“Be A Light”

The sea was rough, and I remember bobbing up and down, desperately fighting the rush of waves which had caught me under tow, dragging me down and whipping me around, yet I remained steadfast, determined to win my salty, waterlogged battle. At five years old, I was unprepared and an inadequate wave surfer, despite having taken countless swimming lessons and being in pools since I was a baby. But there was no-one else out there in the deep blue, and silver-capped waters of the expansive Pacific Ocean right then; I was alone, out of breath, and fatigued. Regardless of how tumbled and tossed I was by the constant rush of water, eventually I found myself unsteady but safe on the sandy shoreline.

*LA JOLLA BEACH & TENNIS CLUB, CIRCA…AGES AGO! EVEN THEN, I LOOKED CONCERNED.*

A shrill alarm sounded, stirring me awake. There was a dim light peeping through the shutters of my bedroom window, but some part of my brain could still feel my limp younger child’s body being jolted and rolled furiously around by a tumultuous swelling of ocean waves? I eased myself out of bed and stood up to a new day and the realization that I had been awakened by, thankfully, what was only just a dream, albeit a recurring one. Well, that’s not quite true. The experience of being swallowed up by waves did happen, but it feels like that was a thousand years ago! Why then, does it continue to take up space in my mind and my sleep?

I’ve been struggling. Struggling to process a boatload; oops, wait, I was once corrected about the usage of that word “boat.” According to one highfalutin, and very matronly, beacon of Southern wealth standing on the glorious brick patio of her family’s oceanfront home on 18th Street, in the middle of a fundraising event for Franklin Academy, I was very mistaken and misspoke. “Clearly dear,” she told me, “you have no understanding of the obvious difference between a boat and a ship.” So, with that distinction and my very public correction noted, it’s a “shipload” of family garbage I’ve been examining…AGAIN. It’s a subject matter which has simmered, then festered, exploded, then quieted, but one which has never really been resolved or put to rest. Maybe that’s what the wave dream symbolizes? I was always instructed that when you’re swimming in the ocean to “go with the waves, and not fight the tide.” Does the same edict translate here, or to life in general? Probably. I know I took that specific tidbit of early direction in life very much to heart for an excruciatingly long period of time. These days, I’ve learned it’s far more beneficial to stop and be prepared that any time I wake to a “dream” like the wave one, I should immediately pause, pivot, and go in the direction my instincts point me, rather than follow the rules I was taught as a child.

For the past, too many, months I’ve been hugely challenged to confront, accept, and make sense of many confusing and disturbing details from my family history. Four revisions later and three+ months of working on a post entitled “Family Trust” was about to appear and get published on the blog, with just one more strike of a particular tab on my website. Just before I tapped on that all-telling button, I saw a new text appear on my Ipad and damned if my A.D.D. didn’t kick in, compelling me to look. The news which accompanied that message gave me a jolt and felt vaguely reminiscent of the wild waves which had jerked me around as a child each Summer at the La Jolla Beach and Tennis Club, and more recently too…metaphorically that is. Nevertheless, I continued to examine the contents of the text. The depth of that dive took me back in time and reminded me of the multitude of years when I failed to dissect the details of my life very thoroughly, but were issues which really did demand much, much closer attention. So maybe it’s okay to pause here, take a little trip back and regroup before attempting to move forward…with your indulgence, please?

2003 through 2007 were years of contradiction for our little Capone family, and while I don’t like to dwell on my naivete or meek ways of the time, those qualities were on full display for anyone to see. Not a pretty picture, and while looking back is painful, it’s necessary too. I liked to think we had, and I certainly worked diligently to not just portray, but deliver a happy family unit. Unfortunately, reality and hindsight tell a different story. I was a bit too taken with the “frosting,” and didn’t pay the cake, so to speak, the careful observation and monitoring it required. Those years marked milestones of gargantuan proportion and prompted an awakening. I saw things through a new frame, which in turn illuminated what would become a long trail of life-altering discoveries. I’m on a mission to ensure that that light, no matter how unpleasant, continues to shine…

