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DawsonOpinion
WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 8, 2023
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.
Why are we
so sleepless
in Georgia?
I know you are very
busy and I don’t want to
take up a lot of your
time, but I think you
need to see this.
A firm called
Diamond Rehab
Thailand, which calls
itself one of the leading
luxury insomnia treat
ment centers in Asia (I’m not sure how many
luxury insomnia treatment centers there are
in Asia to begin with, but that’s a story for
another day), sent a list of the Most Sleepless
States in the U.S. Georgia ranks sixth. I
thought that would get your attention.
The study found that 35.8% of adults in
our state are getting less than seven hours
sleep each night. I’m not sure how someone
in Thailand would know that. I guess luxury
insomnia treatment centers know stuff the
rest of us don’t know, even in Thailand.
According to their study, Hawaii is the
most sleepless state of all. It seems that
39.4% of its citizens get on average less than
seven hours of sleep nightly, and Hawaiians
aged 45-64 get even less. Diamond Rehab
Thailand doesn’t go into detail as to the rea
sons why but I’m thinking they can’t get the
sound of ukuleles out of their heads. I’m sure
I couldn’t.
If you haven’t dozed off by now, you may
be interested to know that West Virginia
ranks second. Since that state is in the
Bottom Ten of just about everything measur
able from health care to education to the
economy, you can’t blame them for not
sleeping well.
Kentucky was third among sleepless states,
according to the study. That one is easy. Their
basketball team which is always expected to
compete and win national championships
every year is just a cut above mediocre this
year (15-7, last I looked.) Being among bas
ketball’s commoners must have their fans
walking the floor at night.
Coming in fourth was our neighbor
Alabama. While 38.3% of adults reported
insufficient sleep, the rate was even higher
with those aged 18-44 at 41%. My abacus
tells me that more than four in ten adults
skewed on the younger side of the demo
graphic scale are losing sleep at night.
Another easy one.
Alabama is all about football. I mean, what
else is there in Alabama? Yes, the University
of Alabama’s basketball team is ranked No. 4
in the nation — tying the state’s sleeplessness
score — but I doubt the majority of fans
could tell you who the coach is. They can tell
you, however, that they didn’t make it to the
College Football Playoff last year, haven’t
won a national championship in two years
and have won only six since Nick Saban
showed up.
Auburn, on the other hand, goes through
coaches like a box of Kleenex. I’m thinking
the insomnia issue is due to Alabama fans
wondering when they are going to win anoth
er national championship and Auburn coach
es wondering when they are going to get
fired.
Louisiana is the fifth most sleepless state in
the nation. That’s understandable. Those liv
ing in whatever part of the state that hasn’t
already been blown away by the latest hurri
cane are wondering when their turn is com
ing. The insomnia experts in Thailand don’t
elaborate but I suspect those pacing the floor
in Louisiana are sporting snorkel masks and
innertubes.
That brings us to the Great State of
Georgia, which ranks sixth among the most
sleepless states in the country. Really? What
in the name of Tyrus R. Cobb could be keep
ing us awake at night? Our state has so much
surplus money our political leaders are trying
to figure out how much of it to give back to
us. We are becoming the electric vehicle cap
ital of the nation and plants and jobs are
springing up all over the state.
We have the majestic Blue Ridge
Mountains to our north and the Golden Isles
to our south. In between are pecan and peach
orchards. Our flagship university has two
consecutive National Football
Championships and 25 Rhodes Scholars. We
are home to Coca-Cola and Augusta
National. We possess the greatest state song
in the history of the world, “Georgia on my
Mind,"’ as sung by Ray Charles Robinson, of
Albany, Georgia. So what’s the problem? I
say it’s guilt.
We are so blessed to be living in Georgia
that we lie awake at night feeling guilty won
dering why we have it so much better than
everybody else. I don’t know if Diamond
Rehab Thailand would agree but that’s my
story and I’m sticking to it. Good night and
good luck.
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.
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Television has changed since my youth
Growing up. we
didn’t have the luxury
we do now of the
internet or streaming.
No, we had to sit
around the TV, usual
ly with me standing
by the big cabinet as
the channel changer
because remotes were not the
norm either. Or they may have
been extra when they came out
— I’m not sure — but either
way I can hear my grandmother
saying she wasn’t a-paying extra
for that when I was perfectly
capable of getting up off my
Pretty Plus-sized rear and
changing the channel for her.
So our whole television
watching was ruled by whatever
the schedule was in the newspa
per.
