Black-and-white photo triggers link to old stories

 

            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 78^th 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!”

My dad pulled over to the side of U.S. 301 and did what he had to do—deliver David Corry on Sept. 27, 1958. When Big Dink looked up, a state trooper was staring through the window. The lawman then slid behind the ambulance’s steering wheel and took off for Ritch-Leaphart Hospital.

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