It is a simple story yet all of life is in the telling. My brother Jim and I were born in a small Southern town in the Southwest corner of Georgia. In the springtime large magnolia trees blossomed sprinkling the neighborhoods with their lovely white bouquets. Yellow daffodils filled the air with their sanguine fragrance. The summers brought Spanish moss that hung high from large oak trees and swayed in the summer breezes. We walked barefoot skipping along unpaved roads and rode our bicycles to the nearby creek where we scavenged for crayfish. There was a sweetness that pervaded our lives. Yet appearances were paramount, silence was golden, gossip was shared, and secrets were hidden. There was an unstated proper order to this tranquil life. It was not to be disturbed.... And yet it was, generation after generation after generation. What is the evidence?