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By Homer Hirt
Recently I was asked to present some of my Meanderings, in the form of a speech, to an audience at the local county library.
Actually, it was not “recently”, it was on June 27 at two o’clock in the afternoon and it was at a branch of the local county library, but none of this has anything to do with the title I have given this Meandering.
The very nice lady who introduced me to the overflow crowd of seventeen old codgers had researched my biography and had noticed that I once was a judge, live and recognized as such. She commented that “Once a judge, always a judge”, so I was introduced as “Judge Homer Hirt”.
As I came forward to the podium I looked over my shoulder and intoned solemnly “ALL RISE!” Some did, looking fearfully over their shoulders, others sat frozen in their seats. I decided that the fearful lookers had been hailed into some court or other on at least a traffic charge sometimes in the past.
And now you ask: “How in the everlovin’ blue-eyed world (to quote, once again, Presidential Candidate Pogo) did Homer Hirt get to the bench?
And now I tell you how.
In 1976 I was elected Mayor of the Town of Sneads, Florida. I took office on a Tuesday night, and was sworn in. The following Thursday I received a call from our entire police force, a rather chubby fellow named “Earl”. Earl says: “Did you know that you are due in court Friday afternoon?”
My heart sank.
What law had I broken? My local preacher said that you can sin in your heart……can you also break the law in your heart? I finally asked: “On what charge, prithee?” and Earl pritheed right back: “You know that you are the town judge?”
He was right.
I hauled myself down to our law library, which consisted of two volumes of Florida Statutes of indeterminate age, one on traffic offenses and the other on misdemeanors. I got the docket in one hand, my heart in my other, and I annotated the proper statutes and the minimum and maximum sentences.
The minimum sentences were all “go and speed no more”. The maximum sentences went up to one day shy of a year. Only county judges were allowed to mete a sentence of 365 days or more. Our jail was used to store old shovels, so I found that I, after intoning sentences, could ship the offenders off to the county jail if we would pay for their keep.
So the day arrived, and the hour arrived, and I arrived….clad in a Navy blue blazer, a field scarf (necktie to you feather merchants) and shined shoes.
The gavel awaited.
The two law books awaited.
A pitcher of water awaited.
Earl, transformed for the nonce into the court bailiff, awaited.
Three accused men awaited, none in cuffs… for which I was grateful.
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There were no reporters, no photographers, no onlookers, save for one rather bedraggled out-of-towner.
Earl stood, shifted his Hall’s cough drop from one cheek to the other, glanced around and intoned: “Oyez, Oyez, the Court of the Town of Sneads, Florida, is now in session, the Honorable Homer B. Hirt presiding”.
All rose.
I entered.
All sat.
I sat.
Earl called the first case, which was a speeding zone charge, and the fine was the maximum, which was twenty five dollars, cash or charge, and it was paid. I wondered if this was my first step into becoming known as a “hanging judge”.
The second case was a town worker who was known as “2R”. Until the case was called I did not know his real name. I am somewhat doubtful if anyone else knew his real name, either. Earl was the arresting officer, and he told the circumstances, shifting his Hall’s from cheek to cheek.
It seems that 2R had been observed walking with his elbows sticking straight out from his sides. Earl deemed that 2R, by this evidence, had imbibed six beers. I was somewhat dismayed at how to rule, until the clerk assured me that the more 2R had to drink the more his elbows stuck out, and if they were sticking straight out from his sides, then he was on a five dollar drunk, which he paid, gladly. I would have paid it for him if he would have asked.
The next case was an out-of-towner yclept Horace Y. Jones, and he had brought a character witness with him. This was the third party present, who now came forward for swearing in by Earl the Bailiff, who was also the arresting officer.
The witness insisted that he be addressed as “Colonel”.
The Colonel looked somewhat the worse for wear, as did his seersucker suit and his bolo tie and his white shirt with a stained, frayed collar, and his scuffed shoes.
I questioned him: “Sir, did you become a colonel in service to your country?”, to which he answered, somewhat nonplussed, “I did not!”. I thrust onward: “Then, sir, did you receive your title from the Governor of The Sovereign State of Kentucky for exemplary duties performed for the citizens therein?” and he shook his head.
I pressed on: “Then, sir, just how did you get the title of ‘colonel’?
And then he replied: “It is just like that ‘honorable’ in front of your name……it don’t mean a damned thing!”
Next case, Bailiff, and hand me that water pitcher. A beer would go fine, also, and I will keep my elbows well tucked in.
(“Lagniappe” Cajuns have a word for “a little something extra”. At the bottom of my Meandering I will give you lagniappe.)
Here is the first:
What saves a man is to take a step. Then another step.
(Antoine de Saint-Exupery )
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