INMAN — Jim Minter was a down-home country boy who loved birddogs, a pinch of Red Man—original loose leaf—and a shot of Tullamore Dew, his favorite Irish whiskey. That, of course, is an abridged summary.
There was a heck of a lot more to him than that. Knowing him and spending countless hours with him and his extraordinary wife, Anne, was a highlight of my life.
We had a lot of things in common, from quail hunting to sipping Irish whiskey by a glowing fire, military history, Georgia football, the colorful characters we were fortunate to get to know over the years, and unrelenting passion for our native state.
When he and Anne bought a condominium at the King and Prince on St. Simons, their neighbors were former Governor Ernie Vandiver and his wife, Betty.
I couldn’t wait for “happy hour” when the Minters invited us down to see them. There was a lot of country boy in Georgia’s 73rd governor, too. With the former governor and Jim, there was classic storytelling and deep and abiding affection for fried shrimp and a nap when you were enveloped in an Atlantic breeze. The roar of the ocean in that setting made you realize just how small you really are.
Nobody loved good humor more than Jim, and he was a classic storyteller. My all-time favorite, which surfaced late one spring afternoon on the Vandivers’ deck had to do with a well-to-do agribusiness man whose brother had spent most of his life in prison for murder. The elder brother went to see a certain colorful governor of the past and asked for a favor.
“Governor, my bother has spent a lot of years in prison. My mother is getting long in the tooth and feels like her son has paid his debt to society. She would like him to spend some time at home before she passes on.
“As you know, Governor, things have broken well for me, and if you could grant my bother a pardon, I will see to it that you will be well rewarded.”
“Oh, you know, I couldn’t do a thing like that,” the Governor huffed.
Then he sprang to his feet, and said, “Come let me show you my mule.” They walked outside and there stood a limp mule, which looked like 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 the Governor. The reply was, “$500.” The man was in shock and said, “Governor that mule looks like he might die before we finish this conversation. No offense, but that mule ain’t worth $5.00. What would I do with a mule like that?” The Governor grinned and said, “Well I thought your bother might want to ride him home from Reidsville.”
It wasn’t Lewis Grizzard or Jeff Foxworthy, but the cleverness was as pure storytelling as there is. More like Jerry Clower, perhaps. Interestingly, Jim was a good listener and was not given to taking the floor.
After he retired as editor of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution, he settled down on his farm where he lived out his life, but for a while, wrote a column for the Southside edition of the AJC.
A column he wrote about leaving a side door open to his house, allowing opportunity for some goats to wander in—and find their way to the master bedroom and settle onto Anne’s sofa—may well have been the funniest column ever to appear in the AJC. Sorry Lewis, sorry Leo Aikman, sorry Ernest Rogers.
Jim was, perhaps, my favorite ink-stained wretch. And I have known more than a few, including Furman Bisher who was a brilliant wordsmith but a hot-tempered, petulant boss. Only Minter could keep Bish at bay. Jim realized that underneath that thundering bark, there was little bite.
Yet, he, like so many others to pass Bish’s way, had such respect for his elite sports-writing talent that everybody forgave him of his sins. When Jim was the boss, he was tough, but he was a leader who rode shotgun with his reporters. They knew he always had their back.
I have had the good fortune to explore events, landscapes, and activities over the years, but I don’t think anybody could top our visits with Hal Northrop when he made Callaway Gardens the best venue for fun and recreation in our state—with the exceptions of the Augusta National and Sanford Stadium.
Hal was the consummate host and had the best quail operation in the state, mainly because of a guide named John Sale. John loved dogs. When he spoke, they listened. He buried his quail and coon dogs in his backyard. One epitaph read, “He loved us and we loved him. Someday we will meet again.”
Minter was overwhelmed with those who were salts of the earth, like John Sale.
We began our retreats at Callaway by hunting with John who would vote for capital punishment for anybody who put a shock collar on a bird dog. You just don’t treat a dog that way, John would say.
It also became a ritual to hunt quail every January with our friend, Don Sheppard, in Sylvania, driving up from St. Simons on a chilly January day. The hunts were always good, and lunch prepared by Don’s wife, Candy, made our day: coleslaw, barbecue, cornbread, a vegetable or two, and the best dessert.
Driving a tractor often headlined Jim’s outdoor activity. He loved the purring of the motor of his 165 Massey-Ferguson and his John Deere M. He loved the scenery around him. Tall pines, gall berry bushes, undergrowth, and grain fields.
As an editor, Minter was tough when he needed to be, but he loved the outdoor and hunting stories by Charlie Elliott and seeing a farming scene unfold before his eyes. It made the high-pressure atmosphere of the newsroom easier to manage.
In the days of cold type production, Jim was in his element sitting at the rim, the inverted “U,” with the rest of the staff as they edited everything for the linotype operators, wrote headlines, and communicated with an underscoring of cynical banter.
Minter was cut out for that exercise. He was a fine writer who had a seasoned view of everything. In his years as executive sports editor of the Journal, he took great pleasure in scooping the Constitution, the morning paper, although ownership of the two daily papers was one and the same.
At his graveside service—which he had insisted on—the weather broke clean and clear last Saturday morning. A large crowd gathered as purple martins flitted overhead. Everyday people, a few with neckties just the way Jim would have preferred. The minister put everybody on notice that the service was to be brief, repeating himself a couple of times, “I have my instructions.” Everybody knew who had dictated that brevity was to be underscored.
The minister then shared a story that was of the essence of James G. Minter. He told of the time when his wife gave birth to their first child. Jim showed up with a hardware store bag, and as he handed off the bag, said, “You probably don’t have time to get to the hardware store these days.” Later, when the minister opened the bag there was a bottle of champagne inside.
The church where a reception took place following the final rites was a little more than a stone’s throw from the Ackert depot where he spent many happy hours. The sentimentalist in him saved the old depot from destruction and was a favorite respite where he could reflect on the past.
Count me as being one fortunate to be in the select company who has enjoyed a sip of Irish whiskey with one of the great sportswriters in this state. He also was the best of editors and one of the most passionate of outdoorsmen who could spar with an arrogant football coach and a haughty politician when they got too big for their britches.
He loved the newspaper business and he loved the farm. He dressed like many who came to bid farewell to him. He was a man who rose to great heights in his professional pursuit, but he was also their neighbor, who would get your ox out of the ditch.
His picture, which graced the obituary handout, was quintessential Jim Minter. He was sitting on his tractor with a warm and welcoming smile, a very contented man.
We don’t know what awaits us when our time has passed. However, I would hope that Jim and John Sale are up beyond the clouds in the company of a birddog by a warm fire, reading the print edition of the AJC.