The Plight of Forgotten Georgia

Daniel Grove is a small church located

on a red clay dirt road near the border of

Johnson and Washington Counties.

This is Daniel Grove Church. It's an old dirt road church in the middle of nowhere. It borders one of our timber tracts and when I pass that way, I stop in to check on it. It's a peaceful place to me. A lady named Silla Mae who worked for my grandparents was a faithful member of Daniel Grove. Silla didn't drive so I would ride with Grandaddy as a child to take her home in the evenings. Sometimes on Wednesday's we would take her to church for revival meetings and she'd catch a ride home after the service with another member of the congregation. Silla was a dear, sweet soul and her memory is a part of why I keep an eye on the church. Yesterday, I walked to the very back of the cemetery and there I saw a small grave marked only with a little wooden cross made of pressure treated pine. A single, artificial tulip flower was the grave's only decoration. Incidentally, the picture was taken in the afternoon and you can see from the shadow cast by the lone tulip that the grave is perfectly oriented to face the rising sun. Briars are starting to grow over the grave now. It's been there long enough to assume that this is not a temporary situation. The size of the small mound of red clay which is now nearly settled level with the ground leads me to believe that this is the grave of a child. This is an image of what gripping poverty looks like.

 

The attention of a nation is focused on which presidential candidate is the bigger liar and an NFL quarterback with a $100+ million dollar contract who refuses to stand for the National Anthem and here, off of a rural Georgia dirt road behind a small country church under the shade of a pine tree, the body of a child lies in a grave with nothing more than two pieces of scrap wood fashioned into a cross and a plastic flower to mark his or her final resting place. This is inherently wrong. And you have to remind yourself that it really is this bad in many parts of the country. While certain areas prosper, others are completely ignored and neglected - maybe because it's just too painful to stare reality in its cold, hollow eyes. So these people and these places are ignored which makes the plight of forgotten Georgia even worse. Every member of Congress should be forced to place the picture of this grave on their desks and ask themselves daily, "what have I done today to ameliorate situations like this?"

The Politics of the Possum

Of all the creatures which live in the wilds of the South, it could be concluded that the possum is the most suited for the modern state of big time American politics.  The possum is a fine and well adapted creature.  He's a passive type primarily but will aggressively bare his teeth when he sees it fitting to do so.  When he does bare that toothy possum grin, he hopes you'll think that he'll back it up but he knows deep down he won't and can't if it comes down to it.  He's a creature which abides amidst the strife and conflict which continually surrounds him and it is there where he thrives.  But the possum doesn't involve himself unless he sees there to be an opportunity.  What the possum mainly does is watch and wait.  His hearing ain't good, his vision is worse and if something with swift and nimble feet gives chase to him on the forest floor, he will lose the race every time.  But still, he watches from on high from dawn until dusk as the sunshine washes across the forest floor.  From his perch, he surveys what goes on below while remaining vigilant about what goes on above for that is the realm in which the hawks and eagles fly and they have the wherewithal to snatch him out of his vantage point.  

The possum, he is an omnivore, which in Southern parlance means that he ain't picky... he'll take a little bit of whatever will get him by whether it be out of the garden or out of the henhouse.  The possum is an opportunist you might say.  Where he makes his living for the most part is after the sun sets and darkness falls.  It is then that he scales down the length of the trunk of his home tree and feasts himself on the bounty of the forest below as if it belonged to just him. 

He is somewhat awkward as he shuffles through the darkness but still very effective at his trade.  The possum is a survivor.  There's things in the darkness that will get after him like the devil himself and they will eat him whole if he's not slick enough to avoid them.  But usually, he is. In the river, there are alligators hoping he will get a little closer to the bank in the pitch black darkness so they might snatch him.  Bobcats watch his clumsy trek through the forest and hope he will meander just a little bit closer so that they can pounce. Owls watch him as he pokes along hoping the sound of his feet shuffling in the leaves will cover the sound of their wings cutting the air as they swoop down to grab him.  Coyote packs trail him hoping that they can bite his bottom legs and rip him apart before he climbs up the trunk of a tree to wait out the night and the dangers below.