*I’VE LEARNED IN DEEPLY PAINFUL WAYS THAT THOSE WORDS SUM UP A PRETTY ACCURATE REFLECTION OF HUMANKIND.*

Spring, 2004 in Southeast Georgia…

The bubbles in the deep soaking tub completely enveloped me, while I sipped from a well-chilled, freshly poured glass of Pinot Grigio with my “beyond blessed” playlist filling the “she side” of the capacious dual Master Bath, divided by a hallway extending from the Master Bedroom Suite past the two separate walk-in closets and branching off once the individual Bathrooms were reached. It had to be close to 5:30 p.m. on a random Spring Saturday, and we had a grand evening ahead of us, so I was luxuriating in a bit of relaxation prior to readying myself for the glamorous wedding reception awaiting the 200+ guests at the Club House less than a mile down the road from our home (which with great disdain, Al referred to as “the Draper curse”) and like the Club House itself was located within the private community of Ocean Forest on Sea Island. The kids had already been picked up by a dear friend and trusted ‘sitter,’ providing that my long, hot, indulgent bubble bath might go uninterrupted until I was ready to start primping for the grand affair. Go figure; no sooner had that thought crossed my mind when the upstairs intercom signaled that the front doorbell was ringing. I knew Al was downstairs watching whatever sporting event had caught his interest and crossed my fingers he’d get up to answer the door? After several more chimes he did, but by then I was already out of the tub and wrapping a towel around myself. A couple moments later, I was all dried off but still wearing a large white bath sheet, and before I could slip into a robe or start for the staircase, Al appeared in the hallway outside my bathroom. His face was ashen, and his right hand was holding a large manila envelope, which he began waving wildly in the air. I hadn’t seen him that shaken and upset for years. His voice faltered but nonetheless he began ranting as he started to relay the incident which had just occurred.

“What’s wrong, what happened,” I asked quietly, trying to calm his fury while simultaneously hoping to slow his speech, if even to catch just a few of the words which were spilling from his mouth like lava oozing from the tip of a volcano. There was no tempering his anger, however and the harsh words he employed were coming fast. “That was a God-damned sheriff at the door, serving me with this warrant for Assault & Battery. I’m being f**king sued, by one of the incompetent jerks who stands at OF guard gate #2.” It just so happened that the particular gate Al referenced was almost immediately adjacent to the entrance of cul-de-sac #3 and the large one-of-a-kind (at the time) fenced lot where our home stood. It was also reserved for and meant to be used solely by construction and service vehicles. “Why,” I asked tentatively? “What happened?” I chose my words carefully and spoke cautiously, very aware of how really wrong this interaction could go, if I were to say anything which might elicit more of Al’s wrath. Experience is a worthy instructor, and as such I knew Al believed himself to be far above reproach. This matter required great assiduousness while I “tiptoed” towards the bottom line. Still holding my towel in place, I followed Al down the hallway to the Master, where in typical fashion he paced feverishly from one side of the large room to the next, mumbling incoherently and heatedly while he moved. “Please, just tell me what happened; I’m sure we can figure this out,” I begged of him? He glanced at me dismissively but did begin speaking more clearly. “Last week, I was on my way back to the house to change for tennis, and I drove through Gate #2. It’s closer to the house and there was a line of cars at the main gate; I didn’t feel like waiting. I was passing by the 2nd gate guard booth, when this old gasser stepped outside to stop me, saying I was going the wrong way and to turn around. Like hell, I said. Do you not know who I am? I designed this entire place and am the reason you have a job sitting in that stupid box all day.”

