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Send a letter to the editor to P.O. Box 1600, Dawsonville, GA 30534; fax (706) 265-3276; or email to editor@dawsonnews.com.
DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, May 9, 2018
This is a page of opinion — ours, yours and
others. Signed columns and cartoons are the
opinions of the writers and artists, and they
may not reflect our views.
Where would
we be without
our mothers?
Don’t look now, but Sunday is Mother’s
Day. Actually, I’m just kidding. You are
free to look all you want as soon as you
and I are finished here.
Whether we are liberal or conservative;
black or white; rich or poor; speak English
or habla Espanol; live in God’s Country
(aka Georgia) or are from up north where
all the buildings
are rusted and it
snows 10
months a year,
we share one
thing in com
mon: We all
have or have
had a mother.
There is a lot
of weird stuff happening these days, but I
don’t think we have found a way yet to
birth babies without one. At least I hope
not. I don’t want to think of a world with
out mommas.
I am an authority on mothers. I am mar
ried to one and the father of one, the
grandfather of one and hope to be — soon
er rather than later — the grandfather of
two.
I have told you on several occasions
about my own mother. She was a stem-
winder. I’m not sure how this DNA stuff
works, but it is fairly obvious to our family
that my brother, Bob, got most of our
dad’s genes. He is quiet, thoughtful, kind
and chock-full of integrity — the solid
rock in our clan. Me? I swim in my moth
er’s gene pool — funny, acerbic and as
blunt as a sledgehammer.
My momma didn’t stand on the sidelines
and complain. She got involved. I can’t
think of an organization she belonged to
that she didn’t end up running. She is
probably chairing the monthly meeting of
God’s Angel Corps in heaven as we speak.
After our dad died, Momma moved into
a retirement home with a vow to not get
involved in anything. She just wanted to
read all the books she could and enjoy a
life of leisure. I bet her $10 that it
wouldn’t be long before she was in charge
of something there. She took my bet and a
few months later sent me a $10 bill along
with an announcement that she had been
named chaplain of the retirement home.
I have heard beautiful stories of loved
ones who say they saw Jesus just before
they died. Not my mother. On her last day,
she was in Intensive Care with a bunch of
tubes in her and machines blinking and
whirring. The nurse told us that we might
want to tell her goodbye for the final time.
She was a bit groggy, but I hoped she had
heard us.
As we were leaving, she made a motion
for the nurse to come closer. The nurse
complied and looked startled as my moth
er mumbled something to her. “What was
that about?” I asked. “Your mother wants
to know what time the Braves game is on
tonight,” she replied. Momma wasn’t
going to see Jesus until the game was over.
If you had met her, you would have
assumed she was a college graduate. In
fact, some people did. She could intelli
gently converse on any subject you could
name. Yet, she only made it through the
seventh grade, growing up in the rural
South when education was not a priority.
She had an insatiable appetite to learn. She
created in me a love of words, whether it
was the daily crossword puzzle or the
summer reading program at our little
library in East Point.
I’m not sure what her politics would be
today. In her day, she was a yellow dog
Democrat, although she never forgave Zell
Miller for promoting the lottery, which she
considered gambling. I do know she would
not be happy to see the way our nation is
trending these days. She loved her God,
her family and particularly her two boys,
who may have exceeded their own expec
tations, but not hers.
Her homegoing service was perfect. The
church was filled to overflowing. Her two
grandsons (my brother’s sons-in-law, both
ordained ministers) told “Granny stories”
and had the crowd in stitches. That is just
what she wanted. No tears. Just laughter
and celebration. She knew where she was
headed. Nothing to be sad about.
My mother was a great lady and I hope I
am a chip off her block. At a time when
we seem to emphasize our differences, this
would be a good time to think about what
we all have in common - our mothers.
Where would we be without them? I don’t
even want to think about it.
Happy Mother’s Day to one and all.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
"My election preferences? Generally I just wait
until I get to the polls, and then see who's running."
LETTERTOTHE EDITOR
A fireman's fire chief
“I firmly believe that any man’s finest
hour, the greatest fulfillment of all that
he holds dear, is that moment when he
has worked his heart out in a good cause
and lies exhausted on the field of battle -
victorious.” - Vince Lombardi
Prior to serving under Chief Lanier
Swafford, I had never looked to Coach
Lombardi for motivation, until I stepped
into Chief’s office and saw Lombardi’s
quotes lining the walls, alongside Chief’s
countless degrees, awards, thank-you let
ters and certifications.
