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DEL.ICIO.USPublisher loved to help others succeed
The Atlanta Journal-Constitution
Family-owned newspapers, this one among them, are the love of my professional life.
It is an affection seeded in happenstance — and, indirectly at least, in the promise of a West Macon boy whose potential opened a door to others. I was among them.
It is the season for gifts and thanksgiving, for remembering those whose presence in our lives made a lasting difference.
For me, and for the boy of promise who preceded me at our hometown newspaper, the man was Peyton T. Anderson Jr., owner of The Macon Telegraph and News. Almost two decades after his 1988 death at the age of 80, Peyton Anderson’s gifts continue to make a difference to the communities that his paper served.
“Jim: You should consider doing a column one day on what Peyton did for you, me and others. Just a thought. Tom”
“Remember ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’?” I asked. “How would we have been different had he not been born — or disposed to help Macon’s children?”
“Had Peyton not provided me with financial aid, I could not have attended college,” replies Tom Johnson. And without that, none of the other opportunities that came his way, says Johnson, an assistant in LBJ’s White House who later became president of The Los Angeles Times and chairman and CEO of CNN before retiring in 2001.
Had Johnson, who started at the morning Telegraph as a ninth grader reporting on his school’s sports teams, not succeeded early, Anderson might not have been inspired to continue funding the college educations of those who passed through his newsroom.
In 1963, I graduated from high school and Johnson graduated from the University of Georgia. “Tommy, what is it you want to do with your life?” Anderson is quoted as asking in Jaclyn Weldon White’s “Bestest: The Life of Peyton Tooke Anderson Jr.” Replied Johnson: “I want to be a publisher, just like you.”
Anderson offered to pay his way through Harvard Business School if he could gain entrance. He did, afterwards applying for a White House Fellowship.
As a Mercer University freshman, my summer’s cotton mill earnings were exhausted when I heard of a weekend opening at the afternoon News. I got it. Out of money again the next quarter at school, I took a full-time job assembling school buses at Blue Bird Body Co. in Fort Valley, while continuing to work weekends at the paper.
At the end of the summer, I too met Peyton Anderson. If I’d continue at the paper, he’d pay the bulk of my college expenses.
I had seen life in public housing. I had tasted the fiber-filled air of a cotton mill spinning room. I had bucked rivets with an old man proud to show me his unfinished Jim Walter Home, the first he’d ever owned.
And I had felt the awesome power of a free press to make the world a better place, starting from our front door.
It was an easy decision.
Maybe it was Johnson’s early success, maybe just Anderson’s devotion to the community. Whatever it was, he made the same offer every year to a high school or college student working at his newspaper.
Had he not sold the paper to Knight-Ridder while I was away in Vietnam, there was no question that I’d return to his service. It wasn’t a contract. It wasn’t a condition of his gift.
But there’s never been a day of my life that I dreaded coming to work, or failed to marvel at a newspaper’s potential to uplift the communities, and the state, it serves. For that gift, I am always in his debt.
At his death, Peyton Anderson left the bulk of his estate, $26.6 million, to a foundation ably led by Juanita T. Jordan, an aide he helped teach how to manage his post-sale investments. That foundation now contains $101 million and has given $58 million to the good works of Macon and Middle Georgia. “Throughout his life,” the book jacket reads, “he performed numerous private acts of kindness, but it wasn’t until his death that his hometown learned the full extent of his generosity.”
Tom Johnson, a poor boy from West Macon whose father was disabled and whose mother worked long days at Foy Grocery Store, well knew of those private acts of kindness. And so, too, did a lad from the projects of South Macon.
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By Captain Freedom
December 25, 2007 8:30 AM | Link to this
THE Captain thanks Mr Wooten for preserving his modest semi-obscurity.
Nice column today, and a Merry Christmas to all, even the Islamoliberal weenies, Dusty, and the Redneck.
By ron
December 25, 2007 8:33 AM | Link to this
Fine column today Jim,Merry Christmas to you and yours.
By Jim Wooten
December 25, 2007 8:43 AM | Link to this
Captain, ron, thanks for reading and contributing. Merry Christmas to you and to others who post here.
By Redneck Convert
December 25, 2007 8:52 AM | Link to this
Merry Christmas, all. Last night three guys come to the trailer with gifts for little Sonny Zell George. They said there was a light in the sky right over the trailer. Turns out it was just a police chopper looking for pot patches. Anyway, first come Joe Bill with a six-pack of PBR for the kid. Then come Jim Earl with a NASCAR toy car. Then the Rev. Jim Bob Buice showed up with a baby size John Deere cap. Little Sonny Zell George was all happy and smiling. Turns out he was just filling his diaper.