One day, they'll get the old possum even though he played the game better than most ever will.  It's inevitable.  He will instinctively bare his teeth as the hounds close in but his fate is sealed. In the end, he will have done little more than to feign aggression while living high off the fat of the land without ever really contributing much to the greater good. And that is the story of how the possum became the President. 

This message was paid for by the Possum SuperPAC in partnership with Brer' Rabbit Holdings LTD. which is a division of Briar Patch Worldwide, LLC. 

 

             

The Aftermath of Fighting Over the Stars and Bars

It is old news by now that the TV Land channel axed its reruns of The Dukes of Hazard in the wake of the tragedy in Charleston, South Carolina. This act has sparked tremendous controversy. Whether or not you agree with the removal of the Dukes from network television, there is an overarching point here which should not escape this debate. That point is that hate is not conquered by the sacrificial execution of a television show and the flag painted on top of the car at the center of it.


In the South I grew up in, the Dukes of Hazard was the highlight of my Friday nights. I was a devoted fan. On more than one occasion, I sustained injuries and stitches as the result of riding my bicycle off of the precipice of our patio with the unyielding belief that it would fly across the ravine just like the General Lee did on TV. My childhood eyes never saw hate in the General Lee or in Bo or Luke Duke.

I read an article about this debate recently that cited a comment by the Parent’s Television Council on the topic of TV Land’s action which I believe is well worth repeating. They agreed with the removal of the Confederate battle flag from public places but they characterized TV Land’s removal of the Dukes from their lineup as ‘blatant hypocrisy’. I could not agree more. TV Land’s parent company is the media giant, Viacom. As noted by the Parent’s Television Council, Viacom is the purveyor of television content which glamorizes drug use and horrible violence, trivializes pedophilia, rape and the sexual abuse of women and children and when they are called out for so doing, "they are quick to wrap themselves in the banner of Free Speech." That quote deserves front page coverage.

From a very early age, I was taught by my parents and grandparents that a gun was a dangerous and deadly thing. I grew up hunting the whitetail deer and the bobwhite quail and I have never turned down an invitation to a good dove shoot. I have successfully hunted and killed every subspecies of wild turkey in the continental United States excepting only the elusive Osceola turkey of Florida and it is on my radar. Once I tag an Osceola, I will have completed the US Grand Slam of turkey hunting. What I do grasp with absolute certainty is that when the hammer falls, a hand of death is dealt to what is on the other end. Anyone who fails to appreciate this should never wield a firearm.

Video games do not teach this vital principle. These games glorify violence and the killing other virtual people in the air conditioned comfort of your own home. They lend the weak minded or impressionable a belief that death on a TV screen isn’t really permanent. All you have to do is hit the reset button and you can kill the same person again and again and again and it’s not really real... until it is real.

The game manufacturers may say that these episodes are the end result of tragic failures of parenting. In part, they are right. But where it matters, they are tragically and shamelessly wrong. I shudder to think of the abilities, or lack thereof, of the people who raised the boy who walked into a Church in Charleston, South Carolina, listened to their Bible study, conversed with them about scripture and then he stood up, withdrew a gun from his backpack and methodically killed as many of them as he could.

Of course, no one seems to know the detailed circumstances of his childhood but some things can possibly be inferred. The first is that he was indoctrinated and taught to hate people whose skin bore a darker pigmentation than his. Hate must be taught. No one is born with an innate sense of hatred in his or her heart. Second, hatred must be cultivated and reinforced. The mind of a child is inherently malleable but forgiving so you have to really lay it on at some point to get the concept of hatred to stick. Somebody surely did with him. Third, he had a weak and impressionable mind forged in the furnace of a disastrous childhood devoid of love, compassion or guidance.

