Let Games of the XXXIII Olympiad begin

 

            The closest that I’ve ever been to Paris is 4,364 miles. That was squirming in Mrs. Lois Collins’ eighth-grade French class.

            Correction.

            On a Delta flight in 1999 to begin a three-week Middle East Travel Seminar (METS), our plane touched down in Berlin. That put me—as the crow flies—an estimated 544 miles from the home of the 2024 Olympics.

            I may never get to Paris. But when the opening ceremony of the Games of the XXXIII Olympiad begin, memories from Atlanta’s Centennial Olympics will have me there.

            Why?

            All I have to do is pick up the 31.5-inch metal tube—numbered 128—with its intricate engravings and wooden handle. With one touch, I’m back in the summer of 1996 on a stretch of Stephens County asphalt carrying that lighted torch.

            I almost missed the once-in-a-lifetime privilege. I had been too immersed in chairing Athens 96 to fill out the application. The 28-member board was charged with coordinating the community’s involvement in the Olympics. Fortunately, I got a phone call from Billy Payne, the dreamer who brought the Olympics to Georgia. My friend asked, “Don’t you want to run the torch?”

            Six years earlier—on Sept. 22, 1990—Billy and I were walking out of Sanford Stadium. Georgia had just upset Alabama, 17-16. And four days earlier, Billy had been in Tokyo to hear International Olympic Committee (IOC) president Juan Antonio Samaranch announce, “It’s Atlanta!”

            The timing was perfect for me to ask, “Billy, would you come to my hometown and tell your Olympic story?” Without hesitation, he put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Sure.” And he did.

            In the spring of 1991, UGA’s athletic board was meeting at the King and Prince Hotel on St. Simons. After an evening meal, I joined Billy and his former coach, Vince Dooley, on the balcony of Billy’s room. I’ll never forget Vince—who had been in Tokyo, too—say, “Billy, old boy, in the beginning I thought all those licks on your head from playing football had finally gotten to you.”

            His coach was right. There were plenty of doubters that the Atlanta attorney’s dream could come true. But Billy buckled his chin strap and charged into the challenge, just as he had done as an All-SEC defensive end.

            Here’re some other Olympics memories that I won’t forget:

§  Billy asked Pam and me to serve as presidential ambassadors. Our royal blue blazers—with insignia patches—are treasured keepsakes. International dignitaries frequented our home for receptions and meals. Several times, we made sure grits were on the menu.

§  Billy was tight-lipped about who would light the flame during the opening ceremony. I can still hear the roar in the Atlanta stadium when Muhammad Ali appeared with the torch. We were there, in our ambassador blazers, testing the limits of our vocal cords.

§  The darkest memory of 1996 was the Olympic Park bombing. Years later, the murderous villain was captured, digging in a North Carolina dumpster. The Cherokee Scout, our newspaper in Murphy, broke the story about Eric Rudolph. Within hours, The Scout published an EXTRA edition that sold 25,000 copies.

§  The second-darkest memory was when a pipe bomb exploded in our mailbox. We were away when the blast shook the neighborhood. Two nights earlier, our son Eric would have been sitting at his desk in that bay window. I held the heels of a federal agent who hung from the second-story bedroom window so that he could dig out the 2-inch cap of the bomb. The bomber was never identified.

§  The funniest memory was when octogenarian Fred Birchmore was invited to run the torch in Athens. His first Olympic experience was in 1936, when he stopped by Berlin on his bicycle trip around the world. Fred told me, “I shot Hitler twice.” Laughing, he added, “With my Kodak.”

            When the 80-something asked how far he was to run the torch, the reply was about an eighth of a mile. Fred shot back, “Hell, I could do that on my hands.” And he could. He once walked—on his hands—down all 896 steps of the Washington Monument.

            Memories, so many 1996 memories.

            But I don’t remember much from Mrs. Collins’ French class.

However, if a woman asks me whether I am going to watch the Paris events, I will say, “Oui, oui, madame.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

America, we need to look in the mirror

 

           When you are 75 years old, reality stares you in the face. You know that you have more days behind you than ahead. And following the July 13 assassination attempt on former president Donald Trump, I pray for the days ahead for our grandchildren’s generation. What happened in Butler, Pennsylvania, is why I share with you this letter to our grandchildren.

