4C The Forest-Blade • ummiEmaniielConntyLive.com • Swainsboro, Georgia • February 17, 2021
Editorials Columns
Playmates
It is wonderful to have
good friends that share
our interests, concerns,
fun times and not-so fun
times. Friends are special
blessings. From early
childhood, I can name
many whom I cherish as
friends, but though we
had many fun times, a
playmate is in another cat
egory. When I reminisce
back to my playmates,
one name comes to mind-
—Nick Herrington.
The Herrington fami
ly, Mr. Seab, Mrs. Lucille
and Nick, moved into the
apartment in the house of
Mrs. Harley Brown just
across Bell St. from my
home Mrs. Brown was a
widow who supplement
ed her income by renting
half of her house as an
apartment. Many children
lived there through the
years—but my memora
ble playmate was Nick.
Mr. Herrington came to
Swainsboro in late forties
to be manager of the new
A&P store and introduced
us to many unknown
delights. Since Nick and
I were inseparable in
our playing, Mrs. Lucille
often made a picnic for
us to eat under the big
tree. The sandwich was
always made with Peter
Pan Peanut Butter. I had
eaten lots of peanut butter
but none as creamy and
spreadable as Peter Pan.
Our beverage was made
from red powder from
a can, mixed with water
in a pitcher and poured
over ice. The time was
near the end of WWII, and
Cokes were scarce due to
rationing of sugar. This
was my introduction to—
you guessed it—Kool Ade.
Except for time in school,
Nick and I spent every
possible, waking hour in
play. All it took was say
ing, "let's play like" and
we became Roy Rogers
and Dale Evans, Tarzan
and Jane or whatever we
had recently seen at the
Dixie. In one of our "play
likes" my Dale was sling
ing a jump rope around
in the air as a lasso. The
jump rope had wooden
handles. Nick was in my
range, and the handle
popped him just above his
eyebrow. Blood gushed
out. My Saeb was sitting
at the kitchen table eat
ing his noon meal and
watching us playing out
side. When he saw the
accident and blood, he
jumped from the back
steps, gathered Nick in
his arms and raced up the
block to Dr. Brown's hos
pital. I ran right behind
them following the trail of
blood—terrified. I sat on
the steps of the hospital
sobbing. I knew when I
saw the blood that Nick
would surely die. Aside
from concern for him, I
knew if I had killed Nick,
I was in big trouble.
Shortly, Mr. Seab came out
with Nick in his arms and
a few stitches above his
eyebrow. The only con
sequence was my jump
rope was put away for a
while and used only for
jumping in the future. My
father grew a special red
grape on the huge vine in
our back yard. The early
fall grapes were not for
eating but wine making.
Mr. Seab contributed the
needed sugar to add to
the grapes that would fer
ment in a large crock with
a spigot. Don't know
how they judged when
the juice had fermented
into wine, but it did. Mr.
Seab and my father often
ended their work day sit
ting together under the
grapevine enjoying a
glass of homemade wine
before supper. Nick and
I watched them open
the spigot and fill their
glass with what looked
delicious to us. Of course,
we determined to secretly
give it a try on our own,
and we did. We found a
time with none of our par
ents nearby and opened
the spigot to each fill a
tea glass with the lovely
purple drink. We found it
tasty, sweet and felt really
good as it went down our
throat but did not expect
what happened next. I
remember a lot of "sick
ness" and feeling dizzy.
My mother asked, "What
is wrong with you?" I
answered, "Seems like
I am going crazy." Nick
was having the same
experience. I think the
Shirley
Proctor
Tzviss
"morning after" condition
lasted for all the next day.
Our parents discussed
punishment but decided
that we had been pun
ished enough. Nick and I
laughed about this every
time we met in the future.
He always referred to
this as, "The time we got
into our Daddy's wine."
The years passed, and
Nick and I were always
friends but no longer
playmates. Later we con
nected again when Nick
and my future husband
were in the same fraterni
ty at Georgia Tech.
When I saw his obit
uary in the Blade, I felt
sorrow in the loss of my
old playmate but pride
and joy in the life time
of the man. After gradu
ating from Tech, he was
commissioned and served
his commitment to the US
Army. After active duty,
he and Annelle returned
to make his hometown
their home. Nick began his
career with Swainsboro
Supply Company that had
been started by his father
and grown with much
success. Nick continued
to own and manage the
company for more than
forty years. Swainsboro
Supply was a hallmark
company in the business
growth of Swainsboro.
