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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, JUNE 29, 2022
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.
Politics chat with
Ryo Morning
Coffee Club
DICKYARBROUGH
Columnist
You can tell
from the way the
telephone rings
who is on the
other end of line.
It is Skeeter
Skates. When
Skeeter calls, the
phone doesn’t just
ring. It jumps off the hook. He has that kind
of effect on phones and people, too.
For those of you who may be new to this
space, Skeeter Skates is the owner of
Skeeter Skates Tree Stump Removal and
Plow Repair in Ryo, Georgia. He is a man
of few words but those words are as unvar
nished as, well, a tree stump.
“Hoss, we got a question for you,”
Skeeter said with no preamble. Preambles
are not a part of who Skeeter Skates is.
The “we” in this case are the members of
the Ryo Morning Coffee Club. In addition
to Skeeter who serves as the de facto chair
man, the group includes Walleye, who runs
the bait shop over in Red Bud, Booger
Bledsoe, who operates a local roadside veg
etable stand on State Route 136 near Sugar
Valley and Uncle Coot, recently retired
from the porta potty transportation industry.
Skeeter said, “The boys and me were
talking a little politics this morning and nat
urally we thought of you cause you know
as little about politics as anybody we can
think of.” Skeeter says that every time we
talk. I haven’t figured out if he is kidding or
not, but it is best not to ask.
“What we was wondering was if that ol’
orange-haired boy was ever gonna give up
claiming he is still the president? He keeps
on talking like he won and has got a lot of
folks stirred up and acting all crazy like,”
Skeeter said.
Before I could answer, Skeeter went on.
“The reason we was curious is that if that
bunch could go into the capitol up there in
Washington and tear the place up, what’s to
keep them from coming to Ryo and trying
to do the same thing?”
I assured him I didn’t think Ryo was a
target for the protesters. They probably
have other things on their mind at the
moment since a bunch of them are in jail or
about to be. Skeeter didn’t seem to be lis
tening to me, which wasn’t unusual. He’s
always too busy talking.
“The reason I am asking,” he said, “is
they might want to think twice before they
do. We ain’t got no gazpacho police down
here like that gal that represents us in
Congress likes to talk about, but anybody
wearing buffalo hats and thinking about
going into Walleye’s uninvited and making
a mess is in for a world of hurt.” I could
hear Walleye yelling “Amen!” in the back
ground.
Skeeter added, “Next time you are on
Facepaint or Twerp, you might want to let
them know.” I think he was talking about
Facebook and Twitter but this wasn’t the
time to bring that up. Skeeter Skates was on
a roll.
Booger Bledsoe got on the line and told
me that he wasn’t as bothered about the
orange-haired guy as Skeeter was. He was
more concerned with the one that took his
place. Booger said he looks like he is half
asleep most of the time and the few times
he looks to be awake, he seems to be more
worried about boys who have turned into
girls and girls who have turned into boys
being able to play volleyball than in trying
to get inflation under control.
“The price of tomatoes has gone up 20%
in just a year,” Booger said, “which don’t
much matter because nobody can afford the
gas to get to my vegetable stand, anyway.
And Sleepy Head is fretting about boy-girls
getting to play volleyball? Obviously, he
ain’t buying his own tomatoes or having to
gas up his own car.” Booger has a valid
point.
I asked Uncle Coot if he wanted to weigh
in on the current state of politics. He said
no but that he had some entertaining stories
he would be happy to share with my read
ers about the dynamic porta potty transpor
tation industry. I told him I would keep that
in mind.
Skeeter Skates got back on the line and
said, as usual, they didn’t know any more
about politics than before they called. I said
that is because politics can be very compli
cated. Skeeter said, no. Grinding a 6-foot
cypress stump in knee-deep swamp water is
complicated. Politics is just downright
weird. As much as I hate to admit it, he just
may be right.
Keeping secrets can help shelter others
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
Last summer, we
had a really scary
situation that result
ed in me taking
Cole to the ER.
It was a nasty
case of food poison
ing that made him
so dehydrated, I
didn’t think they had enough
fluid in the hospital for him.
It was nearly midnight before
they let him go home and we
headed on our way.
As I rushed him around the
mountain roads to the hospital. I
felt certain it was food poison
ing, but when your child is get
ting all kinds of tests run and
needs bags and bags of fluid
and looks frighteningly weak, it
makes every fear come to life.
Lamar was texting me every
five minutes wanting to know if
I had an update, which I didn’t.
It was stressful and unnerv
ing.
I didn’t tell my Mama about
it until the next day.
“Why did you text me?” she
demanded.