            Dear Wyatt, Hayes, William, Henry, Fenn, Bayard, Smith and Stella:

            After the Jan. 6, 2021, riot at the national capitol, I wrote a letter to you to say that I was sad and ashamed that you had to witness what happened in Washington. And now comes the horrific violence at the political rally in Pennsylvania.

By mere inches, former president Trump’s life was spared. But Corey Comperatore died a hero by diving to shield his family from the barrage of bullets. Two other people were critically wounded. We may never know why Thomas Matthew Crook climbed on the roof of the building and pulled the trigger on that AR-style rifle.

But this I do know. America has slid into a shameful pit of hate and discord. And it’s not just politics. Too often, disagreements end in bloodshed. Sometimes, mental illness is a factor. But too frequently, unbridled tempers—bent on getting even—bring about senseless violence. If civility isn’t dead, it most certainly is on life support.

Dear ones—in my 2021 letter—I said that America was in a crisis. Leaders from the past—such as Winston Churchill and Franklin D. Roosevelt—believed we should never waste a crisis. We should learn from the experience to benefit the future. Sadly, many Americans prefer wallowing in the pit of hate and discord rather than climbing out.

This is why I pray for your generation’s future. Why does our nation seem so bent on self-destruction? Polarized finger pointing needs to stop. Every American should look in a mirror and ask, “Am I part of the problem or the solution?”

There’s plenty of blame to go around. Consider the fiery rhetoric that has infected politics. Rather than offering solutions, candidates spend more time verbally assaulting their opponents. Why? Political strategists claim that negative ads are the only way “to move the needle.”

The mainstream media—print and broadcast—are flooded with blistering attacks. And social-media platforms have taken the meanness into the stratosphere. People who would never say such things to your face will spew words sharp enough to slit your throat on social-media posts.

You know that I am a staunch supporter of the First Amendment. I think freedom of speech is a sacred right, a gift from our forefathers. But I also believe that, even if we can say something, there are times when we shouldn’t. Regrettably, discretion has one foot in the grave, along with civility.

Before the July 13 tragedy, I had an idea, an opinion. My generation has made a mess of today’s political climate. Why don’t the Democrats and Republicans tap the pause button? Ask Joe Biden and Donald Trump to step aside. Let their parties choose presidential nominees from a younger generation. Maybe that would help our nation heal sooner.

Insane?

Maybe.

But how did Albert Einstein define insanity?

Trying the same thing over and over and expecting different results.

I care about you and our beloved America. We need different results.

It’s past time that we all look in the mirror and ask, “Am I a part of the problem or the solution?”

My dear ones, I pray that you will always strive to be a part of the solution.

Love,

Grandpa

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Time to crank the ice cream churn

 

            A childhood treat was going to a Howard Johnson’s restaurant, climbing on a stool and staring at the sign touting 28 flavors of ice cream.

            And trying not to drool while I decided which one to ask Myrtice Warren to scoop and stack on a sugar cone.

            The orange-roofed 28-flavors mecca on U.S. 301 North is gone, but not my affinity for ice cream. For years, I thought Breyers peach was borderline addictive. Homemade peach ice cream is definitely habit-forming.

 In recent times, I’ve tilted toward Blue Bell. If I owned that company, I’d suggest this motto: “We sell what we can and eat the rest.”

            This time of year, we love pulling out our hand-crank, wooden White Mountain churn. Yeah, we have some plastic electric models, but teaching kids—and adults—the value of working for an ice-cream reward is part of old-fashioned summertime fun.

Swamp sherbet

            A favorite—thanks to the late Jack Cowart—is what we call “swamp sherbet.” Years ago, a group of friends and I were on a fishing trip. I took along our White Mountain churn and the fixings.

            Larry Walker’s 10-year-old grandson, Walker Way, wanted to help, so I whispered, “Shhhhh, Walker, this is a secret family recipe. You can’t tell anyone.”

            I asked him to pour in a 2-liter bottle of Orange Crush and then a can of Eagle Brand condensed milk. That was it. Then I installed the ladle and put the top on the tub. When the crank mechanism was affixed, we layered crushed ice and rock salt. As Walker started cranking the handle, I reminded him to keep the recipe a secret.

            “But Mr. Dink,” he said, “this ain’t a secret. We just put in two things, and everybody was watching.” Today Walker is a UGA graduate, and this ain’t a secret, either. You can add a drained can of crushed pineapple to the recipe. Also, you can switch from Orange Crush to a variety of flavors. My friend Adam Nation likes to use Dr Pepper. And if you enjoy this treat, know that Jack is smiling in heaven.

