Smoke in south Georgia unbearable

By Chris Sweigart

If you thought the smoke here was bad last week, you should spend a few hours in south Georgia.

Smoke in Lee County was pretty thick late Friday afternoon. It was like a thick fog that smelled really bad. But we’re fortunate. The smoke we’ve endured from the Florida/Georgia fires comes and goes. Guess it all depends on wind patterns. Friday it was bad. Saturday it was not. Monday it was beautiful. But the folks who live in south Georgia, namely the area between Valdosta and Waycross, have to endure this pollution every day.

En route to Tampa recently, I drove through Valdosta. It was the middle of the day, but you’d think it was close to sunset. The sky was overcast with smoke, not clouds. Ashes fell from the sky as if a nearby volcano erupted. The 50-yard walk through a Wal-Mart parking lot was unbearable. Eyes burned. Lungs were not happy. You look up at the sun and see a tiny pink dot. You’d think it was a different planet. And this was still 50 miles or so away from the main blaze.

You can’t help but feel sorry for the people who live in that area and realize just how much their lives have been affected. Though the smoke here is an inconsistent inconvenience, we’re awful lucky.

We can’t thank them enough

By Chris Sweigart

Once a week, I’ll post an archived column. Here’s a column published back in 2005. Considering Monday was Memorial Day, I figured it was fitting.
Here we go ...

I don’t know Ronald Hogbin. Never met him. Never will. Ronald lost his life May 15, 1969, in Vietnam. I’m not sure how this 29-year-old Special Forces soldier died. Maybe his unit was ambushed in a rice field. Maybe he was killed in a firefight, still pulling his trigger as he lay on the ground. Maybe he died trying to save the life of a fellow soldier.

Regardless, he died serving his country.

Kneeling in the shade beneath the sycamore trees, I visited his grave. His tombstone was modest, white with concise information. Name. Rank. Branch of service. Home state. Religion. Date of birth. Date of death. Theatre of war.

But Hogbin wasn’t alone. He has friends, comrades. Lots of them. Lined in precise military fashion, tombstone after tombstone is placed. Row after row. Stone after stone. Beside the streams. Beneath the trees. Some in the shade. Some in the sunshine. Across the rolling hills they rest. More than 300,000 of them.

All Americans.

Arlington National Cemetery, spread out over 200 acres beside the Pentagon and Potomac in northern Virginia, is a testament to the sacrifices American servicemen and women have made throughout the years. From the American Revolution, the War of 1812, Mexican War, Civil War, Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, Korean Conflict, Vietnam, Grenada, Gulf War, Iraq to the hundreds of men and women lost in training exercises or terrorist attacks, the evolution of the American soldier is represented.

Though wars, firearms, battlefields, strategies and purposes have grossly changed throughout the years, one thing that has stood firm is the purpose of the American soldier. They fight for life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. They fight for the very freedoms we enjoy every day, the very freedoms so many of us take for granted.

Cemeteries are quiet, somber places filled with respect and Arlington National is no different. Whether the grave is that of a private killed on Midway Island or a president martyred by assassins on the streets of Dallas, there is little talking. Kennedy’s grand tomb may be extravagant, but the peaceful mood surrounding his grave is no different than that of every other fallen American. Folks quietly mill around Kennedy’s flaming grave, take a few snapshots and walk away. Respect is eternal.

What sets this cemetery apart from most others are the tombstones. Other than a few special exceptions, a majority of the stones appear strikingly alike. No wild artwork. No sculptures. Nothing that makes any soldier appear greater than the other. Instead, you’ll find the soldiers lying together in uniform fashion, a sense of American solidarity. Men of the Revolution lie arm-in-arm with soldiers lost in Afghanistan.

A Graveyard of One.

You won’t find a no-vacancy sign outside Arlington National Cemetery anytime soon. There’s still room for 100,000 or so. More sacrifices will be made. More lives will be lost.

Thousands will pay tribute today to those who lost their lives fighting for freedom and American values. But we should always continue to honor those still among us who proudly served our nation, who watched their friends die in battle, who braved the dangers of combat, and who endured extended tours of duty away from their families. Thank them. Tell them how much you appreciate their personal sacrifice to fight for your freedoms.

Thanks, Ronald. Though I never met you, I can’t thank you enough for what you did for our country. We’ll play taps for you one more time.

Rest in peace.

Joe McAdory is editorial page editor. He can be reached at 749-6271 ext. 2549 or

My mailbox was mail-napped

By Chris Sweigart

Someone stole my mailbox. They stole the box, the flag, the post, the whole darn thing. It’s not an attractive mailbox. It’s rotted, cracked wood with mold spores growing on the sides.
I drove to the end of my driveway, and like a missing tooth, it was absent. Uprooted. Swiped without a trace. They didn’t even leave a ransom note.
I didn’t find it trashed on the side of the road or anything, so evidently the perpetrators desperately wanted this ugly piece of wood with numbers on the side of it. I’ve got to thank them. They could have busted the poor thing up and laid the smashed wood scattered all over my driveway. Now I don’t have to clean the mess, so I’ve got that going for me.
Why would somebody steal my mailbox? Isn’t it much more fashionable for today’s academically-challenged idiots to simply vandalize something and then leave it at the victim’s yard so they could weep over their demolished property?
Perhaps my mailbox is in a better place. Perhaps it prefers to be tossed into the woods, to be used as shelter for rabbits or squirrels. Perhaps it prefers to be tossed into the bottom of a creek. Maybe it grew weary of a steady diet of junk mail. You are what you eat, you know.
Stealing or mutilating mailboxes is a federal offense. Tomorrow I’ll have a new mailbox in its place. Go ahead and try to steal it. Smile pretty—I’ve got you on camera.

All subjects fair game for my musings

By Chris Sweigart

For some reason, I was told my views and bizarre life were too interesting to be limited to a column once a week on news print you’ll just wrap your fish in. I won’t just be found most Fridays on page A4. Nope. They gave me one of those high-tech Internet blogs and told me to write at least three times per week.
I’ve got a blog. Sounds communicable. Hope I don’t infect anybody.
So what am I going to blog about? Anything and everything. I’ll blog about local issues, national issues, movies, the editorial page, sports (I believe I’m qualified), and personal issues that may range from drawing blood when I’m shaving to not wanting to pay for valet parking to dealing with an overactive 7-year-old to car problems on a weekly basis.
We all have something to talk about. We all have opinions, unexpected circumstances, challenges, and musings.
Folks here have given me the means by which to express myself electronically. Sure beats the old days when I scribbled drivel on notebook paper at school for no apparent reason.
I’ve got a blog. I guess it beats having a wart.