The noise threatens
your nerves and your eardrums. Just listen
and watch. Every day, the Left and the Right go to bed and wake up with a
primary purpose: Attack the other side. If you ever catch a rare moment of
silence, listen for something else.
It’s there.
What?
Can’t you hear
a ripping noise like a 3,000-mile piece of Velcro being yanked from the East
Coast to the West Coast? The ideological fissure that separates Americans is
growing wider and wider. And the chasm becomes a divide in our communities,
too.
What got us to
this divisive point is complex. I don’t have the solution, but I do have a
suggestion. As a 10-year-old, playing in the forbidden railyard, I learned how to
accomplish goals which were believed to be impossible.
In 1958,
trains—on the way to Miami and New York—rumbled or raced through Jesup. Mothers
warned us to stay away from the dangerous tracks. And we did, most of the time, except this one
Saturday morning. We were behind Colvin Oil on the corner of Orange and South
West Broad streets, 200 feet from NeSmith Funeral Home.
With our
dungarees rolled up and Keds kicked off, we were clamping our bare toes on the almost-too-hot-to-touch
rails and flapping our arms for balance. The contest was on. Who could walk the
longest distance without falling off the track?
That’s when Joe
pointed to me and challenged our buddies. He said, “Dink and I are going to
walk from right here to the Jesup Stockyard and
back without falling off.” When the laughing stopped, Joe said, “If we don’t do
it, we’ll buy you Topp Colas at Daves’ First Street Grocery. But when we walk
down there and back, y’all are going to buy Dink and me Topp Colas.”
The hee-hawing
erupted again among the doubters. But
Joe held his hand up to shush them. He said, “Get your nickels ready, because
watch this. Dink, get over there on that rail.” Stepping onto the other rail,
he said, “Stick out your hand.” I stuck out my hand. Joe stuck out his, and we
latched onto each other.
Providing
steadying support, we chugged from Colvin Oil and NeSmith Funeral, past Hodges
Hardware, Littlefield Furniture, Collier Brothers, Strickland Feed Store, and Peede
and Bramblett Cabinet Shop, before coasting into our destination, the Jesup
Stockyard. Whirling around, we headed back. At the Orange Street crossing, we
hung a left and trotted—barefoot—down to First Street and hung another left.
Wham!
After Daves’
First Street Grocery’s screen door slammed behind us, we plunged our sweaty
hands into the crushed-ice water of the drink box. The disbelievers paid for
our toast to teamwork, as we guzzled 16 ounces of Topp Cola to celebrate. We
had just accomplished something neither one of us could have done alone.
Topp Cola, once
bottled in Savannah, isn’t around anymore. It was cheap, just a nickel. That
was a good thing. And that morning, victory made it taste mighty fine. But most
days, it tasted like carbonated cod-liver oil. When I look up from my desk, I see
a Topp Cola bottle in the bookcase. It’s a reminder that joining hands—working
together—is the best way to accomplish what others deem impossible.
One day, I hope
America can get back to where joining hands—teamwork—is an acceptable way to
resolve our nation’s needs. Otherwise, the troubling chasm just keeps getting
deeper and wider.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
