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The ADVANCE, Morch 17, 2021 /Page 5A
OPINIONS
“I honor the man who is willing to sink
Half his repute for the freedom to think,
And when he has thought, be his cause strong or weak,
Will risk t’other half for the freedom to speak.”
—James Russell Lowell
editorials
The Special Project
Once upon a
time, I was an engi
neer. Eons ago, I sup
ported a large avion
ics electronics repair
shop at Robins Air
Force Base. My facil
ity was spread across
three buildings, each filled with skilled tech
nicians, engineers, software types, and sup
port staff.
I completed some elaborate projects
when I worked there, but today, Em sharing
a rather silly one.
Jerry was my boss’s boss’s boss, or rather
my Division Chief. He was intelligent — a
bright bulb — and quiet. He often skipped
over two levels of management to assign
projects directly to me.
“I have a special project for you,” he said
one day after summoning me and the facil
ity’s plumber to his office.
“Here’s the problem,” he continued.
“We installed those fancy automatic flush
ing toilets in the front office bathrooms.
Sometimes in the morning, when I go in
there to relieve myself ... and I sit down
... well ... if I move wrong... if I adjust my
self slightly ... if I lean forward ... the toilet
flushes before Em finished ... and that’s not
a good thing...”
He inhaled deeply, then exhaled.
“I don’t want it to flush until Em done,”
he emphasized. “I don’t want it to think
about flushing until Eve stood up and
stepped away from the toilet bowl, under
stand? I want the two of you to work to
gether and make sure that every toilet in this
facility is adjusted correctly.”
It was an easy fix, though not an engi
neering task. Each of the devices had sen
sitivity adjustments. All we had to do was
change the sensitivity and/or adjust the
angle of the sensor eyes. And so for the next
several hours, the plumber (cloaked in cov
eralls) and I (dressed in a business suit, ho
siery, and heels) went from stinky toilet to
stinky toilet making fine adjustments. After
wards, I poked my head in Jerry’s office and
said, “We’re done.”
“You aren’t done until I sayyou’re done,”
he said, pushing himself up from his desk.
He went into the men’s bathroom as I
waited in the hallway. Five minutes later,
I heard the flush. He came out and said,
“Good job. I thank you, and every man who
uses this bathroom thanks you.”
The other engineers heckled me that
afternoon. They teased me saying that not
only was I the teacher’s pet, but that Jerry
saved all his poop projects for me, but they
didn’t use the word, “poop.”
Years later, I sat at the conference table
with Jerry and told him of my decision to
leave the Air Force Base and take an engi
neering job with OMC (Johnson and Evin-
rude boat motors). He told me that he hated
to see me go and offered to hold my job
open for a little while just in case I changed
my mind.
Then he said, “You know, about once
every two months, someone comes in this
office and complains about you, and I tell
them to get out of my office.”
This comment threw me for a loop. I
prided myself on doing good work and get
ting along with the folks, and I was stunned
that people had complained about me.
“Complained? Why?” I asked.
Jerry laughed.
“Hundreds of people work in these
buildings,” he said. “Most of them? I don’t
know them, don’t know their names, don’t
know what in the world they do all day ...
But I know what Amber Nagle does. I see
you in the shop every day. Everyone knows
you. They complain because you are always
out there doing your job, and making sure
they are doing their job, too. Most of the
other engineers sit in their cubicles day af
ter day, keeping to themselves, doing as little
as possible, waiting to go home, and no one
knows them, sees them, or complains about
them.”
His comment was still hard to digest,
but I realized that it was a compliment.
“When I want something to get done,
get done quickly, and get done right, I have
about six engineers out of dozens I rely
upon, and you’ve always been one of them,”
he continued. “Even if it is a silly, poop proj-
. »
ect.
He didn’t use the word, “poop.” He
laughed, slapped me on the back, and
wished me good luck.
I never saw Jerry again, but I think
about our final conversation a lot. There was
a wisdom in his words that day — a lesson.
Whether as an engineer, or as a writer, or as
the girl who supervised the poop project,
my goal has always been to do a good job
and make a difference in this world. And yes,
occasionally, I step on a few toes, but at least
I’m out there trying.
From the Porch
By Amber Nagle
My Old Truck
By Joe Phillips
Dear Me
Shallow?
Men are accused
en mass of being
emotionally shallow,
and I just wanted to
declare it ain't so.
As I have stated,
men are capable of
holding deep, tender,
selfless, loving, long-lasting emotions: We
just don't need another person to be in
volved.
A man spending an afternoon lovingly
“detailing” his old car, caressing and attend
ing to that old heap, likely pays more atten
tion to the car than to the lady inside the
house watching Hallmark.
I loved my 1964 VW Bug, but the reali
ties of fife forced a separation. I found the last
legal owner, who received it in a divorce. The
title was not changed when she sold it. It
could be sitting in a barn in Toombs or
Tattnall County or sold for scrap.
Looking for it by VIN is a nonstarter
because the VIN only had seven numbers
(591 77 98) and search engines require a
whole string of them. I've searched for about
thirty years without results.
Men love their boats. I loved my air
plane. Boats keep you afloat. Airplanes keep
you aloft.
Some men need to float. Some men
need to fly. That's just the way it is.
