Coal is not ‘clean,’ nor is it ‘beautiful’

  

         Shhhhh.

         Listen.

Can you hear it?

Clink, clink, clink.

What’s that?

It’s cocktail glasses clinking in celebration.

Where?

In the ivory towers of America’s corporate polluters.

President Donald Trump and his minions at the Environment Protection Agency (EPA) are spewing “fake news.” Science clearly disputes the propaganda that coal is “clean” and “beautiful.”

But it is a fact that coal is a cheap source of energy, and it creates jobs. But coal is nasty. Coal pollutes the air, causing multiple health issues. That doesn’t include the thousands of coal miners who suffered and/or died from black-lung disease. And once burnt, the black lumps of fossil fuel leave toxic coal ash as industrial waste.

Coal is not clean or beautiful.

On Aug. 7, 2019, this cartoon illustrated a column that I wrote: “PSC and 

Georgia Power take a ‘giant leap’ for environment.” Since then, both parties 

have backtracked. Today, it’s “burn, baby, burn” for coal and pollution.

Nonetheless, corporate polluters are celebrating the EPA’s rollback on rules for burning coal and the handling of its poisonous coal ash. Chalk one up for the industrial lobbyists who persuaded the current administration to loosen the EPA’s grip on its original purpose.

That mission includes “to protect human health and the environment. It ensures Americans have clean air, land, and water, enforces environmental laws. … The agency works with partners to manage risks, improve environmental quality, and manage environmental stewardship.”

Do you think we should translate “partners” to polluters?

The news out of Washington is disappointing, but the announcement is no surprise. Interior Secretary Doug Burgum was quoted as saying that the administration’s goal for coal plants “is 100% stay open, no more retirements, no more shutting down.” Secretary Burgum is merely trumpeting what’s coming out of the Oval Office.

Allow me to digress, briefly.

Whether you agree or disagree with Robert F. Kennedy Jr., our health secretary has pledged to “Make America Healthy Again” (MAHA). Do you see the hypocrisy of two taxpayer-funded federal agencies tugging in opposite directions? One is trying to make us healthy, and the other determined to make us sick.

Now, back to those clinking cocktail glasses.

Few, if any, utilities have a more powerful army of state and federal lobbyists than Georgia Power and its parent, the Southern Company. They know how to leverage their dollars to get the best results. As Sherlock Holmes would say, “My dear Watson, they don’t call it Georgia Power for naught.”

Surely there are clinking glasses in the ivory tower of Georgia’s largest electricity provider. Perhaps Georgia Power knew that the EPA would one day say, “Don’t worry about the toxic coal-ash mess you created. It’s OK to pollute.”

That day has arrived.

I guesstimate that over the years Georgia Power has burned billions of tons of coal. And while it has cleaned up many of its coal-ash ponds, there are still millions of tons sitting in groundwater of leaky ponds, potentially leaking harmful heavy metals into our water supply. What’s “clean” and “beautiful” about that?

Georgia Power’s recent estimate was $8.5 billion to remove the toxic waste from the remaining ponds. Did the EPA just give the utility a “get-out-of-jail-free” card?

 

Georgia Power is such a valuable economic partner for our state. We need Georgia Power, and it needs us. A few years back, when the company pledged to quit coal, I offered praise. And then it backtracked. Georgia Power must have known that Washington was going to eventually declare, “Burn, baby, burn.”

If the president, the EPA and its polluting partners really believe coal is clean and beautiful, I have a suggestion for the partiers.

Spike your celebratory cocktails with arsenic-and-lead-laced coal-ash slush.

Take a swig and say, “Cheers.”

“What? That is dangerous. And ludicrous!” you exclaim.

Yeah, I know.

So are the new coal rules. 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Humor helps smooth bumps in life’s road

  

"A person without a sense of humor is like a wagon without springs—jolted by every pebble in the road." –Henry Ward Beecher

             

            The Great Depression didn't just sprinkle pebbles in the road. It spread rocks of despair on almost every path. With today’s war and other uncertainties, we’re seeing the “roads” of our lives pocked with potholes and pebbles.

            That's why humor is so important.