Nick and Annelle were a
vital part of every aspect
of the growth and quality
of life in your (and my
hometown). Nick, I know
you fulfilled you parent's
greatest dreams for you.
Rest in Peace, my old
playmate, with dreams of
a childhood of happy play,
and a manhood of love
and fulfillment dancing
through your head. Write
to Shirley at sptzviss@gmail.
com
Week of February 13,2021
I blush as I write this
(well, not really) but things
are going well at the Uni
versity of Georgia, the
nation's oldest state-char
tered university, located in
Athens, the Classic City of
the South. UGA President
Jere Morehead's State of the
University address notes
among other positives that
U.S. News and World Re
port ranks my alma mater
in the top 20 (#15) of all
public universities in the
nation. Oh, did I mention
we just got our 25th Rhodes
Scholar? All that and a pret
ty fair football team, too.
Our cup runneth over. . . .
In the interest of equal time,
I will say that while most
Republican politicians in
Georgia seem to have lost
their tongues, a couple
of Georgia Tech grads in
the Legislature are show
ing some real backbone in
standing up to the torch-
and-pitchfork crowd still
smarting over the results
of the presidential elec
tion. Former Yellow Jack
et pitcher and current Lt.
Gov. Geoff Duncan seems
not the least bit intimidat
ed by the ominous rum
blings coming from the
Trumpsters about his future
political career nor is he
hesitant to speak his piece
about the election being
over and done with. . . .
Another Georgia Tech loy
alist, State Rep. Bert Reeves,
R-Cobb County calls
U.S. Rep. Marjorie Taylor
Greene "an embarrassment
to Georgia" and "the face
of radical political extrem
ism." Reeves does not say
such things lightly. If Re
publicans have a lick of
political sense, they will
listen to these two men or
get ready to hand the keys
to the Governor's office
over to Democrat Stacey
Abrams next November....
Speaking of Greene (must
we?) here is proof that po
litical buffoonery in Geor
gia is color-blind. First,
there was Cong. Cynthia
McKinney a Black woman
whose only contributions
to our state were a bunch
of wacky conspiracy theo
ries and positioning herself
on the aisle at each State of
the Union address in order
Dick
Yarbrough
to wet-kiss whatever unfor
tunate president happened
to be coming by. Greene,
white as new-driven
snow, is equally wacky. . . .
Greene, newly elected from
Georgia's 14th congres
sional district held a press
conference recently to say
she was sorry - sort of -
for saying things like sug
gesting that the California
wildfires were started by
a space laser beam which
was controlled by the Roth
schilds, a prominent Jewish
banking company and (my
favorite) that then-Supreme
Court Justice Ruth Bader
Ginsberg was being played
by a body double. (Who?
Dolly Parton?) She was
summarily stripped of all
of her committee assign
ments, meaning her constit
uents can expect taxation
without representation. If
she plays her cards right,
Greene could replace McK
inney as our next Ambas
sador to Outer Space. . . .
I don't know if you
watched the Super Bowl
or not. According to the
ratings, not many did. As
is my wont, I didn't turn
on the television until af
ter the National Anthem
was played and I changed
channels during the half
time show because I have
no idea who those people
are. So why do I bring this
up? It turns out that Tam
pa Bay coach Bruce Arians
is the oldest coach to win a
Super Bowl and Tom Brady
is the oldest quarterback
to do so. You better watch
us old folks. We rock!. . . .
We are coming up on the
25th anniversary of the 1996
Centennial Olympic Games
in Atlanta. While I'm not
sure if there will an official
celebration or not, I will
have my own anniversary
to celebrate. Two years after
the Games, I was asked to
write a guest column about
how well the city did in
hosting the event. I said At
lanta blew the Games. The
city government was racist,
the business community
was more worried about
traffic than how the city
would appear to the world
and the local media was
in over their heads. That
led to another column and
then another and now 23
years and some 2,000 col
umns later, I find myself
the most widely-syndicated
columnist in Georgia
Finally the outpouring of
support I have received
across the state follow
ing the loss of the beloved
Woman Who Shares My
Name has been nothing
short of overwhelming. So
many of you have told me
how you welcome me into
your homes each week
and how you have grieved
for me and with me. The
experience has reminded
me that words have mean
ing and to be careful in
my use of them. So I will
leave you with these two
simple words: Thank you.
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/ dicky arb.
Editorial Cartoons
ktd:
U PAD, HOW COME
ANIMALS HIBERNATE
BUT HUMANS PONT?
by Mike Marland
111,1 —
[The Spats
by Jeff Pickering |
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