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The ADVANCE, September 15, 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
That Day
From the Porch
By Amber Nagle
Two decades
have passed since
the terrorist attacks
of September 11,
2001. Like most
Americans, the
events of the day are etched in my memory
— where I was, what I was doing, who I was
with, how I learned about the tragedy, etc.
I was at work that Tuesday morning —
a small office in Dalton, Georgia. My phone
rang, and I answered.
“Hey,” my husband said. “Something
just happened in New York. A plane just
flew into one of the buildings.”
As he spoke, I envisioned him standing
in our kitchen at home. He had come down
stairs to get a cup of coffee and turned on
the television for a few minutes to see what
was going on in the world.
“A big plane or a little plane?” I asked.
“A big plane,” he answered. “Oh wow.
They are saying it’s the World Trade Center.
Smoke is billowing out.”
Just weeks before, Gene and I had va
cationed for a week in New York. We hit
several of the tourist attractions including
climbing the 162 steps to the crown of the
Statue of Liberty, viewing the city atop the
Empire State building, hanging out in Time
Square, taking in a Broadway show, walking
through Central Park, browsing art in sev
eral museums, and visiting the World Trade
Center — the financial capital of the world.
“Do you think it was an accident?” I
asked.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I mean, how
could it be an accident?”
His words sank in slowly.
“Let me call you back in a little while,” I
said. “I need to finish what I’m working on
here.”
We said our goodbyes. A few minutes
later, he called back. I looked at the clock in
my office. It was 9:05 a.m.
“Another plane has hit the second
World Trade Center building,” he said, his
voice elevated in pitch. “This is unreal. Both
buildings are on fire now.”
The next thing I remember, I was stand
ing in my boss’ office telling him and anoth
er coworker, Dana, what Gene had shared
with me. The blood drained from Dana’s
face, and she put a hand over her mouth in
disbelief. My boss’ eyes welled with tears.
I walked back to my office and called
some old coworkers — friends — who
worked at Robins Air Force Base. I was cer
tain they knew, but I wanted to make sure.
They already knew.
I sat back in my chair, and the phone
rang again. It was Gene. He told me the
buildings had collapsed. I can’t remember
his exact wording, because I think I was a bit
in shock. No tears came — just numbness.
Some of us gathered in the center of the
office and prayed together. Twenty minutes
later, my boss called our staff into the con
ference room.
“I think we all need to go home and be
with our families,” he said on the verge of
breaking down. “Please be careful on your
way home. You are all very important to
me.”
I stayed in Dalton until 2 or 3 p.m. I
sat in traffic on Walnut Avenue listening to
NPR, looked at the car next to me, and saw
a man sobbing behind his steering wheel.
He wiped his tears on the sleeve of his crisp,
white dress shirt. My tears still didn’t come.
On the interstate as I drove southward,
my thoughts turned to our young nieces
and nephews. I wondered what their lives
— their futures — would be like in the new
world. I feared large-scale domestic attacks
of terrorism would be regular occurrences
— commonplace.
When I got home, my husband and I sat
in front of the television for hours, learning
the specifics of the attacks — New York, the
Pentagon, and Pennsylvania. We watched
first responders work amid the pale gray
dust and debris. We learned of heroes who
acted that day. We listened to loved ones
who were interviewed as they searched for
their loved ones, hoping they had made it
out somehow. They carried photographs in
their hands. It was chaotic madness.
I remember the feeling I had that day
— like being punched in the gut. I couldn’t
breathe.
Sound familiar? I’m sure it does to many
of you. Though most of you don’t know me
personally, we share this one thing — we all
lived through the trauma of 9/11. We are
connected because the attack was against all
of us. It had a huge impact on us. It changed
us, and though we have healed somewhat in
twenty years, we all bear the scars.
On this solemn anniversary, let us re
member the day with great reverence. Let
us remember but be thankful for the resil
ience and strength of our nation. Let us re
member the sadness but also the unity we
felt as a nation. Most of all, let us remember
that we are all threads woven together in the
same American fabric. Our DNA contains
red, white, and blue, and 9/11 is part of
each of us, and will always be.
What's Really Homemade?
What is home
made today?
On my most re
cent road trip to
deep South Georgia
I was lured by a sign
for “baked from
scratch buttermilk
biscuits.”
Having been
suckered by similar
claims before, I shoved my skepticism
aside and took a chair.
The biscuits were pretty good, slightly
brown on top suggesting they were cooked
hot and quick as they should be.
They had a tinge of yellow, hinting
that they were not made from self-rising
flour.
The sausage gravy was honest because
I found a lump scraped from the side of a
skillet and bits of crispy sausage.
My breakfast left little to be wanted,
and if I was suckered, it was well-done.
You can buy perfectly cut frozen bis
cuits if you keep your expectations in
check.
The sausage in my gravy was not
homemade, but I don't know where you
would find small batch ground sausage.
My family made, smoked and cured
sausage, and I've never tasted anything
else close to it.
Pork trimmings were ground, spiced
and stuffed into long tubes of muslin then
hung from wires in the smoke house.
As the sausage cured and dried, a
harmless green mold formed on the out
side of the of the tube.