Anyway, Joe Bill was about three sheets to the wind when he showed up, and he didn’t get no better. He finally curled up in a corner on the floor and went off to sleep. There was these kind of green clouds coming off of him. The missus got mad. Said she told me once she told me twice she didn’t want Joe Bill in the trailer stinking up the place. Anyway, she’s banging around in the kitchen this a.m. all cranky and I ain’t going near a 350 lb. woman with all them pans in her hands.
Well, I’m pleased as punch with my Christmas gift. A whole roll of Skoal. The missus didn’t say much about her new crock pot but I reckon she likes it.
I reckon we all know where we stand with Wooten now that he wrote that butt-lickin love note to jbmlaw saying how much he meant to the blog and didn’t write nothing about the rest of us. It just goes to show you can’t please everybody. I figure my comments is just as conservative as his but I sure didn’t get no love note.
I was mighty glad to read Wooten on this guy that got him a start. If it wasn’t for him the AJC wouldn’t have nothing but a bunch of libruls writing the columns. It just goes to show that all you need in life to make it is a guy with $26 million and some hard work. But get the money first. The welfare bums and Those People should take a lesson here. If Wooten can make it anybody can. All they got to do is look for a guy with a few million to spare. Instead of waiting around for us taxpayers to give them everything.
Well, Jim Earl and my dotter and my boy are all coming over later today. We are going to pitch horseshoes in the pits I dug in the back yard. Then we are going to set down for some ham and turkey and grits and all the trimmings. I know its back to the beer truck in the morning, but I ain’t thinking of that right now.
Merry Christmas everybody and specially to the heathens like this Captain guy. And don’t try to buy no beer today. Its against my religion and my religion is state law. You wouldn’t want to wind up in jail on Christmas day.
By Tiny Tim
December 25, 2007 9:10 AM | Link to this
Christ is still my number two most influential person. I still wonder how he knew he was the son of god. Early on, before he actually knew, the adolescent Christ found himself lecturing elders in a temple. When his parents finally collared him, the elders were astonished at the kid’s insights into the mysteries of life. I wonder how they dismissed His words after Mary shuffled him off. “Ahh, kids these days think they know everythihg.” “But he did know everything. I’ve studied the torah since military school and I never realized that Moses probably wasn’t circumsized. His mother had no chance and the Egyptians were too busy to bother. Kinda makes you wonder…” “So the kid got lucky. Is that all he thinks about? His schvanztooker?”
Then, of course, there was the wedding at cana. They ran out of wine, and the too-young Christ was put on the spot the way many of us are when we’re asked to make a toast, or sing a song, or dance. We object, and then people start badgering us, the way Mary did Jesus that day, and we go, “Oh alright, but you’ll pay for this, oh, you’ll pay…….Muskrat love…muskrat love….”
So Christ was really taking a big chance by assuming that the water had turned into wine when he told the servants to serve from the water jugs. His jewish mother, of course, was constantly talking up her son the way all jewish mothers do, except they probably fall short of any divine claims. “My son is going to be a doctor. He’s also got a great head for business. On top of everything he’s the son of god too!”
I think about how much evidence I, myself, would need to start to believe that I was the son of god. It would have to be alot of evidence and the evidence would have to be overwhelming. One appearance from Mary wouldn’t cut it. Neither would one conversation with an angel. I would have had to survive the bogue brown acid at the original Woodstock for starters, and then I’d have to had known better than to ever wear a leisure suit in 1975. Then I would have bought Microsoft ipo’s, invented Karoake, and then for the big finish, turn my body fat into muscle. My mother would approach me at a pool party, me in a speedo, and say, “Cant you do something about that beergut? It’s digusting and the guests are threatening to leave…”
Stop the insanity!
By Jim Wooten
December 25, 2007 9:11 AM | Link to this
Consider this a Christmas love note, Redneck. You do entertain.
By Another taxpayer
December 25, 2007 10:01 AM | Link to this
Merry Christmas Mr. Wooten,
That was a very nice story. Perhaps I will share such a story some day.
