Then he sprang to his feet and said, “Come, let me show you my mule.”
They walked outside, where a limp-looking mule stood as though he might collapse at any minute.
“I’d like to sell you my mule,” the governor said.
“How much do you want for him?” the man asked.
“Five hundred dollars.”
The man stared in disbelief.
“Governor, that mule looks like he might die before we finish this conversation. No offense, but that mule ain’t worth five dollars. What would I do with a mule like that?”
The governor grinned.
“Well, I thought your brother might want to ride him home from Reidsville.”
It wasn’t Lewis Grizzard or Jeff Foxworthy delivering the punchline, but the wit was every bit as sharp. Maybe it was more Jerry Clower than anyone else. Jim had that gift. Interestingly, though, he was naturally a listener, not someone who always tried to dominate the conversation.
After retiring as editor of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, Jim settled on his farm, where he spent the rest of his life. For a time, he also wrote a column for the Southside edition of the AJC.
One column, about accidentally leaving a side door open and allowing a herd of goats to wander into the house—eventually making themselves comfortable on Anne’s sofa in the master bedroom—may have been the funniest piece ever published in the AJC. Sorry, Lewis. Sorry, Leo Aikman. Sorry, Ernest Rogers.
Jim was, perhaps, my favorite ink-stained wretch. And I’ve known quite a few, including Furman Bisher, a brilliant wordsmith who could also be a hot-tempered, petulant boss. Only Minter seemed able to keep Bish at bay. Jim understood that beneath all that thunderous barking, there wasn’t nearly as much bite.
Like so many who crossed paths with Bisher, Jim respected his extraordinary talent enough to overlook his flaws. And when Jim was the boss, he could be demanding, but he was the kind of leader who rode shotgun with his reporters. They knew he would always have their backs.
Over the years, I’ve been fortunate enough to experience remarkable places, unforgettable events, and extraordinary people. Still, I’m not sure anything surpassed our visits with Hal Northrop, back when he made Callaway Gardens one of Georgia’s premier destinations for recreation and hospitality—second only, perhaps, to Augusta National and Sanford Stadium.
Hal was the consummate host. He also operated the finest quail hunting program in the state, thanks in large part to a guide named John Sale.
John loved dogs.
When he spoke, they listened.
He buried his quail dogs and coon dogs in his backyard. One small headstone read: "He loved us, and we loved him." Someday we will meet again.
Those were exactly the kinds of people Jim Minter admired—salt-of-the-earth folks with quiet wisdom and deep convictions.
Our retreats at Callaway always began with a hunt alongside John, who believed that anyone who used a shock collar on a bird dog deserved capital punishment.
“You just don’t treat a dog that way,” John would say.