One word

Published by the Times-Georgian–December 14, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

He asked me to go for a ride.

I jumped into his little red truck, and we drove around the block at a blazing speed of 12 miles per hour. He looked at me more than he watched the road, though we didn’t have far to go—only a round trip from Carrollton High School to the Tabernacle Baptist Church parking lot. But one thing was certain—whenever you agreed to “go for a ride” with Ben Scott, the entertainment was always five-star with a giant thumbs up.

For 13 seasons, Ben coached the Carrollton Trojans, succeeding the legendary Charlie Grisham. I was a senior in high school when he arrived on campus. His lively spirit—and a voice that never lacked words or a filter—was quite a change from Coach Grisham. As Ben once told me, laughing, “Coach, the best thing one of our administrators ever told me was—‘Ben, you’re an excellent football coach, but a public-relations nightmare.’”

After Ben arrived, I was the first person to interview him, alongside my classmate Robie York, as a writer for the old school newspaper, The Gold and Black. The interview was audio-recorded and is now in the Carrollton sports archives. He spoke with conviction that day.

“Our goal is to win the state championship every year,” he said.

Robie and I both wrote stories introducing the new football coach in the next edition. It was the only positive article I would ever write as a student about Ben.

A few weeks later, he fired one of my favorite coaches—someone I truly adored. As a result, I wrote a scathing column about his actions. We didn’t speak again until years later.

After Tom Wilson hired me to become a teacher in 1995, I knew I would eventually encounter Coach Scott again. On my very first day, Ben asked me to go for a ride.

“You know I’m the one who wrote that negative column about you when you arrived?” I told him.

“Coach, is that what you believe?” he asked.

“Yes sir, I didn’t agree with your move,” I countered.

“I respect that, Coach,” he said.

We never discussed it again. That moment marked the beginning of a friendship that lasted the next four years.

One of my roles at Carrollton was coordinating the game filming for the coaching staff. They relied heavily on those videos to improve each week. After the Trojans ended a 23-year gap by competing for the state championship in 1997, I approached Ben following the heartbreaking loss.

“Coach, will you let me borrow the entire season’s game films?” I asked. “I’d like to do a highlight video.”

He resisted at first but eventually agreed—after threatening my life if I lost those tapes.

The highlight reel closed with Ben addressing the heartbroken fans, saying, “There will come another time on another day—and WE WILL WIN THIS THING.”

The next fall, Carrollton City Schools decided to update its mission statement. A committee was formed, and every word was carefully crafted, analyzed and reviewed before it was unveiled to the faculty—followed by applause. After the words were read, Ben looked at me, rolled his eyes and said, “Coach, let’s go for a ride.”

Ben would have never made it as the poster child for political correctness. He never hesitated to share his opinion—especially when he summed it up with his initials—“B.S.”

“Coach (he never called me by name), how many people do you really think are going to remember that mission statement?” he asked. “Sure, it looks good on the wall—but come on. Who’s ever going to read it again?”

I laughed, and he continued.

“Coach, while we were sitting in that meeting, I came up with a new mission statement for our football program—one that people will actually remember,” he said. “Nobody in that room will ever memorize the one they just read, but I guarantee they’ll never forget mine.”

“What’s your mission statement, Coach?” I asked.

He pulled the truck to a stop in the Tabernacle parking lot, held out his arms wide, and shouted, “WIN!”

“Coach, that’s it—one word,” he said. “WIN! That’s easy to remember!”

A few months later, his team ended the Trojans’ 24-year drought by winning the state championship.

The following week, I approached him again about borrowing the game films for another highlight video. This time, he handed them over without hesitation.

Ben Scott was a tough man. He showed it publicly in everything he did. Privately, I saw a different side of him when I finished the 1998 highlight film. He and I watched it together in a private screening, and as the final credits rolled, tears streamed down his face.

“We did it, Coach!” he said. “We did it. I didn’t think it would take this long—but WE DID IT!”

It still feels surreal to say this, but one year after we celebrated that championship, Ben Scott died from a rare hereditary liver disease.

I think of him often—especially whenever I drive toward Tabernacle on what is now known as Ben Scott Boulevard, or as his brother jokingly called it at his funeral with a big smile, “B.S. Boulevard.”

I’ve thought of him even more recently as the Trojans once again have a chance to end a long drought and bring home another title. In a world which includes NIL deals and transient players, I wish I could hear Ben’s voice again. He WOULD have an opinion.

He dreamed big. He talked loud. And as he once said, “God gave me a big mouth and a small ego—and I’m grateful for both.”

Oh, he ruffled feathers. When a former English teacher approached him about one of his star athletes not turning in assignments, he later voiced his opinion to me.