“Mama, what could you have
done?” I asked. “You’re two
hours away.”
“I could have been praying,”
she said.
“You would have been wor
rying,” I replied. “I got him to
the hospital and he was OK.
But I didn’t want to upset you.”
Truth is, I knew she would
have been frantic. This is a
woman who will
call the sheriff on
me if I don’t call
her the instant I
walk in from going
to the grocery store.
I was racked with
worry myself and at
the time, I didn’t
need her freaking out on me to
compound my stress and anxi
ety. Usually when the proverbi
al stuff hits the fan, I am the one
who pauses long enough to fig
ure out what to do and then
jump in. thinking about all the
potential consequences of every
action.
Or as my therapist describes
it: my severe anxiety makes me
hyper-vigilant and causes me to
anticipate every possible out
come while trying to plan and
overcompensate for them.
It’s loads of fun.
So while I was processing the
fact my child was the sickest I
had ever seen him, rushing him
to the hospital in the middle of a
pandemic, it did not occur to
me to call or text my mother.
Not at that moment.
I told her the next day. after
he was home recovering and I
knew he would be fine.
The fact that she was spared
an alarming text only made her
quarrelsome and angry.
“If you wouldn’t tell me my
own grandchild was in the hos
pital what else are you keeping
from me?” she wanted to know.
Well, actually, lots of things.
I don’t tell her about things
that I know will cause her to
worry or make her upset. It’s
not out of disrespect or even
trying to keep her out of those
areas of my life.
It’s because sometimes there
are moments where you can’t
find the words to process what
you’re going through, so you
keep it to yourself.
Speaking about it can almost
feel like it gives life to some of
those fears.
My mother, while she inher
ently means well, can always
jump to the worst scenario and
once she has that in mind, that’s
it. She won’t be swayed or lis
ten to anything else, no matter
what I tell her.
So I don’t tell her. Not until
it’s over and done with.
Sometimes, that means I
have to keep the good stuff
from her, too.
When Cole recently compet
ed in a contest, I didn’t share it
with her until after it was over.
It was his first time competing
and he came in fifth. I was
proud of his efforts and what he
had done, and it inadvertently
slipped out in conversation.
“You just don’t want me
involved in his life,” she told me
the next day after she had had
ample time to ruminate.
Far from it.
Sometimes, we don’t share if
we aren’t sure how those things
are going to play out. It’s a lot
easier to share in the disappoint
ment when it’s over with, than
to have some folks get their
hopes up only to be crushed
right along with us.
A safeguard of sorts, I sup
pose.
It’s funny. The very same
people who often try to protect
us from being hurt through vari
ous and sundry means are the
very ones we try to shield from
something so they won’t worry.
Or so they aren’t emotionally
crushed alongside us when
things don’t go our way.
She was upset; I get it.
In fact. I’ve been there.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
I’ve asked on countless occa
sions.
Lamar and Cole exchange a
glance and both sigh.
“We knew you’d just be
upset,” Cole said.
“You didn’t need one more
thing to worry about,” Lamar
added. “We took care of it.”
In some ways, those secrets,
though unsettling when discov
ered, can also provide some
much needed shelter and relief.
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."
LETTERTOTHE EDITOR
Price-setting could
keep new drugs from
being developed
I serve as the primary caregiver for
both of my chronically ill parents.
My father is a diabetic with an ampu
tated leg, and my mother needs weekly
dialysis treatments for her kidneys. I
have seen them both struggle from every
issue of managing pain to finding the
right medications for their conditions.
Because I see first-hand how critical
access to medical care is, I oppose any
measures that could hinder our pharma
ceutical industries’ ability to create new
treatments. The biggest federal legisla
tive effort that worries me right now is
government price setting.
While lowering out of pocket costs is
an important and well-intentioned goal,
we need to ensure that any policy deci
sions do not also compromise innova
tion and access. And I worry that allow
ing the government to set the prices of
prescription medications could do just
that.
The Congressional Budget Office, a
nonpartisan federal agency, has estimat
ed that price setting legislation could
result in 60 fewer treatments over the
next few decades/years.
One of those 60 treatments could be
the medical breakthrough that could
alleviate the symptoms of my father’s
diabetes, or my mother’s kidney care.
I hope the Georgia congressional dele
gation stands for patients like my parents
and they vote against price-setting legis
lation.
Kris Graham
Dawsonville
You can reach Dick Yarbrough atdick@dick-
yarbrough.com; at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta,
GA 31139; online atdickyarbrough.com or on
Facebook at www.facebook.com/dickyarb.
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