I sat quietly at the foot of our king bed, with a swirl of thoughts circling my mind. I had absolutely no doubt Al would utter such words, but there had to be more? Surely a nasty attitude, condescending tone and raised voice was not sufficient to bring an Assault & Battery suit against someone? As if to read my mind, and because I wasn’t about to interrupt and speak when Al was ‘on a tear’ he continued, explaining how the event played out. “As I got out of the Porsche, the damn fool stepped in front of the car, like that was going to intimidate me. I pointed over here to the house and said, you idiot, I live right there, step aside. If necessary, I’ll just drive over you.” Apparently, the somewhat elderly guard started towards him, and between Al’s irritation with the “nuisance” stop and his haste to get changed and back to the club for tennis, Al explained he had grabbed the security guard by his shirt, just under the collar, and shoved him against the wall of the small guard booth. The exchange didn’t end there though. Apparently, Al went on to tell the guard, “You better get used to looking at my car. I’ll drive through this gate whenever the hell I please…got it?” Whether the guard realized exactly how serious Al was or not, we’ll never know, but we did learn that the guard had some serious intentions of his own. He was obviously not too keen on the type of bullying Al was capable of exacting and sought to right the wrong inflicted by Al. Hence, the Sheriff and the service of a warrant/lawsuit. I also learned Al’s impatience, temper and surly behavior had created other repercussions as well. The Assault & Battery charges provided chapter and verse details of how the security guard collapsed and suffered a heart attack following his exchange with Al on the day of their dreaded run-in. The scenario got darker and darker with every page of the service document but was interrupted by the ringing of Al’s cell. I could tell by Al’s expression, not to mention the incredibly distinctive, almost booming voice on the other end of the line that the caller was Billy Ray. Being a quick study and having followed Al around like a puppy dog for the first several years of work at the resort, not to mention coveting Al’s revered position on the Board of the famed, family-held Island company, Billy Ray had clawed and climbed his way from Landscape Department Supervisor to some vague new position in proximity to my husband’s role as “Master Planner and Design Architect.” The two men had become fast friends and mutually beneficial allies. We used to even go so far as to “joke,” they were partners in crime. Al hadn’t been on the phone five full minutes before the backstory to the Sheriff’s visit was completely unpacked for Billy Ray to absorb. Following their phone conversation, Al appeared calmer, more composed, almost back to his impenetrable and calculatingly cold self. Initially, I assumed that the nasty business of the Sheriff’s visit may have put the kibosh on our glamorous evening, but following the phone call with Billy Ray, Al sounded almost chipper as he told me he was going to shower and get ready for the evening’s plans and our attendance at what had been billed as “THE” wedding and social event of the year.

This isn’t news if you’ve ever read DearEasyDiaries before, and while I can often be a tad repetitious, or take waaaay too long to get to the point, there’s most always some legitimate reason for my circle-backs and detours. Maybe, this next little (or long) bit follows that theme? True to the tales I had been told and thus far experienced regarding the swanky nature of the star-studded, “dog & pony show,” Island affairs, the Club House was indeed aglow, both from the impeccable presentation of the stunning facility to the sparkling crowd of guests in attendance. Black-Tie occasions in the South not only live up to but far surpass all the hype you hear. No expense is spared, no detail overlooked, and the meticulous attention paid to each and every nuanced element of old-school elegance and charm practically takes one’s breath. I always thought my own family of origin, hailing from the South via Alabama, did things up right, even “to the nines” one might say? This fête, however, dimmed all memories of jewels, gowns, and the white-gloved hoopla of my youth.

So too, I’d never heard of any instances when my family added a room on to their home simply to accommodate the plethora of gifts on display for a bride-to-be’s very auspicious bridal shower…oftentimes referred to in those parts as a “Sip & See.” Anyways I digress; back to our arrival at the Club House. The line of uniformed Valet awaiting guests at the Club’s porte-cochère was extensive. Meticulously clad, smiling wait staff greeted us proffering silver trays of Crystal Champagne Flutes bubbling over with the most sublime Champagne cocktail I’d ever tasted. I was delighted to sip the delicious drink while entering the richly appointed interior of the Club House before making our way through the family’s carefully orchestrated receiving line. Once that formality was complete, we mingled a bit while making our way through the crowd… until Al caught sight of Bubba-3 and Billy Ray stridently headed in our direction. The two men glanced over as they reached us and shot a brief greeting my way while simultaneously directing Al to join them. With that, the three men turned on a dime and walked away down the hall towards the men’s locker room. I’ll never know with 100% certainty what the conversation sounded like in the Ocean Forest locker room between those three men for the next ten minutes, but I recognized the pompous look of satisfaction on Bubba3’s face, the pride Billy Ray was radiating having been a part of the equation, and the expression of relief Al wore as the three men rejoined the party. I could also feel the stress dissipate and leave Al’s body as the evening progressed. His demeanor changed. He was suddenly the charming man I first met way back when. For a few brief hours, it almost felt as though we were courting again, and we danced for a good bit of the night. It wasn’t for another couple days when I learned exactly what happened in the locker room that evening. Al’s odd, but upbeat new lease on life went so far as to prompt the sharing of “his good news” with me. Traditionally my husband did not offer to share much, if any, information with me and when he did, it only occurred if absolutely necessary. Possibly when venting to absolve himself, or if he felt challenged by some external source, and was in need of an ego boost or bolstering. I suppose over the years I must have proven a predictable and reliable sounding board. Nonetheless, I was still taken aback when Al arrived home early one afternoon shortly after the warrant/gala evening to change for tennis and paused long enough to tell me the Assault & Battery charges against him had “gone away.” “Oh, thank heavens,” I replied, but how did that happen?” Al explained “he couldn’t disclose the exact details, but it sure is good to have friends at the top of the food chain. Bubba3 came through big time and Cal did what fixers do best… he worked magic.” I must have looked skeptical at his brief explanation because Al continued speaking, saying, “when the retired Chief of Police in Glynn County works as Head of Security for your company, problems have a way of disappearing.” Indeed?

