I am wandering through the back streets of Palmetto, Georgia. Population 5,000. This is one of those towns that I’ve heard about all my life and have had some vague sense of the general direction of its location, but until now never knew exactly where to find it.

I’ve been curious about the name, as well. Since I know that a palmetto bush is more of a native coastal plant, it would be odd to name a town in upper west central Georgia after that. It can grow here but it would be a stretch to think it warrants the name.

A quick internet look-see and I find that a military regiment from South Carolina stopped over in this community on their way to participate in the Mexican American War. From the coastal regions, these boys had called themselves the Palmetto Regiment. And, apparently, they bequeathed their title to this little community nestled on top of the Coweta/Fulton County line.

So much for the history lesson.

I am in search of Palmetto Park, a home for the elderly that is a ministry extension of the Georgia Baptist Association. I’m not sure I have the name right. I sometimes fail miserably at the details. But I have connections here and I’ve been asked to come do a program in the chapel for their residents.

I am surprised and tickled at the idea that I would do “a program” for this group. If I was going to talk about trees and tree management and tree health care then, yeah, that would make sense. I have taken my tree-centric Power Point schtick on the road to a number of high-end library back rooms and school janitorial closets. I can talk you to death about trees.

But this request is different. I have been asked to “tell a few stories and talk about Georgia Bred.” Which you would think would be easy for the guy who writes this stuff a couple times a week. But it’s not.

Writing stories on my back porch with my flannel pants on and a cup of coffee by my side is a lot different than standing up in front of a room full of eyeballs looking back at you expecting to be entertained. I’m not an entertainer. To “do” a program implies the notion that I should be interesting. That I should give the crowd something to laugh about. That I should DO something worth their time.

That’s a lot of pressure for a guy who is supposed to be taking it easy in his retirement.

I did a program once before on the subject of Georgia Bred. I sat before a senior church group on a weeknight after a huge meal with dessert and did my best not to make it easy for them to nap at their tables. I approached that event with the idea in mind that if I bombed and stunk like locker-room socks, at least they would have pie and cake to brag about on the way home.

Today, there is no pie or cake. Just me.

I rolled in under the canopy of oaks lining the driveway and parked in a space not designed for long trucks. I drug my guitar and other necessary items from the back seat and headed for the door. A nice lady with a lot of snow on the rooftop was sitting in the rocking chair close by the front doors. We spoke and she got up to press the entry button for me since my hands and arms were full.

It’s easy to feel a little lost in a strange place. A man with a tape measure on one side of his belt and a ring of keys the size of a toolbox on the other side saw the glaze in my eyes.

“Morning. I’m Mike. You must be the guy who’s doing the program this morning.”

I looked like a hobo street musician with stuff hanging off my body, though I would not pretend to be a real musician. We shook hands.

“Yes sir. I bet you can point me to where I need to be.”

The chapel is a small room with a couple of stained-glass windows up front and a very Methodist looking pulpit and communion table draped in a very ecclesiastical looking decorative runner. I set my guitar case on the small stage and spread the rest of my stuff on the floor around it. A stool. A guitar stand. A music stand. My notebook and my copy of Georgia Bred.

I have been told that my program does not necessarily need to be a church service but that the residents here do like to sing the old gospel songs. I figure it’ll be pretty hard to go wrong if I start off with “I’ll Fly Away.”

I start to unpack my things and get set up. Mike moves a small electric piano out of my way to give me more room. He goes into a closet stage left and comes out with a lapel mic for me. I find a mic jack under the pulpit where I can plug my guitar into the house system.

Mike says to me, “I’ll turn on the sound system, but I don’t know much about it. I reckon you can figure it out.”

While I’m tuning up and gathering my wits about me, a few folks start to wander into the chapel. There are canes and oxygen bags in tow. The room is filled with chairs, not pews. This makes it easier for these folks to get around and find a seat.

One fella catches my eye because he is so well dressed. Not that the rest of them are slobs, but he looks sharp. Navy blue dress slacks. A blue pin stripped, long-sleeved shirt with suspenders. Lord, I haven’t seen a man wearing suspenders in a while.

The stage is really only a 6” raised platform. I get off my stool and step down to go greet the crowd. When I get to Mr. Suspenders, I compliment him.

“I gotta say, you look sharp this morning. My name is Paul.”

“Well, thank you. I’m Jim Baker.”

We exchange a few more pleasantries, then he asked me, “Is that a Guild?” He’s referring to my guitar on the stand.

“Good eye. Yes sir, it is. You play?”

“I do. I have a 1935 Gibson archtop that belonged to my dad. I guess I’ve had it 60 years now.”

I tried not to salivate right in front of the man. For the uninitiated, this guitar is a big deal. A playable one these days could go for $1500. One that has been well kept and that is not restored could go for $5K. The big bands like Glenn Miller, Count Basie, Tommy Dorsie, and Benny Goodman all would likely have had a Gibson L-30 archtop in the band.

The time rolled around for the program to begin. I did gospel songs, told a few Hee Haw jokes and shared a couple of Georgia Bred stories. Folsom Prison Blues got the most smiles.

When it was over, all dozen of my patrons applauded.

Go figure!