            I like to be around people who can retrieve a funny story to take the jolt out of reality. That's one reason, among dozens, that I enjoyed spending time with my friend, the late James Harper. He was a treasure trove of laughs. Practical jokes took the sting out of the 1930s.

Here are two of James’ classics:

            E.T. Youngblood, proprietor of Alfred Dorman Wholesale Grocers, was a quintessential Southern gentleman. He ran a thriving business with warehouses in Jesup and Eastman. Golf and quail hunting were two of his pastime passions.

            E.T. decided that he had to have a pedigreed bird dog, so he searched the nation. James said the grocer found a blue-ribbon pointer "up the country" and wired $150 to its owner. The dog, with a prestigious bloodline, was to be shipped via Railway Express.

E.T.’s apprentice, Carey Brannen, was also a quail hunter. James believed Carey tipped off “Cracker” Williams (namesake of Cracker Williams Recreation Center) and E.J. Nix, the freight agent at the depot.

E.T. couldn't wait for his dog to arrive. Neither could his buddies.

            In the meantime, “Cracker” scoured the streets to find a mangy, flea-bitten mongrel. And when the high-dollar dog arrived, the switcheroo was made. The prize dog was hidden, and E.J. called his friend to hurry to the train station.

E.T. was flabbergasted. He cried, “I’ve been bamboozled!” And that stung more than the hefty sum that he had paid for the pointer. Carey, “Cracker” and E.J. milked the prank for a few days. Finally, they delivered the mail-order dog to the Pine Street warehouse.

            All the characters in the prank are dead. But almost 100 years later, folks are still laughing when they hear the story.

            And James was in on this next practical joke.

            John Mattox, T.G. Ritch Jr., Carey Brannen and James orchestrated this practical joke on a buddy, who will remain anonymous. They told their gullible friend about a party in Doctortown. Pretty girls from Brunswick were visiting their uncle, down by the river.

            T.G. and James chauffeured their friend to "the party." When they walked up on the porch and knocked on the door, a gruff man answered. John Mattox was playing the mean uncle inside. In a surly voice, John demanded, 'What do you want?"

            ''We've come to the party," James said.

            "I told you boys to never come back!" John bellowed.

            From the other side of the door, they could hear a shotgun being loaded.

            "Run!" T.G. hollered.

            The trio scattered for the woods as John kicked open the door and blasted buckshot over their heads.

            James and T.G. yelped and fell. Their friend kept running, all the way to U.S. 301.

            Carey “just happened" to be driving by and saw the fellow frantically hitching his thumb. Before they got to town, Carey said, "It's too bad James and T.G. got shot." His rider was stunned that the news had traveled so fast. But he agreed they should go to the hospital to check on their wounded friends.

            When Carey pulled into the Cherry Street parking lot, T.G. and James were hiding behind a tree, watching.

            And laughing.

            Next time you see Booger Harvey, ask how he and his buddies borrowed the idea from the 1930s and pulled this prank in the 1960s.

            And listen to his gold-medal laugh.

(A version of this column was originally published on Aug. 10, 2011.)

 

 

 

 

 

 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com 

Surely, there’s a ‘pony’ in the pile of smelly rhetoric

  

            My 18-year trek through school started as a 3-year-old in Jack & Jill Kindergarten. And all the way through, including college, none of my teachers ever hinted that I was the smartest kid in the class.

            Not much has changed since.

            I do the best I can with what I have, relying mostly on hard work and a positive attitude. I believe my mother inspired that sunny outlook as she read—over and over— “The Little Engine That Could.” I grew up with that same “I think I can, I think I can” spirit and drive.

            As a result, I am a hopeless optimist. I keep telling myself that there must be a silver lining, somewhere, in today’s black clouds hanging over the globe.

            And that reminds me of the two brothers. One was a pessimist, and the other an optimist. As Christmas approached, the perpetual black-cloud brother decided to teach his happy-faced sibling a lesson.

            The optimist had asked Santa to bring him a pony. It had been on his wish list for years. And the pessimist was sick of hearing about it. That’s why—while everyone was sleeping—he dumped a pile of horse manure under the Christmas tree. “That’ll teach him,” the grump hissed.

