The Honorable Homer Hirt, Presiding……

In 1966 my father and I purchased land on the edge of the town limits of Sneads and relocated our Ford dealership. The Town Council incorporated the area and we constructed two new buildings. The following year Theresa and I moved over to our new home nearby, and we became citizens.

Although Homer Hirt, Sr. assured me that his twenty three years as a county commissioner in Gadsden County was sufficient political service for two and perhaps three generations of Hirts, I soon heard the siren call and qualified to run for mayor of Sneads. The incumbent had held office for many years, and there were two other local folks that also qualified, but I went in on the first ballot. The sitting mayor asked for a runoff, not wanting to accept that the “new man from Chattahoochee” had defeated him. But this did not happen and I soon took office as the chief executive officer. One of the other candidates had four brothers living within the city limits, but only got a total of three votes. Our first action as a council was to authorize him to carry side arms if he so decided. He was deserving of this, since he had so few friends.

The first thing that I found out about this new office that I so proudly held was that the mayor had no vote whatsoever, but could veto. Because I was looked on as “that new man from Chattahoochee” I rarely was able to sustain a veto, so I soon began merely registering my opposition to actions of the five man council if I disagreed.

Then I discovered I had another duty.

One day the Chief of Police called me: “Homer, you’re due in court this afternoon”. “My Lord, Earl, what charge?” was my response. “No charge” he replied, “You are the judge”. I was shocked. I immediately went to the Town Hall and discovered that my collateral duty was indeed to preside as town magistrate. I did a quick study of the first law book that I ever opened, the one that told about third degree misdemeanors and traffic codes. By two that afternoon I, with much trepidation, took my seat in the council chambers, ready to dispense justice with Solomon -like wisdom.

The Chief, acting as bailiff, preceded me into the room, saying in a loud voice “All rise”. I then entered and took my seat. He continued: “Oyez, Oyez, the Court of the Town of Sneads, Florida is now in session, the Honorable Homer Hirt presiding”. He then ordered the attendees to be seated.

“The Honorable Homer Hirt!” How resounding! How impressive! How……How….. There were no other words to express my euphoria. The Chief called the first case. It was a simple speeding charge. The miscreant pled guilty, and I fined him twenty five dollars. He looked at me in amazement, but paid the fine. I later found out that my predecessor believed five dollars, charged to the man’s running account with the town, was enough.

I dispensed with the next two cases, not too far removed from the lower levels of miscreantism, and breathed a sigh of contentment. I decided that I would (a) study up on the law, (b) look back on the dockets to see how cases had been handled in the past, and (c) wear a coat and tie so that I would at least give the appearance of a judge that took his duties seriously as he meted out justice, tinged with mercy.

It took some time to handle the first two. The law, while lengthy, was not too complicated. It boiled down to being guilty or not guilty. I decided that it would be unseemly to flip a coin in the tight cases, but I could always call a recess and ponder the facts. I recalled what one of my favorite authors once wrote: “A fanatic is a person that decides he knows what the Lord would decide if only He knew the facts of the case”. I did not wish to be classified as a fanatic, but I felt that it was worthwhile to learn from the arresting officer, the defendant and any witnesses.

I checked the dockets for the past five years. Fines were inordinately low, and jail sentences were practically unknown. I discovered that the court should consider the guidelines for sentencing as given by Florida statutes. There were many reoccurring offenders for the same “crime”. It also appeared that fines, when imposed, were not always collected, or were assessed on the “easy pay” system, paid a little at the time to the Clerk.

The coat and tie decision was easy, even though it threw the Chief, the Clerk and many of the usual attendees off track. It seemed to me that the Chief’s basso pronouncement of “The Honorable Homer Hirt” rang out clearer and firmer than ever before. We were also getting a fair number of onlookers.

