About Flagpole. (Athens, Ga.) 1987-current | View Entire Issue (Dec. 24, 2025)
DECEMBER 24, 2025 & DECEMBER 31, 2025 ■ FLAGPOLE.COM 15 S lackpole is a look inside the community: what makes it laugh, smile, care or feel nostalgic. Our staff is thankful for all of our Flagpole read ers who contribute to writing and illustrating our end-of-the-year annual issue, allowing us to take a break during the holidays. We enjoy reading all of the submissions, and those that didn’t make it into print can be found shared online over the holidays at flagpole.com. We’ll be back with the first Flagpole of 2025 on Jan. 7. Thanksgiving at Weaver D’s By Warren Flick Weaver D’s Delicious Fine Foods, offering authentic soul food, has been an iconic restaurant in Athens since 1986. Now Mr. Weaver is ready to retire, and he’s put his restau rant up for sale. Still open at Thanksgiving, he fulfilled one of his last wishes: To celebrate by offering a free Thanks giving dinner to the hungry or homeless—for the fourth year in a row. This year a fraternity at the University of Georgia (Phi Kappa Tau), offered its building on Wilkerson Street, just two doors away from Weaver D’s restaurant. Weaver D’s restaurant is small, but the fraternity building is designed for events, with public restrooms, a stage and a large open room, all of which is ideal for a crowd of hungry people. Dexter Weaver and his help prepared the J food in the restaurant, then carried it in vehi- h cles and by foot to the fraternity’s building - where it was set out buffet style. He had about S 10-20 helpers, and he confessed to cooking throughout the night on Thanksgiving eve. Athens police were around most of the time to help organize the traffic and parking. A Gospel service came first—a tribute to God, Mr. Weaver’s helpers and the community for making this public charity possible. The service featured prayer, scripture reading, gospel music and a short talk by Mr. Weaver, giving thanks for his success over almost 40 years. Dexter Weaver offered to feed the hungry or homeless. But the larger truth is that he and his workers fed anyone who showed up, took a plate and moved through the buffet— offering living witness to his slogan: “Auto matic for the people.” An online photo gallery at flagpole.com Thanksgiving at Weaver D’s shows Mr. Weaver, his workers, his restaurant, the buffet line, the food and the people they served. mixed status Amor By Beto Cacao Nuestro sueno amanece enredando cabellos. Cabellos de sol peinan las fronteras de la noche, en la desvelada melena del susurro, un susurro que pudo ser canto: a veces canto de amor esquinero, a veces aviso de la migra, en la esquina del trabajo sin permiso, en la esquina de la migra, migrana matutina. Nuestro aliento se conjura en palabras de amanecer con el sueno deportado. Agentes rompen las puertas, arrebatan los anhelos, estremecen ninos migrantes. Pistolas que secuestran y roban utopias. Tus dedos flotan por mi espalda, consolando mis bellitos; brazos de abrazados braceros, enredados en su amor dilatado. Mi lengua, intrusa, y tus senos ciudadanos. Your fingers float down my back, consoling my tiny hairs; arms of embraced braceros, entwined in their stretched love. My tongue, intruder, and your breasts, citizens. mixed status Love By Beto Cacao Our dream awakens, tangling hair. Sunlit hair combs the borders of night, in the sleepless mane of a whisper, a whisper that could have been a song: sometimes a song of cornered love, sometimes a warning of la migra, on the corner of work without papers, on the corner or la migra, morning migraine. Our breath conspires in dawn-lit words with the dream deported. Agents break down doors, snatch away hopes, shake migrant children. Guns that kidnap and steal utopias. The Last Flight By Jill Hartmann On the last flight from Atlanta to San Diego, the sun was setting as the airplane began its descent. I’d never seen a sunset from this viewpoint above the clouds. The orange- red sphere glowed like a beacon calling me home. Witness ing this phenomenon of nature for the first time in my life felt like the perfect grand finale to my 14-year-long adven ture in the Southeastern college town. The sun accompa nied me in those last minutes of my long-awaited journey like a guiding light, even as the fiery globe merged with the dark bands of the horizon. As the light of the sun disappeared behind the line of gray and white clouds, the flight leader’s announcement came over the loudspeaker. “Seatbelts fastened. Tray tables stowed, and seat backs in the upright position. We will be landing shortly.” My heart raced with anticipation. I looked out the window and saw a sea of white lights in the distance as the plane approached the first glimpse of my home city. I tried not to think about lost time. Chil dren had grown up and moved away. Friends had lived lives that I could not share with them. My mother could no longer walk on her own or breathe without a portable oxygen tank. We were all 14 years older, and time had made its mark on all of us—for the better and for the worse. We didn’t have much time left now. But my worst fear—the fear that my mother would pass away before I made it back home to her— had never happened. As far as I knew, Mom was waiting for me and couldn’t wait to hug her daughter. The feeling was mutual. I’d kept her on the phone with me up to the very last minute when the plane pulled back from the gate, and all passengers were ordered to put our cell phones into airplane mode and end all calls. The last words Mom and I said to each other were, “I love you. I’ll see you soon.” My ears ached, but I didn’t care. I spotted the familiar red neon lights, “Mister A’s,” that signaled that I was almost home. Moments later, the plane flew over downtown San Diego and bounced onto the runway. The captain turned on the cabin lights as soon as the plane stopped at the gate. Everyone around me jumped out of their seats, opened the overhead bins, grabbed their bags and formed a line in the aisle. I stayed in my seat and turned on my cell phone. She answered immediately, “Hello?” “Mom, I made it. I’m home.” > continued on next page