Meanwhile, I would like to make a post-Christmas request. Would you, either personally or through an associate, etc., read the article in the White County News entitled “Septic Waste Angers Residents” and enlighten a lowly one such as myself as to how such things are allowed to happen in this day and time within the confines of such a prosperous and technologically advanced country?
Thank you.
By Mims
December 25, 2007 10:16 AM | Link to this
Mr. Wooten, as someone who also had to work in textile mills coming up about 30 miles from where you were raised to go to college thanks for the nice Christmas column. Also Merry Christmas and keep up the good work.
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 10:17 AM | Link to this
Ain’t it a bloomin’ fine pagan festival the Christians stole fair and square?
Merry Christmas, everyone! To Jew and Gentile, Ethiopian and Copt, to secularists and non-secularists, and even unto the Persian!
This One’s for you.
(Except PoFo)
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 10:24 AM | Link to this
Just kidding of course, Timesis. Your lighthearted stabs at Christology are super fine cool, easy on the eyes and heart, with not one whiff of condescension or intimidation. I truly wish I could write like that, of that Subject. Far from it.
Merry Christmas to you and yours, Wile E., and all the best to you in the coming year, after you and I punch back in, atop the Mesa.
By jm
December 25, 2007 10:38 AM | Link to this
Merry Christmas Mr. Wooten. It is always interesting to hear how people get started in their professions, whether by fate, inspiration from someone else or pure dumb luck.
Merry Christmas to jbmlaw, Dusty, Dennis and the many others I have either sparred with or agreed with (depending on the topic).
By @@
December 25, 2007 11:08 AM | Link to this
Thanks for sharing the personal experience of who you are, where you’ve been, and who it was that put you on the path to who you’ve become.
A virtual “Who’s Who” in Whoville.
Hopefully, the Grinches here can now see that just because you’re a conservative, it doesn’t mean that you’re greedy and can’t empathize. To the contrary — you write to share the gift of your knowledge and I’m grateful each time I read your column.
Peyton Anderson and people like him are the gifts that keep on giving.
Now I need a tissue….sniff!
By the way Jim…during his youth my husband shared the illustrious title of “lint head”. You’re in very good company.
By Tiny Tim
December 25, 2007 11:15 AM | Link to this
@@, are you sure it was “linthead” and not “dickhead”?
It would explain alot…..
just kidding. GBUE
By TW
December 25, 2007 11:45 AM | Link to this
Glenn - Merry Christmas to you and yours. Thanks for keeping conservative ideas alive in the sea of selfishness that has all but drowned them.
By @@
December 25, 2007 11:54 AM | Link to this
Teeny Wienie:
Am I sure? I think you and I could agree that everyone has their moments.
What’s in a name afterall? Yours is Political Foreskin sooooo…
How’s it hangin’ buddy? hopefully not on the tree.
Merry Christmas again and in spite of…
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 11:57 AM | Link to this
Thank you so much, TW. And to you and yours as well. I was hoping to be able to send my best wishes to you. I really appreciate your rare open-mindedness, as well as your wary perception. (Tres Jefferson, ne c’est pas?)
Joyeux Noel
By Tiny Tim
December 25, 2007 12:11 PM | Link to this
there there, @@
By Tiny Tim
December 25, 2007 12:18 PM | Link to this
I was looking at the playoff scenarios in the sports section today, and do you realize that the Falcons have been mathematically eliminated from making the playoffs next year and the year after that?
How can that even happen? This is Blank’s fault, man.
By TW
December 25, 2007 12:35 PM | Link to this
@@ - your investigatory instincts parallel those of our commander in chief. Merry Christmas anyway :)
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 1:54 PM | Link to this
Merry Christmas, @@!
If you have a Secret Santa this year and are still wondering who it is, just know that I have a schoolboy crush on you…
By Tiny Tim
December 25, 2007 2:10 PM | Link to this
I just realized something: you cant go anywhere at all without going over some river and through some kind of woods. That whole christmas carol is a scam. To grandmother’s house we go? F-YOU! I’m going to getting a pack of Tareytons, dabbit. Someone make me another mimosa…..
christmas at Tiny Tim’s was grim that year……
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 3:23 PM | Link to this
Well Jim, here I sit manning the computer for the next few hours, on a kind of cyber-hotline for those having trouble getting through my beloved holiday. Ain’t I a good guy? Not, actually. Just that the wife’s back in Kenya and I’m batching it instead of botching it, though probably I’ll do the latter later alligator.
