I’ve spent some time back “home” in coastal Georgia this summer, far more than any ordinary summer, and I’m sharing stories this month about time with Dad in his final days and the stories he shared. Dad was a Baptist minister who served twice as pastor of First Baptist Church on St. Simons Island, Georgia – so my brother and I grew up there – learning to swim and ride bikes, learning to read and multiply and add, learning to crab off the pier and fish and learning to live. We lived a few other places over the years, but St. Simons came full circle as the beginning and the end of Dad’s career as a family of four.
I think what I loved most about growing up on an island wasn’t really ever about the where, but about the what and the whom~ more specifically, the what of childhood and its carefree nature. The friends, the family time, and the things we did together. It surprises me when I go back there that I ever lived and played in all that extreme heat. As a post-menopausal female now, I much prefer cooler places with drier air. While I love the beach, I’m not a fan of swimming in any ocean because Jaws came out when I was ten years old and wrecked my ability to see anything but a place where hungry sharks lurk when I look to the sea. It scared me so bad I didn’t even want to put my hands in the kitchen sink to wash dishes after that – – let alone go down to the shoreline.
My good friend Lisa Warren and I used to ride our bikes to church back in the 1970s when the world was a safer place, and I remember Dad’s sermon jokes he told from the pulpit. He told so many of them that always helped break the ice and get the sermon going. In his final days, I recorded a retelling of a favorite joke that you can hear him tell in his own voice below.
Earthworms and Moonshine
The Sunday School teacher had a mason jar of moonshine and an earthworm. He drops that earthworm in that moonshine, and it disintegrates.
Now, boys and girls, what does that teach you?
A little boy said, “If you drink moonshine, you won’t have worms.”
Today, I salute childhood summertime memories in a tricube: three stanzas of three lines each, each line having three syllables.
Dave Wooley, our host for Day 4 of #VerseLove 2025, lives in Pennsylvania.
Dave inspires us to write from the perspective of a traveller, choosing to focus on the place, or focus on the experience of traveling, or maybe just the idea of being a traveller. He suggests using photos to help relive moments and inspire the thoughts of the poem. You can read his full prompt here.
I chose a photo of my youngest granddaughter with me having ice cream at Leopold’s in Savannah, Georgia and wrote a pantoum poem to capture the memory.
Sisterhood of the Southern Sweet Tooth
there we were, so sassy
Magnolia Mae and I
eating rose petal ice cream
at Leopold’s in Savannah, Georgia
Magnolia Mae and I~
grandmother and granddaughter
at Leopold’s in Savannah, Georgia
of the Sisterhood of the Southern Sweet Tooth
grandmother and granddaughter
sharing a spoon and a knowing smile
of the Sisterhood of the Southern Sweet Tooth
Georgia girls with flowery style
sharing a spoon and a knowing smile
eating rose petal ice cream
Georgia girls with flowery style
there we were, together
My youngest granddaughter and I – sharing ice cream
I’ve been in Savannah, Georgia this week for a conference, and everything’s coming up green. The grass is growing, flowers are blooming, and River Street is gearing up for its world-famous St. Patrick’s Day parade in a few weeks. The city becomes a shoulder-to-shoulder party on that day. It all brings back memories of our Senior Skip Days in high school, when we’d pile into cars and make our way from just across the state line in Bluffton, SC to Savannah, Georgia. The whole high school skipped class to honor the seniors, so we basically had four senior skip days during our high school years.
I don’t miss those days – – but I’m glad to have the memories, and I’m glad I was sparkle-sprinkled with the luck of the Irish all those years ago! I think the Irish blessing stays with me most days! Look around ~ my wish for you is that you find some Irish luck today, too.
we, in one accord listened ~ hung on every word our hungry hearts heard
Thursday night’s reading of Awakenings by Clayton Moon in our local coffee shop on the town square to kick off our town’s celebration of National Poetry Month was a heartwarming cross-section of intergenerational bridging that nothing but poetry can build. From teenagers to young adults to middle-agers to seniors, we were all listening in one accord as we hung on every word.
Before I welcomed Clayton to the microphone, I shared the impact of a writing community not only in the writing, but in the day to day living – the motivation to learn new things, to try new things, to notice new things. I shared with those who’d come that I would be sharing poems written by living poets from across the United States during the month of April. I began by sharing a definition poem illuminating our theme of awakenings, written by our friend Fran Haley of North Carolina. I shared each canvas, one at a time, describing how they would hang ladder-style in the window of the Chamber of Commerce with eye hooks and chain once the display was complete. #4 brought smiles, the kind I could tell were deep from within, the knowing satisfaction of a feeling.
Here are some photos of the kickoff event for our town’s poetry celebration.
Definition poem by Fran Haley
Clayton “Boxer” Moon reads from his book Awakenings
Clayton, who goes by Boxer for most of us who know him, shared his book, written from the awakening to the brewing of the coffee to the first cup, the second cup, the third cup, and the dregs. His featured poem, The Heart of Nahoo, offered a tribute to retired educator Dr. Dan Dunnahoo, who was our county’s long-time art teacher and who now is the president of the Pike County Arts Council and who restored the coffee shop and preserved its history right down to saving each nail and floorboard.
