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DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, JULY 17, 2019
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.
General assembly
seems to play by a
different set of rules
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! “Folks,
may I have your attention, please! My name
is Figby and I have been asked to convene a
short meeting of members of the General
Assembly this morning.”
“Who the dickens are you, squirt? Where
is David Ralston, our beloved speaker?’’
“As I said, my name is Figby. I am chief
conciliator for the Yarbrough Worldwide
Media and Pest Control Company, located
in Greater Garfield, Georgia. My boss, Dick
Yarbrough (“Boo! Hiss! Pfft! ”) has asked
me to get you all together to see if we can’t
come to some
consensus as to
whether or not
you play by the
same rules that
you require of
the rest of us. As
for the speaker,
he is taking time
out of his busy schedule to lobby newspa
per editors around the state on why he can’t
take time out of his busy schedule to try
court cases.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! That’s our speaker! The
guy is one of a kind! Clap! Clap! Clap!”
“Let me tell you why I am here. Mr.
Yarbrough (“Boo! Hiss! Pfft! ”) would like
me to discuss Georgia’s Open Records law
with you. This law — which you wrote —
does not include the General Assembly and
its related offices. City and county govern
ments and others must adhere to open
records requests from the public, but you
don’t have to. Isn’t that a bit hypocritical?
After all, Georgia taxpayers fund the
General Assembly to the tune of about $45
million annually. You do work for the tax
payers, I believe.”
“Moan! Groan! We aren’t getting into
that stuff again, are we? If the people have
a need to know how we conduct their busi
ness, we will tell them. Assuming it is any of
their business! ”
“That seems to be a rather dismissive atti
tude and I wonder...”
“Listen, you little runt. Let’s get this over
with! There are lizard-loafered lobbyists
waiting to take us to fancy-schmancy
resorts so that we can play golf and partake
of adult libations and maybe even get a
campaign contribution. Time is money! ”
“I assume that your schedules will be
available to the public through the Open
Records law?”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! Clap! Clap! Don’t you just
love this little guy?”
“Folks, let me read you a portion of the
Open Records Act which states that the
Legislature declares that ‘the strong public
policy of this state is in favor of open gov
ernment; that open government is essential
to a free, open, and democratic society; and
that public access to public records should
be encouraged to foster confidence in gov
ernment and so that the public can evaluate
the expenditure of public funds and the effi
cient and proper functioning of its institu
tions.’”
“Hey, Filbert or whatever your name is, I
think I can answer that one for you.”
“That is very kind of you, sir. Please, go
ahead.”
“Yeah, don’t do as we do. Do as we say
do! Got it?” (Uproarious laughter.)
“That may be, sir, but don’t you worry
about the perception voters may have of
their elected officials?”
“Listen, twerp. It’s the voters who keep
sending us back. They ’ve got more impor
tant things on their minds, like who’s going
to get their heart broken on ‘The
Bachelorette ’ and stuff like that. Anyhow,
the voters don’t exactly have the highest
expectations of us. Check the polls. Our
reputation is slightly above that of a mule
skinner. Now, can we get out of here?”
“I will be through in just a moment,
ladies and gentlemen, but Mr. Yarbrough
(“Boo! Hiss! Pfft! ”) wanted me to ask you
about our gun laws.”
“Yeah! Clap! Clap! Clap! Finally, some
thing positive to talk about! ”
“If I am correct, I believe you allow guns
in church (“Amen! Sweet Jesus! ”) and bars
(“This round is on me! Ha! Ha! Ha! ”) and
on college campuses. (“Rah! Rah! Sis
Boom Boom! ”) Then why not under the
Gold Dome?”
(Silence.)
“Anybody want to respond? Is this not
another example where you pass laws you
don’t have to follow?”
(More silence. Shuffling of feet.)
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, I think you
have given me more than enough information
to report back to Mr. Yarbrough (“Mumble!
Mumble!”) I am sure he will be passing this
conversation along to his readers so they may
form their own judgments about whether you
consider yourself above the laws you make.
Thank you for your time. We are adjourned.”
“Hooray! Let’s get outta here! Look out,
Sea Island! Here we come! It’s party time!”
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dickyar-
brough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, GA
31139; online at dickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
Natures trying to kill me
Nature may be trying to kill
me.
