It has taken almost 65 years, but I finally have a degree to hang on my wall.

It is not one of those big flashy parchments with all the fancy signatures down at the bottom, but it is indeed a degree. And the fact that it was so long in coming makes it all the sweeter.

It is not an earned degree. I'm too old and impatient to get one of those. Besides, I could never sit through all those classes in all those stuffy classrooms that would be required to get the Real McCoy.

There's a college professor on Marilda's side of the family, and it is no secret that the poor guy bores me to tears at family reunions. I can't imagine a steady diet of forced feedings at his lectures.

My degree was presented earlier this week at Gatlinburg during the 81st annual state convention of the Tennessee Association FFA.

The kind and generous people who gave it to me said it was presented for "writing about agriculture since the 1960s, telling the story of the people and the land with a common touch and genuine compassion."

It was as big a shock to me then as it probably is to you now. I certainly never expected it, but I'm so proud of it that it has already joined the pictures of Henry and Walt, the world's best-looking grandchildren, on the wall of the room of our house that Marilda calls "the snake pit."

It isn't actually a snake pit at all, not even close. It is my office, but, truth be told, it is a bigger mess than she can stand to look at. But I'm going to straighten it up just any day now.

There have been a few other awards and honors passed along to me down through the years, but only the Lord and Marilda know where they might be gathering dust today. None of them is very impressive, mind you, but they will be something for Henry and Walt to dispose of one day.

This one is different. This one is very special. It brought back so many great memories that I've spent most of this week trying to figure out how all those years since 1962 got away from me so quickly.

It was in 1962, by the way, when I attended my last FFA state convention before the one this week in Gatlinburg.

I was overwhelmed at the leadership and character of some of the best and brightest young people I had ever met during that 1962 convention in Nashville. I had the same feelings all over again this week in Gatlinburg.

There might be a better youth organization out there somewhere, but I don't know about it. I know just enough about the FFA and how it impacted my life to report to you that it made a whale of a difference for me.

Back in the winter, I began my 43rd year here at this newspaper. And still, after all these years, the most frequently asked question to me has to do with the training I received for this job.

"Where did you go to school?" is the all-time No. 1 question I hear.

"Mohawk," I always say.

"No, no, I mean college. Where did you receive your degree?"

"All I have is this yellowing slip of paper from Route 2, Mohawk, Tennessee, that says in so many words that McDonald High School would be thrilled if I would just leave," I explain.

"You mean you don't have a degree in journalism?"

And the answer is always no.

I may be the last dirt-road, tobacco-growing kid who ever grew up to do something like this. Most of the kids who have followed me grew up in the burbs, had indoor plumbing, and received at least one journalism degree from a good school.

I'm not sure there's room these days for kids who might be brave enough or adventuresome enough to follow the uncertain path that landed me in a job I've loved all these years.

But every night just before I go off to sleep, I thank the Lord that the door stayed open just long enough for me to sneak in.

And during weeks like this one, I'm very thankful that the FFA helped nudge me in that direction.

During those tender years leading up to 1962, I became surrounded by a group of people who would unknowingly become the only "professors" I would ever have.

You guessed it: the two main ones were the faces of the FFA at Dear Old McDonald High.

Ed Felton came home to East Tennessee from World War II, completed his degree work at the University of Tennessee, and came to Route 2, Mohawk, to tell the FFA story in a fashion so remarkable I can still see and hear him at the front of the class.

When he died at the age of 40 in the fall of 1960, I was pretty sure all the fun of school had died with him.

But, not so.

A man by the name of Fred Terry came to take Ed Felton's place, and while it may sound a little overly dramatic to some, this is the man who taught me how to do what I've been doing here at the paper since 1967.

Oh, he didn't teach me how to tackle that tricky first paragraph of every story or how to shoot a picture of an accident at three in the morning, but he was indeed a "professor" in farmer garb.

What he taught me on Route 2, Mohawk, was even more important than attention-getting ledes and snappy photos.

Mr. Terry, as he was to me in 1960 and still is today, was 26 when he became my FFA advisor.

He talked slowly and he walked slowly. He never got excited. He never raised his voice. He drove an old pickup truck with holes in it. He favored talking about mules and horses over baseball and basketball.

He taught me a lot, but mostly, he taught me how to live by first believing in myself and then believing in those around me.

Growing up, I had dreams far beyond the dusty roads and tobacco fields of Mohawk, but I had no idea on how to get there. Mr. Terry came to help.

I can't give you a single quote from this man who stood before me for two years. But I can tell you this: He was the first person in my life to see something besides a hoe and tobacco and cows in my future.

From the fall of 1960 to the spring of 1962, he never stopped encouraging and supporting me in ways that I couldn't half appreciate at the time. But I do now, far more than mere words can tell.

How special is the Honorary State FFA Degree that now hangs on the wall of the snake pit? Next to Henry and Walt, it is my No. 3 bragging piece.

Because, if it hadn't been for the FFA from 1958 to 1962, you would be reading something else right now and I'd still be on a dirt road at Mohawk.