Monday morning—as
the mercury crept toward 99 degrees—you knew the day was going to
be hot as the hinges of Hades. That’s why we picked a seat under
the canopy of big trees on the edge of the Altamaha River Swamp for
the interview. Besides being out of the sun, I wanted the National
Public Radio (NPR) reporter to hear the birds singing and the splash
of fish, witness the butterscotch-colored water easing its way to the
coast and see ancient cypress trees that were growing in Wayne County
when Christopher Columbus discovered America. I imagine some of the
cypress, with girths as big around as a school bus, were here when
Jesus was praying in the Garden of Gethsemane.
One of the first
questions Molly Samuel, of Atlanta’s WABE, asked was: “Tell me
about your hometown.” The floodgate opened. I thought about the
phrase attorney Hubert Howard used dozens of times as we sat at his
oak table: “In an abundance of precaution, have I made myself
perfectly clear?”
I wanted to be
clear about my passion against Republic Services’ plan to
potentially dump millions of tons of toxic coal ash in Wayne County.
I explained that wherever I was in the world, my heart—just like
the cypress—is rooted right here. This is home. “Molly,” I
said, “In my opinion, a person who won’t stand up for his family,
his friends and his hometown … well … isn’t much of a person.”
If you tried to rip
from my soul the love and loyalty for this place, the noise would be
greater than the sound of a 50-yard piece of Velcro being yanked
apart. I don’t see a vacation Bible school sign and not hear that
stand-up, sit-down jingle of the First Baptist Church’s piano in
the 1950s.
Other times, I’m
sitting in Ralph Grantham’s chair, getting my “ears lowered,”
in Jack’s Barber Shop on Cherry Street. I wonder what those men of
my boyhood would be saying about putting our community at this much
contamination risk. Sixty years later, I can still hear their strong
voices over the air conditioner hum.
I’ll never forget
Jesup Junior High principal James Bacon’s asking me to explain the
difference between quantity and quality. I couldn’t then, but I
certainly can now. Quality of life in our community has to be a
top-of-the-list concern. And until her death, retired teacher
Nanelle Bacon never failed to ask me, “Do you have your homework?”
Since January, I’ve been studying coal ash every day. Massive
quantities of this toxic substance will be a liability, not an asset,
to our quality of life.
Mrs. Ruth Oglesby introduced me to the University of Georgia.
Elliott Brack inspired me to join him as a pants-on-fire
newspaperman. Dr. Lanier Harrell, our early-days partner, encouraged
me to stand tall with starch in those britches, too. In 1972, banker
Carey Brannen had faith in my aspirations, loaning me $3,000. Lonnie
O’Quinn and Linton Lewis kept my dream alive with a shoebox full of
90-day notes. I can hear Jimmy Sullivan saying, “You can’t
out-give God.” And there was my friend James Harper doing all he
could for 96 years. I’ll never turn my back on countless hometown
folks who have believed in me.
As hot as Monday
was, nothing compares to Parker’s Paradise in Long County’s
backwoods during the 1960s. Coaches Clint Madray and Ben Park never
looked at a thermometer and said, “It’s too hot to practice
football today.” With limited athletic ability, I learned the
value of “sucking it up” and “having guts” to battle even the
biggest foe. As we try to tackle a multibillion-dollar
waste-management Goliath, I can hear Big Clint barking, “Even a
dead man has one more step!”
Just as I have
criticized Republic’s heavy-handed approach to this coal-ash
controversy, the landfill operator has accused me of being an
“activist journalist.” I have used the First Amendment—freedom
of speech—as a tool. I don’t write news stories. I write
opinions. And I am unashamed of standing up for my family, my
friends and my hometown.
When Molly and I
said our good-byes, I smiled and asked, “In an abundance of
precaution, have I made myself perfectly
clear?”
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