Your endearing pentantheon and jbm’s and the others here got me to thinking about mine. It so happens that there are exactly five people, all of whom are educators, who have influenced me so much that I think of each almost daily — usually in little ways, such as that wistful little moment of recognition that you’ve just done something inherited from one of your long gone masters.
But those very fine people were all merely doing their jobs, probably better than anyone ever has done them. So here’s a list of people —- also, as it happens, five in number —- who were for me every bit the educators that those other outstanding educators were. (Like jbm’s list, they are all men.)
1 Jim Davis, my first Managing Editor, who was so old school that he could hunt-and-peck 55 w.p.m. on his clackety upright Underwood with his neckties loosened and his sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing his—-no kidding—-anchor tatoo, whilst the hand weighted only with his wedding band slightly outpaced the one all but held down by his enormous USMC ring. Having braved hot lead in the Pacific Theatre, the hot-leaded press deadlines didn’t bother him in the least. Imperturbably, Jim taught me, he said, everything he knew about how to run a small town newspaper. His parting advice: never give in, especially not to officials; booze and ink don’t mix in the end; never miss a deadline and leave broadcast to the beautiful people. That Marine never lost a battle that I know of.
George Corey, my ceramics instructor for four otherwise wasted years of high school. George was the first to show me that education reform is a sub-discipline all its own. His brilliantly simple ideas got him barred from teaching reading, his great pedagogical love. George was my refuge, as every weekday afternoon we’d throw pots and discuss education theory, sculpt hand studies and discuss, glaze and fire and discuss. If wishes were horses, the half-trained George would ride to the head of the line of my favorite educators, and take his place alongside my very favorite, a man so not half-trained that he held three Ph.D’s. Neither of them could stand credentialism.
Terry Gould, a benign master angler whose body was so malignant from mostly self-abuse that he could no longer get to the backcountry to flyfish, a sport to which he bequeathed two almost infallible Western fly patterns and a smart body of conservation statutes, in that order. Terry got me started, gave me all his old flies, each with a Heineken’s worth of stories, and sent me off to the best teacher the sport ever had.
That would be the late Jack Vaughn of San Francisco, a retired middleweight boxing trainer from the old Irish Mission District who’d turned to full-time flycasting to fend of the stir-crazies in his lonely old age. With his cauliflower nose, scarlet cheeks and Cagney moves, Jackie would scream profanities at the top of his lungs at anyone not paying attention, only to have the epithets whisper through the dickie that covered the spot where his larynx had been. He could shape you up faster than a Fort Benning drill sergent, and in no time he had untalented me casting shooting heads with fishkilling accuracy alongside legendary anglers such as Dick Gugenheim and Gold Medalist Tim Rayjeff. Jack’s fee? Fifteen dollars, with which he bought my way into the angler’s club to which he’d sponsored me, certainly the most coveted membership that fifteen dollars and the word of an old Irish boxer can buy. That, and a simple boyish request: “take me fishing sometime.” I never did.
Ira Bray, the Great White Hunter of Yolo County, a lithographer who’d dragged his longsuffering family all over the world—-to Africa, Alaska, Bolivia—-in search of big game. To recover from the stroke that forced his retirement, Ira took up skeet shooting in defiance of his prognosticators’ certainty that he’d never walk again unaided, never regain depth perception, never again use one arm. The day I approached Ira for lessons, he had shot 18x25, his best score to date, so he was predisposed to kindliness. He refused payment for his lessons. When I offered to buy him a case of shells, he answered that he hadn’t bought a shotgun shell in many years, and promptly showed me how I might one day say the same. The day Ira finally hit a perfect 25x25 we threw him a fine spur-of-the-moment hootenany, culminating in our beery honor guard of trapshooters and skeetslayers lined up to shoot Ira’s favorite hat out of the air in the same booming instant. We made him wear it home. Having proved his point to the doctors, he never fired a weapon again. He was found the following year sitting curbside, his back resting against a giant Sycamore, his favorite Retriever licking his forever symmetrical face. Best I ever did was 23x25. Ira’s response: “Aa-a-aw, don’t git a swell head, naow. Them’s jist pin-raised wns.”
By Jim Wooten
December 25, 2007 3:46 PM | Link to this
Glenn, a really fine post at 3:23. Thanks for taking the time to introduce us to the five who made a difference in your life. Merry Christmas.
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 4:13 PM | Link to this
Thanks, Jim. From you, quite a Christmas present. All the best to you on this Feast Day.