I am the first to admit, I love
nature on my own terms.
Seeing it through the window
of my air-conditioned space is
usually enough to satisfy my soul
for all things pastoral.
I can see our deer come into
the yard to feed. There is even a
tame little squirrel that has
enough moxie to come up on the
porch rail and gaze into the kitch
en window until she is given pea
nuts.
The adorable animals are the
limits of my nature loving.
Bugs, however, are another
story.
Lightning bugs, lady bugs,
grasshoppers, butterflies, and
dragonflies are all precious, but
the creepy, crawling things not so
much.
Especially when they look like
they defy normal sizes.
And apparently, the mountains
of North Georgia can produce
spiders that look like something
straight out of Australia.
My first experience with a
monstrously sized arachnid hap
pened a several weeks ago as
Cole and I were leaving to go to
an event. I was standing at the
kitchen sink when I saw some
thing outside the window that
seemed unusual.
I almost thought it was a small
rodent, that’s how big it was.
I screamed.
Cole was in the bathroom get
ting ready and immediately ran
out to see what prompted my
shrieks.
“It’s outside. Should we leave
it outside?” he asked.
“It will get in,” I said in a terri
fied whisper.
“Why are you whispering?”
he asked.
“So, the spider won’t hear
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
me,” I answered, still in a whis
per.
“I’d feel bad killing it though,”
he said. “I thought we said if it
was outside it could live,”
True, I had declared that, but
this one was on my windowsill
and looked like it was trying to
gain entry.
I took this as a preventative
measure.
“Where’s the peppermint oil?”
I whispered.
Cole shook his head. “We’re
out and Mom, I don’t think your
essential oils are gonna handle
that.”
He was probably right. It took
me 7 minutes to find the Raid,
with the enormous spider waiting
to meet his destiny.
I sprayed him until he dropped
to the porch floor and curled up,
rigor mortis setting in on all eight
legs.
“I feel bad,” Cole said.
“I do. too,” I said.
“Why are you still whisper
ing?”
“Out of respect for the dead,” I
said, pointing at the corpse.
We left to go to our event, me
shivering and having serious hee
bie jeebies the whole time.
I made sure I showed the spi
der to Lamar when he got home,
telling him how big it was.
“It doesn’t look that big now,”
he said, eyeing the remains.
“It was, just believe me.”
How dare he doubt my
account of the size or ferocious
ness of the spider.
Thinking that was not the last
of the ginormous spiders. I made
sure to put the Raid where it was
easier to find.
Good thing I did, too.
One evening. I went in the
bathroom trying to find my sleep
shorts as it was too hot for a
chubby woman to sleep in leg
gings.
I found them and had just
slipped the shorts on when I
looked down at the laundry bas
ket under the shelves.
There was the mother of all
spiders, one that made the kitch
en window spider look small in
comparison.
I screamed, a bloodcurdling,
glass shattering scream. Janet
Leigh would have been proud.
“Cole, go see what your moth
er is screaming about.” Lamar
yelled.
“No!” I screamed back. “You
need to handle this!”
The thing lifted a leg at me as
if it was putting me on notice.
I screamed again.
It was, literally, the size of my
hand with its legs spread out.
And it looked like it worked out;
its legs looked muscular.
More panic ensued as I waited
for someone male with some sort
of weapon to come in the bath
room.
The door pushed open to show
Lamar and Cole with Cole hold
ing the Raid.
“You need to do this,” I said.
“This is an abnormally large spi
der.”
Lamar sighed and frowned,
quite used to my overreactions
involving basically anything.
He motioned for me to step
aside as he entered our bathroom.
“Dear God.” he muttered.
“Cole, give me the Raid.”
Finally, he saw that I was
being pretty accurate with this
one.
I stepped out of the bathroom
so Cole could hand the bug spray
to his father and was waiting for
the kill shot when suddenly the
spider ran out of the bathroom
and came rushing toward me. as
if it was going to finish the job.
I am not over-exaggerating —
it was heading straight towards
me.
I screamed.
I turned and ran towards the
bedroom, screaming for my life
the whole way.
Somehow. I was running in
air, like I was Keanu Reeves in
the Matrix minus the wires and
long leather coat as I ran up on
the bed.