“Coach, that’s her job,” he said. “Do I go to her and say, ‘One of your English students fumbled the football—you need to do something about it’? It’s OUR job to get into the trenches and do whatever it takes to help these kids succeed—even when they’re stubborn—not to fail them.”

For those who knew him best, Ben had a giant heart. He loved this community. Most importantly, he loved those kids. He demanded excellence because he believed in them.

And Ben Scott gave us a mission statement we will never forget.

So come on, Trojans. As you battle Buford for the state and national crown in the Mercedes-Benz Dome on December 16, may you hear the voice of the last Carrollton High coach to hoist a state championship trophy—

WIN!

For your fellow

Published by the Times-Georgian–November 29, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

We’re predictable.

Let’s face it—when it comes to holiday gift giving, men are easier to shop for than women.

We don’t need a dozen hints, a Pinterest board or coded conversations to get it right. Most of us are perfectly happy with gifts that are useful, durable or simply plain fun. Give a man something he can fire up, wear out, tinker with or brag about—and you’ve basically nailed Christmas.

So with that in mind, I put together a list of favorites—things that make life better, simpler or more enjoyable for the men in your life. Consider this your Carrollton-tested, Maple Street-approved guide for Christmas 2025.

The Big Green Egg (Large or XL)

If a man ever tells you he doesn’t want a Big Green Egg, check his pulse. Whether it’s slow-smoking pork, roasting a chicken at 250 degrees or pretending to be the pitmaster of West Georgia, the Egg sits firmly at the top of the mountain. It’s the gift that turns weekends into events.

YETI Everything

Coolers/tumblers/bags—men collect YETI gear like my childhood neighborhood friends collected baseball cards. The beauty of YETI is simple—it works, it lasts and you feel a little tougher drinking out of it. Get him one in his favorite color and he’ll guard it like a Whitesburg policeman clocking somebody doing 27 MPH in a 25.

A Car Detailing Gift Card from One Way Detail on Bankhead

I’ll be honest—I’d rather have a root canal than vacuum the floorboards and wax my car (and I’ve had two root canals). A professional detail is the adult version of finding a new bike under the tree.

A Flashlight That Could Blind a Bear

No one knows why men love heavy-duty flashlights, but we do. Give us something powerful enough to signal passing aircraft and we’ll walk around the yard after dark pretending we’re on a search-and-rescue team.

A Really Nice Steak

Yes, a steak is a gift. A legitimate one. Order a thick, dry-aged prime ribeye from snakeriverfarms.com, wrap it in butcher paper—and he’ll let out a full “Whoooo!” worthy of his wrestling hero Ric Flair. EXTRA BONUS POINTS if it comes with his favorite rub. I really like Mis’ Rubin’s Original Black Magic Charcoal Seasoning or Sure Shot Sid’s Original Gunpowder Seasoning.

STIHL BR 700 Gas-Powered Backpack Blower

Yard work should be done with horsepower, not hope. The STIHL BR 700 is the king of leaf blowers—912 CFM of pure, unapologetic force strapped to your back like a jet pack. Wet leaves? Gone. Pine straw? History. Driveway debris? Not on this man’s watch. It’s loud, it’s powerful and it turns a Saturday chore into something that feels suspiciously like fun.

One-Year Supply of Essentials

Load him up with a full year’s supply of the things he actually uses—his favorite deodorant (the good kind that doesn’t smell like the Carrollton Junior High locker room), toothpaste, fresh toothbrushes, enough dental floss to finally make him use it, hair salve (the one he’s been loyal to since 1988, because once a man finds something that works, he sticks with it forever), daily vitamins, razors and shaving cream that keep him from showing up at the family Christmas photo looking like Cousin Eddie’s long-lost brother.

Pearly’s Possum Socks

I’ve saved the best for last. If you’ve never worn a pair of Pearly’s Possum Socks (pearlypossumsocks.com), prepare yourself. They are made from a blend of possum fur and merino wool. They are the warmest socks I’ve ever worn so much so that I’ve been known to start evangelizing them to strangers in the Publix checkout line when the weather is cold.

So as the holiday season approaches, consider this list a friendly guide—not just to buying things, but to celebrating the men who make your life a lot more interesting.

Now, start shopping—go make a man smile.

Simply thankful

Published by the Times-Georgian–November 22, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

It’s easy to rush past days like this.

So before the table fills and the Thanksgiving season settles into its familiar rhythm, I want to pause long enough to notice what’s right in front of me.

Not the big, headline moments, but the quieter ones. The ones that arrive without announcement. Because gratitude, I’m learning, is less about having everything we want and more about recognizing the gifts we already hold.

Today, I give thanks—

For our local gyms, where half the town shows up before daylight, trying to hold back time one squat and treadmill at a time. Some mornings we win. Some mornings we just show up.