What this killer did has weighed on my mind considerably so I thought it would help to lay my feelings out by writing about it. My childhood in the small southern town of Wrightsville, Georgia was largely interracial and multi-cultural. Black people spend Christmas and Thanksgiving with us and if they’re not there, we miss them. One of the first and best friends I ever had was Dorsey B. Lewis. He was black and I was white and neither one of us ever noticed the color difference. He died on me before I could tell him goodbye but I miss him daily and especially when I drive past his house.

The mass media desperately coveted the proliferation of racial hostility in the South after this terrible event and that they did not receive because of the integrity and character of those who responded to the calls at the Mother Emanuel Church in Charleston. They wanted riots and strife and calls for blood - just as the killer had wanted. Instead, they received a message of Christian forgiveness. They possessed all of the traits that their killer lacked.

Society should not reduce this to a fight over symbolism. The contest is one of morality, ethics and character. In this debate, the Confederate flag is the equivalent of a bloody piece of meat being thrown between two pit bulldogs. They may fight each other to the death and, in the end, they will fall dead beside the object they were fighting over. But the object will still be there albeit soaked from the blood that they shed as life seeped from their bodies. The better course is to follow the example of the congregants of the Church in Charleston and chart a better path for the future. Introspection should be a key part of this. It is not enough to condemn the act and not the societal ill that creates the actor. This is not the product of a lack of gun control. It is more fundamental than that. This is the collective failure of our society to look in the mirror and address the root cause of very real problems.

The Hard Road to the Happy Hunting Grounds

This is the victim's skull.  A visible crack can be seen

running from behind the right eye ridge to the base of

the cranium.  This is evidence of the tremendous force

of the death blow.  

This is the story of a brutal, premeditated murder.  It happened on a high ridge overlooking a deep hardwood bottom near Limestone Creek just outside of Sandersville, Georgia in Washington County.  The victim had been marched up a foot path winding through towering pine and white oak trees to the site where he would lose his life and the men who would soon kill him walked only a few steps behind.  He knew very well that his fate was sealed.  He need not run for the men in the execution party were all capable of catching him with ease.  All of them were lean, muscular and built for the kill.  One of those men walking behind him was carrying a large ax and this was no coincidence.  To a man, they knew what the ax would be used for once they reached the top of the high bluff.  

 

This is the skeleton of the executed Creek

Indian as he lay in his grave immediately

prior to excavation.

The soon-to-be victim knew this land well.  It was where he grew up.  He had fished in Limestone Creek as a boy and came of age as a highly skilled hunter of the elusive whitetail deer which was a staple of his family's diet.  His youth was a distant memory now.  He had walked many trails before as far west as the Ocmulgee River and to the east all the way to the Savannah River.  He had walked this exact trail before, in fact, but never under these circumstances and it would be the last trail he would ever walk in life.   

 

The terrible weight of what was about to befall him may have brought tears to his eyes but he fought them back and tried to exude what little bit of bravery he could muster.  Cowardice even as he faced his own death would bring shame upon his family and this he desperately hoped to avoid. 

 

As the execution party topped the hill, he saw his mother weeping and his father was there too trying to maintain composure.  They were standing over a shallow, open grave at the bottom of which there was already one dead body which had been washed and bound into fetal position.  The family of the deceased had placed personal items in the grave around the body including a handmade clay bowl that had been filled with kernels of corn.  The items would never again serve any earthly purpose but placing them there helped the family better cope with seeing the dead body of their loved one covered with dirt and committed to the earth for all time to come.  But there was also the belief that the soul of the deceased now walked invisibly within their midst or hovered just above observing the respect that was afforded to the body which it had recently abandoned.  And so it was that these last rites and acts of earthly affection were performed by the survivors to ensure that the spirit would not morph into a malevolent force that would bring them havoc for the remainder of their days in this land. 

 

This is the skeleton of another Creek Indian

found buried beside the one who was

executed.  The clay Muscogee Creek bowl

is seen here as well.

