How do you step back 40 years in time?
For
me, it was “stumbling.”
I stumbled across an old
black-and-white photograph—circa 1986—that led to an old poster. And that
time-yellowed poster is tied to another story that goes back another 30 years.
First
story first.
When
Joe Frank Harris was Georgia’s 78th governor, he made a push to
crack down on drunk driving. The mild-mannered statesman from Cartersville
wanted the Peach State’s roads safer. Our Jesup newspaper picked up on the
idea, and The Press-Sentinel acquired two junk cars.
One
junker was parked on Wayne County High School’s campus and the other stationed
on the lawn at the Chamber of Commerce. The newspaper supplied sledgehammers
and invited anyone to take a swing and make a bash to emphasize the campaign.
Gov. Harris came to town and took his
turn. The then-50ish governor delivered a crushing blow to a junk car to tout his
safety campaign and ours. We gave him a stack of our promotional bumper
stickers to help spread the word.
(Please allow a slight detour to these
stories. As a state representative, Joe Frank Harris was the go-to guy to
answer questions about Georgia’s budget. So, when he ran for governor, his platform
was simple. Three words—"No New Taxes”—moved him into the mansion on West
Paces Ferry Road. Sound familiar?)
Now, back to the original stories.
As a part of the state’s push for
safer roads, billboards were plastered everywhere. A menacing-looking state
patrolman, wearing dark sunglasses, stared down from the billboards. His
message was: “I HAVE A VERY LOW TOLERANCE FOR DRUNK DRIVING.”
I didn’t know the trooper until 2008.
(No, I didn’t meet him while his blue
lights were flashing.)
But the man behind the dark sunglasses
is the other story.
Eighteen years ago, I tried to solve a
pair of family mysteries that had bumfuzzled me for a half-century. It started with
NeSmith Funeral Home’s phone ringing. On the line was Verla Corry (Mrs.
Francis) in Ludowici.
In labor and frantic, she pleaded, “Please
come quickly!” Big Dink jumped into his 1956 Ford blue-and-white ambulance,
turned on the whirling red light and raced across the Altamaha River. But on
the way back to the hospital, Mrs. Corry cried out, “I can’t wait!”
Once they arrived, the big man, in the
Smokey Bear hat, disappeared.
My dad died in 1998, never knowing who
the trooper was.
In 2008 I wrote a column about the
mystery. And before noon on the day the paper hit the streets, John Hammock
called. “I am that fella.”
Shortly thereafter, John came to my
office with a mini version of the billboard. We chatted. He autographed the
poster. I thanked him. Now, I imagine Big Dink and John are in Heaven, laughing
about the episode.
And all this started with my stumbling
across an old black-and-white photograph.
dnesmith@cninewspapers.com
