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DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 28, 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.
President, his
foes need to put
away hammers
Dear President Trump:
You and I both know you won’t see this
letter, but that’s OK. I am going to feel bet
ter having written it. For one thing, it will
confuse my friends and confound my ene
mies, many on both sides of the political
spectrum who can’t seem to grasp the con
cept of middle ground. You must be either a
rock-bound,
hard-nosed,
guns-every-
where-but-the-
Georgia-State-
Capitol conser
vative or a gov-
ernment-knows-
best, open-the-
borders-even-to-
terrorists, boys-and-girls-share-the-same-
bathroom left-leaning liberal. Believe it or
not, a few of us are neither.
I wrote earlier suggesting you tone down
the name-calling (particularly with late-
night TV hosts who feed on that stuff - it’s
called “ratings”) and was assured by one of
your close confidants that the letter would
get into the White House. I knew that was a
crock. I’ve had some dealings with previous
White House administrations. That letter
ended up in the hands of some junior func
tionary who has never even seen you in per
son, let alone delivered you a letter.
But it is the Christmas season and I am
the gift that keeps on giving. So, I give you
some more advice: Stop the name-calling.
Please.
I’m not sure where you learned the art of
insults, but I discovered it on the grammar
school playground. I found out that if some
one called me a name, I could retaliate by
calling them a name. Conversely, if I dis
paraged a playmate, chances are they would
disparage me, too. Sometimes, it would
lead to fisticuffs. (Today, it would involve
lawyers, the police, social workers and
intonements about rampant bullying, but
that’s a subject for another day.)
Thankfully, I grew out of that phase,
although I have been known to digress
occasionally on these pages and lay into
some pompous soul that deserved it. But I
am not the president. You are. You set the
tone for the national mood and it is not
good at the moment.
Name-calling seems to delight your base.
It also encourages the other side to call you
names and that delights their base. Back
and forth it goes. I, for one, am not sure
what all of that accomplishes other than to
remember the old story about the guy who
kept hitting himself in the head with the
hammer. When asked why, he said because
it felt so good when he stopped.
The irony is that in the midst of the
cacophony, you have done some good
things. Despite recent market corrections,
stocks are at an all-time high.
Unemployment is close to an all-time low.
You seem to have that guy with the bad
haircut in North Korea thinking twice about
running his mouth. While I’m no expert on
the subject, I think your tariff strategies are
going to work in the country’s favor. But
you stay embroiled in controversy. Some of
your making, some not.
You could do worse than look to Ronald
Reagan as a role model. He had his fair
share of fake news and partisan criticism to
deal with, but it didn’t seem to bother him.
He had a great sense of humor which he
used effectively. He let people underesti
mate him at their own risk. Reagan didn’t
belittle people. He managed to get the
Berlin Wall torn down without insulting
Russian premier Mikhail Gorbachev. When
the nervous nellies in the State Department
objected to the timing of his demands, he
quietly reminded them who was president
and who was not. And the wall came tum
bling down.
My concern is that if the name-calling
and insults on both sides continue, a lot of
fair-minded people are going to get tired of
it and seek an alternative — like a third
party that is philosophically somewhere
between guns in churches and boys and
girls in each other’s bathrooms. When that
happens, then will come coalitions as we
have in Europe today and governing by a
minority. That is a frightening prospect.
We are Americans first and political parti
sans second. There isn’t anyone among us
that doesn’t want to see America great. We
also want to see it unified. As one of your
predecessors, Abraham Lincoln, said, “A
house divided against itself cannot stand.”
(By the way, he got that from the Bible,
Matthew 12:25, in case you are wondering.)
Our house is badly divided these days.
If you want to make America great again,
I would suggest you and your enemies put
away the hammers and start trying to find
some common ground. It’s Christmastime.
Can’t we all get along? Please?
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dickyar-
brough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, GA
31139; online atdickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at wvwv.facebook.com/dickyarb.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
"Now, let's see...what was I going to remember?"
Mamas strict rules for retail workers
One thing that can get my
Mama up on her indignant
high horse quicker than any
thing has always been custom
er service, or the lack thereof.
Growing up, I learned to
bristle anytime a retail clerk
told Mama it was not their job
or their department.
She would make a sharp
inhaling sound as she drew her
hand up in the shape of C.
“Do you see this C? It
stands for customer. That is
what I am. And the customer
is always right!”
The salesgirl would normal
ly scurry off in search of
someone in a higher pay scale
to deal with the crazy redhead,
as Mama stood her proverbial
ground, Virginia Slim in hand.