            The next morning, the pessimist was the first to race down the stairs. He wanted to watch his brother’s reaction. And smirk.

            But here’s what the optimist said about what “Santa had left him”. With glee, he exclaimed, “With this much horse manure, there has to be a pony somewhere!”

            Now, back to the world in chaos.

            Pick a topic, any topic.

How about the here-we-go-again-war in the Middle East? Appears we didn’t learn enough from the 20-year experience in Iraq and Afghanistan. The worst expense wasn’t the trillions of dollars sunk in that faraway sand. Money is just money. How about the American lives lost and the veterans who came home mentally and physically wounded?

            President Donald Trump’s vow was that he didn’t start wars. Rather, he ended wars. Was that just an exaggeration, as was his campaign promise to end the Ukraine-Russia War on Day One? His exact words, “Day One.”

            And within days after joining Israel in a war against Iran, the president proclaimed, “We’ve already won.” The enemy’s firepower and ability to fight back are obliterated, so we were told. Looks like the Iranian leadership and their allies weren’t listening. The Middle East is filled with America-haters. Just ask the Houthi in Yemen. And how can we ever trust the Russians?

            What about the pledge to not put red-white-and-blue “boots on the ground”? If that’s the plan, why are thousands of our men and women flooding the war zone? Is it a negotiating tactic, a bluff or a signal that more American blood will be spilled on those oil-rich sands? If 20-year-old Barron Trump’s feet were shoved into a pair of those combat boots, would our president have different feelings?

            I repeat: “I have never been accused of being the smartest person in any of my classes.” Or any room. But I do believe our president has put us into another could-be endless war without thinking through the consequences. And what has Congress done? Nothing, except take a two-week vacation.

            I agree, Mr. President, we don’t want Iran to have nuclear weapons. But please tell us there is a logical exit strategy beyond your statement of “feel it in my bones” as to when to withdraw.

            In the meantime, too much of what’s happening in Washington looks and smells like horse manure. But as an eternal optimist, I am searching for the “pony.”

            And I believe millions of other Americans are, too. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons to be learned from a gone-wrong prank

Have you paid attention to the recent news in Gainesville? If you haven’t, you should. When I saw 

the Hughes family photo, I thought about the dozens of times that I have posed for similar photos.  You 

have, too.  And you probably agree that nothing, absolutely nothing, is more precious than family.

The Hughes’ family picture was taken before March 6. The parents and their two sons were all smiles. 

But if the photo was taken today, someone would be missing. Jason Hughes, a beloved husband and 

father, was killed.

  

Why?

What started out as a harmless prank ended in tragedy.

How?

At North Hall High School, there is a junior-senior tradition to roll people’s yards with toilet paper 

(TP). Seems it’s a competition to see who can roll the most yards without getting caught. 

Jason Hughes, a 40-year-old math teacher and coach, knew his yard was a TP target.  He had waited for 

the prank to happen and rushed outside to greet the students. It was supposed to be a fun stunt, 

something to laugh about on Saturday morning.

         But in the dash to “catch” the prankers, the popular teacher slipped and fell into the path of one of 

the escaping vehicles. The students stopped to give Jason Hughes first aid until an ambulance with 

flashing red lights arrived. 

        Blue lights came, too.  Five 18-year-olds were hauled to jail. The truck’s driver faced charges of 

first-degree vehicular homicide and reckless driving. The other four pranksters were charged with 

criminal trespassing and littering on private property.

        Gainesville is miles away. But every one of us should feel the community’s sadness and heartache. 

Such a senseless death. Why, why, why?

        This could have played out in any of our towns. And what happened in Hall County can’t be called 

back. But it can be a teachable moment. A warning about how what seemed like a good idea at the time 

can quickly turn into horror.

        Despite my silver hair, believe it or not, I was once a teenager.  I hope that our grandchildren 

didn’t inherit too many of my prankster/practical joker genes.  Thinking back 60 years, I shudder at the 

foolish things my friends and I did. If we had thought about it, we would have probably rolled a mile or 

two of TP. 