For the kindness of the teenagers and grown-ups who hand you a Chick-fil-A sandwich with a smile that isn’t forced. They prove that courtesy is not extinct, and manners still matter in this world.

For the Maple Street makeover beginning at last. May it rise from construction cones into something we can point to with pride. May we look back and say it was worth the wait.

For men and women who still look strangers in the eye and say good morning like they mean it.

For long walks where the air is clearer than my thoughts and eventually the two decide to meet in the middle.

For the teachers who are still giving out encouragement like confetti even when the world treats their profession like an afterthought.

For golf, unforgiving as it is. The game does not care who you are or what you own. A humbling teacher is a gift.

For my dog Teddy, who simply cannot understand why anyone would worry when the sun is shining and someone is nearby to pet him.

For the kind of conversation that is not rushed.

For the smell of woodsmoke when November settles in.

For the quiet hour before the house wakes.

For the neighbor who waves from the driveway.

For laughter that shows up unplanned.

For young people who return home to visit and discover that maybe our town always had more to offer than they once believed.

For the quiet heroes. The nurse working night shift. The volunteer coach chalking the field. The neighbor who texts to check in. The ones who never expect applause.

I give thanks.

Not because life has been perfect. Not because every prayer was answered the way I wanted. I give thanks because gratitude anchors the heart. It steadies the boat in both calm and choppy water.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I intend to sit down with a plate, a fork and absolutely no guilt. Should anyone require me, tell them I’ll be back when the sweet potato casserole runs out.

Selah.

Through the fog

Published by the Times-Georgian–November 1, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

It’s the same chair.

I recognized it. We once spent time together several years ago on an early summer morning as the sun rose over nearby Sunset Rock overlooking the streets of Highlands, North Carolina.

Once again, I’m awake before the masses and have the grounds to the Old Edwards Inn to myself on a spectacular autumn day—at least for the next 20 minutes.

This chair was a refuge during the darkest time of my life. The fog my family was living through from losing my son Will became so thick we didn’t know what to do. We just kept tying our shoes and walking through the deep sadness.

It’s this chair where I poured out the words for Turning point, published by the Times-Georgian in July 2014. It was here that I saw a faint light cutting through the unfamiliar landscape of grief, as I wrote about the night before—

We craved pasta.

Amongst an evening with a light mist of rain outside, my family walked across the street from our hotel to Ristorante Paoletti, a cozy little restaurant on Main Street in Highlands, N.C.

While we waited for our server, I surveyed the room for families with small children. There were none.

Most parents cross their fingers when they take their young children to a nice restaurant. As for my wife and me, we order a bottle of wine. It’s no longer about romance. It’s about sanity…

The little things of breathing mountain air or staring at a stream or waterfall make time spent here enjoyable, but I’m a sucker for the little boutique restaurants.

As the desserts arrived at our table, the laughter escalated. While we devoured bread pudding, lemon sorbet, chocolate gelato and tiramisu, I realized the birth order theory in full swing as my 4-year old Henry became the comedian. And he didn’t have any wine.

Henry talked about body parts and everything else you can imagine most people consider impolite dinner conversations. Although we tried to curtail his words, we realized “a wild boar sometimes can’t be contained.”

So instead of exploding over the way Henry was giggling, we decided to join him. And so did a few tables around us. It didn’t take long as it appeared the entire restaurant was laughing.

Sometimes it takes a child to lead the way.

When the bill arrived, I almost had a heart attack from the expensive dinner. While my family walked out of the restaurant, I stopped by the restroom. Once inside, a few tears trickled down my face because my family was laughing at the dinner table. We were laughing once again amid carrying the heaviest burden of grief. Only this time, I cried tears with a smile.

As I walked toward the exit of the restaurant, I thanked the hostess for a wonderful meal and excellent service. I did, however, keep a secret from her.

I would have gladly paid more.

There are multiple turning points while navigating through a lifetime of grief from losing a child. That night gave me hope I couldn’t have imagined after the tragedy. That night gave me confidence that we would evolve into a place where we would enjoy life again.

I wish I could tell you, after losing my son on my dad’s birthday, October 27, 2012, that we have fought the good fight and won the war against grief. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.

My family still has tears in our eyes—and we always will. The sadness never truly ends after losing a child. We’ve learned to live with that truth. Grief doesn’t leave. It just changes shape. And somehow, we’re OK with that.

If I seem different while sitting around people as they complain about politics, religion, taxes and family drama—it’s not that I don’t care. I just know there are bigger things in life.

Much bigger things—so much bigger—like waking up each morning grateful for the people still beside you. Bigger things—like really listening, really seeing—and doing your best to understand what someone else is walking through. That’s where real love begins, and judging takes a backseat.

I can relate to the words attributed to Anne Lamott when she wrote—“I will never again see the world as before; my son’s death has changed the map of my heart.”

