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4A ®[)£ Im'alti <©a?£tt£ Tuesday, June 22,2021
Opinions
Ruffin's Renderings: Operations
I have, in almost every
way that really matters,
lived a blessed life.
One of the ways that 1
have been blessed is that
in my almost sixty-three
years of living, 1 have
been hospitalized for a
total of five days. My two
hospitalizations occurred
forty-two years apart.
My first hospitaliza
tion was for a tonsil
lectomy. It happened in
1979.1 was twenty years
old. 1 did most big things
early—things such as
beginning kindergarten,
finishing high school,
graduating from college,
and getting married. But
1 got my tonsils out late.
This was despite the fact
that 1 had annual bouts of
tonsillitis throughout my
childhood years. Every
time 1 did, my mother
would ask the doctor
if my tonsils should be
removed. Every time she
asked, the doctor would
say I would outgrow it.
When a rip-roaring case
descended on me at the
beginning of my third
decade of life, a doctor in
Macon—where doctors
evidently had a differ
ent take on outgrowing
things than those in
Barnesville did—told me
he didn’t think that living
more years was going to
lessen my chances of de
veloping inflamed tonsils.
1 thought that sounded
reasonable if, as a more
accurate version of the
old saying would put
it, practice moves you
toward being more aware
of what perfection might
look like if you could get
anywhere near having
any idea of what perfec
tion would look like if
there was any possibil
ity of your attaining it,
which there isn’t. 1 had
been practicing getting
infected tonsils for my
entire life, so 1 figured
that 1 would keep getting
better at it, even if 1 had
no chance of developing
the perfect case of tonsil
litis, which 1 didn’t want
to do anyway.
So it came
to pass that a
tonsillectomy
was scheduled.
1 spent the night
before and the
night after the
operation in the
hospital. 1 know
how strange
that sounds,
given that a
tonsillectomy is
pretty much a
drive-through procedure
these days, but insur
ance companies allowed
the hospitals to do it that
way back in the ancient
times, so they did.
My recovery went
reasonably well. At least
it did until my father
upstaged me later in
the week by suffering a
massive and ultimately
fatal heart attack. But
that’s another part of
the story, which you can
(and should) read about
in my best-selling (among
a few of my friends and
family) book Fifty-Seven:
A Memoir of Death and
Life (available
at Amazon;
signed cop
ies available
through
me—but be
aware that
my autograph
may lower the
book’s resale
value).
Forty-two
years passed
between that
two-day hospital stay
for a tonsillectomy and
my next hospitalization
in January of this year,
which happened because
1 had a stroke and which
lasted three days. Since
I wrote about that in this
space right after it hap
pened, 1 won’t go into it
again, except to say that
I’m doing fine.
Well, I’m doing fine ex
cept that my right hand
still doesn’t feel or act
right. That brings me to
another part of the story
that 1 didn’t write about
in my previous stroke
hospitalization report.
Before the stroke landed
me in the hospital, 1 had
already been diagnosed
with Carpal Tunnel
Syndrome and Cubital
Tunnel Syndrome, which
would require surgery on
my right wrist and elbow,
respectively. In fact, 1
had just had the nerve
conduction study that
confirmed those diagno
ses on the Friday before
the symptoms that
indicated that 1 had expe
rienced a stroke—confu
sion mainly, and yes, it
took me a while to notice
the difference—sent me
to the hospital. While 1
was on the stroke unit,
the doctors, nurses, and
therapists kept examin
ing and asking about my
hand, and 1 kept telling
them that 1 had been
diagnosed with the afore
mentioned syndromes,
and they kept acting as
if that had nothing to
do with anything. They
seemed to think that
the stroke was the more
pressing matter. My or
thopedic doctor said that
they had their priorities
properly aligned.
But we are now at a
place where 1 can have
surgery on my hand and
elbow. It’s scheduled to
take place in a few days.
It’s not serious surgery.
On the other hand, minor
surgery is surgery some
one else has. I’ll gladly
accept any prayers, well
wishes, and positive
thoughts you want to of
fer. If all goes well, I’ll be
able to write even longer
columns than this one.
It’s an outpatient pro
cedure—in and out the
same day.
I wouldn’t have been
surprised had it been
drive-through.