None of the TV Guide buying
nonsense, either, not unless it
was featuring a show or actor on
the cover that was one of our
favorites, and usually it didn’t.
Besides, that’s what the
National Enquirer was for,
according to Granny.
Pop said the TV Guide had
too much nonsense about cable
programming for his tastes. All
he wanted to know was when
the game was on, what game it
would be, and if there were
other games that would conflict
with the main one he wanted to
watch.
The paper gave him just those
facts, free of the articles about
any of the shows, and that was
his favorite section
after the sports
pages.
Our evenings
were set by what
was on.
Dallas, Dynasty,
and Falcon Crest
were some of the big
ones.
Granny declared they were
filth and debauchery, then told
me to turn the volume up for her
because she couldn’t hear.
Special occasions were
marked by certain movies being
aired throughout the year, with
The Sound of Music and The
Wizard of Oz being two that
come to mind.
I am not sure why, but Granny
thought those were something I
enjoyed and she’d plop me
down in front of the telly with a
bowl of stove top popped pop
corn and tell me one of my
favorite movies was about to
come on.
Neither were remotely close
to being my favorite; I didn’t
even like them. If anything, the
Wizard of Oz traumatized me. I
had nightmares about those
monkeys and even as a child,
could empathize with the
Wicked Witch of the West want
ing those shoes.
Until one night by some sav
ing grace, there was a ball game
that conflicted with it.
“You can watch it in their liv
ing room.” Granny told Pop and
Bobby.
“I want to watch it here, in my
chair,” Pop insisted.
“She always watches her
movie in here.” Granny argued.
It also was easier for her to fin
ish cooking whatever she was
making for the next day, too.
“She’s seen that movie a
dozen times, surely she knows it
by now,” Pop countered. “This is
a real game that’s live, Helen.
Not recorded and aired every
year.”
Granny set her jaw. I’m not
sure why she was so insistent
that I watched those movies, but
she was.
“I don’t have to see it.” I said.
I had a library book I wanted to
read anyway.
“Are you sure?” Granny
asked.
I nodded. I could do without
the flying monkeys. I just want
ed the popcorn.
She grunted and let Pop and
Bobby turn on their game.
Maybe that was part of the rea
son why she wanted me to
watch it, purely for the fact she
could throw a monkey wrench
into their game viewing, some
thing she complained about con
stantly.
Unless it was the Braves.
Even Granny liked the Braves.
My Saturday evenings
involved me sitting on the otto
man in front of Granny as she
tried to work the tangles out of
my freshly washed hair for
church the following day. We
watched Lawrence Welk and
Dolly Patton while she did.
“I wish I could dance like
those women,” Granny would
say as she yanked a knot out of
my tangled mess of hair, and
probably took part of my brain
stem along with it. “They’re so
elegant and fancy.”
I couldn’t imagine how they
were dancing. I was doing good
to not trip when walking.
It was our little escapism rou
tine, those few things we looked
forward to watching and a way
we saw things that were a bit
glitzier than what we had in our
little town at the time. “What are
you watching?” Mama asked
the other day.
“Designing Women,” I said.
“It’s the one where Suzanne
found Reggie Mack Dawson
and he bought her a circus.”
“Oh, I love that one!” Mama
said. “What channel is it on?”
“It’s not,” I said. “It’s stream
ing.”
“Oh,” she said, disappointed.
“Well, shoot.”
I don’t have to check the tele
vision schedule in the paper—I
can watch whatever I want,
whenever I want. It was basical
ly escapism on demand.
For the record, I’m still not.
nor do I ever plan on, watching
the Wizard of Oz.
Sudie Crouch is an award win
ning humor columnist and
author.
SUDIE CROUCH
Columnist
Destruction in war is an ugly thing to see
By Dr. Larry Anderson
Anderson Family Medicine
It is hard to really imagine or under
stand the devastation of a missile attack
unless you are there to see it yourself. I
rely on a few new friends to send me
their first-hand account.
The missile attack on Dnipro on Jan.
16 was beyond horrible. We get to see
the aftermath on the news, but we do not
get to what happens during the attack
and shortly thereafter. A huge portion of
that 9 story apartment building was
destroyed, as were the people in the
building. The blast vaporized the men,
women, children and babies that were in
the destroyed section of the building.
More were killed with falling debris
from the blast. One of my friends that
was working with rescue crews wrote
me and said, “I will never forget the
sounds of the crying and screaming peo
ple trapped in the debris trying to be res
cued.”