I feel like there’s a “bottom line” or a mini bombshell tucked neatly somewhere in the mix of those last thoughts, words, sentences, etc…

It would be disingenuous to say I wasn’t totally relieved at the turn of events; nevertheless, I couldn’t help but wonder just how the elder security guard felt right about then? After all, Al had been responsible for the man’s collapse, but was not going to bear any accountability nor consequence for the harm he inflicted, even though he admitted to committing the offense? It wasn’t the first time nor would it be the last instance when I felt conflicted by the very uneven playing field, hierarchy, and culture of that Southern community in which my family had become so enmeshed. What if I were married to the security guard and the shoe was on the other foot? What if my husband, who in the execution of his job was standing watch at the construction gate entrance of a very exclusive, gated community and had been confronted, then accosted by some “entitled hothead” attempting to circumvent the very system and standards my husband was employed to protect? What if it was my husband who suffered a heart attack following the physical abuse the “entitled hothead” dished out? Through that lens, it’s more than a little likely I’d have been pretty pissed-off and would have sought and pursued some type of culpability on the part of the bully. Something felt incredibly wrong about the whole thing, and for the first time since we started spending time in the “happy isles,” the light that was shining reflected something new and foreign to me. I began to understand that the phrase “good ole boy system” carried a meaning beyond anything I ever contemplated previously.

It was then that I was suddenly struck by the contrast of legal procedure in lawsuits from state to state. In both New York and California, I personally witnessed Al dealing with lawsuits varying wildly from large-scale real estate embezzlement to a small claim’s court scuffle, one distinguished from the other by large numbers of zeros and outcomes. One suit was settled and the other lost. The most profound difference, however, between those ‘suits’ versus Al’s “withdrawn” Glynn County case, all charging Al with a range of abusive acts, was that in both the New York and California instances, the legal system prevailed as a legitimate process. Glynn County, Georgia… not so much. From Company “fixers,” retired Police Chiefs, egomaniacal bullies (male and female) to assorted sitting Justices, it was all suspect. Reba had it right in her song “The Night The Lights Went Out In Georgia.”

Those years I spent in the South, regardless of how much I adore many aspects of the region as well as my family’s history there, opened my eyes to the “fishbowl” type of environment that areas like Sea Island and St Simons represent. Consequently, a bright new light was shed on the meaning of the phrase, “being a big fish in a small pond.” By contrast, even in the, then incredibly small, community of the Santa Ynez Valley when Al was sued in Small Claims Court for refusal to pay a painting contractor, there was no underpinning of manipulation or bias in the case. The Judge in the tiny Solvang courtroom listened to the parties named in the suit, including the testimonies of Al, the Contractor, and the witnesses who spoke on behalf of the Contractor. Then Judge R. reviewed and highlighted, aloud, his critical summation of the facts documented in the case, all the while the small gathering of attendees in the gallery, the Contractor, and Al, with me beside him, awaited a decision. Al was silent and his expression stony, but I could sense the storm stirring within him. It was only when Judge R. had made his ruling, exacted his orders, and exited the tiny courtroom, that Al stood up, his face a frightening shade of red and indignantly pointed his index finger at the painting contractor who was gathering up his papers to leave. “You!” Al barked in the Contractor’s direction; “yes, you. You will never get an opportunity to be in my company again!” I remember gently tugging at Al’s side to try and calm him, or at the very least get him to be silent and leave. It all felt a bit “Twilight Zone-ish.” I mean, really…WTF?