Boxer’s books and Sarah’s art – they collaborate on father/daughter books that he writes and she illustrates
Boxer reads to the crowd
Boxer (L), Dr. Dan Dunnahoo (C), and Sarah (R) stand with an excerpt of Boxer’s tribute poem for Dan.
Three people who didn’t know each other an hour ago write poetry together – this is why we need more of it!
This young lady wrote a Cento poem in a short time – she used the poetry kiosk sticks and wrote hers in colorful letters.
One of our town’s short story writers came out to support poetry writing and hear Clayton read.
Our town’s Magistrate Judge talks with Sarah and Melinda Moon, Clayton’s wife and daughter
Ethan Jacobs’ Cento Poem on a magnetic poetry kiosk
Ethan was our poet for our February event. He shared from is recently published book Dust. I also wanted to share a couple of photos from his event. We’re blessed to live in a town where authors, poets, and artists stand ready to share their talents with us!
Ethan Jacobs was our reader from February, and this is a photo from his Leap Day event.
Ethan Jacobs read from his book Dust on Leap Day in our coffee shop.
Come visit us in Georgia, have coffee, and read and write with us!
After our National Day on Writing event on October 20 on the Courthouse square, I wrote an article for our local newspaper and submitted it. The editor also wrote an article and merged the two pieces together. It appeared yesterday in the Pike County Journal-Reporter, and already we have growing interest in the newest writing group to form in our community – Writing Wild!
I’m so proud to live in a community where local writing groups and literary events thrive. There is now a new Facebook page to help publicize the events. Please follow and like the page – Writing Wild – and say hello! Better yet, come to the Open Mic Writing Out Loud event on December 5 at 1828 Coffee Company in Zebulon, Georgia!
A colleague shared that she thought I’d enjoy visiting a bookstore she’d visited on her birthday.
The Underground Bookstore is in Carrollton, Georgia on the downtown square.
She was right. This place is charming, and the literary candles that use scents from items mentioned in their namesake books are delightful.
You step down into stairs so old they’re not built to code, and immediately the smell of books and the antiquity of bookshelves greets you like an old friend. Staff reviews line the shelves under featured titles, enticing you to read all the books.
And the poetry section……oh my! The poetry section had a few holes here and there (no Harjo, only one Limon, and only two obscure Collins) but still an amazing collection of those lesser-known poets and titles that sell the books. I came away with a couple of Sarah Kay books (one signed), one Collins, one Macfarlane/Morris (signed), and a book I needed for a book club that is already well underway – – Braiding Sweetgrass: Indigenous Wisdom, Scientific Knowledge, and the Teachings of Plants by Robin Wall Kimmerer.
After dinner on the square, we went to the most aromatically-roasted coffee shop ever, the kind with old brick walls and people talking in comfortable chairs around a round table and folks on computers doing work, ……..and right there in the middle of it all, the two of us…….reading books.
We both worked on projects most of Saturday after visiting our own local coffee shop and Savored Sunday afternoon on the streets of another town this week, and the twist-up was a beautiful way to end the weekend and start the week ahead.
A favorite Saturday morning hangout in our corner of the world over here in middle Georgia is 1828 Coffee Company. We go there some Saturday mornings for the best local cup of coffee, cinnamon roll, cheese grits, and breakfast casserole. Even though they don’t open until 9:00 a.m. on weekends (a little different business model for a coffee shop), and even though I will have had at least two cups of coffee by then, and even though I’ll be counting a single Weight Watchers point with Chobani Zero Sugar Yogurt and a fresh diced peach, we will go.
My husband, who loves all things food but is a creature of habit to the degree that if he ever goes missing, I’ll know to start the search party hounds in all the local Chick Fil As, loves this coffee shop on the Zebulon, Georgia square. It’s a restored, quaint place with a 100% Zebulon, Georgia vibe perhaps like no other place in our county.
You can offer him any breakfast nook anywhere, but he’ll pick 1828 over a full breakfast every time just because of the atmosphere. I don’t believe it is the sustenance alone that draws him back again and again. It’s the place, with its ambiance and friendly people. It’s the originality of a place from the past, pulsing with life in the present. It’s “sure ’nuff” Georgia culture, a sense of deep-rooted belonging that anchors a person to a place where they can talk for an hour with most anybody who walks through the door, call them by name, and ask about all their relatives past and present, and conjure memories like a pop-up picture book that only they can see.
If you were here having coffee with us, we’d show you our county. We’d drive you down the dirt roads and stop at the meadow with the holy cows who run toward a cross at feeding time. We’d take you to the Strickland Building where they filmed Cold Sassy Tree in the late 1980s, and show you the exact spot on the courthouse square where a naked James Cromwell appeared in a movie scene for Tank and the same little old ladies who’d called to complain about it and wanted it stopped actually showed up for a front-row spot to watch it being filmed.