By @@
December 25, 2007 5:49 PM | Link to this
I feel like I’ve travelled the world and experienced fly-fishing (something I’ve always wanted to do) after reading Glenn’s post.
You’ve led an interesting life Glenn and now I find that you have a schoolboy crush in little ol’ me. I’m flattered. I think PoliFore has a crush on me too when he’s not trying to crush me that is.
Ceramics huh? I have my own wheel and kiln. I’ve been throwing pots for five years just haven’t fired any of ‘em yet. I’m afraid I’ll burn the house down…but someday when I’m feeling brave….
I’ve read everyone’s list of five and could think of only two. An attending resident at Grady who assured me that a dear friend would be fine after the doctor left me with no hope. The resident was right and the doctor was wrong. The resident got a hug from me everyday my friend was in intensive care. The doctor? She got a snub.
The other individual was a four-year old student of mine who was hearing impaired, non-verbal and struggled with cerebal palsy. Little bitty thing she was, with knobby knees covered by terry wrist bands to absorb the shock when she fell, which she did a dozen times each day. Nothing discouraged that little one. No matter the obstacle, no matter the challenge, she overcame and met them all with a huge smile.
I always sit in the tiny chairs when working with the kids. It puts me at their level. I remember working with Sarah one day. As I went to sit down in the “little” chair, I somehow missed the target and my bottom hit the floor. When I looked up she was laughing without making a sound. She stopped laughing just long enough to convey the “sign” for hurt followed by “I’m sorry”. I signed “Thank You” and then we laughed together for what seemed like an eternity. I was laughing out loud while her laughter, though silent, could be seen and felt.
I loved that kid and have loved every one since her. I can’t wait to get back to work.
By Glenn
December 25, 2007 6:11 PM | Link to this
Wow, @@, how cool to look forward to returning to work. What a mindblowingly beautiful little person, that palsied four-year old trooper with the deafness and the safety equipment, etc. Wow again. I can see how knowing someone like that would make you an invisibly different person forever after.
Fire your pots in the Spring. I wouldn’t do it now, in the damp cold. Might crack going in. Glazing’s amazing. Especially in Georgia and North Carolina. Surprising how common and affordable masterfully innovative round-eyed Raku is here. (The mineral-rich clays here?) The locally fired stuff might go for a fortune in Japan. George is old and bent but still kicking, a potter and sculptor in his retirement. He shows every June in his native Laguna Beach CA.
Sounds like you do good work, when you’re throwing and also when you’re not.
Oh. And he does indeed have a crush on you. I’m not sure which one of him it is, but it’s one of them. That’s why we’re forever en epee! Are you flattered yet? ‘Cause when our (respective) wives find out, we’re in for it. Mine shoots and his prefers it at close quarters. Yikes.
By Jeff
December 26, 2007 8:51 AM | Link to this
Mr. Wooten:
Merry Christmas! (Late, I know, but I have been in Ft Walton Beach the last few days with the wife’s family!)
The five most influential people in my life:
This has changed over the years, but without these five I would not be where I am now:
1) My parents, Les and Wanda Sexton. As a kid, they fought for me when I could not fight for myself. As the old song goes, “They did the best they could to try to raise me right.” And, at under a month shy of my 25th birthday, I think they did a heck of a job.
2) Tommy Harris. This man gave me my life back at a time that proved to be pivotal. His guidance during that time fine tuned the man my parents were making.
3) My grandmother, June Sexton. She survived domestic abuse that I’ve grown up hearing the horror stories of. She’s never had a driver’s liscence, and she smokes roughly a pack a day all my life. Yet at 80 or so, she’s still living on her own in better health than most of the women I know anywhere near her age. She (and my parents) gave me the survival mentality that has served me well over the years.
4) A group of kids (and their parents) that set off a chain of events when I was in 6th grade. At the time, it was EXTREMELY hard to deal with. But without that chain of events, I would not have met my wife, nor would I have met Mr. Harris, nor would many of the things I have come to hold dear have taken shape. (Indeed, BOTH of my careers are pretty much a direct result of this chain!)
5) Prof. Tom Gooch. He was my Programming 1 professor (as well as Discrete Mathematics) that showed me that I had a natural ability for this job. He was one of the good guys that was ‘Prof. Gooch’ in the classroom and ‘Tom’ outside of it. While many of the PC police will frown on this, if you smoked or could at least tolerate cigarette smoke, he would stand outside the building and talk to you as a normal adult. Many of his philosphies on how to interact with students are the same that I now try to use with my own students.