The Judge had just ruled against Al, ordering him to immediately comply with the terms of the Contractor’s outstanding invoices, in addition to imposing an additional monetary fine, and yet Al was behaving as though he was either an actor on stage putting on a show or was the wronged party who had just been vindicated? One might have hoped I’d have had some type of epiphany? I didn’t.

Connecting all the dots between what I thought (then) were isolated and apocalyptic episodes feels surreal now. The highs and lows of the life we lived were anything but a coincidence and certainly not isolated incidents. They were all tied to lies, and not just Al’s.

I GUESS THE ABOVE REPORTING MUST MEAN THAT MISINFORMATION REALLY IS ALL AROUND US?

THAT THE PARENTS INVOLVED IN THE CASE, WHO “HOSTED” THE TEEN GATHERINGS AND ALLEGEDLY PROVIDED THE LIQUOR, WERE ONLY CHARGED WITH “MAINTAINING A DISORDERLY HOUSE AND CONTRIBUTING TO THE DELINQUENCY OF A MINOR” IS INCONCEIVABLE AND A TOTAL TRAVESTY OF JUSTICE.

Irony is abundant today…everywhere, but unlike some references in its definition, there’s nothing humorous about it. What also isn’t ironic, nor funny, is that there are still places and people who live like the world is some kind of bubble, and its rules and the law don’t apply to them; never have. Take Glynn County, Georgia for example; twenty years later and apparently, it’s as if time has stood still. Don’t take my word for it though. There’s a better than outstanding chance there are others you could ask as well?

*Photo taken directly from social media account of parties involved
SOCIAL MEDIA IS A BLESSING AND A CURSE; I LEARNED THAT LESSON 1ST HAND. I ALSO KNOW SOMETHING THAT MANY YOUNG PEOPLE TODAY CAN’T QUITE SEEM TO GRASP. ONCE YOU POST SOMETHING…ANYTHING, ON SOCIAL MEDIA, IT’S THERE FOREVER. IF YOU’RE BRAZEN ENOUGH TO POST PHOTOS AND/OR VIDEOS OF YOURSELF STANDING, GLOATING AND GESTURING IN DEFIANCE ABOVE AN OBVIOUSLY HARMED AND VICTIMIZED FELLOW HUMAN BEING, CALL ME CRAZY, BUT I BELIEVE YOU DESERVE TO BE IDENTIFIED, CALLED OUT AND HELD CULPABLE FOR YOUR BEHAVIOR…PARENTS TOO!

I always was a “helicopter kind of parent,” one (or many) might say, and I don’t regret it, nor would I do it any other way if given a “do-over.” Regardless, of the challenges, turmoil and distance my style of parenting may have created through the years, I did my best and raised two kids who, despite many familial hardships, are now responsible, contributing members of society. I can live with that…proudly. When my kids started to attend a once sweet, little private school on St. Simons, and my now grown son was just in pre-school, I loved discovering that the school’s motto was, “To whom much is given, much is expected.” From that day forward, it became my motto too… both in parenting, as well as in my own practice. I understood that my life, and my children’s, was privileged and that came with responsibility as well as accountability. When they were bullied, as they both were at that very school, I stood up for and advocated on their behalf. Years later when they inevitably made mistakes, as we all do, each received consequences for their actions. Drag-racing on University Drive meant losing the truck that was provided for you in college. So too, driving when intoxicated meant losing your Driver’s License for a year. Receiving consequences for your actions is called reality and life. It’s no different for me. I’m very careful to own my actions. When I invested a large sum of money and it was mishandled, I bore the damages and reinvented my life, as well as my lifestyle. Starting your life over is no easy task, particularly with every year that we age. The result of a failed marriage and the nine-year legal battle which followed was costly, emotional, and overwhelming, but I survived. The result of a failed financial investment produced far less costly, but similar results, yet again I survived. I’ve co-founded and built a successful business while adapting to new circumstances, just as I’ve cultivated new habits and developed new boundaries. Change is doable, but not if you’re never held accountable.

