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The ADVANCE, August 25, 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
Goodbye, Recliner
From the Porch
By Amber Nagle
I thought I
would be happy to
see it go. The La-
Z-Boy recliner up
holstered in a dark
brown leaf print was
over 12 years old
and hadn’t aged so
well. The fabric was worn thin in places with
picks on the arms, thanks to our little blind
cat who often used his claws like ice climb
ing hooks to pull himself up to me when
I was sitting in the chair in the evenings. I
cringed every time I heard his claws dig into
the material.
We ordered a sectional sofa unit over a
month ago, and when we learned it would
be delivered this Friday, I realized I needed
to move fast and get rid of
our sofa (what I have come
to call “the world’s most
uncomfortable sofa”) and
recliner in the upcoming
days. I posted an ad with
photos on Facebook’s
Marketplace. In less than
thirty minutes, a nice cou
ple from Cleveland, Ten
nessee, were on route to
haul the recliner away.
Again, I thought I would be happy to
see it go, but as I watched the new owner’s
truck drive away with the recliner safely
secured and wrapped in plastic film in the
back, a sadness washed over me.
I’ve long understood the power of
keepsakes. We all keep and hold onto ob
jects that link us to powerful memories and
people — people we love, people we miss.
The recliner connected me to my mother-
in-law, Margaret.
We actually bought the recliner for
her, though it occupied a space in our great
room. After the death of my father-in-law in
2009, Margaret moved to a nearby assisted
living facility. She had suffered a brain in
jury from a car accident and had slight de
mentia. She had also lost her ability to walk.
She spent most days in bed, in a wheelchair,
or in one of those “lift” recliners.
As the holidays approached that year,
we wanted to bring her to our home for a
few days, so I went to the furniture store
and purchased the mid-sized recliner and a
sleeper sofa for her.
A few days later, we drove her to Adairs-
ville, rolled her into the house, and trans
ferred her to the recliner.
“It’s comfortable,” she said, giving her
approval and looking a bit like a queen sit
ting on a throne.
We built her a fire in our fireplace, and
she settled into the chair with our Golden
Retriever, Daisy, by her side. We watched
the animated movie, “Up,” and cried silently
when Carl’s wife, Ellie, died. That scene hit
too close to home.
In 2010, we again brought Margaret to
our home for a special Christmas vacation.
Snow was in the forecast. After the first few
flurries fell, we parked the recliner in front
of the big windows in the back of our house
so Margaret could watch the woods fill with
snow. We played old-timey Christmas mu
sic throughout the house. I was preparing a
Christmas feast in the kitchen when I heard
her singing along with Bing Crosby.
I'm dreaming of a white Christmas,
Just like the ones I used to know,
Where the treetops glisten and children
listen,
To hear sleigh bells in
the snow.
I peeked around the
corner at Margaret in the
recliner, wrapped in a
warm blanket like a hu
man burrito, watching the
snow fall. She was lost in
thought — remembering
a time long ago as she sang the lyrics.
Each time she visited, the recliner was
her domain.
Several years ago, I, too, was confined to
the recliner. I had damaged the nerves along
my rib cage when I sneezed violently. It was
painful, and for a couple of weeks, I walked
gingerly, breathed shallowly, and vowed not
to ever sneeze again. I couldn’t tolerate ly
ing on the flat surface of our bed. The only
place I could sleep for a week was in the soft,
supportive recliner. Thank goodness we had
it.
After we lost Margaret in fall of 2012,
the recliner became the chosen napping
spot for the dog until she died. Our cur
rent Golden Retriever, Cali, claimed it a few
months ago and often curled up between its
arms to watch our every move.
Sensing that something was going on
yesterday, Cali jumped onto the recliner’s
seat cushion, flopped down, and gave me a
look as if daring me to get rid of it.
“You have about five more minutes to
say goodbye to it,” I said. “Sorry, girl.”
Its new owners, David and Lynn,
bought it to go with another chair covered
in leafy fabric. We helped them load it, and
then we watched it disappear down the
driveway.
“Out with the old, and in with the new,”
as the saying goes. I should be happy, but
I’m not.
Little Park Called "The Pocket"
But wait!
There was more
to the story I scrib
bled about the swim
ming hole in the
Wood Station Com
munity.
The community
was known as Wood's
Station for the stage
coach station and
post office there, ac
cording to Uncle
Tom Watts. His father had been a real cow
boy in Texas and Oklahoma before return
ing to sink his roots.
The road crossed Taylor's Ridge, and at
the apex, some Union Army wagons tum
bled off the top during “The Recent Un
pleasantness” of the 1860's.
Across the mountain was the Gordon's
Springs resort, and several miles south and
just east ofVillanow, a road turns south. The
Pocket Road is named for its destination,
“The Pocket.”
The Pocket is in a cove where a couple
of mountains come together. It was a place
that moved in quiet slow motion, known and
enjoyed by the few families that lived nearby.
The only industry was a cotton gin that
might have had a store. Otherwise, the near
est store was at Villanow.
The Pocket was known for the spring
that flows out of the ground at the rate of
hundreds of gallons of frigid water per min
ute and the only place to really chill off dur
ing hot weather.
