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“Christmas is a holiday that we celebrate not as individuals nor as a nation,
but as a human family. ” - Ronald Reagan
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The Progress
Editorial
December 17,2020
From the Staff
How I know Bobby Fischer was a jerk
By Angela Reinhardt
Staff Writer
areinhardt@pickensprogress.com
Until recently all I knew about Bobby
Fischer was that he was a chess prodigy
who would forever be that sweet boy I re
membered from the trailer for Searching
for Bobby Fischer, a film I’ve never seen.
It’s only been in the last couple months
that I realized that little boy wasn’t actually
Bobby Fischer, who for my entire life I
mistakenly characterized as the humble-
genius type. Fischer was, I’ve found out,
brazenly unlikable and arrogant, a jerk-ge
nius type instead.
I know this now because two months
ago my son expressed to me his newfound
interest in chess, and since then I’ve gone
down the chess rabbit-hole, watching old
matches and interviews with players, read
ing about grandmasters and chess strategy
(the latter of which I’m proud to say I un
derstand at least part of the time) - but most
importantly I’ve played a few matches
with my 14-year-old.
It was a quiet Saturday afternoon at
home when Auri told me he was “getting
into chess.” I had no idea he’d been play
ing with friends online.
“Yeah,” he told me. “It’s fun.”
Memories of my childhood flooded in
like a full-on pawn storm. Dad taught my
sister and me the rules when we were
young, 10 or 12, and we’d play from time
to time over the years.
“No kidding,” I said. “Wanna play?”
I dug out our cheap 6-in-l game set that
can also be conveniently used for
backgammon, checkers, cribbage (does
anyone actually play this?), Chinese
checkers, and dominos. The chess pieces
were plastic and uninspiring, but miracu
lously all accounted for and even had the
fuzzy green felt on the bottom I remem
bered fondly as a child.
It had been at least 15 years since I’d
played a match, but I was able to summon
the rules from some long-unused back
room of my mind - and I’m not going to
lie, I was proud of myself for remembering
where all the pieces should be placed and
how they moved. Still, I had no idea what
to expect since I was rusty and Auri hadn’t
been playing long - then he proceeded to
obliterate me in seven moves the first
game and talk copious amounts of smack
the second.
“Well that was an interesting choice,”
he said, and, “Wow, I wouldn’t have done
that,” he passively gloated after I’d labored
several minutes over my turn before he
swiftly took his.
Damn it. He’s pretty good, I thought.
Was he trying to psych me out? His ap
proach was, of course, completely unac
ceptable in professional matches but
somehow endearing at our kitchen table.
He beat me every game, and it was easily
the most enjoyable time I’ve had with him
in a while.
All this happened before we’d heard
about the Netflix series Queen s Gambit,
which I have since watched voraciously
(seriously, so good). Interest in chess sky
rocketed after the show was released, and
beyond being secretly glad mine and
Auri’s interest wasn’t a bandwagon thing,
it made me happy to think about people
playing a game that is simple to learn with
just a few rules, but a challenging mental
exercise that’s extremely difficult to mas
ter. During some of my turns it felt like it
looked like I was thinking - brows possibly
furled, eyes slightly squinted, and I may
or may not have leaned forward a little at
times. But in contrast to Rodin’s “The
Thinker,” I probably just looked stupid.
Auri didn’t haze me for that part, though,
just my ill-thought-out rook to d3 move.
So, yeah, I know Bobby Fischer is a
jerk now because my son told me he liked
chess and I decided to play with him. I
know that and so many other things I
didn’t before - vague notions of openings
like the Sicilian Defense; that Magnus
Carlson is the current grandmaster; and
that I find those two-dimensional chess
boards that let spectators see what’s hap
pening during a match oddly satisfying.
I also know that there is no better way
to spend time with my kids than tech-free
activities that, hands down, put the check
in check mate.
Tell us your thoughts with a letter to the editor. E-mail to news@pickensprogress.com
See letter submission guidelines on the Letters to the Editor page or call us 706-253-2457.
Ponderings of a Simple Man
Py Caleb Smith
Some
Assembly
Required
Oh how I hate these
words: “Some assembly re
quired.”
First of all, it’s a lie. It’s
not ‘some assembly,’ it’s all
of the assembly. Short of
smelting the metal and shap
ing it into component parts,
the entire assembly lays di
rectly on the purchaser’s
shoulders. The item is broken
down so completely, it could
n’t be further dismantled if it
were dropped from a jumbo
jet at 30,000 feet then struck
by a speeding semi-truck
right before it hits the ground.
Some assembly required
indeed.
The instruction manuals
(when I bother to read them),
are even worse. The best I
can figure, they hire dyslexic
Germans, who don’t speak
English, and have never even
seen the item in question. Ap
parently, they’re fed instruc
tions by dyslexic French
engineers who speak neither
German nor English, but
nurse a healthy dislike of
Americans.
Hence the trauma they in
flict on us with their jumbled,
incoherent ramblings pre
served in the instruction man
uals.
Case in point, I bought my
wife a grill for Christmas
(don’t judge me, she’s the
one that wanted a grill).
When it arrived, I was disap
pointed to see that it came in
a box slightly smaller than a
shoe box. How much of a
grill could come out of such
tiny box?
I failed to account for the
amount of assembly that was
required.
After several hours of
swearing, tears, multiple in
juries, and a strained back, I
finally got to work unpacking
(USPS 431-820)
Published by Pickens County Progress, Inc.
