Archive for February, 2012

You ask the questions…

February 29, 2012


You ask the questions… you chatter amongst yourselves about the blog in the café’s and the doctor’s offices and grocery stores of your little burg, moving your players about the chess boards of your titillated imaginations and say…

“Was it him? Was it her? Was it them? Who are the 4 in flannel? How could these things have happened here? Who was really involved and how could people have done such horrible things? How do two young girls go missing and nobody asks where they went? How does a crime investigation last less time than a L’Oreal color rinse? Were there any more people who suddenly went missing in 1966 without proper segue to justice… or proper burial… or public declaration? Where are the files? Where are the names? Where is the outrage? What really happened before that night on the Clyattville-Nankin  Road on October 9, 1966?”

But the question you should all be asking yourselves is not contained in those listed above. The real question you should be asking is…


Why has it taken 46 years for anyone to ask them at all?

Rest in peace, my dear girl…

February 28, 2012




Yesterday should have been a day for feathers and yet, none crossed my path. How ironic, for I felt the bald eagle from last November, metaphorically spread its wings high above me and shelter me from harm. I did an interview yesterday and while I wanted to sing from the rafters, this canary clung to the cage of tact and held her tongue. It was a curious day. Sometimes I felt very much alone in my path and then without fanfare, Charley would be near me, his face hinting of a smile—but not committing.  It almost felt as though he was holding back on purpose… watching and waiting, like a child eager for a parent to open a present they had made for them.


Yesterday too was a day for Roxanne. Once my work day had ended, I spent the drive home listening to “Il Divo,” a CD sung by the 4 famous Italian Tenors and while I understood very little of the foreign language spoken, the music was beyond beautiful, their voices primal and striking and it touched my heart so that I listened in silence the entire ride. Once home and stranded in pensive mode, I poured a generous Amaretto on the rocks and sat on the deck- watching the sunlight skip across the water as it began to hide behind the tree line. Everything was perfect. I said a small prayer of gratitude and then at the shoreline, a small frog disturbed the sullen rhythm of the lapping waves and sent out a ripple that grew with each foot of water it consumed. In that instant I thought of the perfection of my placement in the cosmos, the encouragement of my view juxtaposed against the disappointing view my dear Roxanne saw from her vantage point in another body of water 4 hours to my south. I wanted to cry and tell her that not all lakes bore such evil tidings…that I would be happy to share such happy shores of my own with her. And then I bid her to rest with me…there on the beach for a time before she moved on to what was necessary for her evolution.


I know she heard me, for as the buttery sun began to melt beyond the horizon, a small breeze escaped the lips of the hemlock nearby and a long blonde hair drifted across my cheek and tickled the end of my nose.


Was it one of mine…or one of hers?  I brushed the hair away, but it returned time and time again and so I smiled and let the wind and Roxanne play where they willed.


I know that this blog must come to an end, as all things eventually do. I know that there may be some questions asked that may never be answered. But I also know that there have been many questions brought to bare, shadows dispelled and light shed where none has shined for over four decades. Is today the day this blog ends? That remains to be seen. For now, I am content to let Charley grin and Roxanne play and I invite the MOT and Jessica to do the same. Let them rest for awhile and live with me here, in this glorious place that was chosen just for me.


How do I know it was chosen for me?


Because like every other clue presented, certain numbers were offered to R as significant. Over 6 months ago, the exact letters in this address kept appearing to R in the exact order they occur on my mail. At the time I had no idea their significance or what they were tied to. Infact, it wasn’t until I unpacked my first box that it dawned on me that someone had been guiding me to this sanctuary all along.


Who knows… it may have even been Roxanne.

Rest in peace, my dear girl. I am here to keep you safe…all of you!

One word…

February 28, 2012



“So long! And… thanks for all the fish!”

February 24, 2012

Today will be one for the books.
To be specific, “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” by Douglas Adams.

