My family moved to Koinonia Farm in 1965. Koinonia was a racially-integrated commune in south Georgia, founded by my dad's cousin, Clarence Jordan (I've got a link over there if you want to learn more). The locals didn't much like Koinonia--there was a history of drive-by shootings, and whenever my teenage sister sat down in the high school cafeteria, that whole side of the room would clear out.
Sometime in early fall that year, my mom had a car accident. Nothing major, just a little fender bender in the grocery store parking lot. The state trooper came, and everybody agreed that it was the other lady's fault . . . until Mom gave her address as Koinonia Farm. Then somehow she ended up with the ticket and the blame.
Soon thereafter, Mom went to the doctor because she missed her period, and thought it was because of the accident at the grocery store (fortunately the doctor would still see patients from Koinonia). "Well, you have had an accident," he determined, "but a different kind."
Oops. That was me.
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