The scene was finally set as the condemned, the executioner and his party and the onlookers gathered in a circle around the other open grave at the bottom of which there was no body.  Yet.  The executioner was the largest man among them all.  The expression on his face was deadly serious as he abruptly outstretched a muscular arm toward the man holding the ax.  The instrument of death was handed over to the lead man and the other men in the party took a few steps back.  The executioner then grabbed the upper arm of the condemned man and walked him a step closer to the edge of the pit then kicked the back of his legs and he fell to the ground on his knees.  One last act of human kindness or comfort was offered though.  At the nod of the executioner, a woman approached and opened her hand in which there were two crude fired balls of clay with small stems attached.  The condemned man took them from her and placed them in each of his ears.  They were ear plugs meant to prevent him from hearing the whir of the wind that would be produced at the moment the ax came down towards the back of his skull.

This is an artist's rendering provided by the

archaeologists who studied the site showing

how this sort of execution would have been

conducted by the Creek Indians.

The executioner then took the ax handle in both hands and centered himself standing directly over his victim.  The doomed man took a helpless last look around at his family and the others gathered to witness his death.  He then filled his lungs with a final breath and looked down toward the earth.  When his head became steady, the executioner lifted the ax high above his head and with all the strength of his upper body, brought it crashing down and buried its blade deep in the man's head with a dull crack.  At the same time, a fine spray of blood, brain matter and small fragments of his skull was cast in all directions landing on the feet of the observers and the bases of the nearby pine trees.  The force of the blow was so great that it shattered the skull along its cranial lines and bright red blood oozed out from the hole over his black hair.  His spirit sprang out and soared upward far above the virgin timber, creeks and rivers in its ascent to the Happy Hunting Ground and his now dead body slumped forward and twitched as the nerves continued to fire at random with no corresponding instruction from the brain.  The executioner then straddled the body and pulled the ax head from its point of rest and the sound of stone scraping against skull bone broke the silence that had descended upon the ridge. 

 

The entry point of the ax can be seen at 

the rear of the cranium in this picture. 

Fractures along the cranial lines are also

visible.  

 

The sentence was now complete and the dead man's mother with the help of some of the other women at the scene brought water from the creek in clay bowls and gourds to wash his body and the blood from his now contorted skull.  After that task was completed, the men remaining at the site of the execution arranged his body into fetal position and bound it with ropes made of natural fibers and vines so that it would not outstretch as rigamortis set in.  The corpse was then lowered into the hole directly facing the other body and the dark, lifeless eyes of both bodies seemed to stare at each other even in death.  The only thing between them was the ceremonial clay bowl filled with corn.  The bodies were then covered with the loamy soil of Georgia's Fall Line and there they remained for all time to come underneath the towering pines.

 

Examples of stone axes found in

Washington County, Georgia.

This case will never be featured on a news network, the GBI will not issue a press release announcing that the body in a cold case investigation has been found and the District Attorney will never bring murder charges against the responsible parties.  The reason?  This murder took place likely before the year 1600 just outside of the city limits of modern-day Sandersville, Georgia.  Now, whether he met his end exactly as described above is anyone's guess. Even so, it's likely the first documented case of murder in Washington County.  The victim was a Muscogee Creek Indian.  The executioners were members of his tribe.  He really was found buried in a grave alongside another Creek Indian with a clay bowl placed between the bodies.  There were remnants of particulate grains in the bowl believed to have been indian corn.  Also found in the grave was a clay ball with a small stem attached which was believed to have been an ear plug to prevent him from hearing the sound of the ax coming down on him.  A matching piece was not found so this is not a certainty but the ear plug theory is the most plausible explanation.  It was clearly not jewelry and was found at the side of the skull near to where the ear would have been.      

 

Savannah Complicated Stamp pattern clay bowl

found between the Indian skeletons.

 

The bowl found at the burial site is of key importance to unlocking its secrets.  It is known as Savannah Complicated Stamp pottery and the design was made by pressing a wooden paddle with the design carved into it against the bowl while the clay was still wet.  The same basic pottery design has been unearthed throughout middle and south Georgia and it is the calling card of the Muscogee Creek Indians.  When you find pottery bearing the concentric circle design, you are standing on or are very near a Creek Indian site.  The Muscogee Creeks were the direct descendants of the Mississippian Moundbuilder culture that constructed the huge mounds outside of Macon at what is now the Ocmulgee National Monument. 

