Emanon’s Journey

Springtime in Georgia is a little bit like heaven. The dogwoods are in bloom, and the smell of honeysuckle is almost intoxicating. Being from Maine, Georgia always seemed so green, warm - gentle.

I never lost that springtime impression, although for myself, life in Georgia was anything but gentle. I went to Georgia for all of the wrong reasons, and 5 years later, I ran away from Georgia clinging to my little baby daughter, and in fear for my life.

Sometime in the early 1970’s, young, idealistic, naive … I moved to Georgia for the love a fellow I’d met in Illinois. He’d had me meet him in Michigan, and together, we’d driven down to Atlanta. I was going to be “his girl.” He was smart, handsome, blond … and very, very paranoid. In fact, he was so paranoid that he decided it wouldn’t be safe for me to know where he lived. I had been going to stay with his mother … so, bewildered, disbelieving, I stood with my suitcase outside of a little motel within view of the airport, and watched the only person I knew within 1000 miles drive away.

I was pretty resourceful, but this was a whole new game for me, and I had no idea what to do. I’d spent most of the little bit of money I had on the bus trip from Maine to Michigan, reassured by my friend that I wouldn’t have to “worry about that” once he and I were together. During the trip, I had hurt my foot; it was painful enough to keep me from wearing a shoe, and I was a long ways from Atlanta proper, way too far to walk. There was nothing else for me to do but check into the little motel with what little funds remained, and regroup … make some decisions.

A few days later, still barely able to hobble along, I’d used the very last of my money to take a taxi into downtown Atlanta. I told the driver about my situation, and he was kind enough to bring me to the only place he thought I’d be able to put a roof over my head - and not get raped … or worse … it was a commune - a hippie commune. Now that I look back, I realize how lucky I was that the driver was an honest man … I was far too trusting.

Things at the commune were extremely strange. It was an old house near Little Five Points, there were no closets … no doors. Sheets were hung in every room, turning each corner into a makeshift alcove with barely even an impression of privacy; my spot was a little hall closet with a beaten up, stained mattress, and a sheet across the door. The “proprietors” of the commune lived in the only room with a door, and there were rumors that there had once been 3 people living in that room, but that they were now down to 2 … and that the circumstances behind that change had been more than a little suspicious. I was not happy to be there.

Just around the corner was another commune - smaller, and safer. Through the benevolence of a fellow who frequented both places, my situation improved just a bit when he arranged for me to move into “Crazy Dave’s” commune.

One young fellow who visited there, an attractive red head named Dale, stood out from the rest. I found him to be interesting and attractive, and it seems that he thought the same of me.

Thus began a turbulent, downhill slide into near oblivion. The next 5 years led me through such dark places that it sometimes hurts to simply remember them. I followed him into a morass of drugs - and worse. He was verbally and physically abusive, wouldn’t allow me to hold a job, kept company with adult childhood friends who worked for organized crime, and was jealous to the point of insanity. I loved him - but I was terrified of him.

In the last year of our marriage, things had become very frightening. He’d moved our trailer out into the “puckers” … behind an old farmhouse in Cumming. We had no power. He ran everything on a few car batteries which he charged up during the day with a lawnmower motor. Our overhead lighting came from dashboard bulbs. We had no phone. He’d come home from what was his fourth job in less than a year, hopped up on speed, angry and violent. I knew - I was certain, that it was only a matter of time before he killed me in one of his ever increasing fits of rage.

The last week I was there was a nightmare. The kidney problem which was later to become a major issue asserted itself for the first time in my adult life. I was also struggling with a distracting, widespread case of poison oak … and was five months into a pregnancy which was proving to be even more difficult than the first one had been.

There was no fridge, and the food had to be kept in a plastic cooler. All we’d had in the cooler for a number of days had been some bologna, a few tomatoes, some mayonnaise, and some slices of American cheese. There was no bread. This is how I’d been feeding our baby daughter. Also, with a kidney infection, I was unable to hold any of those items down, and very little in the way of liquids. I was beginning to be afraid for the baby I was carrying.

On that last fateful day - April 28, 1977, Dale came home crashing from the amphetamines he still hadn’t admitted to me that he was taking. There was no food. Some young friends who lived a few miles away had dropped in earlier, inviting us all over for supper. I think they knew what the situation was with us, although it had never been discussed between us. Half afraid, I mentioned the invitation to Dale when he came home. I didn’t like telling him that anyone had been to see me, because I knew that it made him angry for people to come while he wasn’t there. He refused to take them up on the offer. I told him that Dena, our little daughter, needed some food … if we couldn’t go eat at Curtis and Debbie’s, could we please buy some food? No … he wasn’t shopping for food. He threw himself onto the bed, and promptly passed out.

In his condition, I felt certain that he would be there, crashed, until the next morning, and that there wouldn’t be anything for Dena to eat … or for me to try to eat. I made the mistake of thinking that he was deep into that post-amphetamine “dead zone” when I said: “I’m not going to put up with this much longer.” He flew from the bedroom as if he’d been shot from a rifle, furious. I was holding our daughter in my arms when he did - which probably saved me.

He advanced on me, backing me down the narrow trailer hallway, telling me over and over to “put the baby down.” I wouldn’t. Of all the things he had done, he had never raised raised a hand to the baby - or to the two children from his first marriage. Dena was safe … and while I had her, so was I.

I told him that I would only put her down when he promised not to hit me, and he told me that he couldn’t promise that. I told him I’d put her down if he let me leave the trailer … and he agreed to that. I’m sure he was thinking that I had no place to go … so he had me whatever I did.

I wasn’t sure if I trusted him to keep his word to let me leave, but I couldn’t stand there forever. She was heavy, and she was beginning to squirm - sensing something was badly wrong. As I put Deneen down, I felt a rush of fear wash over me, and drill a hole in my back as I slid past Dale as quickly as I could, and made my way to the door.

I left the trailer, and numb with dread, went up the yard to the farmhouse. Up until this time, I’d never told anyone about our problems - no one knew that he beat me, and only a few young couples with whom we were friends could see how we were living. Whatever information they had, they garnered from observation, because I wasn’t one to confide in anyone.

In a haze, with my heart pounding so hard that my vision was almost completely red and black, I knocked on the door of the farm. Mrs. Riggot, a sweet gentle lady, came to door. I asked her if I could use her phone to call the police … concerned, she immediately moved out of the way, and motioned for me to come in.

While I was on the phone, humiliated, frightened, yet very calm on the outside, I begged for the police to come so that I could take my baby, some clothes, and leave peacefully. Mrs. Riggot came into the room and exclaimed: “He just left with your baby! She’s only in a diaper!” Meanwhile, the tinny voice in the receiver was telling me that if he hadn’t beaten me, or threated to kill me, that there was nothing they could do … and Dale had just left with Dena.