoping to be above average, but either way will be okay. An unwritten column, “Shadow Finds a Home,” just reminded me of three stray dogs who went looking for mercy and found it. Their good fortune probably involved some luck, but man has a sure thing if we claim it. It may not be on our terms or timetable, but mercy is ours for the asking.

Among my scribbled notes was a mention of the Beech Island Agricultural Club. Bud Trulock, a first cousin to my wife, told me long ago about a meeting he attended as a guest. I’m not sure what brought that conversation to mind more recently. I normally refrain from impolite language, as did Bud, but today I’m making an exception. 

Organized in 1856 in South Carolina, the club’s agenda for meetings includes electing a chairman for the next month and reading the minutes from 100 years earlier. Bud went because a retiring federal judge was being honored. 

When the seasoned jurist was asked to share what he had learned from his long tenure on the bench, an attentive crowd expected to hear eloquent pearls of wisdom. Instead he gave concise advice on flatulence and full bladders. “Never trust a @#$&,” he said, “and never pass up a chance to @#$.” Laughter and applause lasted longer than his talk.

A letter dated November 8, 2022, from the Georgia FFA Foundation was stashed among my scribbled notes. It was an acknowledgement of a memorial gift for my fellow Unadilla FFA String Band member Charles Jones. I kept the letter because of the inspiring signature at the bottom, Miracle Daley. I intended to ask about the story behind her name, but my intentions got buried under more scribbled notes.   

I hastily recorded a tidbit of family history in 2022. My mother had just recounted details of her mother winning the Silver Cow Evaporated Milk jingle contest. It was in the late 1950s, I think. I remember the prizes but didn’t know how she won them.

Grandmama was awarded coupons and a catalog for her first-place entry. The chrome dinette set she selected included a formica-top table plus six chairs with vinyl seats and backs. The other big item she chose was a clothes dryer, which worked great once they got electricity. 

I’m kidding about the current. The dryer was, however, an oddity at the time, the first in our community that I know of. Her clothes line was left in place, but used only slightly more than the iron dinner bell mounted near it. 

Our home also had a double clothes line, almost identical to Grandmama’s. Three galvanized pipes, with shorter pipes welded across the top to form a T, supported two strands of coated wire. A fond childhood memory is the wrinkled texture of line-dried muslin sheets. Their slight roughness made them feel cooler for a few seconds, a welcome sensation on hot summer nights.

A March 18, 2022, scribbled note described a newscast that day which showed Vladimir Putin addressing a large crowd in a Russian stadium. As he rallied support for his unwarranted invasion of Ukraine, he commended Russia’s military by quoting John 15:13, “Greater love hath no man known than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends.” 

It was disturbing to hear a murderous tyrant citing scripture to promote an unholy cause, but it shouldn’t have surprised me. Satan quoted scripture and his helpers still do. Other news that same day showed a Ukrainian city with a line of 110 empty strollers. Four years later the lines are much longer and still growing.

Sobering situations can feel overwhelming. Sometimes I take a frivolous detour and think about lighter moments, like Bud telling me about that old judge at Beech Island. At other times a name on a letter reminds me there’s always hope for tomorrow. If we look for it, we can find a miracle daily.