As the word got out that I was imposing more drastic sentences, defendants began to show up with witnesses. One in particular stands out. I don’t recall the charge, but when the Chief read out the defendant’s name a stranger announced that he was a character witness. The Chief called him to the stand to be sworn in and referred to him as “Mister”. The witness bristled, and said “That’s Colonel, sir”. I looked at him closely. He was not very imposing. He had a scraggly goatee, his hair was shaggy and over his collar, which was ragged in itself. His string bow tie was frayed, as was his seersucker coat. I questioned him: “Sir, are you entitled to be addressed as ‘colonel’ because you hold or have held that rank in one of our Armed Services?” The reply came: “No, sir”. Then I asked: “Did you acquire the title from the governor of the State of Kentucky or some other sovereign state?” and once again came the negative answer, So I then queried: “Well, sir, just what does that “colonel” in front of your name mean?” and he came back: “It’s just like that ‘honorable’ in front of your name. It don’t mean a damn thing”. There was justice administered immediately in that case, with no tinge of mercy. And after that I got a chair that sat me up higher, by a good six inches, than any other seat in the courtroom. That seemed to cut down on the antics.

And then there came the Case of the Protruding Elbows..

In the employ of the town was a man that was, on a regular basis, brought in for “public intoxication” or, as some wag put it “drunk walking”. He did not harm anyone, and he was usually let off with a stern warning or a small fine.

Then he came before me. The Chief swore him in and stated the charges, saying that the man had downed six beers that day. I asked for the evidence and he stated “Your Honor, his elbows were sticking straight out from his sides”. I stared at him and asked him what elbows had to do with it. He then said “Well, Your Honor, every body in Sneads knows that the more he has to drink the further out his elbows stick, and his were sticking straight out”. The defendant nodded in agreement. I turned to the Clerk for verification. She explained that the man, when he had two beers, let his elbows protrude a little to help keep his balance as he walked. Four beers they were farther out, and with six beers they were straight out, with forearms and hands swinging fore and aft. I could doubt evidence, but I could not argue with such deep knowledge, so I assessed the usual five dollar fine and gaveled the case closed.

Sneads seemed to be eternally and plentifully blessed with folks that would be considered eligible for strict judgments elsewhere. I have never decided whether this is heredity or environment. In my day our Police Department accepted, or at least tolerated, them. One lady was witnessed holding up the rear of a small car while her companion changed a flat tire. Our officers were brave but not foolhardy, and I will be forever grateful that she was never hailed into my one- door courtroom..

“C. D” was a disabled veteran whose prosthetic leg squeaked when he walked. He appeared before me when the arrival of his government check and a full moon coincided. And please do not tell me that a full moon does not affect folks with full pockets and a heavy thirst. C. D. would get rambunctious and be hauled to the county jail. About midnight he would make his one phone call, and it was always collect and always to me. I would accept it and he would begin “Homer, you know I went to college with you”. C. D. also had matriculated with every judge in three counties, according to him. I would send a patrolman to get this well-educated drunk out of jail and home, where he would stay, quietly recalling, I suppose, those halcyon days amidst the hallowed, ivy covered halls of higher learning.



At the court hearing C. D. would always beg off, asking to be allowed to go to a Veterans’ Administration facility for treatment of his alcoholism. Finally, three months shy of the end of my term, I promised him that one more appearance before my court would earn him a term on Captain Dennis Hill’s county road gang, with a peg leg strapped on his stump. This impressed him so much that he quit drinking and never came back.

I suppose that those days when he and I were classmates in college finally counted for something.

Christmas? Bah, Humbug…and here’s an APC for you!

When I married Theresa I soon discovered I had a woman whose overriding purpose in life was to PURCHASE CHRISTMAS GIFTS. She began in July, bought, exchanged, discarded, and then bought more gifts for kinfolk, friends, neighbors and casual acquaintances. This was all right, except that I gained the reputation as a Scrooge, since I never shopped for gifts. I really had no need to do so. I gave gift certificates occasionally, because the Book of Nicodemus mentions them, and who am I to argue with an authority like that?

Now, with Theresa gone some three years, I struggle with inappropriate gifts for appropriate people. I have given advice to newly-wed men on gift giving, but this does not pertain to me at this time of life. There is no dearth of catalogs in the Commander’s household, but I don’t believe that lighted garden gnomes are suitable Christmas gifts, and that is what most of my catalogs seem to feature.

