Publisher's Desk – No glistening here

I’m going to cut right to the chase: I don’t perspire. I don’t glisten. I don’t even get “just a little warm.” I sweat. Period. End of story. There. It’s out in the open. I am a sweater.

Every time I go home to South Carolina, I am reminded of just how much of a sweater I am. For example, the other weekend, I went home. It was a respectable 90-something degrees here. In Greenwood, it was 100 degrees – at 7 o’clock at night!

But I digress. Sweating is good for you. Helps clean the pores, my mama has always said. She should know. She is a second-generation sweater herself.

Being raised in South Georgia will do that to you. My grandmother was one too. Her clothing ensemble in the summer – which, for those who aren’t accustomed to South Georgia weather, occurs the first day temperatures get above 60 degrees and continues until temperatures stay under 50 for more than a week – always included one smartly folded paper towel.

Tucked underneath her dress, right above her heart, that paper towel got brought out whenever Grandmama would begin to sweat. Not glisten. Sweat.

As my mama likes to say, Haddens – my grandmother’s maiden name – are sweaters. And since I have Hadden blood flowing through my veins, well, you get the idea.

But not all of my mother’s siblings were lucky enough to get the Sweating Gene. In fact, I think that Mama got the majority of that family trait. Which she passed on to me. Two fold.

I can recall my grandmother wiping sweat with a paper towel just like it was yesterday. Paper towels are also wonderful tools for shooing gnats, which were abundant in South Georgia.

But as I learned at a young age, you might as well not shoo them ‘cause they’re just gonna come right back. But still, swatting at your face while sitting on the porch in the hot Georgia heat just seems like a natural thing to do.

I’m guessing my mama got the paper towel tendency from my grandmother. When it got to be summer (see above for the South Georgia definition of said season), Mama didn’t go outside without one. She couldn’t. Any work in the yard or the garden was accompanied by routine swipes of the paper towel for those drops of sweat that escaped from beneath the headband.

Yes, we Hadden women can go through a headband in no time. It might be a futile attempt on our part to manage the sweat, but it does keep one’s hair off the skin.

I guess I learned the ins and outs of managing perspiration from watching my mother and from watching my late brother.

Walter was also a sweater. But he was a man, and it seemed cool for him to sweat. He had a Sweat Rag. It was a blue bandanna that he always carried with him. When he would begin to sweat, out would come said Sweat Rag from his back pocket, at which time he would palm it in his right hand, wipe once across his forehead, lift up his glasses and wipe under both eyes then take a pass along his neck. Four steps and he was ready to go again.

Until his glasses started to slip. Again.

When he passed away, I got that Sweat Rag. It’s tattered now, a lot thinner and faded so much that it’s hard to tell what shade of blue it once was. But that doesn’t matter. It still can hold its own as an official Sweat Rag.

I’ve used that bandanna since 1994, usually rolled up into a thin band and tied around my head. I’ll probably use it until it can’t be used anymore.

Even then, it won’t find its way into any rag sack. No, that bandanna holds too many memories for me.

Just like that old Sweat Rag, I might be old, tattered and faded, but that’s OK. With every drop of water that pours from my body, my heart and soul fills and refills with memories that always remind me where I came from and where I am going.

Yes, that Sweat Rag does more than just collect sweat. It holds the spirit of a life I feel privileged to live.

nnn

Speaking of a life you would be privileged to live – how about that South Carolina governor, Mark Sanford? You know, the one from the “other” Carolina.

I’m originally from South Carolina but I have to tell you that I’ve been downright embarrassed to admit it here lately.

It was bad enough that Sanford fought to keep the Palmetto State from accepting stimulus money. He made the news for that little escapade. But then, on Father’s Day weekend of all weekends, he says he needs time away to “think” or work on a book or hike the Appalachian Trail.

He goes missing. No one knows where he is. When word gets out that he has gone AWOL (that’s absent without a leg to stand on), suddenly state officials are wondering who’s minding the ship. Where, oh, where could he be?

Then, miracle of all miracles, he comes back to South Carolina, goes on TV and gives one heck of a tearful apology for having an adulterous affair with a woman from Argentina. And then he asks the state – and his family – to forgive him. Some call for his resignation – and rightly so.

Sanford didn’t just lose a security detail and sneak off to a hotel down the road from the statehouse in Columbia. He didn’t just let himself be overcome by the power of politics. He didn’t just cheat on his wife. He didn’t just give his sons one of the worst lessons in affairs of the heart they could ever get.

He cheated on every resident of the state.

He didn’t just make a midnight run to Taco Bell. No, he left the COUNTRY. Consciously, willingly and without thinking of the consequences.

He didn’t just tell a little fib to keep from hurting someone’s feelings. He flat-out LIED. Consciously, willingly and without thinking of the consequences.

Should he resign? Yes, he should. The people of South Carolina should accept nothing less.



Patricia M. Edwards is the publisher of The Randolph Guide. She can be reached by phone at (336) 625-5576 or by e-mail at pedwards@randolphguide.com

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