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The ADVANCE, November 3, 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
Fred Is Dead
I have always
loved animals as
much as Elly May
Clampett of the
Sixties sitcom, The
Beverly Hillbillies.
Dogs. Cats. Rabbits.
Chickens. Ducks. I grew up in a backyard
full of beloved critters — spending time
with them, talking to them, loving all over
them, kissing them gently like they were my
babies.
In 1973, Tom T. Hall released a single
that summed up the way I feel. His block
buster began with the line, “I love little baby
ducks.”
Well, amen to that.
When I was a little girl, our ducks occa
sionally hatched out a brood in the spring
time. I picked them up, held them up to my
face to feel their fuzz on my skin and lis
tened to their sweet little chirps.
Watching them waddle around the
backyard with the mama duck was one of
my favorite pastimes. Sometimes, we filled
a large washtub with water and tossed
them in, marveling at their innate ability
to float, dive, swim, and walk on the bot
tom. One year, we threw them in the neigh
bor’s above-ground pool and let them swim
around for a few minutes. When the time
came to get them out, we’d reach for them
and they’d pop under water and escape our
grasp. Then they started pooping in the
pool. We laughed so hard tears streamed
down our faces.
As happens in nature, a few times our
ducks raised ducklings with physical dis
abilities. Sometimes the duck wouldn’t
make it to maturity. One time, a male duck
with a defective leg survived to adulthood.
We considered calling him Hop-along
Cassidy, but instead, we named him Fred.
He waddled with a limp and was much
slower than the others, but we loved him
anyway. He was part of our backyard circus
— part of our family.
Then one day, Fred was gone.
“Well, I guess a neighborhood dog
probably got him,” my mother suggested
sincerely. “That’s how nature works.”
I was sad, but I accepted it. Our chick
ens and ducks disappeared all the time. But
in the case of Fred’s disappearance, there
was no sign of a struggle in the yard — no
blood stain or pile of feathers. Fred had van
ished without a trace.
A day or two later, my brother was at
home and after hearing about the missing
duck, he belted out a Curtis Mayfield song
from the Seventies. “Freddie’s dead. That’s
what I said.” I wasn’t amused at his attempt
to make me laugh at the situation.
A week after Fred’s mysterious disap
pearance, Mom and I were working in the
backyard mowing grass, sweeping off the
patio, etc. My father had parked his yellow,
whale-sized Plymouth Fury in the backyard
underneath a pecan tree, and my mother
had passed it a few times as she mowed.
Mom and I soon realized that a foul odor
was emanating from the trunk of the car.
She went inside the house and retrieved the
keys.
The large metal trunk released a loud
squeal as it rose. The stench nearly knocked
us both to the ground. That’s when we real
ized it wasn’t a foul odor, but more of a fowl
odor — a dead fowl odor. There, alongside
the spare tire, jack, jumper cables, and an
empty can of Coca Cola was a decaying
Fred.
“What in the ...” Mom said. She turned
and marched into the house. I knew not to
follow her.
I later learned that as my father rushed
off to work one morning the week before, he
had accidentally backed into the lame duck.
The other ducks managed to get out of his
way, but Fred caught a tire and died at the
scene. In a hurry, my dad tossed him into
the trunk and peeled out of the driveway. He
meant to dispose of the duck before coming
home that afternoon, but he got distracted
and forgot that Fred was in the trunk, for an
entire week.
I knew my father didn’t mean to kill
Fred so there was no transgression to for
give. I also realized his actions were kind
and out of love — trying to save me from
the pain and anguish of finding the dead
duck in the yard after he hit Fred. Had he
remembered to dump the duck’s body be
fore returning home, we would have never
known what happened. But of course, that’s
not how the story unfolded.
For days, I mourned Fred’s passing, and
for days, we aired out the trunk of the Plym
outh. Finally, the stink dissipated and so did
my heartache.
The story of Fred is just a tiny piece
of my childhood, but it speaks volumes. It
reflects how my childhood shaped me —
how I learned to love, celebrate life, mourn
death, feel compassion, care for others, take
on responsibility, deal with sadness and
loss, forgive, move on, and so much more.
And at the heart of the story — the lesson
— is a hobbling, handicapped duck named
Fred. Rest in peace, sweet Fred.
From the Porch
By Amber Nagle
Teeth Brush and Pony Spread
Teeth brush and
pony spread.
While sifting
through arcane sub
jects I intended to
bring up with you,
some seemed worthy
of exploring but not
something I knew
much about.
The first was an
item every Army trainee knew from a list is
sued on the first days of basic training. The
list was filled at the Post Exchange, and it
came in a box because every trainee got the
same list. And the same box.
The product, which I have not seen in
decades, was Colgate “tooth powder,” which
should have been written as “teeth powder”
for the same reason I think “teeth brush” is a
more accurate term.
The white and red metal container is
now plastic, but dry powder was a more du
rable way to store and protect teeth cleaner.
With family coming to Sunday dinner, I
used the grocery shopping trip as for re
search and found various kinds of teeth
powder at three stores.
Yep, the stuff is still around. There are
many available on the web including con
tainers of bamboo charcoal powder and a
tooth whitener made of mud.
Yeah.