So, as I look around the spectacular mountain views and inhale the cool, morning autumn air—

it’s time to leave the chair. I have a feeling, however, we’ll find each other somewhere down the road again.

All I know this morning is that I’m still here—and so are those I love more than life itself. I have today, and I’m still learning to live between the yin and yang of joy and deep sadness. Somewhere in the middle of those swings is where I find balance.

I miss Will so, so much. I miss his zest for life. I miss his mischief. I miss his smile.

I can’t bring him back. But I can do my best—despite my human faults and shortcomings—to honor him by how I live.

Mice and men

Published by the Times-Georgian–October 4, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

I’ve never liked a crowbar.

It looks like a pig’s foot made of iron. OK, I realize some of you are already wondering why I’m writing about a crowbar when we haven’t even made it to the third paragraph. Stay with me.

This story has a happy ending.

Let’s be fair to the crowbar. It serves many useful purposes—from dismantling a crate to pulling apart nailed wood to prying open a stuck door or window. So, why do I not like crowbars?

Again, stay with me.

In the summer of 1988, I returned home to Carrollton following my freshman year at the University of Georgia. It was clearly a period of growing up as I had learned to navigate life away from home, making new friends, pledging a fraternity, navigating final exams and more, while also working an almost full-time job in the UGA Athletics Department.

I was tired. And I was looking forward to rest and relaxation until my friend Alan Alford called me two days after I arrived back in Carrollton.

“How would you feel about working two weeks on a job for R&R in Newnan?” said Alan. “We’re going to be tearing down a house and need a couple of extra hands. The owner of the company, Bobby McMillan, said he’ll pay you $4 an hour.”

“Did you say $4?” I replied. “I’m in, and I’ll call my friend Phillip Wiggins to see if he wants to join the crew.”

“He’s going to pay us $4 an hour?” Phillip asked when I called. “Heck yeah! I’m in!”

We agreed to work for two weeks dismantling a home piece by piece, as the wood was solid and worth too much for a wrecking ball. It was labor intensive but enjoyable, especially since we’d frequently hit Sprayberry’s for a barbecue sandwich, stew and homemade onion rings on our lunch break.

As the two-week period neared its end, Bobby asked Phillip and me if we wanted to stay on board for the rest of the summer before school started back. He told us he would bump our pay to $4.25 an hour. We immediately agreed.

The Newnan home took longer than two weeks, but we eventually left the home a skeleton as we salvaged as much of the good wood as we possibly could. Other projects that would follow ranged from roof repairs to stacking wood in the R&R warehouse to cleaning the windows of some of Carrollton’s finest homes. I even cut Bobby’s grass at his home, and when he’d stop by around noon to check on his dog, he also would take care of me.

He would fix me a hot dog for lunch.

So, you may be asking yourself—when does the crowbar reappear in the story? Right now.

The summer was nearing its end and Bobby sent us to Haralson County to work on a fire-damaged home. It was nasty. Every night when I arrived home, I’ll let you guess the color of my boogers when I blew my nose—even though we wore masks while ripping the floor piece by piece with a crowbar.

On the last day, I entered the closet in the master bedroom and when I finally arranged the crowbar to take out the wooden floor, I gave it a big tug and disturbed the neighbors living below. The neighbors weren’t people. I lost count, but dozens of mice ran over my feet, and I felt like jumping to the Alabama state line.

I hate rodents, especially when they run over your feet.

When I told Bobby about the episode, he didn’t offer a pay raise. He laughed. I finished my summer commitment and on my last day decided to retire from hard labor working in fire-damaged homes.

It was the best thing to happen to my academic career. The next quarter, I made all As and Bs. I believe God creates people to work outside with their feet and hands. As for me, I felt God calling me to find a career that works in air conditioning.

When I arrived back home for winter break, I called Bobby and treated him to a cheeseburger lunch at Millie’s on the Highway.

“Thank you, Bobby, for giving me a job last summer, even though I wasn’t looking for one,” I told him. “My grades have improved dramatically, and I owe it to that crowbar, the nasty boogers, and the mice from the fire-damaged home. I’m just not built for that type of work, and I thank you and R&R for giving the kick in the britches I needed to study hard so I could one day set my sights on an office job.”

A few years later Bobby would reappear in my life again when I moved back to Carrollton and started dating Ali. Thankfully, he and I had a great relationship, because I soon learned my future father-in-law Randy Turner was one of his lifelong best friends. I’m confident Bobby told Randy that I would treat his daughter well—but would be terrible at fixing things around the house.

Billy Joel sings, “Only the good die young.” That’s so true, as both Randy and Bobby died at 63 and 64, respectively, leaving a void in our respective families’ lives. We miss them terribly.