Doodle joined me, shaking
with fear herself.
That’s how big the spider was;
itscaredapittiemix.
“It’s not dead!” I heard Cole
say.
“I sprayed it!” Lamar said.
“You napalmed it but it’s not
dead!” Cole said.
“It should be dead!”
“Dad-it’s not!”
I don’t know who finished off
the spider or how, but it took a
solid five minutes.
Doodle and I shook all night.
The next day, I went to the
store and got two bottles of Raid,
a new torch fighter, some cheap
hairspray, and some peppermint
oil, just in case.
Nature was trying to kill me.
But next time, I would be
ready.
Sudie Crouch is an award win
ning humor columnist and author
of the recently e-published novel,
"The Dahlman Files: A Tony
Dahlman Paranormal Mystery."
Reporting the details because they’re important to know
Too many times these
days, we are following a
news story being reported
by the national media when
one or the other of us will
have a question such, “How
did this start in the first
place?” or “Why did she do
that?”
When I was barely 17,1
started in radio by hosting a
weekend show. At 18,1
began reporting and writing
for a local weekly newspa
per. I adhered then - and
now - to the basic rules of
journalism: Who, what,
when, why and how. It’s
remarkable how often one or
more of those are missed.
Honestly, I try to stay out
of the national news cycle. I
care much more about read
ing the stories about the
friend’s child who scored
the winning touchdown,
how a town came together
to help one of it’s own or
who died. I especially care
about the local obits.
Whenever I ask Tink a
slight probing question on a
news story, he often pauses
for a beat then says, “That’s
a very good question,
Ronda Rich. That hasn’t
been addressed yet.” Often,
it will be a big story that’s
RONDA RICH
Columnist
been going on for two or
three weeks and one of the
basic decrees of journalism
has been ignored.
I roll my eyes. All I can
figure is that the stories are
either being reported and/or
edited by millennials who
have been trained in the age
of social media where brevity
and broad are revered. Tell it
quickly and position it from a
viewpoint or even heavy load
it with viewpoint. That’s
why, I think, we feel like it’s
an assault on our senses.
Even more than my jour
nalistic training, I am prone
to lean toward what I know
about storytelling: Details
matter.
In the years that have
melted away since Daddy
and then Mama left this
world, I am often grateful
for the details they left
behind in the stories they
told. We have a King James
Scofield Bible, well used as
was most of Daddy’s Bibles,
that was gifted to him in
1960s by a renowned moon
shiner. In those days, a man
was only let out of a jail
when a person who owned
property in the county
would “go his bond.”
Daddy, the son of moun
tain renegades turned a child
of the Lord’s, never judged.
This was one of my favorite
things about Daddy.
Everything was either black
or white to him. It was right
or it was wrong. But when it
was wrong committed by
others, he loved, he forgave
and he went their bonds.
One renegade, though,
pushed Daddy’s patience
with his frequent calls in the
middle of the night that
forced him out of the comfort
of his bed, into the cold night
and down to the jailhouse.
“I’ve gone your bond for
the last time,” Daddy, high
ly irritated, promised one
night.
A Bible - Daddy’s favor
ite kind: always black leath
er - remains with a hand
written note from the giver
which tells that story. I love
this because it records the
comingling of Daddy’s
upbringing, his adult values
and loyalty.
In my cherished belong
ings are a small pair of
brown leather sandals tat
tooed with colorful flowers.
They were a gift from a
family friend who visited
Mexico - back in the days
when that was truly exotic
and people rarely ventured
out of their hometown or
state. In Mama’s handwrit
ing, she details the friend,
the place, the date, why he
was in Mexico and how he
got there. My mama, a crea
ture of a simply mountain
upbringing, knew that
“who, what, when, why and
how” would matter one day
down in the journey of life.
Here’s my conclusion: If
it’s not being learned in
journalism school, y’all just
come visit us homegrown
Southerners for a while.
We can tell you a story
that will have nary a blank
nor a question to it.
We know the details mat
ter now and that we have a
historic responsibility.
Ronda Rich is the best-selling
author of the new book, Let
Me Tell You Something. Visit
www.rondarich.com to sign
up for her free weekly news
letter.