I’m not trying to be preachy or judgmental; I’m trying to be honest. That said, I would not have wanted my son to be on a sports team, in a high school social group, or college fraternity with any of those boys pictured above, nor would I have wanted my daughter to date, or be anywhere near a single one of them. I wouldn’t wish those hoodlums on any person, school, or location… ever. Oh damn, that sounds pretty bitchy and close-minded, right? Ok, so maybe if EACH of the offending parties were held accountable for their actions after not just inflicting the harm, but “broadcasting” the vicious display of cruelty by recording and publishing it for the entire social media world to view (*see image above, taken directly from “Snapchat) maybe I’d change my opinion? Maybe if they agreed to therapy, rehabilitation and were appropriately contrite, I’d try to be a bit more forgiving? After all, second chances are something we all appreciate, right? Yes, however, we are still talking about Glynn County, and I’m not sure there’s enough sunlight, therapy or disinfectant in the world to do the thorough cleaning which that place is screaming to receive? And, I speak from experience.

BALANCE IS IMPORTANT, AND SOMETIMES SOCIAL MEDIA CAN BE USED FOR GOOD. I’D LIKE TO THINK THE IMAGE SHOWN IMMEDIATELY ABOVE (AGAIN, TAKEN DIRECTLY FROM “TIKTOK”) IS AN EXAMPLE OF A PERSON EXERCISING NOT JUST THEIR 1ST AMENDMENT RIGHTS, BUT DECENCY AND GOOD JUDGEMENT TOO? ~ AT LEAST, I HOPE SO.

Never having met the young man who was violated, nor any of his relatives, I can’t speak to or for them, but I can empathize with them, and I can feel sad about the pain, harm and embarrassment that was forced upon a nineteen-year old, multiple times at the hands of the same core group of teens, evidently with the enabling of certain parents. I can also wish that the young man and his family had sought independent advocates and private legal counsel, rather than consult with local law enforcement who, as referenced above, allegedly had “skin in the game?” That’s a horribly crass way to describe what occurred but unfortunately seems accurate?

Is this the type of justice (and/or abuse of power) afforded to every individual in Glynn County? What does your last name or title need to be, in order to receive such slack and favorable treatment which the multiple offenders in this incident received? Caroline Small and Katie Sasser sure didn’t get that type of favor or justice, and neither did Joe Ianicelli? Is Trent Lehrkamp’s name going to be added to that roster? And, who might be next? There just aren’t enough fierce advocates, nor deep enough pockets, seeking valid and JUST answers to satisfy the questions a rational person might ask when watching the Glynn “machine” at work. When you listen to the circular talk, justification, rationalization, and plenty of good ol “cover your backside,” it’s easy to account for the litany of reports and examples of how Glynn County’s legal and judicial system is broken. Never mind my experience. History and far more people than just me understand that this county is doing far worse than merely “maintaining a disorderly house.” I’m reminded of the old expression, “believe none of what you hear, and only half of what you see.” Even if you only believed a half of what can be SEEN in the heinous display of cruelty via a photo/recording shared on “Snapchat” which Trent Lehrkamp experienced, it’s still compelling enough to warrant far more consequential action than what’s been exacted here.

*THE LIST OF TRANSGRESSIONS ARE MANY AND CAN BE TRACKED EASILY, VIA A MERE GOOGLE SEARCH, BUT THAT DOESN’T PROVIDE FOR OR INDICATE THAT ANY OF THE INCIDENTS WERE ADJUDICATED JUSTLY.*

AS DESCRIBED ABOVE IN A REPORT FROM “THE AUGUSTA PRESS,” DATED SEPTEMBER 4, 2022 BY SANDY HODSON…GLYNN COUNTY, GEORGIA HAS EXPERIENCED AN INORDINATELY LENGTHY HISTORY OF LEGAL AND JUDICIAL ISSUES.
THE REPORTING ALSO CITES A PARTICULAR YALE LAW SCHOOL PROFESSOR, STEPHEN BRIGHT, WHO SAID, “THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN THOSE IN POWER NO LONGER BELIEVE THE RULES GOVERNING THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM MATTER. WITHOUT THE RULES OF LAW, THE MOST BASIC FUNCTION OF THE CRIMINAL JUSTICE SYSTEM, SORTING THE GUILTY FROM THE INNOCENT FAILS.”

