Gordy praises hospital
There’s a 50 cents word...eleomosenary...that I picked up somewhere along the way in my education whose definition includes places of healing and places of rest such as hospitals and nursing homes.
The broader meaning of eleomosenary, unfortunately, also includes jails, prisons...long-term places of incarceration that also encompasses penitentiaries such as federally-run places of confinement.
But getting back to the places where the healing arts are practiced, Louisville and Jefferson County have a diamond-in-the-rough in Jefferson Hospital and its staff.
I had an opportunity to find this out anew Wednesday, Dec. 11, when I had day surgery there under the skill of Dr. Brad Headeley and the great group of registered nurses and other staff in Jefferson Hospital’s operating room.
Previously, I had to go to an Augusta facility for this gastrointerology procedure which I’ve had to have periodically since the mid 1980s.
All went quickly and well the morning of Dec. 11 for which I’d like to thank and praise Dr. Headeley and the O.R. staff.
And I’d also like to thank P.A. Mr. Warrior and the entire staff at Louisville Medical Center, MD, PC, for their referral to the local hospital and Dr. Headeley.
Milburn thanks community
I would like to thank the city of Edgehill and community for the surprise last Monday night. It meant a lot to me. The food and fellowship were great. I’ve enjoyed serving as councilman and as your mayor these past years. You are a super bunch to work with and I know you will keep Edgehill going forward.
Goodson reminisces on Wadley High School
I went to high school in a small Georgia town.
Wadley High School was a two-story building with a large hallway down the center. There were stairs on each side of the hall; one was for going up, the other for coming down. However, when the last bell of the day rang, both stairs where used by escaping teenagers. Afternoons were calling, and after all, much of life can’t be found in books.
The building served as home for grades 8 -12. Going to the eighth grade was like being in high school. You were with the big kids.
One difference for me, entering the eighth grade, was my wardrobe. I went from jeans and tennis shoes to dress pants and leather shoes. I remember Mom taking me to JC Penney’s and Sears and Roebuck in Augusta for my new look. The change made me proud. I wasn’t a little kid anymore. Unfortunately, the new clothes weren’t as comfortable. Lesson learned: growing up has some discomfort.
The high school building had classrooms for science, English, typing (we used typewriters -- you young folks might have to Google that), math, history, and home economics. There was also a library and a science lab.
The science lab had a dual purpose. When teenage boys had problems understanding the rules, and teachers figured they couldn’t get it through the boys’ thick skulls, they tried getting it through their bottoms instead. This teaching method had a surprising success rate. “Meet me in the lab after class” were not words you wanted to hear.
Behind the high school, there was a separate building that housed ag and shop classes. It also served as town cannery in the summer. The smoking tree was nearby. Those were different days back then.
We had a gymnasium, tennis courts, a football field and a baseball field for the Green Dragons. If we had been the Green Hound Dogs or the Green Mules, we could have had us a live mascot, but Green Dragons were rare. I don’t think I ever saw one. Saw a pink elephant once, but that’s another story.
The usual number of students in grades 8-12 was around 140. Total. OK, that’s a best guess from memory, but you could count most of them if you took your shoes off. Eighth grade classes were around 40 kids. By the 12th grade, some had moved away, some had dropped out, and some had found themselves in a Biblical way and gotten married. My senior class was 23 students, and that was a large one. The year after, it was only 13.
I was a good student but will confess to receiving one failing mark: an “F” in deportment. Yes, in those days we were graded on our behavior, go figure. It was the oddest thing. I made some smart aleck remark to my homeroom teacher while she called roll. She said, “Allen, I will mark down your deportment grade for that.”
I replied, “I don’t care if you give me an F.”
She was good as her word -- and mine. She gave me an “F.” When she passed out report cards, a note was attached that said, “Allen got an F in deportment because he said he didn’t care.” I didn’t, but my Mother did. I was immediately put on restriction for 99 years.
Corporal punishment was in play all through high school. I was busted three times.
First time was by the science teacher, Mr. Marvin Moseley. He called 8 or 10 of us boys up to the front of the class, lined us up on the blackboard, and went down the line swinging. I’m still not sure what we did. He was an odd sort.
Second time, I was busted for going to Leo’s gas station for a Coke and a Moon Pie during school. There was a trio of friends with me. I explained to Mr. Harper, the principal, that I was only driving the getaway car. Didn’t cut no ice with him. Ten licks or go home. I took the licks. It wasn’t bad; his heart wasn’t in it.
Third time was by Mr. Garland Martine, the ag teacher. He took us on a field trip to a cow lot. I stepped and went knee deep in cow manure. My remark of displeasure with this was a loud “Good God Almighty!”
Apparently, he was offended by my words. Back in class, I plead my case based on a Constitutional right to use those exact words whenever you were knee deep in cow manure. He didn’t buy it. Three licks. Holy smokes, he meant it. If I had been a wiser boy, I would have called INS: his name sounded fishy and he was from Texas, or so he said.
My Mother offered me the same advice each time this happened, “Straighten up and fly right.” I tried and did some better, but I was a teenager. Remember?
Now I don’t mean for my school to sound bad because it wasn’t. We had good teachers, and more importantly, we had 100 percent support from the community. It was small school without the resources of larger schools, but I learned enough to do well on my SAT and was accepted to the University of Georgia in December of my senior year.
Some studied hard, went to college, and became fine citizens. Others didn’t study, but became fine citizens anyway. Which proves, without a doubt, education ain’t always just books. A community of good folks helps.
Allen spent the first 30 years of his life in rural southeast Georgia, the last 30 in Hawaii. His life’s work has been in agriculture and small business. In real life he is a tropical seed broker. He enjoys a round of poorly played golf and writes for fun. He lives in Hilo, Hawaii. You may contact him: