Georgia Rivers...a lesson in truth.

Years ago, there was a family I heard about, their location I will leave to your speculation. It was not a good family, the husband was an abusive drunk, the wife powerless and the poor kids were trapped in the middle. He barely worked and when he did, he was usually fired within weeks for one reason or another, usually alcohol or drug related. He was "white trash" in every sense of the word: no good to anyone, contributed nothing to society and basically ruined the lives of everyone around him.

He beat his wife on a continual basis. This was back in the day when arrests did not happen unless the woman pressed charges. Unfortunately, pressing charges was not as easy as it sounds and there was no guarantee the charges would stick. Dragging an angry drunk through court and coming out the loser was a recipe for disaster. So, this pattern continued for years. She lied to friends and family about bruises. She used makeup to hide black eyes. A sweet girl with nowhere to go, trapped without a way out.

One night, after hitting the bottle especially hard, the husband decided she deserved a beating. This time, he graduated from fists and used a baseball bat. A tiny, defenseless woman against a drunken, raging idiot is no contest. He battered her unconscious. Realizing his mistake, he skipped town. She was found by neighbors, the police were called and a manhunt ensued. Her family was notified and they came from all directions to see her. "Brain damage" is a term sometimes used in jest by my generation, a way to describe somebody who acts funny or crazy. "Sometimes, I swear you have brain damage," I've heard after antics in college. No, this was real damage. Her right side will be essentially useless for the rest of her life.

The manhunt turned up nothing. Probably gone to Alabama. Back then, you could disappear and really be gone. Police radios and wanted posters had nothing on pitch black Southern nights. Southern nights love to hide things. Compliment that with stolen tags and family willing to hide you in every town within a 100 mile radius, and you're history.

Two men went fishing that weekend in a local river. Striper fishing is extremely popular in these parts. Get a John boat, a trolling motor and a 25 lb test line and you're good to go. Navigating the rocks and limbs are another story. Georgia rivers love to hide things. After cruising down the river a piece, the driver feels a large thump and a screeching noise on the bottom of the boat. I'm sure a collective sigh came from both men as they paused to look over the side. The offending rock rolled from underneath the boat and exposed itself to the fishermen. It was not the particular size or shape of the rock that inspired the men to coast to the bank of the river. It was the fact that tied to this rock was an unidentified white male, dead as the driftwood piling up on the rocks down the river.

This white male was tied neatly to the rock. Hands and feet hugging the former igneous inhabitant of the Georgia clay. The face, nondescript, with the glaring exception of the tiny hole in the middle of the forehead. The tiny hole yielded to a much larger, less neat hole in the back of the head. It does not take a law degree or years in the field to figure out what had taken place here. The driver of the boat ran to his truck and drove to town. The police and the coroner followed him to the spot, and surveyed the situation.

The face, formerly nondescript, matched the subject of the manhunt earlier that week. Facts began to mount up. Discussion ensued. A young girl lay in a hospital bed, by this man's hand. A despicable man, one whom these police officers knew all to well. The young children were emotionally scarred. He left town. Her family was by her side all week, except two brothers. They had been gone for a couple of days. A vacation was needed to clear their heads. They were back now, though.

"He hit his head on a rock and drowned," was the consensus.

Georgia rivers are fickle. Sometimes, they hide things. Other times, they get a mind of their own and decide that driftwood is the only thing they are going to carry this day. In any event, the river rolled along, but the investigation did not. It ended right there on the banks. Penn State.....you didn't even check the rock that hit your boat. You let the driftwood pile up. Take a lesson from an old Georgia river before it's too late.

Sadly, it is already too late.