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opinion
Thursday, December 9, 2021 • Page 4A
Send your letters to: Editor, Upson Beacon, 108 E Gordon Street, Thomaston, Ga 30286 or email to: dlord@upsonbeacon.com The opinions expressed on this page are
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Letters to The Editor:
Think Outside
the Box on EMS
To the Editor:
Mr. Joey Thiel is correct
in his assessment and rec
ommendations concerning
the county commission's
position on 911 EMS serv
ice.
It is inevitable that con
tracting with any private
vendor for provision of
EMS will ultimately result
in service that is inferior to
that of a governmental op
eration. This is because
these companies are in the
business of providing EMS
services for profit. Making
a profit is always the first
priority, and superior serv
ice is second in contracted
services of this type. This is
especially true when there
are no performance meas
ures in place to evaluate the
quality of service being
provided by EMS to the cit
izens of the county.
Model guidance from
professional EMS associa
tions dictates that process
and outcome measures
should be established for
both public and private
EMS services that incorpo
rates a data collection pro
cess involving the call
center, EMS service, and
hospital. Do we have any
now? If so, what are they?
Will we have any in the fu
ture if the EMS service is
contracted out once again?
Will the contract be void
able by the county if base
line performance
expectations are not being
met?
Government carries the
responsibility to deliver
services to its citizens in
critical life and liberty situ
ations. These situations
will always require superior
service, and when superior
service is not being deliv
ered, an avenue [should be
in place] for holding gov
ernment officials account
able to remedy the
shortcomings of the serv
ice. Holding government
officials accountable for
EMS service becomes
nearly impossible when a
private contractor pos
sesses a multi-year fran
chise/license on service
delivery.
These are just a few of
the reasons that public
safety functions of the
types including EMS, fire,
police, and prisons are not
well suited for privatiza
tion.
Danny Hunter
Charity Begins
at Hometown
We celebrate Christmas
modestly. The wreath on
our front door displays our
faith and belief in eternal
life. The white lights signify
a beacon of hope to all who
pass this way. The tree in
side is small with a few spe
cial gifts of gratitude for
loved ones.
Christmas in our home
includes the intimacy of
traditional music and the
heady aroma of inter
national food. We believe
everyone has something to
teach you about who you
are, but lest we forget, it’s a
two-way street. We ac
knowledge that we only see
the same sky on cloudless
days; but we do not judge
others' opinions, beliefs, or
cultures.
Christmas was for me
as a child the most special
time of the year. Santa
seemed omnipresent as I
walked the aisles of O.W.
Jones Hardware and
Moore’s and Maxwell’s
Dime Stores “wishing and
hoping” for “this or that”
under the tree on Christ
mas morning. I was never
disappointed.
Then when I was nine
years old a tragedy hit our
family that changed the
meaning of Christmas.
There was a transformative
shift in my appreciation of
the season from “receiving”
to “giving” though it did not
happen overnight. Life isn’t
that way; we grow taller be
fore we grow wiser... men
tally and spiritually. “So
fast so old, so slow so
smart,” it is said.
How could a young boy
comprehend the devastat
ing loss for his mother of a
13-year-old daughter? How
could he understand the
mental anguish and ac
companying physical
breakdown caused by the
death of her little girl? How
could a child understand
why Christmas would not
be a happy place at home
for a time?
I didn’t know mother’s
grief crushed her motiva
tion to fulfill normal activ
ities and work. I didn’t
know that money was tight.
And I didn't know that
Mother's grief over the loss
of her girl was so overwhel
ming that there was no
place left in her broken
heart for celebration. I did
n’t understand why we did
not decorate, celebrate, or
put up a Christmas tree. I
didn’t know that our move
to Atlanta was a flee from
the misery smothering out
all hope and will.
I knew she hid her face
in the pillow at night, be
lieving we couldn't hear her
sobbing. We hurt for the
devastation of her spirit.
And though we may have
felt resentful as children for
this life’s disruption upon
us, we grew to understand
her protectiveness and
guardedness toward each
of us after my sister's death
- it's a mother's way.
In time, I came to un
derstand what Christmas
was all about through my
mother’s eyes. I learned of
her faith, love, and re
newed hope as she slowly
rebounded from this
tragedy to the realization
that life must go on; Christ
mas must always be in the
home. She taught us about
a maturing realization she
grew into - special mo
ments in life are precious
for all, like for her two
growing boys and their
daddy.
Years later when she
could speak about her loss,
she shared that the con
stant arriving of cars and
the nonstop knocking on
our door was to deliver
warm food, homemade
“sweets,” fruit, and fresh
vegetables to our home
after my sister’s death and
that it was a saving grace.
I remember the faces of
those generous souls bring
ing cheerful hugs: people
from church, school
teachers, preachers, bosses
from the mill, mother and
daddy’s co-workers, neigh
bors, aunts, and uncles,
cousins. I remember a
woman to whom I sold but
tons; she didn’t need old
buttons, but she’d invite
me in for lemonade or
sweet tea and share her
loneliness since losing her
young husband in a South
Pacific battle. She’d unfold
a handkerchief, revealing
her private “stash,” and
pluck out for me a nickel,
dime, sometimes a quarter,
and I’d give her my gems:
washed and polished but
tons. Time with her seeded
what I grew to understand
as empathy.
When mother spoke of
her overwhelming grat
itude for the outpouring of
kindness, tears would over
come her even years later
as she recounted finding
envelopes containing
money in our mailbox from
neighbors and family help
ing during our difficult
time.
It is in this community
that I learned the real
meaning of charity... and
Christmas.
Mother insisted that no
one goes to bed hungry or
without shoes and clothing
if she could help in some
way, and thereby, I wit
nessed the routine of young
and older women wander
ing up and down the “back
alleys” separating the rows
of houses for mill mainte
nance workers access
where we lived.
She knew the days
they’d wander through and
spot the searchers coming
from her kitchen window
balancing large wraps on
their heads, where they
placed food items and
clothing retrieved during
their walks. Mother always
got to the ally before they
arrived to place freshly
fried chicken and other
food, and outgrown cloth
ing, neatly and securely
wrapped for them to take
home. I watched the
women taking “their
share,” leaving some for
others.
I observed mother’s
generosity with great pride
- watching her navigate
through rough times was
great “on-the-job” training
for my humble future.
My mother - she was
color blind; she didn't see
color in strangers' faces;
she responded to honest
and open hearts. Mother
was immune to political
speak; she kept her ears
ready for spirited and
heartwarming words of
faith. Mother was insensi
tive; she never acknowl
edged selfishness; she
advocated for self-reliance.
She didn't feel pain unless
it was the pain of her chil
dren. She wasn't afraid of
the dark and shunned the
limelight. She loved gospel
music but only sang for us.
When she knew I was
mature enough to under
stand, mother told me that
her personal growth and
discernment rocketed
around the age of 32 fol
lowing her daughter’s un
timely death. Her deeply
held faith and religious be
liefs awakened her love for
community and apprecia
tion of all living things
which she rejoiced in.
She would say that
honor, loyalty, and honesty
were just pretty words un
less you dared to embrace
and defend them at all
costs in daily life. "Don't
run away from difficulty. If
you do, you'll find that dif
ficulty will follow you,"
words that served us chil
dren well on our play
ground of life.
Growing up in the
South, in Thomaston, was
an earned privilege, a pay-
forward for the next gener
ation from the
hardworking and hardy toil
of descendants of mixed
Scotch, Irish, English,
Blacks, and Native Ameri
cans.
Our inheritance was
very rich indeed, perhaps
not by material measure,
but assuredly by posses
sions of great value that
money cannot buy. We had
little money to buy things
anyway, but mother and
daddy shielded us with a
golden blanket of pride
from any awareness of
need or wanting of material
possessions.
The final of this year’s
autumn leaves cascade si
lently over my hometown
as nature fulfills its or
dained transition into the
next season. This year, for
the first time in decades, I
will be home for Christmas,
and I will seek the comfort
of my family by kneeling
graveside by them: mother,
daddy, sister Josephine,
and my child who died
after breathing life for only
a few hours.
My wife and I will
straddle a stone bench
where dearly loved ones
rest, and I’ll look out over
the endless horizon of gra
nite monuments chiseled
with the familiar names of
many in this community
whose generosity touched
my family when needed
most. Their influence
helped to cast the soul of
the gentleman whose
words you read here.
Out on the hills of
Southview Cemetery are
the names of teachers,
coaches, preachers, life’s
cheerleaders, people who
signed my parents’ pay-
checks, ticket takers from
the Ritz Theater, servers
from the old Blue Goose
Cafe, school bus drivers,
farmers, packing shed
workers, those who paid
me to “cut their grass,” eld
erly ladies who bought my
old buttons, people who
held me on their shoulders
on “the square” so I could
see the passing Christmas
parade, friends I sat next to
at Atwater and Community
Center Schools and played
sports with, doctors de
voted to healing who
helped arrange my sister’s
needed treatment for the
congenital heart defect that
eventually took her life,
firemen and policemen I
admired, nurses from
URMC who cared for my
family, old soldiers march
ing in proud formation car
rying the American flag
and displaying a bright red
poppy over the heart on
days of remembrance, and
most importantly, as I
kneel on this spot by my
family where I’ve always
felt a slight western breeze
bringing hope, there is an
engulfment of the spirit of
good people all around...
amongst this resting ‘crowd
of the proud,’ lying peace
fully, having finished their
calling to hard work, fair
ness, and teaching of life’s
goodness to the next gener
ation of brethren and
sisters.
He who does not under
stand their enduring con
tribution to the living did
not talk with them, walk
with them, learn from
them, or shyly shrink be
hind the church pew be
hind them and sing along
in a child’s whisper to their
bellowing, beautiful, and
inspiring voices of songs
like, “Precious Lord, Take
My Hand,” or parade
around the old church’s
campground in short pants
on a brutal summer day to
a rousing rendition of,
“When The Saints Go
Marching In.”
Their memory (and
y’all’s presence) makes us
proud to be back home to
stay.
Merry Christmas, ev
eryone.
Gary “Doc” Granger