Oh, let’s just say something about going fishing… dolphins… the cosmos…and the famous tag line—“So long! And… thanks for all the fish!”
Well, the other day I set out my pole. This morning I reeled in a fish! And quite a necessary fish to boot. You see, sometimes you know things without knowing that you know them. Even worse, you suspect you are right about someone or something, but cannot prove it until low and behold… someone drops a Mackerel in your lap the size of a 1966 Volkswagen and you are validated!
Well, today I got that Mackerel; albeit a dead Mackerel, but a Mackerel nonetheless and that makes me smile! Why? Because at 6:47 this morning, Charley and I had a little chat. As the drizzle began to glaze the landscape and blur in the darkening clouds, I ran through a sequence of recent events and asked why it is that with so much completed… I hang on the last two chapters of this thing as though I am afraid to commit to the ending.

To be sure they are outlined and for the most part fleshed… but there has been something holding me back from completing the sequence.

Now I have been doing this long enough to know when my subconscious is stalling me. I also know when a segue needs another brick or two for support, so in the interest of waiting on another brick…I asked for a few resolutions to some annoying loose ends and he asked for a little faith.A little meditation, a wonderful bucolic ride and half a cup of coffee later… I had my answer. The time the clock rolled over to 8:30, I had resolution and he had my undying faith.

All in all it has been a very good morning for fishing! Don’t you just love that about the weather? One day sun, one day rain… some days not good for fishing and some days you just can’t beat those suckers off the hook!
So, here’s to a great day of fishing!
Jump in Grim… the water’s warm. In fact…it’s so warm, it’s beginning to boil!
I’d say, it’s time for a bit of a FISH FRY!!!

But what to do? Where to hide?

February 22, 2012




Again, the Numerology in this day astounds and the plethora of 2’s is a good omen. Yesterday I spoke with someone, who had spoken with someone else and so on…and they had much to stay in between the words they spoke. Just like the mathematic values hidden within the date, the hidden values in the escalating numbers on my readership is of a curious nature of late as well. Why? Because there has been an interesting spike in the last two months. Not that the numbers weren’t impressive before, but now? Now it amazes that this case has caught so much fire. People from everywhere now follow the twists and turns of this case, but my interest lies a bit closer to home.


So how many Valdostans now read about the sultry past of their fair burg and am wont to make the connections between the descriptions of the players to the players themselves? How many notes have been taken and names and associations been bantered about in the many café’s and grocery stores that dot the tree lined streets and shady hot spots of your little town?  How many eyes follow you and ask, “Are you the one? Are you one of the 4 in flannel? How much do you know? How much do you hide?”


They ask questions behind your back. “Are the impressions for real, Grim? How do you hide the scar beneath your left eye? Make-up…glass rims? What tale did you tell to cover for its arrival?”


Or Mr. Einstein… how about you? “Where are your rubber boots?” We know your moniker is just a sham. The real Mr. Einstein was a brilliant man, so how do you hide your lack of intelligence, but not betray your passion for the perverse? It’s tricky isn’t it? To be normal, when your sense of the norm is so far outside of the envelope that it cannot be found.


Or how about you; the farmer in the dell? How do you look into the eyes of your loved ones and not see the eyes of Charley’s widow and his children starring back at yours- burning a hole in your truth?  How do you look at your prodigy and not know that you have squandered his integrity by betraying your own?


Do these things not haunt you all?


And what of street signs and amusement parks that border your world? Nothing more to laugh about there is there now? So sad… how all the places that once held sweet memories now have become all those places that cannot help but ooze the last impressions of the lives you snuffed out? Such innocuous landmarks; an intersection here or there, a country club…a hotel room and a shady shoreline or two. Nothing more than walls and windows, trees and air that hold the bounty of your secrets. Once the site of perverse titillation, now all places that you cannot abide.


But what to do? Where to hide?

Hmmmm… If you stay they will eventually put the pieces together and find you out, and if you run- they shall all suspect the same and know why.


Questions, questions…suppositions, suppositions.


Who knew you could learn so much from the dead? Now that is a question I would have proffered over the last two years and not had a problem with answering with positive concurrence. But lately? It is the living that has the more interesting tale to tell. That’s right Grim. I no longer have to chase for the occasional interview… now they come to me to ask the questions- offer their answers. You see this has become the great hunt- like “Where’s Waldo” they now read the clues over and over… map the city, trace the details and move the pawns back and forth across the board of your debauchery- convinced they know the who’s and the why’s of this case.


