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DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, October 3, 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.
Ga. National
Guardsmen
are true heroes
You want to talk about heroes? They are
not a bunch of irrelevant overpaid knee jerk
professional athletes who don’t like their
country and do little to improve it, just criti
cize it. Twenty years from now, they will
likely be jelly-brained from banging into
each other and drooling their oatmeal. It
couldn’t happen
to a more
deserving group
of faux-gladia
tors.
No, the real
heroes are the
men and women
of Georgia’s
National Guard,
11,000 strong. As you read this, some 2,200
members of the Guard’s 48th Brigade
Combat Team are making preparations to
leave for one of the most dangerous pieces
of real estate on Earth — Afghanistan. I
know it may be asking too much but I wish
they would take a couple of the knee jerks
with them and leave them on the side of the
road. Let’s see how long they would kneel.
It was exactly at this time 11 years ago
that I was embedded with a previous itera
tion of the 48th BCT in another garden spot
— Iraq. More specifically, an area south
west of Baghdad, appropriately dubbed
“The Triangle of Death.” That group was
under the command of a Great American,
Gen. Stewart Rodeheaver, now living in
Putnam County.
Bill Stewart, another Great American
from Brunswick, had mentioned to the gen
eral that it might be a good idea to invite
me over to see first-hand what was going on
there. Rodeheaver had once worked for
Stewart who had been Georgia Sen. Mack
Mattingly’s chief of staff.
I was told by some veteran news people
that it would not be worth my while to go.
Handlers would be sure to keep me in the
safe zones and away from the real action
and feed me press releases. Being the naif I
am, I emailed the general and told him that
if that was the case, I wasn’t coming. He
wrote me back immediately to say I was
free to go wherever I wanted and talk to
whomever I wanted.
I took him up on his offer and because I
insisted on riding with the troops one day in
a caravan of Humvees on a search for IEDs
(improvised explosive devices), I almost
got myself blown up. No one to blame but
me. When I showed up to request a ride, it
was suggested I get in one of the back vehi
cles because the first one was the most like
ly to be a target of the bad guys. Uh-uh. I
was going to ride in the first one because
the general had said I could go wherever I
wanted, blah, blah, blah.
They really didn’t have time to listen to
this puffed-up media maven, so they said
get in and let’s go. Of course, we hit an IED
15 minutes into our trip. It was very close
to being my first and last one. For the
troops, it was just another day at the office.
For me, it was a frightening experience. I
have a photo of the bomb hole (about the
size of a kitchen table) hanging in my home
as proof that I should listen to those in the
know and save the blah, blah, blah for poli
ticians and bureaucrats.
One of my prized possessions is the offi
cial flag of the 48th Brigade Combat Team,
presented to me when I returned. Those
flags are not lightly given and I take it as a
great honor that they considered me one of
them, if only for a short while.
I made one serious journalistic faux pas
in a column describing members of the 48th
Brigade as not being “professional sol
diers.” Whoa. That was poorly written and
poorly received, as it should have been.
They are professional soldiers in every
sense of the word.
What I meant to say was that these brave
souls are more than soldiers. When not put
ting their lives on the line for us in places
like Afghanistan and Iraq, and when not
dealing with life-threatening natural disas
ters back home, these Georgians are school
teachers, track drivers, nurses and doctors,
prison guards, mechanics, attorneys, police
officers and the like.
They are also selfless. They leave their
homes and jobs and families throughout
Georgia and go off to one of the most dan
gerous parts of the world, trying to help
bring a little stability to a region in bad
need of it.
Most of all, they are what the publicity
seeking knee jerks are not. They are heroes.
True American heroes. God bless them, one
and all.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
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.
"Say, I think I recognize you!
Aren't you running for Governor?"
The legend of my sons Piggie
“What do you mean, you
don’t eat bacon?”
I am asked this quite fre
quently.
No bacon, no barbeque, no
pork products of any kind.
People don’t get it.
“Did you have a pig as a pet
or something?”
Well, kind of.
We did have pigs when I
was growing up.
I thought they were our pets
but had a harsh reality one
morning.
That was enough to make
me not eat sausage or ham for
a while.
But the real reason we don’t
eat bacon is because of one
plush little pig.
Piggie.
Piggie Two should get some
credit as well, but it was
Piggie Prime who started the
absolute non-pork stance.
“A toy pig, and not a real
pig?” is the next question.
He may be a toy pig, but he
was a big part of my child’s
younger years and is still
Crouch canon.