Its an eclectic group, I know. But without these people, I would not be who I am today, nor would I be where I am today. And for that, I am in their debt.
By Snap Judgement
December 26, 2007 9:40 AM | Link to this
I’m glad, Jeff, that your family provided such a sound base from which you emerged. It’s also gratifying to know that there were teachers and mentors who guided you along. You’re quite fortunate. Let me tell you about how it could have gone, if you were me:
I was attending college. I got my first 4.0, all A’s! I studied and was rewarded. By the time my report card came in the mail, I had repeatedly imagined myself opening it and seeing the four A’s for the four really tough classes I aced. I anticipated the self confidence that such a sight would endow. I looked. There was a B. B? I didn’t earn a B. I went straight down to the professor’s office. He was packing up his papers to enjoy his summer fishing or something. I said, “Sir, I think there’s been a mis…..” He interrupted me angrily: “Oh, you clowns think there’s been a mistake. Well maybe you should have studied harder. There’s no mistake, there never is. I dont make mistakes, the college doesn’t make mistakes and quit wasting my time, now please if you will…..” His expression was pure contempt. I meekly pointed to my report card, and asked why he didn’t recognize the best student in his computer class who got the highest grade on all the tests, and who aced every possible assignment he threw at me. He hesitated, and then seemed to become exasperated, and threw down the papers he was holding, and rifled through a briefcase for his class records. He brought out an 8X11 notebook, you know, the kind with the wire coil binder, and opened it to Basic 103, Programming. He asked my name, and with me at his side looking down, he scrolled his index finger from the top of the page to my name. Then he followed across the line of 100’s and 99’s and came to the final exam grade: 96. “Oh, I cant believe it. You’re right, sorry. You’ll get you’re A.”
There was no encouragement in his voice. There was no congratulations. there was nothing but damn me for wasting his time correcting an error that should never have been brought up. I dropped computer programming from my future because of him. F him, and F computers. In fact, F the world. That’s the day I started planning my assault on baby seals in alaska…….you in?
By Jeff
December 26, 2007 10:12 AM | Link to this
Snap:
Are you trying to imply that Tom did that?? It doesn’t sound at ALL like the Tom Gooch I know.
Other than that, I would say that I’m sorry for you for that incident. Personally, I LOVE programming. I’m EXTREMELY good at it - if I do say so myself, but virtually anyone who has seen me work will say the same! - and it is honestly a MUCH better fit than that OTHER career I had (teaching). Though I do plan on going back to collegiate level teaching at some point. (Where I can teach programming. As the theme for ‘Hannah Montana’ says, “it’s the best of both worlds!”)
By Nomad
December 27, 2007 12:20 PM | Link to this
Jeff - I too had classes with Professor Gooch. I agree with you in regards to what Snap said. Tom Gooch would never do that.
One of my favorite stories about Gooch was at the end of my Data Structures class. We were getting ready for the final and one of our group members was graduating. She told the group she wanted to get him something that he would really enjoy. One of us, I don’t remember who, told her to get him a bottle of fine scotch. So she did and took it to him. He graciously told her that he appreciated the gesture but could not accept it at that time. As she was walking out the door he caught her by the arm and whispered to her that she should stop by his office if she wanted to see her grade and that he would make sure to grade her test first so that she would know the final grade before graduation. She went by the next afternoon. They talked about her grade and shared a glass.
There were days that I hated the man because he could be very infuriating. However, I learned a lot from him and hated to see them move him out of the Computer Science department just because he didn’t have ‘Dr.’ in front of his name.
NOMAD
By Tracy Green
December 27, 2007 12:45 PM | Link to this
OH MY GOD NOMAD! Is that really you? I haven’t seen you since graduation. It doesn’t seem like 8 years.
Anyway, I didn’t end up going to college. 9 months after graduation I had a baby. Joey is 7 years old and so smart. He is going to be good with computers. A prodigy of sorts.
Gosh, I sure had a headache after Tom and I shared that drink. Of course I got an A+. Strange I don’t remember much from that day.
Great memories, thanks nomad.
By tom madden
December 29, 2007 11:49 AM | Link to this
Jim, a wonderful column on Peyton Anderson. I have never heard an unkind word about him — which is quite an accomplishment in life. I’m sure he is proud of you and all of his Macon boys.