Mama pulled out the C once
when we were shopping for a
debutante ball gown.
Going shopping for a for
mal required a trip to a mall
other than Georgia Square, so
we took a day — a whole day
— off from school and work
to go. Even Granny went, fig
uring we would need protec
tion, deliverance or bail
money if we ventured outside
the county line.
After trodding through mul
tiple stores, Granny decided to
go back to the car.
“She ain’t never gonna find
a dress she likes,” the old gal
declared. “I ain’t never seen
such a wishy-washy child.”
I was not wishy-washy; I
just knew what I liked and so
far, had not seen it.
Finally, after going into sev
eral more stores, I found it. A
royal blue strapless dress with
a full, fluffy skirt.
“This is the one I want,” I
said.
“You need to try it on first,”
Mama said. “I am not going
through this again if you need
to bring it back.” She grabbed
the hanger only to find the
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
dress secured to the rack by
some locked cable.
I guess shoplifting moun
tains of taffeta and tulle was a
thing in the ’80s.
There was no sales clerk in
the immediate area, so Mama
went to the closest department
where she saw an employee.
“Would you please call
someone who can unlock the
formal wear to come help us,
please?” she asked.
The girl didn’t even look up
but continued to pick her cuti
cles.
“That’s not my department,”
she said.
Uh oh.
“Excuse me?” Mama said.
“I said, that’s not my depart
ment.”
Double uh oh.
Mama bristled and pulled
herself up to her full height. “I
didn’t ask you what your
department was. I asked you
to call someone for that
department.”
The girl looked up long
enough to roll her eyes. “You
will need to go find someone
yourself.”
That was it. The final straw.
The comment that broke the
crazy redhead’s sense of deco
rum.
“I will not go find someone.
I already did, and I asked her
— that’s you, in case you
missed it - to call someone. I
do not have an intercom to
page someone. And if I did, I
would be paging the manag
er!” Her hand came up, mak
ing the C and I knew what was
coming. “Do you see this C?
Do you know what it stands
for?”
I bolted out the door and
across the parking lot, hoping
I could find Granny.
I found the old gal, sitting in
her Oldsmobile, eating cook
ies.
I banged on the window,
startling her. “What in the
devil is wrong? You almost
made me drop my snickerdoo-
dle.”
“Mama is doing the C,” I
began breathlessly. And when
did she get the cookies? “I
found the dress, but Mama is
going after some sales girl in
luggage.”
Granny frowned and put her
cookie back in the bag in her
purse. “Lord, have mercy.
Let’s go save that poor girl.”
Mama was schooling the
store manager on customer
service when we returned.
“Where have you been?” she
asked me when she saw me.
She shoved pounds of blue
taffeta at me. “Go try it on.
Now.”
In the dressing room, I
could hear her continued bar
rage. “Maybe if you had
enough people working, I
would not have had to walk to
another department. Did you
think about that? It is the holi
days. You need to be properly
staffed to meet customer
needs.”
We got the dress and left,
Mama fussing all the way
home about how people no
longer took pride in their jobs
and didn’t have a clue about
customer service.
“You need to be nicer to the
sales clerks, Jean,” Granny
said.
“They need to be nicer to
customers!” Mama retorted.
“That poor girl was proba
bly making minimum wage
and you were chastising her
— it was not her department.
She was in luggage.”
“You missed the whole
thing, Mama. I asked her to
call someone to that depart
ment; she was too busy watch
ing her nails grow to help me.
I am nice. I am beyond nice.
But the reason she has a job is
to help customers.”
When I worked in retail,
Mama’s lectures on good cus
tomer service stayed in my
mind.
And the holidays could be
the worst.
I would be in the middle of
a sales floor, sometimes with
just one other employee, try
ing to help scores and hordes
of customers.
People would get upset.
Some would be frustrated if
they had to wait in line. We
were short staffed, over
worked, underpaid, and usual
ly out of whatever they wanted
to buy.
But none, not one, gave me
theC.
I made sure I was courteous
and cordial, and not once did I
say, “not my job.” I thanked all
the customers with a smile and
wished them a Merry
Christmas.
I did have more than 20
years of prior training.
The other day, a friend post
ed a graphic on Facebook
reminding people that retail
workers were away from their
own holiday celebrations
when they were waiting on
them and that patience and
politeness were important.
Maybe I should send a copy
to Mama.
Sudie Crouch is an award win
ning humor columnist and
author of the recently e-pub-
lished novel, "The Dahlman
Files: A Tony Dahlman
Paranormal Mystery."