 

Sandersville and Washington County was a stronghold of the Creeks and there are sites littered throughout the area.  The mysterious Indian trade route known as the Uchee Trail ran through southern parts of the county.  The victim of this execution may have been a long term resident of Washington County or he may simply have been here temporarily as he navigated along the Uchee Trail.  However, one thing is certain: something occurred here in which he was involved and it led to his brutal death and burial within walking distance of the Courthouse Square.  

 

Clearly, he was executed but the reason will forever remain shrouded in mystery.  The archeologists who studied his grave concluded that his execution could have been in retribution for a bad act he was responsible for.  Perhaps adultery.  But there is also the possibility that his death was the end result of ritual sacrifice.  If he was sacrificed, there is an implication that the other Creek who he was buried with was the Muscogee Creek equivalent of royalty or a high ranking member of the Chiefdom.  The other skeleton showed no sign of death by force.  The skull was found in pieces but it probably collapsed over time after becoming waterlogged after the brain decomposed.  Upon being unearthed, the skull cavity of the executed Creek had been filled with sand over time - probably thanks to the gaping ax blade hole at its rear and that is what maintained its intact structure.

 

There are many variations of early Creek Indian beliefs about the afterlife.  It is thought that they believed a body had two souls. One soul akin to the breath of the body died when the body died.  The other soul was the eternal, spiritual soul which departed the body at death.  Important in this context is the fact that they believed that the one could capture or harness the eternal soul of another to the captor's benefit.  Thus, it is plausible that the royal Indian here died of natural causes and the victim was sacrificed in order to release his eternal soul from the body so that it could be captured and used by the other to cross successfully into the afterlife.  And that afterlife may have been known as The Happy Hunting Ground, where the game was plentiful and the spears and arrows of warriors always found their mark.            

 

       

 

Growing Into Fatherhood

In about a week, my youngest child will be two months old.  She is sleeping right here in her crib beside me.  When I look at my two daughters, I often think to myself, "I'm a father?!?  I'm their father!  I sure hope I turn out to be a good one."  It's sort of like learning to ride a bike.  At a certain point, the training wheels come off and you hope you don't crash.

You probably draw most from your own father in going about your fatherly duties.  For instance, after hearing the word "butt" and the term "shut-up" from my eldest child in the back seat on our ride home from art camp this past week, I told her, "that's not nice and we don't say that because it's ugly."  Undeterred, she let it rip again.  This was the exchange:

 

Bethany:  Can I say butt?

 

Me:  No.  That's ugly. 

 

Bethany:  But you said but.

 

Me:  There's a difference.  Don't say butt again.  It's not nice. 

 

Bethany:  What if I say it like "buuuttttt I'm thirsty." 

 

Me:  If I hear you say butt or any variation thereof again, we're going to pull off in the ditch and I'm going to spank your fanny good. 

 

Bethany:  Well, can I say fanny? 

 

Me:  No. 

 

Bethany:  Well you said fanny so why can't I say fanny?

 

Where did that exchange come from I thought in retrospect?  The answer: from my own childhood.  I'll be the first to tell you that for every good spanking I did get, which were relatively few, I deserved tenfold more.  But I did come to respect the authority of the leather belt.  And Daddy had a vintage one from the 1970's that had to be about two inches wide.  It commanded my utmost respect. 

 

One time, I intentionally and with much premeditation punctured my sister's front bicycle tire as repercussion for using my "boys only" bicycle ramp.  But I made the rookie mistake of leaving the tools I used in the crime at the scene.  Rather than confess, I went on the run.  As in, running across our yard towards the woods in hopes I'd be able to climb a tree like a renegade cougar and wait out the pursuers until nightfall when they'd give up and go inside.  No such luck.  My father is 6 foot 5 inches tall and caught me in about two steps.  Despite my demands to be extradited into the custody of my grandparents, I received a sound and well deserved spanking.    