I have decided to continue with gift certificates, good at stores and mail order houses and at the bar in Madison’s. I highly recommend that if you get a gift card from me you use it at the latter establishment, and tell Mark the Owner that it came from me. I keep looking at his array of business cards, reproduced in brass and affixed to the half-wall behind the first row of tables thinking that I will find mine there. It hasn’t showed up yet, but if he can trace additional cash flow back to me, there is hope.

I remember great, and not so great, jokes about gift giving from the past, such as “What do you give to a man who has everything?” and the answer is “penicillin”. This may have to be explained to my younger readers since penicillin is no longer the only cure for social diseases.

Many years ago, when Chattahoochee’s commerce centered around the four railroads that terminated there, a game warden came to town one evening near Christmas time, and had a few drinks with some friends and then went to the store to buy a pound of raisins that his wife had requested. And then he had a few more drinks and bought another pound of raisins. And then a few more drinks……and he ended up with twenty individual pound packets of raisins. My father found out about this and ragged him unmercifully. A few days later, my father left his overcoat in a somewhat unusual place. The game warden found it and returned it. The following Christmas a pound of raisins mysteriously appeared under our Tree. And for twenty years the raisins appeared at the Hirt household, sometimes mailed from California or New York, often gift wrapped. This was never mentioned by the two friends, and after twenty years the raisins no longer appeared. This event was not explained to me until I was in my late teens. Up until then I was mystified that other folks in town did not get raisins under their trees each year. I had always assumed that Santa had something special for us.

In 1952 I was attached to an aircraft squadron on Guam and was supposed to receive orders to stateside. I sent the word to my folks in September that I was practically on the way home and they quit corresponding with me. But my orders had been sent to Jacksonville and were lost. Christmas came, and I was the only man in the squadron without so much as a card for the season. I went out and knocked two coconuts out of a tree, opened them with ceremony as though they were gifts, and ate them. I told this to my children as part of our family time, until one year there was a whole coconut on my plate where turkey and dressing should have been. I no longer mention this strange “gift”, but I still remember it.

Once I thought that I had the right gift for Theresa. She announced that she had seen a framed picture of General Robert E. Lee at Floye Brewton’s `antique shop, and that if I bought it for her she would not ask for anything else for Christmas. The next morning I beat Floye to his shop and purchased for $150 this final answer to my wife’s desire. I did not even haggle with Floye, which seemed to over joy him. A week after the holiday Theresa and I were reading in the family room when she looked up and said “That picture does not look right”. I assumed she was speaking of the location, so I offered to hang it on another wall. “No, I mean we have to redecorate”, she stated. Two months later we had sixteen Civil War prints, new color coded furniture and carpet (Confederate gray and red, what else?) and I had a bill for about $12,000. I had purchased the right gift, but I did not understand the total costs.

As you may surmise, the custom of exchanging Christmas cards also has gone by the boards. There is not only a hassle in maintaining lists, but a great deal of guilt is associated with the process. If you cull “Uncle Joe” because you have not received one from him for twenty years, he will most certainly send you one this year. So it is best not to send any at all and get the guilt over with.

I have a tradition that is not connected with the season. A while ago I commissioned a painting by a well known maritime artist who is also an old shipmate of mine. The painting is of the USS TWEEDY, a destroyer escort, and my last ship. I have had some nice note cards printed up with a reproduction of the painting on the front. I use them for birthdays and “attaboys” throughout the months. My daughter, Ashlee the Nutritionist, refers to them as my “All Purpose Cards”, or “APCs”.

So now I take time to send notes of appreciation to folks whom I feel have done something worthwhile. A few go to politicians, but more to men and women that have made a difference in my life, my community and my country.

The Children Home Society has received several APCs, since that is where Theresa and I got our three children. Usually a check is enclosed.

The Chipola College Foundation will receive one, also with a check. We have established a scholarship in Theresa’s memory, and it has served several students in the last three years. I will use this to honor our children, and this will keep me from trying to select suitable gifts for them. They may pout, but they can’t be openly critical.