Mike Ruffin is a Barnesville native.
His new book, Praying with Matthew,
is available at helwys.com and
Amazon.
Newspaper folks have
unique personalities
KAV S. PEDROTTI
kayspedrotti@gmail.com
Last week I was given
the opportunity to speak
at the Barnesville Rotary
Club
meet
ing, for
which
chance I
was very
grateful
and hon
ored. I
told the
group
that part of my “mission
in life” is to make people
smile and laugh, so I
told an anecdote on my
father, one of the most
unique of unique person
alities.
It’s too long to tell
here, so you’ll just have
to ask me about it when
you see me. However, I
can describe some of the
“real characters” I have
worked with through the
years. The first is the late
Albert Gelders, who was
editor of The Fitzgerald
Leader, and one of the
most calm and collected
persons I’ve ever known.
That is, until the night
when a rainstorm deluge
collapsed the back end
of the Leader’s roof and
the water ruined about
half a ton of newsprint.
That’s when Albert’s
frustration got the better
of his erudite vocabu
lary, and he taught his
18-year-old rookie re
porter some new swear
words. Right along with
Albert was the typog
rapher, Julian Gunter.
And yes, I do remember
lead type and the flatbed
press!
At The Albany Herald,
joking reigned supreme,
and I wish I could re
member them all. When
the Sunday paper was
put to bed on Saturday
evening, women were not
allowed in the newsroom
-1 think the alcoholic
lubrication of work ac
complished had some
thing to do with that.
But I remember the day
after Halloween one year
when the managing edi
tor (who bitterly hated
Halloween) confessed he
had turned the garden
hose on some trick-or-
treaters. Later, a quite
large lady came into the
office, stood resolutely
in front of his desk and
said, “Let me tell you
about the meanest man
in town!” She did not
know, of course, that it
was the “meanest man”
she was speaking to -
and Don kept commiser
ating, “Why, that’s awful!
I can’t believe that, etc.”
The Savannah Morn
ing News had its quirky
people, too, in the mid-
1960s. One was the chief
of the copy desk, where
pages were laid out and
headlines written. The
city editor asked me to
do a couple of weeks
on the copy desk, just
for experience. When
the chief heard that, he
ranted and raved and
carried on that “there
never has been a woman
on my rim and there
won’t be now!” The city
editor stuck to his guns,
and I went to the copy
desk. At the end of the
first week, the irate chief
marched up to me at the
little bar where we all
hung out after work and
said, “**## A ***it, YOU
can write headlines!!”
Those are a few of
the strange but educa
tional people I’ve worked
with; I’ve been grateful
for every single one,
even some I didn’t like
but learned from. In
the era of computers
and electronic zapping
among news, composing
and pressroom, the “real
characters” just seem to
have disappeared. What
a shame -1 need new
stories!
Kay S. Pedrotti has spent some
50 years writing for newspapers.
She is active in the Lamar County
com- munity and currently serves
as the president of Lamar Arts. She
lives in Milner with her husband Bob
Pedrotti.
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include the writer’s actual name, address and tele
phone number. Limit letters to 250 words or less.
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endorsements or letters that are racially divisive.
Send letters to RO. Box 220, Barnesville, 30204,
email it to news@barnesville.com or drop it by 509
Greenwood Street, Barnesville.
Kudzu and Clay: Night night water
I have had a
habit of collect
ing water cups
beside my bed
since about the
time I was taken
off a bottle. I
call it night-
night water. It’s
there for me if
I get thirsty in
the middle of
the night. It’s
very rare that I
do, but it saves
me a trip to the
bathroom if it were to
occur. The cups are not
easy to see by the way
the bed is positioned,
but they are there. They
are always there. And
every time my wife sees
them it drives her nuts,
but because she only
notices them ever so
often, it only becomes
a big deal a few times a
year. When it does come
up she’ll make me get rid
of them, but they always
come back because I
need them. They are
more than a soothing
drink to a dry mouth at 2
a.m. They are a reminder.
With every passing
day, I become more of an
adult. I try my hardest
to hold on to the old me.