 

Like most anyone, my life was shaped by my parents.  I'm thankful they were both there and cared about me.  I'm thankful that they taught me right from wrong and that disregard came with consequences.  Though I fall short daily, they taught me to take the high road and turn the other cheek.  Only when you become a parent can you know how lucky you were as a child to have parents that loved you and taught you these things.   

 

It is an absolute fact that no family is perfect.  Like every person, every family has its flaws.  But just to have a family is a special thing in life.  To have a father that saw you as his child and not an expense or obligation seems to be a fleeting commodity these days.  I wrote this because my 3 year old daughter walked out on the back porch tonight and said to me, "Daddy, what are you and me going to do tomorrow?"  My answer: fishing.  And we're going.  Creek fishing with cane poles and crickets.   

 

 

The Luck of Knowing Dorsey B. Lewis

 

One of the greatest gifts that life gives you is knowing people.  Especially certain ones.  They most often come to you out of the clear blue yonder and impact your life in innumerable ways.  None of them are the same.  Many times, the special ones are like fireflies in the darkness.  They light up the world around them and when their light is gone, you know it because of the absence of that light they brought to the world.  Especially to your world.      

Some fade away but others up and die on you. The former is hard enough but the latter is the worst. You get a call one day and the voice on the other end tells you the news that no matter how you get it is never welcomed.  And then your mind starts to churn over all the memories that made someone else know that you would want to know if anything ever happened to that person.

For me, a man named Dorsey B. Lewis was just such a person.  He was a true character of the South if ever there was such a thing and he was a tried and true friend of mine. I don't know when my childhood mind started to remember events and people but whenever it started clicking, he was one of my first memories. I loved him.

His first name was Dorsey but I never could pronounce it as a small child so I called him "Bee".  It was an extension of his middle initial, B.  It was the best I could do but as I recall, every time I saw him and said, "Bee!" an old familiar smile would ease across his face like the sun coming up over Georgia farm fields. 

When I came to know Bee, for him, it must have been like an old dog having to put up with a hyperactive puppy running around under his feet and nipping at his heals.  Lucky for me that Bee was Bee so he not only put up with me but he took me in and showed me kindness and love.

Bee could operate anything powered by a diesel engine.  If it didn't crank, he could take a bottle of ether, a flathead screwdriver, a pocket knife and a variety of good, solid cuss words and bring to life the massive diesel engines.  I watched every single thing he did.  I'm a better diesel mechanic for having done so.  He taught me a lot about life.   

I spent ever so many days of my childhood standing in his shadow working under the hot Georgia sun or riding beside him in his pickup truck.  He knew things that no one else did.  He had a feel for the world around him.  Some of it came from a lifetime of experience in dealing with all things agricultural.  But the rest came from a sixth sense that can't be taught.  He knew if a cold front was coming the next day by looking at the color of the sunset on the day before it arrived.  He could pick out the crazy cow in every herd.  And there always is at least one cow in a herd that will run straight through a panel wire fence if they get exited or spooked.  Without ever looking at a rain gauge, he could tell you whether or not there was too much moisture in the ground to harrow cropland.  And I always wanted to plow that ground with him because he let me sit on the fender of the big International tractors while he drove and I observed.    

One of Bee's virtues was hard work.  He believed in it.  He thought it made a man a man and if anyone ever practiced what he preached, it was Bee.  We took off on a fishing trip one afternoon later in his life and we went through Harrison, Georgia on our way to the river.  As we passed a particular house, there were several folks sitting on the porch and Bee politely waved at them and they waved back.  After we passed, I asked him if he knew them and he said he did but that in his opinion as only Bee could say it, "and every one of em' need to get up off that damn porch and take their ass to work."  Bee's belief in work was an extension of his character and his love for his family.  He sacrificed himself so that his children could see a better day.  In the end, his greatest aspirations were realized.  I was recently reunified with two of his daughters and they have gone on to do great things.  Both are successful, strong women and you can see his resemblance in their faces.            