I had to explain how Piggie
came into our life.
We had ventured to the gro
cery store one Friday evening,
along with scores of other
people.
While I shopped and tried to
decide what we would want to
eat over the coming week, I
realized Lamar had taken Cole
to another aisle to entertain
him.
This was a common occur
rence. I go into the trenches of
the store while my husband
and child wander off like two
beagles on the scent of some
thing.
After a solid thirty minutes
of wading through dozens of
middle-of-the-aisle talkers,
holding prayer meetings and
high school reunions between
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
the Fruity Pebbles and Raisin
Bran, I had managed to make
my way to the checkout line.
As I tossed my items on the
belt, the wails of a small child
rose over the normal noise of
the store.
“Did you find everything
OK?” the cashier asked.
I nodded, hearing the
screams grow louder. Was this
child being beaten?
“Paper or plastic?” the
cashier asked.
“Plastic,” I answered, hear
ing the wails intensify.
The cashier didn’t seem to
pay it any attention; of course,
working in any type of retail
can numb you to certain
things.
“Do you hear that?” I asked.
She nodded, punching in the
code for my tomatoes. “Yeah,
kids hate being dragged in
here on Fridays when their
mamas get off work.”
“That poor child,” I began.
“They sound miserable! What
kind of parent does that to a
child ? They are horrible, terri
ble people for putting that
baby through that.”
The screams grew closer as
it sounded like the child was
nearing the front of the store. I
turned to see who the offend
ing parent was and shut my
mouth.
There went my husband,
toting my red-in-the-face,
wailing child under his arm
like a football out the door.
Of course, since I had
brought the whole scene to the
cashier’s attention, she was
watching too. “That father’s
got his hands full with that
one,” she said.
I instantly felt a need to
defend my child, who normal
ly was so well-behaved and
never pitched a fit.
“I have a feeling it was the
father’s fault,” I began. “But
some people! My word!”
I had mustered all the righ
teous indignation I could and
paid for my groceries and hur
ried out the door to the car.
I got in the front seat and
turned to look at my child, his
face red and covered in tears
as he tried to catch his breath.
“What in the world is
wrong?” I asked.
Cole couldn’t even speak,
he was crying so hard. I
looked at his father for
answers.
“He wanted some toy and
had this meltdown over it,”
was his response.
“A toy?”
Cole was not the type of
child to have a meltdown over
a toy. He did beg for celery
once in the store, which I have
yet to figure out, but he was
not one to pitch a fit over a toy.
Lamar nodded. “I am not
paying $10 for a stupid stuffed
animal.”
“It - wasn’t - a - stupid -
stuffed - amiminal,” I heard
Cole say from the back seat,
his voice catching with every
word. “It - was - a - pig!”
“A pig?” I asked gently.
Cole nodded, sucking on his
bottom lip. “A pig,” he repeat
ed slowly, his breath finally
regaining normalcy. “And
Mama, I need it. Please. I
asked Daddy for it and he
threw it down the aisle!” At
the thought of this, the sobs
returned.
I glanced at Lamar. “You
threw the toy down the aisle?”
“He was grabbing at it and
it was too much. I am not pay
ing that much for a toy! That’s
crazy!”
Cole wailed. “Mama - I -
need - that - pig! I - don’t -
know - why - but -1 - do!”
I knew two things. Once
upon a time, a little girl fell in
love with a lavender plush
bunny on sight at the five and
dime store and she turned
down a pair of shoes for them.
The bunny somehow spoke to
her heart more than those glit
ter jelly sandals with the ankle
strap and she loved that bunny
for decades. She still missed
that bunny and wondered what
happened to it when she grew
up, hoping like the Velveteen
bunny, her love had made it
real.
The second, and the most
important thing, was my child
never acted like this. So,
something must be special
about this pig.
“You need that pig?” I
asked. He nodded.
“Then let’s go get it.”
He did end up needing that
pig. In many ways and on
many occasions. Piggie has
been his faithful friend, and a
part of the family now for well
over a decade. And for me, he
is a loving reminder of when
my son, now a teenager, was
small and a plush pig was the
grandest thing in the world.
“You still have the Pigs,
right?” he asked one day,
knowing I am now the Keeper
of the Piggies.
I affirmed that I did.
I still have the pigs. And
always, always will.
Sudie Crouch is an award winning humor col
umnist and author of the recently e-published
novel, "The Dahlman Files: ATony Dahlman
Paranormal Mystery."