Chief Swafford literally changed my
life. He made me believe in myself...He
demanded it, and directly ordered that I
believe in myself.
He led my brothers and me from the
front, and was the human embodiment
of true servant leadership. This came nat
ural to Chief, as he was a fireman’s fire
chief. This is something many fire offi
cers and fire chiefs tell people about
themselves. It is something that many
instructors try to teach, and many leaders
can’t wrap their minds around. In my
humble opinion, if you have to brag on
yourself and tell people how you lead,
you may be trying to make up for some
short comings. Chief Swafford never
told us how to lead, he showed us.
Chief Swafford lifted his men and
women up, and put them before himself,
every time. You always saw him doing it.
He would never have to tell you he was
doing it. If you were lucky enough, like
me, you served alongside Chief. We felt
protected, proud, and trusted that he
would be there. In my years of service
with Chief, he never asked us to do any
thing that he would not do himself.
from the stormy nights where, instead
of staying in the safety, warmth, and
comfort of his home with his family, he
attempted to sleep in a recliner in the day
room at Station 1. He cooked for us, and
demanded that we rest. He refused to use
a bunk room for himself. He knew we
were likely to be risking our lives cutting
trees, on iced or flooded roads, fighting
fire, extricating patients from cars and
running medical calls throughout the
night without stopping. Each time the
bell rang, he would be up with us, telling
us to be careful as we were climbing in
the trucks.
To the time I was injured, and he car
ried me.
My wife received a phone call from
him on the day of my surgery, asking to
notify him and Chief Dooley when the
surgeons were finished operating on my
knee. When we pulled in the driveway,
Chief was there, to carry me. He carried
me, like the brotherhood always talks
about, so that my wife didn’t have to. He
did not talk about caring for his firefight
ers; he showed it.
To the times we were offensively
fighting fire, aggressively, from the
inside, and I felt a hand on my shoulder
with a loud, proud, but muffled, “Great
job BC, keep pushing brother!” And to
my surprise, my Chief was packed out,
covered from head to toe with insulation,
sheet rock, and soaking wet, doing work,
and leading us from the front.
To the times that I failed multiple trials
at goals I wanted to achieve, and he
hopped up in the back of the ambulance
with me, shut the doors and had a con
versation with me that I will never for
get. He lifted me up and reminded me,
like Coach Lombardi would, “The great
est accomplishment is not in never fall
ing, but in rising again after you fall.” He
again, carried me, like the “brotherhood”
and other officers claim to. He picked
me up, brushed my shoulders off, and
again demanded, he commanded, that I
believe in myself.
To the times he would trim the hedges
at Station 1 on yard day while we cut the
grass in sweltering summer heat. He
would not give up his tool, or stop when
we asked him to. “Boys, this is my stress
release,” he would say. “You need to
hydrate anyway, go drink some water,”
he would tell us.
“Pride and Ownership.” Another buzz-
phrase popular to fire chiefs and officers,
but quite rarely actually lived out and
displayed. Chief Swafford lives and
breathes pride for his department, his
firefighters and his paramedics.
Lrom one man to the next, he knows
the names of our wives, children, parents
and families. He knows where they
work, what they do, where we live and
our situations, because his door was
always open. He prayed with us, prayed
for us and stayed up at night worrying
about us. His door was open when you
had family struggles, when you had
medical issues or were struggling men
tally. His door was open.
To the times when we faced the night
mare calls that will scar us all forever.
The faces and names, burned, bloody
and mangled bodies that we will never
forget, for the rest of our days. He was
there with us, at 2 a.m., to hug us, dry
our tears, wash away our “failures” and
demand that we lift ourselves up, and to
understand that sometimes, it’s out of
our control.
Chief Lanier Swafford, you will
always be my chief. No matter where
you go. No matter what you do ... you
will be my chief, my brother, my friend.
I love you, sir. Thank you for leading us,
loving us, fighting for us, and serving us.
May we all take pride and ownership
over you, and carry you, like you did for
so many of us.
Brandon Carey, BS, NRP
City of Milton, Firefighter/ Paramedic
Dawson County Emergency Services,
Part-time Firefighter/ Paramedic
Lanier Technical College, Part-time
Paramedicine Instructor
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dickyar-
brough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, GA
31139; online atdickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
"They may be terrible at math, but
the one thing they are good at is division!"