Tallulah chocolate

            Here’s another no-cook recipe that’s a favorite of son Alan and his family in Habersham County. Besides an ice cream churn—electric or hand-crank—you’ll need:

§  1 tablespoon of cocoa powder

§  1 8-ounce tub of Cool Whip

§  1 can of sweetened condensed milk

§  1 half-gallon of your favorite brand of chocolate milk

            Combine all the ingredients in the tub of your ice cream maker, and use a whisk to blend in the cocoa powder. Then layer the outer rim with rock salt and ice. Start churning for a treat that will serve 12.

Ice cream sandwich cake

            Our grandchildren could eat a washtub of this dessert, but Pam uses a large glass baking dish. She likes this, too, because there’s no cooking. All that is necessary is unwrapping ice cream sandwiches, stacking, layering and drizzling before putting it into the freezer.

            Ingredients:

§  Ice cream sandwiches

§  A tub of Cool Whip

§  Chocolate and caramel syrup

§  Maraschino cherries

§  Chopped nuts and/or M&M’s Minis

            Here’s what you do:

            Line the bottom of the dish with unwrapped ice cream sandwiches. Add a layer of Cool Whip. Drizzle chocolate and caramel toppings. Add another layer of ice cream sandwiches (optional, as are next two steps). Add another layer of Cool Whip. Drizzle the toppings. Sprinkle the M&M’s or chopped nuts on the top. Add the cherries in a pattern that suggests individual servings to be sliced. Cover and freeze for a few hours. When ready to serve, use a warm knife to slice.

            And that reminds me.

            We have some in the freezer.

            Later.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Troy Fore leaves a legacy of a ‘good man’

 

            Troy Fore was already at 361 W. Plum St. by the time that I got there in August 1971. But the same magnetic force drew us to the Wayne County Press (WCP). On June 30, that “magnet” sat—in his seersucker suit—two pews in front of me at Troy’s funeral.

            If Elliott Brack’s pants-on-fire style of newspapering attracted you, the passion that he emitted was permanent. EEB—as he is known—still walks the walk. At 88, he cranks out the Gwinnett Forum, a five-days-a-week digital newsletter that includes his personal column.

            Troy and I weren’t the only ones who got the Brack Brand of ink pumped into our veins. EEB’s son, Andy, is editor and publisher of the CHARLESTON CITY PAPER. For years, Andy’s sister, Betsy, was editor of Georgia Clips. Troy’s son Howard is affiliated with The Porch Press, serving several communities in Atlanta.

            Jamie Denty wrote for the WCP and was later an editor of The Press-Sentinel. She continues to write her award-winning weekly column. Her son, Eric, is publisher of The Press-Sentinel, and he is my partner in Jesup.

My sons, Alan and Eric, started their careers at ages 7 and 8 in the mailroom of The Press-Sentinel. Today Alan is chairman of Community Newspapers Inc. (CNI). Eric serves on CNI’s board, and he is publisher of The Bitter Southerner.

We’ve all benefited from what EEB preached on Plum Street.

            From Day One, I was impressed by Troy. He had the curiosity and courage to ask hard questions. I will never forget one late-night WCP session. Elbow to elbow, Troy, EEB and I were pasting up an edition. Troy and EEB began debating how to handle a particular item. Frustrated, EEB barked, “Troy, this is my damn paper. When you get one of your own, you can do it the way you want to.”

            Troy did get his own paper. I’ll get to that in a minute.

            On Feb. 3, 1977, when the Wayne County Press merged with the Jesup Sentinel, Fred Eden, editor of the Sentinel, was impressed with Troy, too. Fred said, “Troy writes like he has an IQ of 130 or 140.” I replied, “Well, Fred, that’s because Troy probably does.” In my decades of working with Troy, I never saw him rushed or rattled. In In fact when the waters were rocky, he was a ballast in our newspaper “boat.”

            In the mid-1980s, Troy researched the concept of the hotel-motel tax. Local governments could levy a nightly tax on rooms rented. He suggested that I talk to the county commissioners. As a member of the industrial development authority, I did. The commissioners pounced on the previously unknown revenue stream that was funded by hotel-motel guests.