I must confess, I have been a bit loose with some information here and there, but such is the art of fishing. You chum the waters with the scent of a victim’s blood-toss out the evidentiary bait and then reel in the line nice and real slow… tempting and torturing those who know more to want more and inch by inch they follow the bait back to the boat.


So let’s see… what do I have in my tackle box for today? Some kind of lure that will attract, but not betray.



R likes to run and sometimes when she runs she is shown things. Things like someone being boxed into a corner. Someone who knows what I know and now has no idea what I don’t and that freaks him out.  He tries to hold his tongue, but his ego overrides his brain. Where is she? What does she know? Why won’t she let this go?


He fidgets in his chair. He paces in his window. When will they come again? It eats at his constitution. He is someone who has played the game too long and no longer writes the rules. Some one whose security blanket passed away a year or two ago. Someone who now has no immunity to fall back on. Someone who thinks that toilet paper and his shirt sleeve are one in the same… as if Charley could not tell the difference. He is foolish enough and mortal enough to think that you can wipe away a victim’s blood and escape its taint as long as you change your clothes and your demeanor.


Think it can be done? Ask the shooter- Mr. Russian roulette.


Do you know how he is spending his eternity? He stands at the water and dips his hands in and out- vomiting and cursing that no matter how many times he washes his hands- the blood reappears and he can never get clean. Again and again he dips his fingers in the water and when he pulls them out, the water that drips from his boney digits runs red and this drives him to madness. Every pool… every river… every lake he submerges his hands in produces the same effect and he can do nothing but wail in his agony. There is no forgiveness for what he has done.


Don’t believe in Hell, Grim? It is a real place. Ask the shooter to show you where it is…for it follows him everywhere and now he is following you. Can you feel the flames? You may want to check on the others… somebody’s feeling a bit squeamish. Somebody’s ready to spill the beans and I’m not talking about the MOT. The MOT has his own agenda and his day is coming soon too.


2012 is not the end of the whole world, Grim…just yours.

Have a nice day!


Your photo is here… are you?

February 21, 2012


Interesting numbers in today’s date.

Even more interesting?

My office smelled of pipe tobacco this morning.

I don’t smoke a pipe…nobody smokes a pipe here.

Roxanne’s favorite clock is in this office. Perhaps the pipe smoker from the “4 in flannel” has found his way here too.

Who else has found their way to this place?



Your photo is here… are you?

It was only a moment…

February 19, 2012


Today marks the end of a chapter in my life and I said a quick farewell to the house that a year ago had cradled my hopes for a new beginning. Once cleared of last minute clutter, I latched the door for the last time on the old me who held onto everything…furniture, paintings, old pots and pans, fear, doubt and regret. If I had left by boat it would have taken me less than two minutes to get to my new life and my new home, but that wouldn’t have allowed me the chance to purge.  Suffering under the weight of a soft Spring rain and a few final trinkets and boxes of pictures I’d found of the children when they were young, the farm and my parents… I felt both heavy and light at the same time as the distance gathered in my rear view mirror.

It was an odd epiphany, but as I drove my husband and myself away from one door and down a lovely long drive to another, the weight shifted and the transition was over. Though the drive took only 8 minutes, in another way it had taken a good ten years. The last time I felt such peace in a home lay in a place tucked inside photos at the bottom of a box at my right; photos of the farm. The first place I met Julie.

Isn’t it funny how life works? We try so hard to evolve and bring new adventures and meaning to our lives, only to turn over one small Polaroid and realize that we had been living the life we were meant at the very instant we decided it wasn’t enough. As I crossed the cove and left my old life behind, I was reminded of my new one. Just before my tires left the asphalt of one county and dug into the pitted road of another, an errant car passed by boasting a bald eagle on its plates and I smiled.

Charley was with me no matter where I might wander, reminding me of the injustices I would continue to fight on his behalf and that of many others to come. As I slid into the leafy drive of my new sanctuary, the sun spat a ray or two across the bow of the ‘Stang and lightened the landscape and shore before me. I smiled from the heart. It was only a moment before the drizzle found its way back to the windshield and though I confessed I knew it would not be all sunshine in this place either… I knew it would be a place I could call home… a haven from the outside world, a place to start from scratch and a place from whence great writing would ensue and I was at peace.