        Jason’s widow, Laura, is a math teacher at North Hall. She loves those five students, just as her 

husband did. And what she has done is a teachable moment in forgiveness. 

        She successfully pleaded with the prosecutor to drop all charges against the pranksters. The 

family’s statement read, “Our family is determined to prevent a separate tragedy, ruining the lives of 

these students. This would be counter to Jason’s lifelong dedication of investing in the lives of these 

children.”

         

        I don’t know Laura Hughes. But I know that she is a strong woman of faith. She has the heart and 

love to provide this powerful testimony of forgiveness.  

        There is no way to undo the horror that has happened.

        But we can do a minimum of these things: 

        1. Pray for the Hughes family.

        

        2. Pray Jason Hughes’ legacy will remain “alive.”

        3. Pray for the teenagers and their families.

        4. Pray this will be a “teachable” lesson for all ages.

    

        Amen.

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com

Big Dink could have written book on ‘affordability’

        Affordability.

A political buzzword.

A reality.

Growing up in the NeSmith household, I never—no, not once—heard my dad utter the word “affordability.” But he could have written a book on the subject. His mantra was to live below your means, even if we had to make do without a family car.

And we did, twice.

During my toddler days, we sometimes rode to church in the funeral home’s grave-digging truck. The next time was in junior high. Big Dink or Mother would chauffeur my date and me in a blue-and-white Ford station wagon, which doubled as an ambulance. 

I remember being embarrassed. But the experiences were life lessons, just as important as my DNA. My dad got his money-management instincts during the Great Depression. He and his siblings had to do the best they could with whatever they had. Which wasn’t much.

When my parents were in their 70s, Mother said to my dad, “Honey, you said that we needed to save our money for old age.” And then she asked, “How much older do we have to get?”

Journey with me back to August 1967. It was during our after-church lunch of pot roast—cooked with potatoes, carrots and onions—when Mother asked me a question. 

        “Where are you going to live your sophomore year at UGA?”

“I’m supposed to live in the fraternity house.”

“I don’t think you will get much studying done there.”

Looking at my dad, she said, “I think he needs an apartment.”

The next morning, we left Jesup before 5 a.m. By 9, we were looking at our first and last college-town apartment. Why? Because the manager told Big Dink, “It’s $200 per month.”

“Two hundred a month!” he gasped. “That’s more than my house payment.”

        Turning to me, my dad asked, “Have you ever been in a house trailer?”

“No, sir.”

“Neither have I.”

Minutes later, we pulled into Flamingo Mobile Homes on the Atlanta Highway. Tom Collins showed us a three-bedroom, two-bath model. “Too big. He doesn’t need this much,” my dad said. 

Tom took us to a 40-foot, two-bedroom, one-bathroom New Moon. The price was $2,995, plus $125 for a GE washer. Big Dink said, “We’ll take it.” The payments were $61.83 a month. Then, he asked me, “Don’t you have a fraternity brother who could rent the extra bedroom?” Will Shankle jumped at $60 per month. Chalk up another Big Dink lesson on living within your means.

In 1971 Pam and I hauled that New Moon to Jesup. I had a job at the Wayne County Press, salary of $700 per month. Pam made less, teaching first grade at Orange Street Elementary. With her first check, we bought a metal utility building. Her next take-home earnings paid for a dryer to put in the shed. And her third payday bought our first color TV. Thrilled, we agreed, “We don’t need another thing.”

        Until two years later.

        Our first child was on the way. More space was a necessity. Realtor Nubbin Keith showed us a custom-built brick home for $32,000. I thought, “Whoa, the monthly payments would have to be more than $300.” We settled for a 90-year-old house. Our monthly mortgage was $99.45. 

        And then we wanted a new car. I told banker Linton Lewis that our car payment couldn’t be more than our mortgage. He asked, “How does $98.50 sound?” I parked a 1974 Pontiac Grand Prix, silver with a black half-vinyl top, in our Brunswick Street backyard.

        If my dad were alive today, he’d be 104.

        But Big Dink’s health would be in peril.

        Today’s “unaffordability” would surely give him a heart attack. 

dnesmith@cninewspapers.com