As if this job isn’t hard enough already—trying to get nouns and verbs to agree (and trust me, they can be very disagreeable)—I have learned that this column is now the subject of regular dissection by a group of discerning ladies in Dalton.
Uh-oh.
Ann Viamonte wrote to tell me that an assemblage meets weekly at the Oakwood Restaurant in town and includes a reading and discussion of my column. She even sent a photo of the group gathered around a table beneath a giant painting of Uga, who, if you are from another planet or from California (same difference), is the Georgia Bulldogs’ unofficial mascot.
To quote Humphrey Bogart in “Casablanca”: “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”
The Oakwood is owned and operated by state Rep. Kasey Carpenter, the man responsible for getting cornbread designated as Georgia’s official state bread by the Legislature. My hero.
Admittedly, they don’t get to my column right away, Ms. Viamonte says. First, they discuss their children and grandchildren, their aches and pains, who is in or out of the hospital, or, sadly, who is no longer around. First things first. But at least I am in the mix.
Her note was kind, appreciated, and humbling—yes, I can be humble, though I try not to make it a habit—but most importantly, it was a reminder of a privilege I have been given and the responsibility that comes with it.
I have been in the opinion business for 28 years now. I wrote a one-time column for a publication, aimed at the city of Atlanta, its inept government, a timid business community, and a local media that seemed to be in over its head regarding the 1996 Centennial Olympic Games. The Games were great. That bunch was not, and I said so in no uncertain terms.
Elliott Brack, a veteran newsman, thought my column should be syndicated, and another veteran newsman, Bill Shipp, agreed. That was some 3,000 columns ago. Ironically, Elliott Brack passed away last week, and without his involvement, we might not be having this conversation today.
Thank you, Elliott. Rest in peace.
And this is a conversation. When I first began this effort, the Beloved Woman Who Shared My Name gave me one order and one piece of advice. The order: do not put her name in the column.
She preferred a low profile, so I complied. But she didn’t say anything about me calling her The Woman Who Shares My Name, which I did often. She should have been more specific.
The advice: don’t write about politics all the time. Write about things readers would be interested in.
I have tried my best to do that, but when you’ve got humor-impaired wingnuts on both ends of the political spectrum braying like a mule in heat, that temptation can be hard to resist.
But her advice was sound, as always.
Nothing is more rewarding than hearing that something I wrote was worth clipping and sharing with others.
Words have power.
Words can inspire, and words can hurt.
Even in moments of self-righteous indignation, I try to exercise caution in how I express myself. Words are permanent, and I don’t want to regret what I’ve said when I look back.
Don’t make it personal.
The best antidote is humor—sometimes barbed, Will Rogers-style, which many politicians don’t find funny. Sometimes it is self-deprecating. I take this job very seriously, but not myself. There are too many people in this business who do.
So thank you, Ann, Judy, Connie, Rita, Anita, Loretta, Betty, Judy, Alice, and JoAnn at the Oakwood Restaurant in Dalton for reminding me why I do this, and to do it to the best of my ability. And thank you, Rep. Kasey Carpenter, for giving cornbread the respect it deserves.
Now, if you will excuse me, I must go. It appears that a couple of nouns and verbs are being very disagreeable.
You can reach Dick Yarbrough at dick@dickyarbrough.com or at P.O. Box 725373, Atlanta, Georgia 31139.