All I wanted was a half-gallon carton of organic milk.
But when I cracked open the cooler’s door, I heard one girl tell the other, “Put that back.”
“I thought you said that we needed this.”
“Yeah, but I’m not buying anything. My parents are coming tomorrow, and I want them to buy the groceries.”
That brief exchange between UGA coeds was a hint at how savvy and smart today’s students are. If you haven’t heard, look at these numbers:
§ The freshman class of 6,200-plus has an average GPA of 4.17.
§ The average SAT score is 1356 out of a perfect 1600. The average ACT score is 31 out of a possible 36. Their academic accolades stack even higher.
All this underscores a very obvious fact.
I am most fortunate that I was accepted into UGA when I was.
My high school grades were competitive, but my SAT score would have gotten my application tossed into the trash. Unless I had been an exceptional athlete. And I wasn’t.
Listening to the coeds put me into a time machine, spinning backwards to 1965. At suppertime, we talked about where I’d go to college.
If I had listened to my mother, I would never have moved into room 212 of Oglethorpe House in September 1966. “The University of Georgia is too big,” she said. “You’ll get lost among all those 14,000 students.”
And then she added, “Besides, good Baptist boys should go to Mercer. Yes, Mercer would be perfect for you. But it would be even better if you went to Brewton-Parker Junior College and then transferred to Mercer in Macon.”
“But Mother, I want to go to college in Athens.”
“It’s a very big decision. You really should pray about this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
A few days later, she asked, “Well, did you and the Lord discuss where you’d go next year?”
“Yes, ma’am, we did. After praying about it, I have my choices narrowed down to two places: Vietnam or UGA.”
She sighed and answered,
“Go, Dawgs!”
And when September arrived, I stuffed my assortment of Gant shirts, starched khakis, oxblood Weejuns, Gold Cup stocks, alligator belts and whatever else I needed into the trunk of Big Dink and Margie’s 1964 teal-blue Buick and headed to Athens. (Freshmen couldn’t have cars in 1966.)
But then my dad said, “Athens is a long way from Jesup. It’s too far to go in one day.” We stopped short and spent the night in Greensboro.
As we were settling into the Nathaniel Greene Motor Court, he asked the clerk, “Do you know a Dr. H.A. Thornton?” She smiled and pointed across the street. “He lives right there,” she said. Daddy walked over to say hello to a grade-school buddy from the 1930s.
And then I heard the cackling of the I’m-not-going-to-buy-anything coed. That snapped me out of the time-machine fog.
Now, it’s 2025.
I can’t believe it’s been 55 years since President Fred C. Davidson signed my diploma.
And then I wondered, “What if I hadn’t gone to the University of Georgia?”
In 1968 I had a blind date with a freshman, a South Georgia farmer’s daughter. Pam and I will celebrate our 56th anniversary on Aug. 23. Our three children—Alan, Emily and Eric—met their spouses through UGA. Among the eight of us, there are 10 Georgia degrees. And on the days when our eight grandchildren were born, they, too, became lifetime members of the UGA Alumni Association.
Yes, indeed.
The University of Georgia was the perfect choice.
Savoring those thoughts, I walked out of the grocery store.
And, oh, with the half-gallon carton of milk.
Go, Dawgs.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
