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gfre Aiiuancg 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. ®" c AJiuance (The Advance Publishing Co., Inc) PO Box 669, 205 E. First Street, Vidalia, GA 30475 Telephone: (912) 537-3131 FAX: (912) 537-4899 E-mail: theadvancenews@gmail.com The Advance, U. S. P. S. #659-000, successor to The Advance and The Lyons Progress, entered weekly at Vidalia, GA Post Office. Periodical Postage paid at Vidalia, GA 30474 under Act of Congress, March 4, 1886. P.O. Box 669, East First Street, Wm. F. Ledford, Sr. Publisher. Subscription Rates per year: $40.00 in county, $55.00 out of 304 zip code. (POSTMASTER: send address changes to The ADVANCE, P.O. Box 583, Vidalia, GA 30475). Copyright © 202L Advance Publishing Co., Inc. All rights reserved. The design, concept and contents of The Advance are copyrighted and may not be reproduced in part or whole without written permission from the publisher. R.E. "LID" LEDFORD, PUBLISHER 1924-1976 WILLIAM F. “BILL" LEDFORD SR., PUBLISHER 1976-2013 Publisher & Managing Editor: WILLIAM F. LEDFORD JR. Vice President: THE LATE ROSE M. LEDFORD Regional Editor: DEBORAH CLARK Pagination/Typography: LEANNE RICHARDSON Quality Control MILLIE PERRY Graphic Design: MATTHEW WATERS Sports Editor/Graphic Design: MIKE BRANCH Director of Advertlslng/Sales: DANIEL FORD Office Manager: BONNIE BAILEY Financial Manager: CINDY LAWRENCE Contributing Writers: JOE PHILLIPS, JOHN CONNER, DICK YARBROUGH & AMBER NAGLE NATIONAL NEWSPAPER ASSOCIATION Member of the Georgia Press Association and the National Newspaper Association Winning