When sausage was needed, the tube
was taken down, the tube pulled back,
and slices cut from the sausage. The mold
was washed off.
Homemade sausage had a distinctive
taste that no commercial sausage can
match, but Lee Packing Company has
come close. Their sausage isn’t cured in a
smokehouse, but you can only expect so
much.
Supermarkets sell various brands of
homemade ice cream, but few of them re
ally have that hand-cranked, homemade
taste.
One thing missing is the flavor-carry
ing essence of fresh cream and lots of it.
Today’s ice cream is iced milk at best.
Folks are so nervous of the fat content of
everything that I doubt real ice cream
would be commercially possible.
My choice flavor is “butter-pecan”
which does not contain butter at all. The
top flavor is “maple” but maple-pecan
doesn't have the same sound to it. I get
mine from the German food store.
Some things are not sold as “home
made” and probably never will be.
Homemade clothing reminds one of
crooked seams and weird collars.
The gaggle of men around the tables
where I found homemade biscuits were
regulars, and it didn’t take many bites to
discover why.
I look forward to another road trip
and next time will make notes.
joenphillips@yahoo.com
By Joe Phillips
Dear Me
eOWcHjboM.co/\
Looking for some good
news in these trying times
It is hard
to find much
good news
these days as
we relive the
horrific events
of 9-11 that
took the lives
of 2,977
innocent souls
in the World
Trade Center,
the Pentagon and a field in Shanksville,
Pennsylvania.
And then after some 2,500
American deaths, we have withdrawn
our troops from that hellhole called
Afghanistan. We will now have to
endure those jive-talking, knuckle
dragging Neanderthals dragging their
poor inhabitants back to the Dark
Ages where women are less than
second-class citizens and wonder why
we went there in the first place.
At home, we are in a dither over
vaccinations (I got mine) and masks
(I wear mine) and tearing down
statues (I don’t have one to tear down.
Sorry.) and ignoramuses spouting
hate and threatening public officials
via social media - anonymously, of
course.
Even God’s House is not immune.
The North Georgia Conference of the
United (?) Methodist Church has
taken the largest church in their
jurisdiction - 10,000 member Mt.
Bethel in Cobb County - to court in
the latest iteration of an internecine
struggle between the bishop and
members of the church over money,
power and real estate. I suspect
Baptists are laughing their heads off at
their Methodist brethren. I suspect I
am going to get a lot of mail from folks
on both sides of the issue taking me to
task and talking about everything in
this unfortunate happening except
what Jesus said in the Sermon on the
Mount.
But like the proverbial pony in the
pile, there is some good news available
if you are willing to dig down for it. So
with shovel in hand, I offer you the
following, starting with the fact that
this month of September is Gospel
Heritage Month.
Gospel Heritage Month was the
result of the efforts of two Democrats
in Congress, Rep. Sheila Jackson Lee,
of Texas, and Sen. Blanche Lincoln, of
Arkansas, back in 2008. That says to
me that God just may not be the
exclusive province of the Christian
Right after all.
I don’t think the jive-talking,
knuckle-dragging Neanderthals or the
anonymous social media ignoramuses
are aware that this is Gospel Heritage
Month. If they were, they wouldn’t be
acting the way they are. Neither would
the Methodists. In my humble
opinion, they all could use a few verses
of “Loving God, Loving Each Other,”
written by my heroes, Bill and Gloria
Gaither, or “God Is Good All The
Time,” sung by the exquisite Babbie
Mason, of Carroll County, Georgia,
who has the voice of an angel - only
better.
The good news is that for me
every month is Gospel Heritage
Month. I grew up a big fan of gospel
By Dick Yarbrough
music, listening to the LeFevre Trio -
Alphus, Urias and Eva Mae - and
Hovie Lister and the Statesmen
Quarter, as well as The Happy
Goodman Family and Lee Roy
Abernathy among others.
But there is more good news to
follow because October is Country
Music Month, thanks to Pres. Richard
Nixon declaring it so in 1970. Other
than opening up relations with China,
this may have been one of Nixon’s
finest hours. I must add that had he
listened to a little gospel music, like
“Not by Might, Not by Power,”
Watergate may never have happened.
By the way, Richard Nixon was
the first president to visit the Grand
Ole Opry, where he was given yo-yo
lessons by the legendary Roy Acuff.
Write that down and remember you
read it here.
Frankly, today’s country music
has gotten a bit too slick for my tastes.
Eve got nothing against Keith Urban
and Carrie Underwood and Alison
Kraus but I lean toward Ray Price and
Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline and Dolly
Parton. Of course, at the top of my list
is Willie Nelson. Who else would get
tired of life and go lie down in the
middle of the road, waiting for a car to
run over him? Thankfully, none did
and the rest is history.
I don’t know about you but I feel a
lot better already talking about Gospel
Heritage Month and Country Music
Month instead of that mess in the
Middle East, people who want to
defund the police and then burn down
buildings, those who threaten public
officials’ families anonymously and a
bunch of Christians who are acting
like anything but.
The good news is that they will
still be there if and when I decide to
get back to them. In the meantime, did
I tell you that November is Model
Train Month?
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.
^Ainianre
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