My mother died in 1979, murdered by a drunk driver in Harris County.

He was the stereotype of a town drunk. Not the adorable Mayberry RFD, Otis Campbell type. He was the sort of human detritus who give the words "sorry, no good, no account" meaning. He was in his 40s, divorced several times over and living with his mother. He seldom held a job for long and hadn't had a driver's license in years. Ditto for car insurance.

His list of alcohol-related arrests covered three typed pages. In a small county where everyone knows everyone else's business, the only mystery was why he was still out driving the roads on a daily basis, tossing his empties into the bed of his pickup until they made a sizeable mound behind the driver's compartment.

One mild September evening at dusk, he barreled through a stop sign on a county road and T-boned my parents' car. An ambulance took my mother to St. Francis Hospital in Columbus. Eventually, investigating officers heard her killer snoring in the woods nearby, shook him awake and hauled him off to jail. He was out on bond before my mother was out of the operating room. Six months later, after several brain surgeries, my mother died as a result of her injuries. She was 49.

The Assistant District Attorney for Harris County was irritated by my inquiries about the driver's case. Remember, this was back in the day when victims were incidental to the criminal justice system, an aggravation at most. There were no advocates, no system to keep victims and their families advised about the status of prosecutions.

I'll never forget the ADA's dismissive, impatient little laugh when he told me the case had already been settled. My children lost the chance to ever know their grandmother and Harris County's premier drunk was free to roam the roads again. All it cost him was $500. And that snotty little ADA went on to become a Superior Court judge. If there's justice in any of that, I've yet to find it.

There's comes a juncture when you have to let go. For a long time, I was tempted to keep up with that drunk, to track his subsequent arrests and violations, perhaps launch a civil suit. In the end, I did nothing but mourn my loss.

I still think about that drunk driver from time to time. He's probably long-dead by now. Either his liver gave out or he drove his truck into something less pliable than my mother.

It's impossible not to run through the "what-ifs." What if someone had taken that guy's keys? Not for good, just for a while. Long enough for my parents to get through that intersection and on down the road to Columbus. What if drunk driving had been treated as the serious offense that it was rather than a cultural inevitability?

At least that latter "what-if" is coming to fruition. In the ensuing 33 years I've seen both laws and attitudes about drinking and driving change. I've seen courts get serious about drunk driving offenses and I've seen schools implement comprehensive alcohol education programs. DUI schools are doing a booming business and treatment programs are becoming both available and mandated. Most importantly, I've seen attitudes change. A falling-down drunk is no longer viewed as an amusing life of the party or a lucrative shtick for up-and-coming comedians.

Recently, I was flipping through channels when I came across the 1981 movie, "Arthur." In it, Dudley Moore is supposed to portray an adorable drunk. But it doesn't play that way today. Now he looks like a pathetic loser. And funny it's not.

Last week, during the Christmas holiday, 17 people were killed in automobile accidents on Georgia roads. Several crashes involved drivers who had been drinking. One of the most heartbreaking losses had to do with a driver of a Ford Bronco who crossed the center line, hitting a Kia Spectra. The Spectra's driver along with a passenger and her 27-day old child were killed. The Bronco's driver has been charged with DUI along with a plethora of other offenses.

Monday night, it'll be time to ring in the New Year. Please, please be careful. Plan ahead, entertain wisely and, whatever you do, don't let drunks drive. It's not worth it to them and it's certainly not worth it to the rest of us.

I'll close with an Irish blessing taught to me by my mother, Lee Hunt Hamrick (1929-1979): "May hope, love and warmth be in your heart's possessing, and may the New Year bring you and yours many blessings."

Teressa Glazer is a Gainesville businesswoman. Her column appears biweekly on Fridays and at gainesvilletimes.com/viewpoint.