Life continues to move forward, and Bobby’s sons Robert and Rick carry the torch of operating the award-winning R&R. Today the company specializes in remodeling, custom home building and design. If you’ve driven around Carrollton lately, you may have noticed several signs in people’s yards celebrating R&R’s 45th anniversary. I love seeing small businesses succeed.

It’s what makes our town special.

So yes, I’ve never liked a crowbar. But I’ll admit—it did its job. It pried open more than floorboards and nailed beams that summer. It pried open my perspective.

That ugly piece of iron, with its pig’s-foot shape, shoved me toward a future that fit me better. It reminded me that some people are built to create with their hands, others with their heads, and both matter deeply to a community like ours.

I learned where I belonged—and I’m grateful for it.

When I see an R&R sign in a yard today, I don’t just think about Bobby, or even the paycheck that seemed so big at $4.25 an hour. I think about how a crowbar, a handful of mice, and a long, hot summer in Newnan and Haralson County nudged a tired college kid onto the right path.

Maybe that’s the real point. Sometimes the tools we dislike the most end up shaping us the best.

Stepping up

Published by the Times-Georgian–September 20, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

It can carry us through.

That’s not always easy to believe when it comes to hope. In the classic movie “The Shawshank Redemption,” there’s a great scene where the characters Red and Andy discuss the challenges of believing in a better tomorrow, even while living behind prison walls.

“Hope is a dangerous thing,” argued Red. “Hope can drive a man insane.”

The optimist Andy countered when he replied—“Remember, Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies.”

Hope isn’t always easy, especially when faced with the bleak hope of not surviving in the darkness. Last weekend, after one of Carrollton’s finest residents who suffers from Alzheimer’s went missing for more than 24 hours, it was easy to think the worst had happened. For those of you who’ve dealt with a loved one who’s suffered this cruel disease, you know what I’m talking about. In the blink of an eye, a person with Alzheimer’s can walk away, and before you know it—she’s nowhere to be found. Unfortunately, it happens often.

As the police department and firefighters searched the neighborhood and surrounding areas along with helicopters and drones in the sky, the hope of finding her began to dampen as the sun set last Saturday night. In the meantime, a search party was being organized for Sunday morning. Word spread fast, and the next morning, a community stood ready to help.

Hope is often used as a noun. However, on this morning, it was a verb. Hope showed up wearing the face of neighbors willing to do whatever it took to find her.

Luckily, within 45 minutes, as the Carrollton Police Department dispersed teams of search volunteers, she was found alive and well with only a few scratches.

Our community is built on the quiet strength of its volunteers.

People like Beverly Parkman, who died last week, poured their time and energy into others. For years, she guided hundreds of couples down the aisle as the wedding director of First United Methodist Church. Few jobs are tougher than wrangling a line of groomsmen who have one foot in adulthood and the other still firmly planted in boyhood mischief—but Beverly did it with patience and grace.

When she stepped away from that role, she found another way to give. At Tanner Medical Center, she became a welcoming face at the front desk, offering directions, reassurance and kindness to families navigating some of life’s hardest moments. Our hospital—and our town—are blessed by people like her who choose to serve in times of need.

We also recently lost another pillar of service in Jim Gill. Since arriving in Carrollton in the 1980s as President of CB&T, he was far more than a banker. Many would place him on the “Carrollton Mount Rushmore” of philanthropists. His influence reached across Rotary, civic groups and perhaps most memorably through the founding of the Carroll County Sertoma Club—Service to Mankind—an organization that has touched countless lives.

Beverly, Jim and the neighbors who answered the call remind us that hope is not only something we feel—it’s something we live out. It shows up when people step forward to serve, to care and to lift others in moments of need. Our community is stronger because of them, and it’s now our turn to carry that hope forward—because hope is a good thing.

And no good thing ever dies.

Big Chic revival

Published by the Times-Georgian–August 9, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

It’s still crispy.

Additionally, it remains less greasy than its competitors. Most of all, the lines are still forming as the folks patiently wait their turn to approach the window and say—

“I’ll have a 3-piece with a side breast, wing and chicken leg. Also, I want fries and a roll with that and a sweet tea.”

Oh yeah! Big Chic is back!

It reopened a few months ago, and for several weeks the lines were longer than ever. People were hungry for one of Carrollton’s finest to return to glory.

“When it closed for a while, folks in Carrollton didn’t panic—not exactly,” said local fried bird expert Matt Carter. “But let’s just say I saw more people than usual riding through the parking lot looking at the historic restaurant stand like they’d lost a childhood friend.”

In a world where big chains seem to pop up on every corner, there’s something special about a place that’s ours. It’s local. It’s unpretentious. It’s steeped in seasoned flour and history.

