The hospital room where my father lay deathly ill from emphysema and pneumonia was small and sterile. All of his friends in Alcoholics Anonymous were gathered in the cluttered waiting room, telling stories and recounting fond memories of their time with Dr. John Mooney. This was 1982, and my father had been an upstanding citizen of Statesboro for 23 years.
A lesson in second chances


Sign up for the Herald's free e-newsletter