Then we’d show you Pike County Schools today and where they were located in the late 1800s and tell you all about one of the four Georgians who was aboard the Titanic when it sunk. Only the woman, Lilly Futrelle, survived. Her husband, Jacques Futrelle, a Georgia writer who was born in Pike County on April 9, 1875, died on the ill-fated Titanic. Futrelle, who had celebrated his 37th birthday the night before he and his wife Lily May Peel Futrelle set sail to return from their tour of Europe, along with two other men from Georgia, perished. Lily told friends that if he’d been a drinker, he might have lived a longer life, because he may have gotten drunk at his party and missed the boat that next morning. Instead, the last she saw of him was from her seat in only a half-filled Lifeboat 16 as he stood next to John Jacob Astor smoking a cigarette on the deck of the sinking ship.
So while we might have taken you to his grave here in Pike County, it’s not here in Pike County. He’s buried in the deep belly of the ocean.
But like all hometown Pike County folks who know everybody and all their family members, we can tell you that Jacques does have a cenotaph at Poplar Springs Methodist Church Cemetery in Adrian, Johnson County, Georgia, on the bottom of the headstone of his mother. His mother’s obituary cites grief over her son’s death as the direct cause of her own death at 66. His father is buried in Atlanta’s historic Oakland Cemetery in the Masonic lot, having died of nephritis. His sister Elberta, buried in North Carolina, lived in nearby Barnesville for a time and was the only female life-long charter member of the Massachusetts State House Press Assocation at the time of her death. His wife, Lily, lived to be 91 and is buried in Massachusetts. Her grave is now marked, but for a long time was not, and the newspapers did not report her death when it occurred. Jacques’ son, who bears his name, lived to be 80 and died on my 13th birthday (July 8) in 1979; he’s buried in Maryland. His daughter Virginia Raymond is buried in Massachusetts, but there are no records of her death.
Since those graves are all a bit of a drive from here, we might take you to A Novel Experience on the Zebulon square to look for one of his books.
Jacques Futrelle – Picture from Encyclopedia Titanica
Futrelle Family – Picture from Encyclopedia Britannica
Finally, we’d bring you to the Johnson Funny Farm and throw the hammock up between your choice of the thousands of Loblolly pines out here and offer you a glass of sweet tea in a Mason jar and invite you to get lost in the pages of your new book as you hear Futrelle’s voice transcend the depths of the ocean and tickle your reading tastebuds right here in the county where he was born.
Lately I’ve been grounding myself in my rural Georgia blessings by rereading Gladys Taber‘s books about her life on her farm, Stillmeadow, in the hills of Connecticut. Every sentence she writes, it seems, takes me to comforting places that fill me with the joy of memories and the inspiration to carry on the traditions and legacy that my mother left.
In the August chapter of Stillmeadow Calendar A Countrywoman’s Journal, Gladys shares, “Corn stands silken in the field, chicory stars the roadside, and goldenrod mints her coin. The kitchen smells of spices and syrups, ming and sweet pepper. It is the time of “putting up,” a rewarding time for country-folk. I believe it is an instinct in man to store things against the winter, even when there is a supermarket a few blocks or miles away. It is part of the rhythm of life.”
When my children were young, I’d meet my mother at the halfway point so that the kids could visit a week every summer with their grandparents. Just a few weeks ago, as I was visiting one of my girls, we passed a Dairy Queen.
“That makes me think of all those times Mimi would take us to get a Cotton Candy Blizzard,” she shared. “Those were the best days of my life. I loved making strawberry pigs with Mimi.”
My mother had a fig tree, and they’d all go out and pick figs in the back yard and strawberries from a neighbor’s patch. Mom would get out the pressure cooker and a box of clean Mason jars and lids. Everyone had a job to do well beyond the picking – – washing figs, hulling strawberries, slicing fruits, measuring sugar, stirring. It was a day-long event with everyone fully-aproned, and they stocked our pantry and theirs with all the toast topping they needed for the coming winter months.
My grown children still call strawberry figs “strawberry pigs,” from their days of childhood mispronunciations.
When we moved onto the Johnson Funny Farm in 2008, I found a little twig of a scratch-and-dent turkey fig on the clearance rack at Home Depot and bought it for $3.00. My husband put up the orange plastic netting around it to keep from running the tractor over it, and today it stands taller than a clown on stilts and is more solid than any prize bull.
My scratch-and-dent clearance fig
I walk out to the fig tree this morning, inspecting the forthcoming fruits, anticipating their ripening. A fig harvest heralds the end of summer and beginning of fall – my favorite time of year! And I feel my mother’s arm around my shoulders, erasing all distance between heaven and earth, assuring me that the time spent doing simple things with those we love is the best gift of all. The simple act of making memories transcends years, space, and distance and preserves the togetherness and belonging – – the “putting up” of love scooped and slathered freely like a medicinal balm at the twist of a jar lid when it’s needed in the winters of our lives.
Common Threads 