The me that was a total
slob. Don’t get me wrong,
I am still a slob, but not
anywhere near what I
used to be. My cups are
one of the last vestiges
of complete slob me. My
wife has slowly been con
ditioning me. Training me
like Pavlov’s dog. Instead
of me unconsciously and
uncontrollably salivat
ing when she rings a
bell I have started doing
things like unloading the
dishwasher when I notice
the light is on, indicating
it is done washing. I used
to hate to unload or load
the dishwasher and now,
at least two
times a day, I
find myself put
ting up clean
plates or load
ing dirty ones. I
can’t recall how
I got there or
why.
I would
always won
der to myself
when I went to
other people’s
houses and
saw how clean
their surroundings were
if it was because they
cleaned before I got
there or if it was because
they actually lived that
way. I would think this
because every time we
have an expected guest
coming to the house, the
house that I think of as
clean, I learn that it is not
clean at all, at least not
by my wife’s standards.
There is nothing more
in this world that used
to give me anxiety than
knowing someone was
expected to come for a
visit and waiting for the
orders to come down
from central command.
Toilets. Showers. Sinks. I
would be asked to do my
part and when I would
proudly say I was done, I
would find out how far I
was from the mark. And
of course, I would always
have to get rid of my pre
cious night-night water
collection.
We have come a long
way from the days of
scrambling before people
come over. It only takes
an hour or so to get the
house to the point where
we could make micro
chips in the bathroom if
we wanted. I guess this
is part of becoming an
adult, but I can’t decide if
it is a good thing. Recent
ly I have been watching
my son learn how to
read, and now where I
used to be able to read
articles on my computer,
the kind of stuff chock
full of salacious content,
I no longer can because
he can sit by me and see
it. The power of being
able to read can never
be undone. Just like the
power that I now have to
discern what soap scum
looks like even when hid
den in the abstract forms
of a granite bathroom
countertop.
I walk around now in a
constant state of hyper
awareness. I notice dust
bunnies floating around
on floors. I see spider
webs in undusted cor
ners. I notice things like
where crown moulding
doesn’t completely con
nect. I’m not complain
ing. I understand it is a
good thing to be aware of
things that aren’t clean.
It could even save your
life depending on how
you look at it. But I miss
those times before. Igno
rance is bliss. And I leave
the water glasses there
as a reminder to myself
of who I am and where
I’ve been. Even when I
look at the glass of stale
water next to my bed and
I can see on the side of
the glass where particles
have collected on the
fine oils from my finger
prints over the course
of a week. I have to stay
strong. Because no mat
ter how clean your house
is, if you forget who you
were in the past, you’ll
never know who you are
in the present.
Chris Walter is a writer, artist,
and Barnesville native. He has just
published his rst book, “Southern
Glitter”. You can nd more informa
tion about his art and writings at
kudzuandclay.com.
rVi
A')
KUDZU &
CLAY
Chris Walter
FLASHBACK
In honor of
Elizabeth Sellers
June 20-26
10 years ago
The Milner city coun
cil learned that its water
system is worth at least
$1 million more than is
owed on it. That report
came from auditor Tom
Melvin who said the city
had done a great job in
paying its water system
debt for the year. The
city had loans on its wa
ter tower and its water
and wastewater systems.
The money was owed to
state and federal govern
mental agencies.
25 years ago
Rev. C. Stephen Da
vidson was appointed
pastor at First United
Methodist Church here.
A native of Knoxville, he
was coming here from a
church in Oakwood, Ga.
His wife was the former
Mary Ruth Haisten of
Jackson. They were
bringing two daughters
with them.
50 years ago
Maj. Robert E. Burns,
son of Mr. and Mrs.
Thornton Burns of
Barnesville, was awarded
the U.S. Army Air Medal
in a ceremony held at
Due Pho, Vietnam. Burns
was lauded for air sup
port he provided for
ground operations. He
was a graduate of the
U.S. Military Academy at
West Point.
100 years ago
Pursuant to an order
from the governor, the
Barnesville Blues pro
ceeded to elect a captain
Monday night to replace
Capt. Thad Adams who
removed from this place
to Montgomery sev
eral months ago. Second
lieutenant Shi Gray was
made captain without
opposition. Jackson G.
Bush was chosen 2nd
lieutenant unanimously.
Zi)t Umltr #a^tte
barnesville.com
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