It’s doubtful that any of my ranting will do a damn thing, nor make even the slightest bit of difference in Glynn or anywhere else, but just maybe someone, someday, will see a day when the law works as intended, even in Glynn County? Until then, I’m going to pray for Trent and wish both him and his family, as well as other victims everywhere, solace and hope for legitimate justice.

With that said, my mental logjam is cleared. So now I will go back to the post I was working on before all this ugliness occurred. Just maybe in the next week or so, I’ll be ready to hit “publish” on my post entitled “Family Trust?” In the meantime, here I am again finding music inspiring the words my fingers tap out. The song, “Dear Hate,” by Maren Morris and Vince Gill is playing on a loop in my mind right about now. It’s worth a listen.

Do you suppose it’s just coincidence that it took all of 4 weeks between the awful incident which left a nineteen-year old unconscious, barely breathing and dropped at the local hospital in Glynn County, Georgia with severe alcohol poisoning as well as many other indications of physical abuse before any legal action, no matter how insufficient, was taken? Astoundingly, the event has now been officially deemed by local Glynn Police and authorities to have been entirely voluntary by the victim and even preventable. That the investigation into the treatment of the abused youth has “taken up an inordinate amount of time and investigative resources in the county when very serious crimes have also been committed” is nonsensical and a non-starter at best. Apparently, “misinformation caused a huge strain on resources that could have been used elsewhere.” Really? That the investigation of a scenario which left a teen intubated on a ventilator in a local hospital ICU with a blood alcohol level of .464 (far in excess the legal limit in Georgia) covered in foul substances, soaked in urine and dumped at a hospital following the posting on social media of the same heinous scene, portraying certain teens standing above and around an abused teen taped to a chair, could be classified as a “voluntary” act or “a strain on local resources” is just plain unacceptable.

It seems far more likely that the month-long investigation, or cleaning-up of details, the misdirection and forced confusion of events has been per usual the order of the day in that community. Still, I’d like to know who suggested that the teen be sent out of state to recover? Was that an orchestrated move designed to serve a particular agenda? An example, maybe, of the philosophy… “out of sight, out of mind?” Kinda makes you wonder, doesn’t it? I’d hazard a guess that great efforts were made to “muddy the waters,” shifting the public’s attention and outrage away from the incident itself to execute a carefully manipulated game of “whack a mole.” Nevertheless, it doesn’t really matter what I think. It matters what happened? And with that, I’m going to guess that you and I will probably never know the extent of what occurred behind the scenes, but I’m going to try to stay on point, hopefully ending up somewhere close to where I began when I started writing this piece. To that end…

“Be A Light” by Thomas Rhett

In a time full of war, be peace
In a time full of doubt, just believe
Yeah, there ain't that much difference between you and me
In a time full of war, be peace

In a world full of hate, be a light
When you do somebody wrong, make it right
Don't hide in the dark, you were born to shine
In a world full of hate, be a light
(La-la-la, la, la, la, la)

In a place that needs change, make a difference
In a time full of noise, just listen
'Cause life is but a breeze, better live it
In a place that needs a change, make a difference

In a world full of hate, be a light
When you do somebody wrong, make it right
Oh, don't hide in the dark, you were born to shine
In a world full of hate, be a light

La-la-la, la, la, la, la
La-la-la, la, la, la, la
La-la-la, la, la, la, la
La-la-la, la, la, la, la

In a race that you can't win, slow it down
Yeah, you only get one go around
'Cause the finish line is six feet in the ground
In a race you can't win, just slow it down

In a world full of hate, be a light (oh-oh)
When you do somebody wrong, make it right (make it right)
Don't hide in the dark, you were born to shine
In a world full of hate, be a light

Yeah, it's hard to live in color, when you just see black and white
In a world full of hate, be a light

WHETHER IT’S A BEAM FROM THE SUN, OR THE SHINE OF A FULL MOON, HERE’S TO BEING A LIGHT…OUR WORLD NEEDS IT.

“Family Trust” Pt.1

F.I.N.E.