“It’s the place you and I would go when we skipped school lunch,” said Carter. “Our class would walk to the cafeteria, and we’d sneak to the parking lot and be back in time for class. We technically didn’t skip because we always told one of the school secretaries where we were going, and she’d whisper to us—‘Y’all don’t let Mr. Cook (our assistant principal) see you.’ I think the only time we got caught our teacher was so jealous he asked us if we ever do it again to bring him back a two-piece Big Chic. We did!”

We never tattled on him. And he never reported us. We formed a pact that it would always be “our little secret” till death do us part. God rest his soul. Fried chicken has that effect on people.

“I nearly wept when you texted and told me that you saw the Open sign back on,” said my childhood friend Sam Haney. “It was the closest thing to a religious experience I’d had since Auburn beat Alabama at the Kick Six game in 2013.

“A friend of mine swears the chicken tastes better now than it did before,” continued Haney. “I said maybe the break gave the grease time to mature. He said, ‘You don’t question a blessing—You just eat it before the fries get cold.’”

Maybe that’s what makes Big Chic different. It’s not just what’s in the white bag—it’s what comes with it.

It’s the before-football practice snack. The “skip lunch/Freebird” kind of day. The place where your teacher gives you a pass and your best memories come dipped in sweet tea with a squeeze of lemon.

In a town that continues to grow and change, Big Chic reminds us of what remains the same. So yes, the chicken is still crispy. And, if you’re wondering if it’s worth the wait? Just roll your window down and follow the smell.

“Be warned,” said Carter. “Once you bite into the first piece, don’t be surprised if you feel a tear roll down your cheek. Then again, maybe that’s just the hot grease.”

Perhaps the guy standing behind me in line said it best when he told his friend, “Man, I love me some Big Chic.”

I love it too. I love it because it tastes like the past and the present at the same time—like something that never stopped being part of us. Today, the faces behind the window might be different, and the kids sneaking off campus are probably going somewhere else where they can order on their phones instead of with crumbled dollar bills.

But the feeling of Big Chic? That’s an unmistakable small-town mix of comfort, rebellion and flavor—it’s still there.

Still crispy. Still ours.

Between the aisles

Published by the Times-Georgian–July 26, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

Dear young lovers,

I see you cuddling in the sand, holding hands and smooching in the ocean as the waves hit. You look so happy with sparkling eyes and never-ending smiles. There’s no need to watch “Christmas in July” on the Hallmark Channel when I’m surrounded by you this week.

You may think I’m a creeper for watching you, but I can’t help it. Your public display of affection is more entertaining than listening to my sons debate whether we should cook shrimp or fish for supper tonight. By the way—I told them I’d pick up both. You’ll understand one day if you become a parent and take your family on a beach vacation.

I must confess watching you gives me hope.

Enjoy these days of being in love. The dopamine in your brain is on full throttle as you have found someone whom you love more than life itself in the present moment. So, soak it in and enjoy it. I hate to tell you that it won’t last forever. However, if you’re meant to stay together—that’s where real love begins.

You see, yesterday, my wife Ali and I had a rare adventure in our 25 years of marriage. We went grocery shopping at Publix together.

I’ve always viewed our grocery shopping as a shotgun-rifle approach. In other words, Ali takes the shotgun approach, picking up, along with tonight’s dinner items, all the basic staples (laundry detergent, spices, deli meats, cheese, paper towels, toilet paper, eggs, milk and tin foil).

I’m the rifle man she sends on a mission for four items, which means I’ll return home with 10 and forget at least one of the items she told me to grab.

Since we’re at the beach, a second buggy would be needed to load the cases of bottled water, a giant pack of toilet paper and any other impulse purchase I see, like a box of Chicken Biskit Crackers or a bag of Funyuns.

“You’re getting in the way,” Ali demanded. “Why did you suddenly stop your cart?”

We only lasted two aisles together when I decided to break away.

“That’s the difference between me and you,” Ali said. “I have a specific order to get in and out quickly while you’re just like my mother who zigs and zags her way through the aisles.”

Young lovers, I know it’s hard to believe that we were once like you. That’s the mystery of love. It evolves into something deeper. And if the person you’re with today seems like forever love, ask yourself—“Can I imagine myself waking up and sitting at the breakfast table for the rest of my life with this person?”

If so, keep it going.

You may be wondering about the purpose of sharing our experience at the grocery store yesterday. There’s a lesson or two here—one for the dreams we start with, and one for the life we build.

In the early years, love feels like one perfect cart. You throw in your hopes, your plans, your weekend getaways and lazy Sunday mornings, all together. But real love, the kind that sticks around through tantruming toddlers, late-night fevers and grocery runs, eventually needs two buggies.

One cart is for the essentials—the practical stuff that keeps life moving forward.

The other? That’s for the unexpected joys. The little things that still surprise you after decades together—a snack you know they like, a new kind of salsa they’ve never tried but you know they’ll love (Old Florida Mango is excellent) or maybe just the extra patience you packed that day.