One of the striking things about Bee were the things he did but didn't have to do.  For starters, he certainly never had to like me.  The was plenty of racism in these parts around the time I was born.  There was plenty more when he was born.  If you look up "Ku Klux Klan" in a 1960's version of the World Book Encyclopedia, you will see the picture to the right.  This picture was taken in downtown Wrightsville, Georgia.  Bee lived right up the road from where this picture was taken when it was taken.  Yet, he let me ride in his lap and, at times, saved me from danger.  I particularly remember one time when I climbed over the top of a cattle chute with 800 pound heifers stacked up underneath that could crush you if they pinned you against a fence.  He saw me up there and said, "boy, you better get your ass down from there before you fall in."  I started my way down, slipped and fell in.  Soon as I did, a 2x4 slat immediately appeared before and aft of my position inserted through the side of the chute courtesy of Bee which walled the cows off from trampling me and he fished me out unharmed but covered with mud and cow manure.  And that's just one story of many.  But that's from my perspective.  From his perspective, he could have hated me because of my skin color.  He didn't.  Instead, he chose to be my friend.   

Why did Bee do what he did and why was he the man he was?  Only he knew for sure.  The answer in my opinion and in Bee's words is, "because he gave a damn."  He was an optimist.  He cared about his family and wanted better for them.  He cared about the world and his friends in it.  He had values, character and wisdom.  He had seen hard times yet he wanted no handouts.  Life had not been fair at times.  But still he believed in a better day even if he might not live to see it.


A picture of me and Bee taken on

December 15, 1995. 

Bee and I had a special sort of friendship.  As I had grown older, we became even closer and I tried to find time to spend with him because I valued it and never took that friendship for granted.  Every summer was fishing season for us and whenever I had some spare time, we took off to the river.  He was decades older than me but it never seemed that way.  When we hit the water, we were like two carefree boys and we had a ball even when the fish weren't biting.  We'd tell stories and laugh, while filling a cooler full of Ogeechee River Redbreasts.  I thought those times would last forever. Then, about seven years ago on a cold, random December day, I was working and I had several missed calls from my mother.  I called her back worried that something was wrong.  Something was wrong.  She said it the only way you can say it, "Dorsey B. died last night."  A tear rolled down my face.  More than one in fact.  I had planned on us doing quite a bit more fishing and spending time together.  But, he had slipped away without me being able to tell him goodbye and how much he meant to me although I hope and believe he knew.   



The time I had with Bee was a gift.  Will there be men like him in future generations?  I hope so.  I think our future depends on it.  I began this piece talking about fireflies but that wouldn't apply to Bee.  He was more like a spotlight.  He's gone now but his memory and his shadow remain.  And a very tall shadow it is which is surrounded by wonderful memories of a good man and a true friend.    

The View From The Jury Room Window

It has been said that America's best days are behind her.  I don't believe it.  The color palette of life here is too vibrant and has too much to offer the world.  These colors are most vibrant in the small towns - especially in the south.  That's where I grew up.  The great hope of America was born in its small towns.  It lives there still.     

 

We have a chain store here and there, but there's a lot of those solo operators too.  I like them the best.  There's usually a story behind every one.  If the old Coca-Cola signs that hung around here for decades could talk, oh what stories they could tell. 

There was once a man I know in the town where I grew up who was a pharmacist.  He had his own pharmacy which he opened not too long after he graduated from pharmacy school at the University of Georgia. It was there before I was even born and it's still there to this day.

Before going to pharmacy school, it had been his goal to get an education and one day come back to this small town which he was from and provide a service to the people he grew up among.  It worked out pretty good for him and the people who lived in the small town went to see him when they needed a prescription filled.  He would try to help his customers out in other ways if he could.  Every now and then, people would need help with changing the batteries in their wrist watches or hearing aids and he would fix them.  There were other people who lived in the town who couldn't afford things like crutches, walkers or wheelchairs.  The pharmacist would buy secondhand items like this whenever he saw them for sale and he would keep them on hand to give to those who couldn't afford to buy them on their own.  Other people just needed to talk to someone because they had no one else to talk to so the far end of his pharmacy counter became a familiar place to many. 