The water is so cold it makes you suck
air through your teeth. Adults rarely enter
the creek while kids are in it. A splash of wa
ter against your back makes you rise to your
toes and bend your back for relief.
Families brought a watermelon or three
to chill in the water.
The flat creek with a rocky bottom flows
into a lake a couple of miles away, but I've
never known of a baptizing hole in it. My
grandfather said it was too cold for baptizing.
During the Great Depression, when
there were few jobs and folks had no money,
people were offered an opportunity to work
in an “earn and learn project.” This was a part
of President Roosevelt's “New Deal” and
there were thousands of camps.
Rather than giving people money to stay
at home, they were offered government jobs.
In the late 1930's, a Civilian Conserva
tion Corps (CCC) camp was built at the
spring. There are subtle remains of the foun
dations of camp buildings.
The CCC was a government program to
provide honest work for unemployed young
men by planting trees, building community
buildings, bridges, dams, parks, trails, roads,
airports, schools. In return they received job
training, a small check, uniforms, medical
care, room and board.
When the war started in 1941, all federal
money was directed to the war effort and
that ended the CCC.
Thanks to the CCC we have that little
park known as “The Pocket” to enjoy on a
hot day.
joenphillips@yahoo.com
By Joe Phillips
Dear Me
AN PN0RICAN TMWTm
Remembering a time
when negative was positive
By Dick Yarbrough
I had a
COVID-19 test
the other day
even though I
have been
fully-
vaccinated and
wear my mask
regularly in
public. I am
sure to some of
you that proves
I am a liberal weenie commie who
loves Nancy Pelosi, watches CNN
and glows in the dark. But I digress.
My doctor thought it would be a
good idea for me to take the test. The
not-so-good idea was ramming a
cotton swab up my nose that stopped
just shy of my cerebellum. I am happy
to report that both my nose and
cerebellum survived the ordeal, as
did I. The results were negative.
Unlike flashlight batteries, where
negative is negative and positive is
positive, in this case negative meant
positive.
And so it has been with my life.
What some would consider a negative
way to have grown up was, in fact,
very positive. We just didn’t know
any better because there was no one
around to tell us differently. They,
too, were enjoying the positives of
their negative lives.
To those who can’t imagine life
without a daily dose of dot.com in it,
what could be more negative than to
live life without the benefit of the
Internet? I deem that a positive. If I
needed to look something up, I was
taught to go to the dictionary or the
encyclopedia or to the library — all
information sources that could be
trusted — where I would find the
answer.
Teachers tell me that today’s
students can write a six-page essay on
any subject assigned to them and
turn the paper in double-spaced and
with no errors. The only problem is
they have no idea what they were
talking about. They just pulled it off
the Internet. No thinking required.
I may not be the brightest bulb in
the lamp, but I learned the hard way
the dangers of faking it in my school
assignments, including the time I
tried convincing my English professor
Dr. Raymond Cook of the soaring
poetic brilliance of Joyce Kilmer’s
“Trees,” which I had not read. Big
mistake. Dr. Cook didn’t like “Trees.”
Not at all. I still have the scars to
prove it.
No Internet meant no email,
which meant we wrote letters and
cards to each other. This column
generates a lot of email response,
which I greatly appreciate even when
I am getting my knuckles rapped. But
there is no warmer feeling than to
pull out of my Post Office box a
handwritten note or card, knowing
someone took the time and effort to
compose their thoughts and then
went to the trouble to mail it to me. I
answer all my emails. I am also trying
to answer all the cards and letters, as
well. You deserve it.
Try convincing today’s
generation that there was anything
positive about having one black
rotary-dial telephone in the house
with no speed dial, voice mail or
Caller ID. If someone called and they
got a busy signal or there was no one
at home, they just called back. No big
deal. Also, we did not have to endure
robocalls trying to get us to renew
the warranty on a car we no longer
own or restructure the debt on a
credit card we don’t have.
Today, everyone seems to have a
cellphone at their ear, even folks
walking their dog. What is so
important? Can’t it wait? Recently, I
observed a well-dressed couple with
three teenage sons come into the
restaurant where I was dining, all
absorbed in tap-tapping on their
individual cellphones and not
acknowledging each other’s presence.
They paused long enough to order
their food and then went back to
their screens. Maybe they were
talking to each other. There is
probably an app for that.
I grew up in a world without the
benefit of a hundred zillion channels
of television tripe, featuring zombies
and the F-word and biased talking
heads yelling at each other. I grew up
when spam didn’t clog your inbox.
Instead, you fried it and served it
with eggs and grits. I grew up without
the presence of social media where
gutless people go to spew their
venom anonymously. I grew up when
we knelt for prayer and not the
National Anthem. I grew up going to
church because I believed in God. I
still do.
Looking back on those days,
maybe they weren’t as perfect as I
make them out to be, there wasn’t a
whole lot negative about them, either.
Of that, I am positive.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough at dick@
dickyarbrough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, At
lanta, Georgia 31139 or on Facebook at www.
facebook.com/dickyarb.
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