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DAN POOL
Publisher/Editor
Published each Thursday at Jasper, Pickens County, Georgia. Entered
at the Post Office at Jasper, Georgia. 30143 as Mail Matter of Second
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the grill.
What followed was wor
thy of a summer blockbuster
action movie. There was ac
tion, suspense, drama, a low
point where all hope seemed
lost, then a crescendo elation
as the final screw was slid
into place.
Bear in mind, given the
aforementioned issues with
the instruction manual, not to
mention the sheer number of
parts, it would certainly have
been listed as an R-rated
movie, primarily for blood
and language.
At the end of the day,
however, the new grill was
assembled. True, it listed
slightly to the side, courtesy
of a missing bolt. My wife
claims I lost it. Personally, I
blame the vengeful French
engineers who left out one
small part on purpose
When in doubt, blame the
French.
The grill might not have
been pretty but, as with so
many things in life, appear
ances can be deceiving. All
that matters is if it works.
Proudly, I went to connect
the propane tank, only to dis
cover I had installed it on the
wrong side of the grill, back
during step two which meant
that I would have to undo
steps 24 through three just to
correct the problem.
My error? Or a French
plot? Only time will tell.
[Caleb Smith is a long
time, award-winning, colum
nist for the Progress. Look
for his books at the Progress
office or on Amazon.]
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OTHER VOICES
The Gifts We Don’t Acknowledge
By Keith Petty
Recently, a large tract of
land that had been a part of
my family’s lives for some
120 years was sold. It was a
transaction of perfunctory ne
cessity that in its imperfect
genesis released to the uni
verse what had essentially
become a burden to all.
A cousin bought a small
section of the land, and he
has begun clearing the over
growth around two old
houses, one in which my
grandfather grew up and an
other in which my grandfa
ther and grandmother lived
their adult lives. One recent
afternoon, I stood in the grav
eled road before the house
and snapped photos of the
relic. It is near collapse, with
the chimney end bowing,
windows broken, and the
backside crumbling, but it
holds the comfort of memo
ries.
Forty years ago, when the
house was already seventy-
some-odd years old, I would
pile into an overstuffed chair
next to a roaring coal-burning
heater and read for hours, the
warmth baking my bones in a
relaxing blanket of security.
I might occasionally rouse
myself from my chair and
venture into the kitchen for
whatever treat my grand
mother had left on the stove
or for a translucent green six-
and-a-half ounce bottle of
ice-cold Coca-Cola.
This memory is but one of
many gifts I have in life. It is
an intangible jewel that nei
ther time nor elements cor
rupt. No rust or rot may
touch it. It cannot wear out.
I have numerous memo
ries such as this one, artifacts
of my life that I hold in ut
most esteem. Many of those
memories encompass the old
homeplace. Others embrace
various aspects of my fifty-
three years. They are of sim
ple moments and private
moments. They are of joy
and hurt. They are of ordi
nary days and special occa
sions such as birthdays and
Christmas. These memories
are held together by the glue
of those I have known.
In youth and young adult
hood, the sparkling possibil
ities of life enchant us with
the hollow promises of
grandiose dreams. They di
vert our attention to aspira
tions and best-laid plans, and
on our way, we often dismiss
the importance of what is
right around us. We see with
out seeing.
Such is likewise the way
with America as a whole.
Even in the midst of a pan
demic and sagging economy,
we are a spoiled lot. We be
lieve that we have a God-
given right to big houses,
new cars, brand name
clothes, and a preeminence in
the world. We assert that
success will be ours, and in
doing so, we so often sorely
fail to acknowledge what and
who we already have in our
lives.
Though cliched, may we
be reminded that if we have a
roof over our heads, food on
our tables, and beds in which
to sleep that we are blessed
far more than millions of
people throughout the world.
Somehow, in our quest for
more, we always seem to for
get that. Most importantly,
may we be reminded that
those dear to us are the most
intricate of blessings.
When I stand in the grav
eled road before my grand
mother’s old house, I long to
visit her and my grandmother
once more. When I think of
a dear friend who passed
from cancer, I’d love to bicy
cle on a rough trail with him
one more time. When I drive
by the church I attended most
of my life, with its sprawling
cemetery, I pay silent hom
age to loved ones resting in
their graves. I miss them,
and I miss the times with
them that I shared. So often,
those times were taken for
granted. Life was taken for
granted.
I am much more cognizant
today, at fifty-three, than I
was in the folly of my
younger years. I see what
surrounds me. I see my mom
and dad still here on Earth. I
see my sister, my niece, my
other family members, and
my friends. I see what I
have, not what I am missing;
for all that I have are gifts.
Such sentiment is critical
at this Christmas time of
year, when so many expect
so much in the way of mate
rialistic things; for one day,
the people who walk beside
us will walk there no more.
The season sparkles with
tinsel and motley wrapped
packages. Wishes are made,
presents are purchased. The
power of a short economic
uplift charges headlines as
Americans spend and charge
to surround decked-out trees
with packages. We see with
out seeing.
In a warm house on
Christmas morning, with
those we love around us,
even when the floor beneath
the tree is bare, there are
gifts, if only we will open our
eyes.
[Keith Petty is a native of
this area and a long time ed
ucator, currently in the Eng
lish department at Pickens
High School. He contributes
regularly to the Progress.]
If you spot a
mistake,
contact our
editor.
dpool@
pickensprogress.com
706-253-2457
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