One day after he had been there for some time but while his children were still riding bicycles with training wheels, a chain pharmacy expressed its intent to place a pharmacy in the small town. The location would be very close to the pharmacist's store.  In fact, the location was within a stone's throw from his store.  The company told him he should sell out or else face the wrath of its corporate machine.  Put another way, "hang it up or we'll put you out of business."  The only other private pharmacy in town closed under the shadow of the impending doom and shuttered its doors.  But the pharmacist I'm writing about didn't.  Of course, it was worrisome, even threatening but he held the line and stayed put.  He had to have had a belief about those customers who had allowed him to make a living in the small town but, as with all things in life, nothing is certain.

What the big outfit failed to factor into their plan was a reality that was hidden in plain sight.  It was a theme woven into the fabric of the small town.  That fact was that the pharmacist was the only pharmacist in the county who would get out of bed at 2:00 a.m. on any random night to fill prescriptions for those who had just returned from the emergency room after a scare from a heart condition or after their child had been hurt or had a fever or for any other time when there was a need.  The chain didn't offer that service and never would.  But the pharmacist always did.

If you've read this far and you're from around here, you probably know by now the pharmacist I'm writing about is my father, Joe Sumner.  If you pass through Wrightsville, Georgia on Highway 15, you'll see Sumner Pharmacy just across the road from the courthouse.  I think the arrival of Rite-Aid was the best thing that ever happened to him.  It's probable that the customers of the private pharmacy that closed shop simply moved their business across the courthouse square to Sumner Pharmacy, the only other private pharmacy in Johnson County.  He's no longer the only pharmacist there these days.  They have three now.  And they even have a Facebook page!  Who would have ever seen that coming after almost five decades?  Be sure to Like em'. 

After I graduated from law school and began practicing, I was set start a jury trial in the Superior Court of Johnson County and I was going through all the hypotheticals in my mind.  I had worked for days trying to cover every last detail so I'd be prepared for everything the other side might try to pull.  What a jury will do with a case is inherently unpredictable.  If a lawyer ever tells you that a certain result is guaranteed, they're either lying or too inexperienced to know better.  In the process of it all, I sat down with my client to prepare for trial.  I went through the scenarios with him and started discussing the upside and downside and he cut me off clean and said,

"I hear what you're telling me and I appreciate it and all but I'm gone tell you I think we in pretty good shape here."

"I think so too" I said, "but I just want to make sure we cover everything...".

He cut me off again.

"You want me to tell you why I think we in good shape?"

"Yes sir, I'd love to hear it."

"Well, cause our side of the case is accurate and truthful and I believe in the people around here."

So I said, "I agree but you never know who will wind up on a jury so that's no guarantee."

"Well" he said, "I still feel pretty good even aside from that concern.  You ever sat on a jury?" 

"I've been called for jury duty and showed up but never actually sat on one."

"You know what juries do when they thinkin' about a case and especially if they get bored?  They get up and walk around and look out the window of the jury room.  That's what they do."

So I said, "What in the world are you trying to tell me here?"

"What I am trying to tell you is if you look out the jury room window of the Johnson County Courthouse, what you gone be staring right square at is Sumner Pharmacy.  And, n'case you didn't know by now, your daddy is the only man in a thirty mile radius who will let folks charge their diabetes medication, heart pills, blood pressure pills and Viagra.  Hell, I feel real damn good about it... how many of them jurors you think is gone look out that window and think the same thing about that Atlanta lawyer we been dealin' with?  Not a single one.  So I feel real damn good.  Yes sir I do."

He was right.  The case settled.

Rural America isn't perfect but it's the only place where you can still see a living Norman Rockwell painting if you know where to look.  If huge cities are the economic muscles of America, then small towns are its heart.  And Wrightsville has a big heart.  If you break down here, we'll look out for you and, if necessary, get your prescription for nitroglycerine refilled if you happened to have left yours at home.  Go to the pharmacy on the corner across from the courthouse.  If they ain't open, I know someone who will drive back into town to take care of you.