Some years ago a fine lady named Becky Champion realized that the Apalachicola, Chattahoochee and Flint Rivers had something in common other than the vaunted “Water Wars”, and that is the opportunity for nature, cultural and heritage based tourism. A comprehensive study by Randall Travel Services, one of the nation’s premier tourism groups, confirmed this. Becky passed the reins on to Carole Rutland, who became the Executive Director of Riverway South. Under Carole’s leadership the concept is developing, and we are on the way toward a worthwhile north-south connection that will mean a great deal to Jackson County and the other five riparian counties on the Apalachicola River, as well as counties in Georgia and Alabama I have a special “APC” for both of these ladies.

Cynthia and Wayne Watkins of Seacrest Wolf Preserve will get one, thanking them for what they do for my friends Teton and Legend and the other animals, and for putting up with me when I go down there and just sit on the porch and rock instead of doing hard labor like the other volunteers. Many of the other volunteers are young service men and women from military bases close by who choose to work at Seacrest on their days off. I, of course, outrank the lot of them, and I get first call on the porch rockers during breaks.

Senator John McCain will get an APC. The McCain family has meant a great deal to me and to our country, and I bristle when I hear the conservatives in my Republican Party denigrate the Senator. I have come close to challenging some of them to duels: single shot paint guns at twenty paces, perhaps. John McCain is a war hero, has served his country all of his adult life, and he still serves us, fighting against inappropriate spending in Congress. Read his book ‘Faith of My Fathers” and decide if you could tolerate what he came through as a prisoner of war. I know that I could not.

But my biggest “All Purpose Card” is going out to the readers of my column.

Two years ago Sid Riley asked me to write an occasional piece about eastern Jackson County. He has allowed me to branch out and share stories from my past and sometimes to encourage folks as we move into an uncertain future. Sid does not pay me, but neither does he charge for this weekly ego trip that I take. My real pay is when someone tells me how he or she looks forward to reading my column. By the way, so far the most mentioned one is “I’m Not Obese, I’m Just Big Boned”.

So, if Sid will publish this, and if Stephanie the REAL EDITOR will put it in the right place, and if the Head of the Shipping Department does not put a label over my name, I will be pleased.

And just look at the postage I will save by not having to send cards!

I AM NOW AN OCTAGENARIAN

But I may still go to the Methodist Church on occasion!
This title came to me because I have known some folks that think “octagenarian” has something to do with religion. It doesn’t, unless you include the fact that most of us read the Bible more often than we once did, but only because we are studying for our finals.

The day has come…. and gone. On December 14, 2009, at 6:00 AM, I reached a milestone in my life, although at the present moment it seems more like a millstone.

I am now eighty years old.

Please don’t tell me that it is “eighty years young”. In the early mornings after my three mile walk (with a little running thrown in), I feel young for a short time. Then I have a cup of coffee with my friends at the Table of Truth and Justice in Chattahoochee, or I check my E-mail, or I plan my calendar for the week, and I feel most, if not all, of those eighty years.

According to my mother I was born at 6:00 AM on December 14, 1929. I grew up thinking that the song “Dixie” was about me, since it goes: “In Dixie’s land where I was born in, early on one frosty morning”, and if mid December is not usually frosty and if any time before 7:00 AM is not early, then I have been living a lie. I choose to believe my mother, since she, unlike my father, never sold cars, and thus had a solid reputation. She also was not a lawyer, and that placed her even higher on the veracity scale.

I have learned that I do not need to read the entire obituary column in the paper. I just read down through the “H”s, and if my name is not there, I should have a pretty good day. By the way, does it bother anyone else that folks around here die alphabetically?

I am sometimes amused by the way these notices are written. Some of the deceased I knew pretty well, and I wonder if the typesetter got the wrong name at the top. I don’t go to many funeral services any more, but I have been to a few that, after listening to the preacher praise the deceased, I wanted to go up and open the casket and see if we were burying the right person.

Several months ago I was in Pensacola with some old shipmates, and one announced that he had written his own obituary. When queried about the reason behind this, he stated that it was so they would “get it right”. I then asked him if he had told of the two fine looking New Zealand women that showed up at his father’s house ,with luggage, looking for him after his ship had returned from the Pacific. He mumbled something noncommittal, so I decided that if I outlive him I will be certain that his column will include that event. This may be embarrassing to him now, but we were all very envious then.