My 1993 Ford F250 did everything I
asked it to do. It pulled my tractor, hauled
trailers full of stuff across country.
When there wasn't a handy place in the
house for my Ham Radio, it had a place in
the truck. Sitting in the truck I chatted with
people around the world on less than 100
watts.
The major parts of the truck work just
fine. She has a strong diesel “Wednesday
Engine” that hums along without a burp.
When she runs, the air conditioning will
freeze you out of the cab.
Cosmetically, she could stand to have a
little work done, but I no longer see that.
She has a nagging health issue that no
one can cure. You will think I have prema
turely given up, but that isn't so.
Vehicles use belts to transfer energy
from the engine to power compressors,
pumps, alternators.
Each used to have a single belt, but now
just one belt winds around like a snake: It is
called a serpentine belt.
When the belt goes, it won't steer, won't
stop.
That truck has tossed the serpentine belt
24 times in the last five years. It has made
repeated trips to six repair shops that under
estimated the challenge. All pulleys have
been replaced, repeatedly, the tensioner re
placed repeatedly.
The answer is simple if you can find it.
Something is out of line or something is
moving that shouldn't.
I've poured too much into it and could
take a very nice cruise on what I've paid in
tow charges. Insurance and taxes continue.
I don't know what to do with it. It sad
dens me to see it sitting alone.
It's time for a breakup, but I still love my
truck.
joenphillips@yahoo.com
A Son of the South
and Proud of It
I am a Son
of the South
and proud of it.
Born here,
raised here and,
God willing,
will be planted
here. The
South is and
always will be
my home.
Have we
always been a perfect place? Far from
it. The notion of separate-but-equal
was anything but in the South in which
I was raised. Blacks rode in the back of
the bus and attended substandard
schools. They couldn’t eat in our
restaurants or attend our churches or
shop in our stores. They were required
to serve in the military but discouraged
to the point of intimidation from
registering to vote. Blacks were accused
of crimes they didn’t commit and too
many lost their lives as a result. It was
not our finest hour.
The civil rights movement of the
‘60’s changed the dynamics. It was a
painful but necessary time. There is
disagreement as to just how much
things have changed, but in my view
they have and for the better. There are
special interest groups on both sides of
the racial divide who will disagree.
That is understandable because it is in
their political and financial interest to
do so. They will never be satisfied.
I grew up thinking that bigotry
existed only in the South until I
ventured north and heard the locals
disparaging Greeks, Italians, Poles,
Jews, Irish Catholics and, yes, Blacks. I
discovered that prejudice was not
regional. Neither was hypocrisy.
I grieve that what has made being
Southern so special has come under
attack. It started with the “Fergit,
Hell!” crowd glorifying a way of life
that no longer exists and probably
never did. Their Lost Cause was
exemplified by supporters of the old
Georgia state flag which resembled the
Confederate battle flag; as ornery a
bunch of people as I have ever dealt
with, and I have dealt with a bunch of
ornery folks in my long career.
They threatened and bullied and
postured but totally misread public
support of their cause. The state flag
was changed during the Perdue
Administration with the overwhelming
approval of Georgians.
Now they are reduced to watching
the pendulum swing the other way and
having to endure politically-correct
zealots tearing down statues and trying
to obliterate anything having to do
with Southern history, without
knowing what they are talking about.
The flaggers with their heads
turned toward the past and a war long
ago lost do not represent my South.
Neither do the fanatics trying to
rewrite the history of the region by
destroying it. In some ways, their
actions are eerily reminiscent of the
Taliban’s efforts to wipe out
Afghanistan’s history 20 years ago.
My South is gentle and polite. We
By Dick Yarbrough
grew up saying “Yes, ma’am” and “No
ma’am” and “Thank you.” I still do.
Friday night football was a social
gathering. It still is. We went to church
on Sunday and on Wednesday nights,
too. Nobody locked their doors.
Southern cooking was equal parts lard,
salt and fried. We ate supper because
dinner was at noon. And nobody in
the South prepared a meal. It was fixed,
as in, “Come on in the house and wash
your hands. Momma is fixing supper.”
People laugh at how we talk. The
laugh is on them. It is everybody else
that talks funny. Yes, our speech
pattern may be slow, but as my daddy
used to say, we think fast. In the South,
we will tell you what we want you to
know when we are ready for you to
know it.
My daddy, the quintessential
Southern philosopher, also used to say
we wasted a lot of money painting
lines down the middle of the highway
because nobody goes north to live,
they all come south. And stay.
If you want to see the real South,
you will need to venture out from the
killing fields of Atlanta and environs.
That area is about as southern as South
Bronx and just about as hazardous.
Head in any direction - north, south,
east or west - and you will find a South
of mountains and lakes, pecan and
peach and apple orchards, rolling
farmlands and pristine ocean beaches.
It is a special place filled with God
fearing people who love their country,
sweet tea and each another.
This is the South that I love. This
is why I am proud to be a Son of the
South. If you don’t agree that this is
hallowed and holy soil, I can only say,
“Bless your heart.” It is not a
compliment.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough at
dick@dickyarbrough.com; at P.O. Box
725373, Atlanta, Georgia 31139 or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/
dickyarb.
“"Abuance
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