Over just the past five years, the local hotel-motel tax has brought in more than $1 million for the county and the city of Jesup combined. Imagine how much was raised over the past 40 years. Troy and his keen mind deserve the credit for helping his community. I was just his messenger.

As I told Fred, Troy was smart, very smart.

And Troy used his intellect beyond newspapers. As a second-generation beekeeper, he did more than manage his hives for honey. He became a highly respected leader and authority within the American Beekeeper Federation. When Troy spoke, the bee world listened.

            When Nathan and Sandra Deal moved into the governor’s mansion, the First Lady took some of her bee hives to West Paces Road. I sent Sandra copies of The Speedy Bee. She was elated to read Troy’s newspaper. Troy’s reputation and influence went beyond America’s boundaries.

            Following Sunday’s funeral, Roy Pattie, Felix Haynes and I talked about a way to pay tribute to Troy. We believe one idea would be to help restore the Fores’ iconic honey house in Gardi. The aging Altamaha Apiaries building—with its Ludowici Tile roof—is a treasure. Let’s honor Troy and his family by teaming together to save it.

            In the South, one of the finest compliments that we can give a man is to say, “He is a good man.” Troy Fore had:

§  A good, kind heart.

§  A good, inquisitive mind.

§  A good, strong backbone.

§  A good moral compass.

§  A good work ethic.

§  A good, wry sense of humor.

§  And a very good love of his family, his friends and his community.

Yes, indeed.

At the end of his 79 years, Troy Fore leaves a legacy of a good, good man.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

If you need cataract surgery, don’t wait

 

           Quarterback Buddy Bennett and his 1954 state-championship Yellow Jackets walked the halls of Jesup High School with its squeaking, oil-soaked wood floors.

By the time Len Hauss and his teammates won their 1959 state crown, their penny loafers and high-top tennis shoes were doing the squeaking on waxed tile floors. Jesup High School had been moved to the new flat-roofed complex on West Orange Street.

            And the left-behind Plum Street campus was where my friends and I attended junior high. We climbed concrete steps to enter the main hall. Principal James E. Bacon’s office was on the left. The auditorium—with its musty stage curtains—was on the right, where we were tapped into the Junior Beta Club.

With its high ceilings, oiled-wood floors and heart-pine rafters, it took only a spark to turn the historic building—where my dad graduated in 1941—into smoldering ashes. That was after our high-school graduating class of 1966 had moved across the railroad tracks. I guess there wasn’t enough water or hoses to save the old brick Plum Street school.

            Mr. Bacon’s wife was one of my seventh-grade teachers. During a homeroom period, Mrs. Nanelle Bacon announced, in her commanding voice, “Class, today I’m going to be checking your eyesight.” She hung a chart on the blackboard. Going from top to bottom, the letters and numerals decreased in size.

            My turn came.

Mrs. Bacon covered my right eye and asked me to read what I saw. I heard her exhale. And then she covered my left eye with the same instructions. She didn’t exhale. Instead, she boomed, “Good Lord, son. You are blind. Get your mamma to take you to Dr. Wilson or Dr. Minchew tomorrow!”

            A few days later, I walked into her room and announced, “Mrs. Bacon, I thought the chalk just made fuzzy writing on the blackboard. And look, I can see the individual leaves on the tree.” Those black horn-rimmed glasses opened a new world that had been oblivious to my nearsighted past.

That was 1960.

            Fast-forward 64 years.

            Hello, Cataract Era.

            Mrs. Bacon might smile, knowing that I have shucked my glasses.

            Two surgeries and a month later, I didn’t know how cloudy my vision had become. To get ready for the procedures, my surgeon asked me to wear a special pair of contact lenses.

My left eye was focused up close. The right eye was fitted on distance. Some friends said the mixed prescriptions made them dizzy. I loved the combination and said, “Let’s go, Doc.”

The left eye was the first to get a new lens. After 24 hours of blurriness, I tried Mrs. Bacon’s trick. I closed my right eye. Wow! What a white, bright world was out there. And then I shut my “good” eye to test what my yet-to-be-fixed right eye saw.

It was as if I was looking through amber-lens sunglasses. There was a yellowish tint to everything. I could almost hear my seventh-grade teacher belt out, “Well, son, I could have told you that’s what cataracts do! Why have you waited so long?”

I don’t have a good answer.

But I can tell you this.

I am grateful for my new-and-improved eyesight.

And one more thing.

There are some treasured memories that even the hottest blaze cannot destroy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com