In spite of the years, my mind is still like a steel trap, although a little rusty and slow to spring. If you ask me about someone, I will recall his name, but usually not until three o’clock the next morning. I will then call you and set you at ease if you wish. It is the least I can do for an inquiring mind.

A few nights ago I was watching NCIS and admiring Abby Schutto, the Tattooed Lady of that show, when Jim Roberts called. He described a woman that he had shared a pew with at a funeral service that day. I was sitting in the Republican pew just in front, and she asked him if I were Homer Hirt. He assured her that I was. I am certain that my strong resemblance to Sean Connery confused her. As we were leaving, she spoke to me and I knew her, but I did not recall her name. It seems that Jim was impressed with her “singing voice”(HAH!), but did not know her. Jim will be eighty in a few weeks. He confided in me that he “knows a lot of people but can’t recall their names”. He is going to make a very good octogenarian. I welcome him to the ranks of the forgetters, even though I am ahead of him alphabetically, and will be listed that way in the obits.

My father lived to the age of eighty four and my mother to eighty nine. I, who have lived a life beyond reproach, will probably make it ten more years. Here are some of my goals.

Most of my readers know about my planned race with “The Runner” on my eighty fifth birth day. She runs a mile in eight minutes. I am covering a mile in sixteen, but I have brought it to that point from twenty minutes in less than a year. So I am on track. I will continue with this endeavor.

I would like to keep writing for the Jackson County Times, in spite of the machinations of one or two of the staffers. Mangling Editor Sid Riley usually places my column with the want ads, and then tries to charge me by the inch as though I were an advertiser. Stephanie the REAL EDITOR, a charming and intelligent lady, corrects this and not only puts me ahead of “Pet of the Week” but has been placing my name and the page number of my column in the masthead. Then the Head of our Shipping Department negates this by sticking mailing labels over it.

I intend to keep going to Seacrest Wolf Preserve and working there as a volunteer. So far owners Cynthia and Wayne Watkins have not put me on the “wolf poop” patrol. They think I am a hero. I assist where I can and I enjoy spreading the word about this very unusual experience a short fifty miles from our county. When you visit give my regards to “Teton”, a very special wolf and a real hero.

I am a member of some organizations that have to do with our rivers, and I intend to continue with them. I have been involved with the “Water Wars” for about twenty years, but I have yet to receive a medal. I also have not been shot at, so that balances out. My knowledge about port and barge operations is worthless when compared to that of the general public. It is somewhat like being a high school basketball coach in Jackson County. If the coach drops dead during a game, there will be at least one hundred fans in the stands that feel capable of stepping in and taking over his duties.

I hope that I will continue in good health and that my American Express card will allow me a couple of future trips. I want to return to Gettysburg Battlefield and argue with the guides, who sometimes tell it all wrong. I have also done this at Chickamauga and Shiloh, much to my grandson’s chagrin, who accompanied me and stood to one side as I argued, and tried to act as though he did not know me. That’s why I kept the car keys in my pocket.

And I would really like to go to Maine. I want to sit on the rocks and look at a real ocean and then go to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. One of my ships spent so much time patrolling off Cape Hatteras, “The Graveyard of the Atlantic”, that there was talk of placing a permanent marker labeled “USS TWEEDY” on the navigation charts.

I realize that these trips will be better if I have someone to accompany me, other than my grandson. I am thinking about a contest to select a companion. It would be all expenses paid for her, and maybe the Head of our Shipping Department could assist me in collecting applications, since she only has to affix labels once a week and has a lot of time to spare. I would require that the selectee be a female, twenty years my junior, does not like Elvis Presley and looks good in a French maid costume.

But wait, that’s who I want for a housekeeper!

A Date That Will Live in Infamy……..

I was one week shy of my twelfth birthday, and I was visiting at my grandmother’s home in Tallahassee. Suddenly someone called out, and we rushed to the radio. It was early afternoon. The commentator’s voice was somber. The Japanese fleet’s bombers had attacked Pearl Harbor without warning!