That is what a real war does to people.
We seem to always accept this when it
happens to troops, but we can never
accept this when it happens to civilians.
Even worse when it is women and
children. The Ukrainians are good peo
ple and worthy of our help. More and
more countries are stepping up commit
ment and war supplies to Ukraine.
Poland has become a staging ground for
tanks because they have tank firing rang
es for the Ukrainians to train at before
taking the tanks into battle.
The world’s best tank is our own
Abrams. About 31 of them will be head
ing to Ukraine. I spoke with a US Army
armor (tank) company commander and
was told the training time to master the
technology and tactics of that tank can
be up to 5 months. The Leopard 2 from
Germany has a shorter training time
because of the different technology.
It is not too late to pray for peace for
Ukraine and to send the Russians home.
Be safe. Thanks for reading.
There’s gonna be good gospel singing there
Tink and I were
watching the award
show for the
Gospel Music
Association Doves
which celebrates
Jesus from tradi
tional to Southern
to contemporary
music.
The cameras moved to a
black-clothed figure on a
darkened stage. Her blonde
hair glistened. Then, her
voice, a perfect soprano,
pierced sweetly through the
air. Tink watched my best
friend, Karen Peck, then
turned to me.
“You know, you two are
amazing. It’s really some
thing what you’ve done.”
I nodded. “Thank you,
Lord.”
Had either of us, purebred
country girls, become suc
cessful at any career that was
outside-the-box of nine-to-
fine laboring or even one of
us found ourself on television
or magazine covers, it would
be astounding. We come
from a small Southern town,
we graduated from a high
school with 180 students in
our class.
Yet, we both have had
remarkable God-given suc
cess. Karen is a
Southern Gospel
Music singer and
Hall of Famer. I
write Southern
fiction, nonfiction,
and this long run
ning syndicated
newspaper col
umn. We have both appeared
in movies and on countless
television shows. Karen has
had over 20 number-one hit
songs and many awards and
Grammy nominations. I’ve
won two or three.
As school friends, then
after college, we roomed
together in a duplex built in
the 1920s where every board
squeaked or moaned. Karen
was singing with a group. I
was writing newspaper
sports.
In that drafty, old house,
cheered by an enormous
150-year-old oak tree that
spread out over the front
porch, we opened our doors
to friends for homemade
lasagna and spaghetti. One
friend, consistent in dropping
by, was a tall, stout guy with
a head full of curvy, wavy
blonde hair named Leslie
Chastain.
Close to our age, Leslie
loved Southern Gospel Music
and had become a promoter,
lining up shows featuring
several gospel groups each
time.
Many times, Leslie popped
in, opening the squeaking
screen door and, unfazed,
finding us in hot curlers or
coming in from backyard
sunbathingO. He’d say “I just
brought by some fliers about
my show I’m having next
Saturday.” Then, he’d reel off
who was going to be there,
likely to say, “She has a voice
almost as good as Karen’s.
But ain’t nobody can outdo
Karen.”
For an hour, he’d sit in our
tiny living room, talking non
stop. “There’s going to be
some real good gospel sing
ing. Y’all need to come, you
hear?”
Over the ensuing 35 years,
Leslie never strayed one iota
from Southern Gospel.
Through his vast network, he
has helped many a young
hopeful get a start. Last sum
mer, I was cutting grass at
Mama’s when he saw me,
then pulled in. He got out of
the car with several fliers and
a CD. He said, “She’s gonna
be as big as Karen Peck. I
discovered her. You need to
come. There’s going to be
some good gospel singing.”
Leslie called the other day
to invite us to his last gospel
music singing. With a voice
as jolly as ever, he said, “I
have melanoma in my brain.
I’m not going to live but, oh,
another couple of months.
Maybe. Instead of a funeral,
I’m having a gospel music
show. There’s going to be lot
of groups there. Karen will be
there. The place seats 1500
but you tell them I said that
you and Tink are to be seated
at the front. It sure would be a
great honor to have y’all
there.”
Then, Leslie being Leslie,
promised, “There’s going to
be some good gospel singing
there. Really good.”
I know God loves Leslie
Chastain. So do we. It is our
plan to be there, to hear the
last concert that Leslie
Chastain produces.
The best gospel singing,
though, that Leslie ever hears
awaits him inside the Pearly
Gates.
Florida Rich is the best-selling
author of What Southern
Women Know (That Every
Woman Should). Visit www.
rondarich.com to sign up for
her free weekly newsletter.
RONDARICH
Columnist