So, young lovers, remember this—You’ll need both.

The steady cart and the spontaneous one. And if you can navigate those aisles—dodging traffic jams and rolling your eyes when your partner decides to break away on a zig-zagging scenic route—you just might make it to the checkout line together.

Anyway, as I glance up, I see you two back in the ocean like you’re in a Nicholas Sparks movie—good for you. Keep your arms wrapped around each other like the tide might carry you away if you let go. Keep holding on—both now and the years to come.

Meanwhile, I’ve got to stop playing beachside philosopher and get back to reality. We’ve got fresh red snapper to cook for supper this evening and shrimp to steam with Old Bay seasoning. And, if I don’t get started shucking five ears of corn, I’ll be on dish duty tonight (on second thought, I will be anyway).

Romance looks a little different after 25 years, but hey, it’s still here—just with more SPF, and less PDA.

Now, please return to smooching.

Sincerely,

Joe from Aisle 5

P.S. If you two ever get married, please know that “What do you want for dinner?” will one day become the most complicated question you’ll ever face together. Good luck.

The Fist

Published by the Times-Georgian–July 12, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

I’ve never been a Duke guy.

Growing up, I didn’t root for them. I didn’t wear the blue. And every March, I usually found myself pulling for the underdog—anyone but Duke. Like a lot of folks, I respected the program but kept my distance. I was content watching from afar.

A few weeks ago I found myself walking through the front doors of Duke’s legendary Cameron Indoor Stadium—standing on the edge of the court where Coach Mike Krzyzewski built a basketball dynasty and a leadership legacy that stretched far beyond wins and banners. And as strange as it is for me to say—it moved me.

I was there for a leadership conference. It was a professional honor, but what made the experience special had less to do with spreadsheets and more to do with people.

One afternoon, they gave us something completely different—a session they called the “Duke Basketball Experience.” It started with light drills led by four former Duke players (yes, there’s video evidence I can still dribble, barely), followed by a behind-the-scenes tour of the Hall of Fame and team facilities.

Our guide was Debbie Krzyzewski Savarino—Coach K’s daughter.

She was gracious, down-to-earth, and full of stories that painted a vivid picture of the man behind the myth. She didn’t talk about championships or NBA draft picks. She talked about values. About how her dad treats people. About the culture he created, one player and one season at a time.

That’s where I first heard about The FIST.

Coach K would hold up his hand to his players and say:

“You see these fingers? Alone, they’re vulnerable. They can bend. They can break. But when they come together — they form a fist. And a fist is strong.”

He wasn’t just talking about basketball. He was talking about life.

Each finger represented a principle that held his teams together:

Fundamentals. Integrity. Selflessness. Toughness. Communication.

Simple, but powerful. And the more I think about them, the more I realize how true they are—not just for elite athletes, but for the rest of us. The ones balancing work, raising kids, navigating health issues, showing up for aging parents and doing our best to hold things together when life feels stretched thin.

Fundamentals are the small things we often overlook—being on time, following through, being consistent even when no one’s watching.

Integrity is choosing to do the right thing, even when it’s inconvenient. It’s what people trust when times get tough.

Selflessness is not about losing yourself. It’s about realizing that life has more meaning when we serve something greater than ourselves—our families, our communities, our faith.

Toughness doesn’t always look loud. Sometimes it looks like staying calm when chaos hits. Sometimes it’s getting back up after you’ve been knocked down.

Communication is more than talking. It’s listening. It’s checking in. It’s being willing to have the hard conversations—and the kind ones, too.

I’ve thought about those five fingers a lot since coming home. About how easy it is to try to do life as one finger—independent, stubborn, doing everything ourselves. That might work for a while. But eventually, something bends. Or breaks.

We’re not meant to live that way.

We’re meant to be part of something bigger. A family. A team. A community. A fist.

And that’s the part I keep coming back to—how lucky I am to have people in my life who make up that fist. My family. My friends. My coworkers. My church. Even some of the folks reading this letter—people who’ve walked beside me through seasons of loss, change, growth and grit.

So no, I’m still not a Dukie. But I came home from Durham with a lot more than I expected—a few sore muscles, a deeper appreciation for the people in my corner and a five-part reminder that the best things in life are built together.

We don’t need to be perfect. We just need to be united.

Five fingers. One fist.

Walking with Ringo

Published by the Times-Georgian–June 28, 2025

http://www.times-georgian.com

by Joe Garrett

It’s hot.

I’ve never been “right in the head,” and I’ve decided to go for a walk this morning. The temperature on my iPhone says it’s 85 degrees. It’s time to find a new weather app. I love 85-degree weather. It feels like it’s 110.