Thank you God…

Thank you Charley… and thank you Don.

Oh and BTW’s? I reread Hazel’s diary last night. Did you know that Atlanta offerred Charley a transfer in June of 1966? Hmmmm… wonder why?

I know why!

The tires, the trees, the water…the way.

February 16, 2012


The girls have been talking of late. Wednesday night I heard a song about a girl named Jessica and the following morning I saw two tires- half in and half out while in my travels to work. This morning while I was searching for this file- I ran past a jpg in my files for the suggested Google Satellite link for Roxanne’s remains.

Perhaps it is the holiday that has them stirring- one in the dirt and one in the water. Maybe they have a better take on the human heart and the fashion in which we tend to lie to ourselves about matters of the heart. How we try to convince ourselves we are in love with those we are bound to…how obligation can never take the place of passion and yet, passion is a fickle mistress who is spent quickly and carelessly and is a poor substitute for comfort in our old age when we are want to share a history.

There is seldom a day that both Jessica and Roxanne do not enter my thoughts and there is never a day when Charley does not. He and I are forever and when I feel the sedimentary world that we live in begin to settle in my bones, I reach for him to remind me that I am more of air than dirt…much to his credit, my parents and to R.

Today I woke, warm in both bed and spirit and looked upon a shoreline that twinkled behind clouds with lights of others lives… a front porch light here, a dock light there and I knew inside that I was the miracle. One would think that the last few years have reflected the whole of this experience, but not so. I have traveled from very far to get here. From grief and confusion about my place in the world, my life, my marriage and in my destiny and awoken almost three years later to the potential and the possibilities of my divine purpose.

Jessica and Roxanne are part of this miracle and I am indebted to them both for their part in my evolution; that is why I cannot seem to let them simply wander the ethos alone. I worry that they will not find their way home- that they carry with them the taint of their defaults here on earth and that they measure their worth by the cowards they bedded. You need not carry such a burden any longer my dears. The dogs that betrayed your naiveté will be drug through the streets of Valdosta by their ego’s and their legacies and they will be brought to bear the weight of their indiscretions and their indignities apart from you. I cannot reconcile for you the actions of your earthly past- those are for you to sort and sanction. But I can applaud your innocence and your right to redirect. You are the girls that motherhood somehow forgot…the wayward that begged to be detoured and the shamed that desired to be forgiven. You have that all now and more. Help me bring the “4 in flannel” to heel. Help those who would have information to be bold in their departures and help heal the wounds. Find your way to Charley, to Miss M and to those who will light your path and help through the conduit of R, help me to help you.

The tires, the trees, the water…the way.

I will be waiting on the other side- ready to serve.

I’m here.

Groundhog’s Day has moved…

February 14, 2012


Happy Valentines Day Charley!

That being said, there is another holiday that must be addressed-Groundhog’s Day.  Why? Because the remaining,  “4 in fannel” have tried to burrow their way into obscurity. Moving money and witnesses around- digging in and hunkering down for the long, dark hours ahead.

It won’t work boys…daylight’s coming! What shall it be?

Six more weeks of hiding?


Six more weeks before you confess?

Let’s see who can hide from the light the longest! Bottom line? The only one still digging… is me! Can I borrow your bloody shovel, Grim? Oh… and the compass too? Just so we don’t all get lost!



Time to go fishing again!!!

February 12, 2012


Time to get back to work on Charley and tie up a few loose ends…

Like, when did B-man figure out you had double-crossed him, Grim?

Why was the insurance man’s card in the MOT’s hotel room?

Who lost a tooth that night?

Who’s hat needs a repair?

Who won the coin toss?

Who was Roxanne laying with when they snapped?

Who gave the two roses?

Where is the watch?

Who has the anchor tattoo?

Why G filled out the Death Certificate for the MOT?

Who’s body is really buried in Augusta?

How long did the MOT lay dead inside his hotel room?

And who erased the flight registers for the high ranking official that night?


You see… there are always a few little things here and there that escape me. Or, have they, Grim? Is this curiousity or bait?

Time to go fishing again!!!


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