Alan NeSmith
Joe “Little Joe” Collins and Jamie Fenn, I’ll never forget the two of you. Times have changed a lot since the summer of 1991 for the better and the worse.
We grew up in a magical time in Southeast Georgia in the 70s and 80s. A time of three stations on the TV, all of our clothes, frankly everything we needed, was purchased by our parents from people we knew in the shops of downtown Jesup. Everyone knew everyone’s extended family and the closest contact we had with the outside world was when a new kid moved to town and we “interviewed” them at recess.
People do not pump your gas, clean your windshield and check your oil with every fill-up these days. Little Joe, I’ll never forget the look on your face as the Strickland brothers who owned Lucky’s Service Station questioned us about the bugs on the windshield of my daddy’s long-wheel base Ford the summer we turned 16.
As Mr. Strickland closed the hood after checking the oil, he began to inspect the splattered bugs on the windshield in great detail. Then, both brothers stuck their heads through the open driver and passenger door windows and asked us how fast we had been driving. You didn’t say a word, but our eyes gave us away as I asked, “Waw-waw-why?”
Mr. Strickland then told us he could tell the way the June bugs were smeared on the windshield that we must have at least been going 70 mph. Then warned us if we didn’t slow down, he’d tell our parents. And it worked.
Jamie, I’ll never forget our first day of middle school together, countless football practices or our many conversations about the best car stereo and amplifier. Though I haven’t owned a Rockford Fosgate amplifier in years, I still believe they are the GOAT. I’ll never forget riding in your new red Jeep for the first time. More than 30 years later, my ears are still ringing. And our son Fenn, named for Heather’s grandmother, keeps your memory alive, too.
Little Joe, I’ll never forget working in the tobacco patch on your family’s farm. Or the summer we planted and picked zucchini squash. Standing on our heads to pick the number one zucchini squash to get the top price as they seemed to grow an inch an hour in the blistery July sun. Or the spreads of homegrown vegetable and thin-sliced, fried porkchops your grandmother would lay out across her table at noontime. Or the bucket mouth bass that would explode and suck down a gallon of water with our topwater plugs out of the lily pads in the black water pond behind her house. After being startled by the sound, we would set the hook and hang on for the battle ahead.
Little Joe and Jamie, I’ll never forget Daddy pulling me off a cotton-module builder June 28, 1991, to break the news.
While putting his arm around my sweaty shoulders, Daddy said, “Alan, Little Joe and Jamie were killed by a drunk driver last night.”
And I’ll never forget standing on both church steps as the Class of 1991 was wiping tears, embracing in giant hugs and asking why, why, why? It’s this time of year, right before every high school graduation, I pray for all our seniors with more emphasis and ask especially for their safety.
It’s been 32 years, but I’ll never forget the two of you.
Alan NeSmith is the chairman of Community Newspapers Inc. Reach him at 706-778-4215 or anesmith@TheNortheastGeorgian.com.