A reflection on an Augusta original
by Eric Johnson
When word broke that former Metro Spirit contributor Randy Potter had died — he was found dead on Monday, August 27 — we here at the Spirit were taken aback. Though he hadn’t written anything for us for a long time, the core here at the new Spirit certainly remembered him, and if we remembered one thing, it was his resilience.
While it’s certainly true that resilience is one of those qualities too easily taken for granted, the guy had fought back cancer more than once, all while remaining a civically active member of the community, so we can probably all be forgiven for thinking he’d find a way to pull himself through once more.
Talk to just about anyone with an affinity for Augusta and you’ll hear a Randy Potter story. People will be trading these stories for years to come, but right now, with his presence still so close, they’re especially valuable.
My Randy Potter story occurred in October of 2009, when Potter called me wanting to know if I’d seen the big pile of dirt at the “Harrisburg Country Club.”
It had been there too long, he said. Something needed to be done.
I asked him some questions, but it quickly became clear that I wouldn’t understand the true scope of what was going on — or, more accurately, what was not going on, since it was a clean-up effort that was obviously needed — unless I saw it myself.
So Potter showed up at the Spirit offices on Broad Street about an hour later with a couple of bikes in the back of his truck.
No reason not to enjoy ourselves while we got to the bottom of things.
Though I wasn’t exactly dressed for a bike ride down the towpath, what was I going to do? He was there, the bikes were there and the story was there. So off we went.
While what I remember most about the ride was the heat — it may have been October, but the day was sunny and hot — I have the distinct impression that we stopped several times along the way so he could show me this thing or that. I recall he was full of historical knowledge about Augusta in general and the canal area in particular.
When we reached the spot, there was indeed a big pile of dirt. It was one of those piles that was so big and so overgrown, nine out of 10 people would have looked at it and not even processed that something might be done about it or that someone might actually be held accountable for it.
Potter, however, could never be accused of being one of the nine out of 10.
I paced it off, took some pictures and then I was ready to head back — it was hot, I was sweaty and uncomfortable and there was a desk full of work waiting for me back at the office — but Potter, I discovered as he started to strip down, was instead ready for a swim.
I didn’t know him well enough to know whether he’d always been prone to that kind of spontaneity or whether that live-for-the-moment zeal for life came from his frequent bouts with death, but it was obvious he lived with a profound respect for the now.
After his swim and the ride back to the office, I promised to look into the dirt pile and started to go in. Potter, however, wasn’t quite ready to part. We had spent time together, and when you’re as conscious of its passing as he was, such things are significant and worth acknowledging.
For me, though, healthy and rushed, I was already moving on to the next thing. I extended my hand for a quick handshake while Potter went for a fist bump, and in that moment of extreme awkwardness as I adjusted to him and he adjusted to me, we shared something that is still somehow significant to me.
The dirt pile, it turned out, was part of the $63 million upgrade to the city’s drinking water system. The city, apparently, was waiting for the Corps of Engineers to give the okay for a final drainage system before the pile could be cleaned up.
I wrote the story and Potter went on to the next thing, and though I lost touch after that, I have no doubt that whatever the next thing was, he gave just as much of himself to it as he gave to that October day.You Might Also Like:
