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.