I’m strolling through downtown Tuscaloosa, Alabama, wondering if dodging a heatstroke now qualifies as cardio fitness. And if you’re thinking, “How’s Joe managing to write and walk simultaneously?”—fair question.

It’s called dictation. And, it’s a remarkable work of iPhone technology that allows me to talk into my earpiece and somehow the words appear on a screen. The key is to act like you’re having a phone conversation with a friend as you pass folks on the street, so you don’t look too crazy.

I’ve traveled to the land of Nick Saban and Bear Bryant for the first time, not seeking a Georgia Bulldog win between the goal posts at Bryant-Denney Stadium. Two months ago, I was conversing with my son Charlie when he floored me with a comment—“You know, Dad, you’ve never taken me to a big-name concert.”

I felt like a failure as I’ve taken his older brother Turner to numerous shows, but life gets busy and I told him, “Charlie, we will make that happen soon.”

My parents took my brothers and me to musical shows throughout my childhood. If my math is correct, my dad would have only been out of pocket about $50 to take a family of five to a concert. He always spent money for shows, which was a shock to many. He’s a CPA, and as we all know, when it comes to spending—CPAs are tight.

Have you seen the prices of big-name concerts these days?

It averages $2,000 to see one show for a family of five.

When Charlie’s birthday arrived, I gave him an envelope with tickets for a big-name show. And, when I say a big name—I mean—say this in your Ed Sullivan voice—a really, big show.

“We’re going to see Ringo Starr,” said Charlie with a smile.

“Since I’ve failed to take you to a big show all these years, I don’t think we can go any higher than seeing a former Beatle,” I replied.

I took his brother Turner to see Paul McCartney a few years ago, and now I need to find a show to take my youngest son, Henry.

After checking into our hotel, we were greeted by our first-class chauffeur for the evening—none other than former “Times-Georgian” columnist Steve Davis. He and his daughter Natalie, a recent University of Alabama grad, were also in town for the Ringo show. Together, we headed to Avenue Pub, a Tuscaloosa favorite known for its hand-cut fries, burgers, pepper jelly chicken sandwiches and Conecuh sausage gravy (an Alabama delicacy I didn’t know I needed).

Following dinner, the Davises took us on a grand tour of the University of Alabama campus. As a Georgia Bulldog who has experienced heartbreak in Tuscaloosa as the Tide rolled, tonight was different. The campus is pristine and thriving.

Walking to the show, we all commented on the heat—and staying hydrated. I needed inspiration from the former Carrollton First Baptist preacher, so I asked him how long Jesus survived in the desert.

“40 days,” Steve replied.

“Surely, we can survive four hours,” I said.

We did.

Eventually, the main attraction arrived as Ringo jogged on the stage to join his All Star Band consisting of the lead singers of the 80s rock bands Toto and Men at Work. Ringo will celebrate his 85^th birthday on July 7—and he looks like he’s 50. He’s thin as a rail and colors his hair jet black.

For a moment, I envied his gene pool for being in such great shape—he did jumping jacks at the end of the show.

“I don’t think we’ll be that lucky,” I texted my brother Bill after I sent him a video as proof.

“Well, our dad may be relying on his cane to get around and we’ll probably be the same,” Bill answered. “However, I’m willing to bet you Mr. Starr would be impressed by Daddy cutting his own grass yesterday as the heat index in Carrollton topped 107!”

Ringo performed his big hits with the Beatles—“Octopus’ Garden,” “Yellow Submarine,” “Act Naturally” and “With a Little Help from My Friends” along with songs from his solo career. The other members of the All Star Band played their platinum selling hits, too.

I’ve always loved his song “The No No Song.” It’s about a man who once experimented with marijuana, cocaine and Tennessee moonshine liquor, but has had enough—

“No, no, no, no—I can’t take it no more,

“I’m tired of waking up on the floor,

“No, thank you please, it only makes me sneeze,

“And, then it makes it hard to find the floor.”

Thankfully, I’ve never been addicted to the items Ringo sings about in his “No No” song. But that doesn’t mean I’m not addicted to other things.

And that brings me back to downtown Tuscaloosa this morning after the show, still humming Ringo’s “No No Song” and dictating these thoughts into my phone. I’m rounding the corner of University Boulevard when a warm gust of fryer-oil perfume smacks me in the face—a donut shop—fresh glaze sparkling like Las Vegas lights.

Ringo’s voice is playing in my head, “No, no, no, no, I don’t (eat) it no more…” Temptation hits, but so does the blazing Alabama heat. I step inside, skip the sweets and grab a bottle of water.

The cashier gives me a look that says, “Just water?”—like I passed a secret test.

Back in the heat, I take a long, cold sip and smile. Ringo was right. Sometimes, victory is just saying “No” to the donut—

And “Yes” to what really matters.