I recall that some people brushed their
teeth with salt and that baking soda is a
cheap whitening agent.
And that brings us to horse fat spread.
I do not personally recall having ever
seen this stuff, but throw-back advertise
ment collections usually include an image of
“Dickman's horse fat spread.” To further turn
the tummy, “made from the goodness of po
nies.”
The ad includes a picture of a girl spread
ing something on a slice of bread. We assume
it's pony.
The text of the ad reveals it is made from
the finest fat and hooves money can buy, and
you should “pony up the extra bit” for the
“best equine oleomargarine spread ever.”
The spread was produced by Dickman's
Rendering and Creaming Company of Cali
fornia.
Before you run out to the meat counter,
I'll save you the trip because you can't buy
horse meat here (neigh), but north of the
border horse meat is common.
If you are lucky enough to snag a trip to
Europe, you can enjoy a horse roast or steak
there. No problem.
One of the outdoor night activities boys
enjoyed was a trip to a local pond for “frog
gigging-”
When caught in a spotlight, a bull frog
sits there with a deer in the headlight effect
only closer to the ground.
A gig is a three pronged spear on a long
pole used to capture bull frogs.
On my first frog gigging A1 Jones and I
collected over a dozen frogs and his mother
served them up like it was just the most natu
ral thing in the world. They tasted just like...
you know.
Really.
joenphillips@yahoo.com
By Joe Phillips
Dear Me
No question state quiz can
sharpen our pandemic brains
I get some
interesting
mail. And I am
not just talking
about the
reaction to my
recent opinion
of Donald
Trump’s
opinion of the
late Secretary
of State and
Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff
Colin Powell. Not surprisingly, the
response has been heavy. Surprisingly,
it has been strongly supportive and
even more surprising, a preponderance
of readers calling themselves lifelong
Republicans say they are tired of the
guy’s boorish behavior and how he has
divided the party and will not vote for
him if he runs again. (Please don’t
shoot the messenger. I am just passing
along the message. Besides, I need this
job.)
While all of this was going on, I
received a note from representatives of
a group called Solitaired.com. They
have over 500 games on their website
including, of course, Solitaire. But
there is a purpose behind the fun say
the developers. They are exploring
how these games can improve our
mental acuity.
They point out that because of a
lack of social interaction during the
pandemic, many of us may have
noticed a frustratingly subtle, gradual
mental deterioration within our
society, which they call “pandemic
brain.” I suspect that there are those
among you that surmise I developed
pandemic brain long before the
pandemic.
They say a lot of us have tried
keeping our brains sharp by playing
online games or watching historical or
educational documentaries. (Count
me in. I am a big fan of Andy Griffith
reruns. You can’t get more historic
than seeing Mayberry in its heyday or
educational than when Andy gives
Opie a life lesson about the potential
dangers of a slingshot.)
However, no matter what we do,
the concern is that our brains still feel
sluggish and unstimulated. Therefore,
as a public service, Solitaired.com
developed a test to “transition back to
our pre-pandemic brains,” and quizzed
3,844 respondents on how well they
know their own state’s history.
They seemed impressed that over
half of Georgians (59%) answered the
questions correctly compared to a
national average of 57%. Admittedly, I
am a mere public school graduate, but
Katie Dolvin taught me enough math
at Russell High School to say this
means 41% must have flunked the test.
That would not have set well with Ms.
Dolvin.
Equally disturbing is the fact that
we were waxed by Rhode Island,
Oklahoma, Mississippi and Hawaii, all
ofwhom had a 77% pass rate. California
brought up the rear. Only 21 percent of
Californians knew anything about
their state. That is because they are too
busy dealing with forest fires,
earthquakes and high taxes to care
about the past. They are just trying to
make it through the day.
By Dick Yarbrough
As for Georgia’s 59 percent pass
rate, we should have at least beaten
Mississippi because they are usually
last in everything. The reason we lost
to them and Oklahoma and Rhode
Island and Hawaii is because none of
them have attracted as many Yankees
as we have who have no understanding
of our illustrious history. They just
came here to escape a place where it
snows ten months a year and all their
buildings are rusted.
For those of us who are natives,
the questions on the quiz about
Georgia were not exactly head-
scratchers. The Cherokee Rose is our
state flower. The state was named for
King George II. We were the fourth
state admitted to the union. Coca-Cola
was invented here. Jimmy Carter is
from Georgia, as much as it pains me
to admit it.
I would suggest the next time the
good folks at Solitared.com attempt to
transition us back to our pre-pandemic
brains, they consider more substantive
historical questions that reflect on the
uniqueness of our great state, such as:
What is the oldest state-chartered
university in the nation? Hint: It has
25 Rhodes Scholars and a pretty good
football team. (I think we all know the
answer to that one.) What is the
greatest state song ever written?
(“Georgia on my Mind,” of course.)
Who sings it better than anyone in the
world? (The late Ray Charles
Robinson, of Albany, Georgia, of
course.) What is the state’s official
amphibian? (The green tree frog.) I
thought I should throw an easy one in
there.
I am now inspired to do my part to
continue to help us get beyond the
frustratingly subtle, gradual mental
deterioration within our society
known as pandemic brain. Unless it
involves eating broccoli. If that is the
case, you are on your own. No question
about it.
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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