None of us were sure where Pearl Harbor was. Finally an atlas solved the problem, and we settled down to glean whatever else we could from the sporadic newscasts.

The next day our President, Franklin D. Roosevelt, spoke before Congress. His message was short. It began “Yesterday, December 7th, 1941---a date that will live in infamy..” The voice that we had heard often during the country’s days of hard times as he communicated hope through his famed “Fireside Chats” was filled with resolve as he asked that a declaration of war be passed.

And it was passed, with one dissenting vote.

Through the next days and weeks the country awoke to fully realize the terrible losses that our fleet and army air force has suffered, not only in Hawaii but in the Philippines and in almost all of the lands that abutted the great Pacific Ocean.

Our way of life in the United States was altered. Even more altered was the way that our Navy was to fight war. The attacks on Pearl Harbor were on the battleships and cruisers moored side by side in the shallow bay, and on the supporting craft that were essential to the operation of the large ships. Battleship after battleship was sunk or disabled. The most famous, the USS ARIZONA, went down in shallow water, and today is a memorial. Other ships tried to clear the harbor entrance. One destroyer departed under the command of an ensign, the lowest rank in the Navy. He left his commanding officer in his wake as he took the ship out to safety.

When word got back to Washington about this early Sunday morning attack on Pearl, one high official said “You mean the Philippines, don’t you?” The vaunted “Yellow” battle plan, in place for years, was no longer valid.

Fortunately our carrier fleet, such as it was, was at sea. The Japanese war planner Admiral Isoroku Yamamoto was counting on the carriers being in port, but they were not. This changed the way the Navy saw its mission. Heretofore the carriers were used to protect the battleships. Now they were the primary weapon of offense, and they carried the war very effectively to the enemy. The Battle of the Coral Sea, the Battle of Midway and other engagements were stories of our planes against their planes, each side seeking to sink or disable these mobile airfields.

We civilians back home followed the news carefully, with many young boys my age hoping that the war would last long enough so that we could take part in the action. We endured rationing, shortages, scrap drives and good and bad news for the next four years. The good news would be the battles that we eventually began winning. The bad news came as the names on the lists of casualties going to every city and town in the forty eight states.

We heard of combat heroes and watched newsreels of leaders pinning medals on young men with the “thousand yard stare” as they recalled Guadalcanal and Tarawa and Iwo Jima and Okinawa. Just before our invasion of Okinawa we heard of the most devastating weapon of the war: kamikaze planes. Named “divine wind” for a typhoon that had once saved Japan from invasion, these planes were flown by young men who intended to kill themselves, in the proud tradition of the Bushido code, and at the same time take with them an American warship. Our formations of ships protected the carriers in the center of a huge circle, with battleships and cruisers in the next ring and, finally, in the farthest out positions, a scattering of picket destroyers, the first ships to feel the brunt of the attacks.

One day Arliegh Burke, who would later become the Chief of Naval Operations, listened in on a radio transmission. It was from a young ensign on one of these picket destroyers. He was the only officer left alive. One gun was dismounted, the bridge was demolished, the ship listing badly. The young man said that the ship could make five knots, could still make steerageway and had two guns left in operating condition.

With a blend of horror, pride and pity, Burke listened to the conclusion of the young officer’s report: “I am an ensign. I have only been on this ship for a little while. I have been in the Navy for only a little while. I will fight this ship to the best of my ability, and forgive me for the mistakes I am about to make”. The communication stopped, and Burke never learned the identity of the man or the ship, but he never forgot his words.

In a book years later about the Korean War, the author asked: “Where do we get such men?” The answer, of course, did not need a\ reply. We got them from a free country with high ideals.

And we still get them there.



Remember Pearl Harbor!



(Note: This is not meant to be a comprehensive and historically accurate account of the attack on Pearl Harbor. It is my personal recollections, beginning at the time that I, as an almost twelve year old boy, heard about it mid-afternoon on Sunday, December 7. It is also contains observations from my study of the War in the Pacific, which was largely a navy war).