There is a preponderance of bumper stickers here in Florida that read “We Don’t Care How You Did It Up North”.  The message is directed toward recent retirees who like to speak at town hall meetings  with their ideas on how things ought to be done differently.    The point is well taken, however, there is one story that took place in my old home town of Crooked Springs, Indiana, that will never happen down here.

Our town was just like any other.  It had a village idiot and the other one which I will not give the common descriptive name because I consider it too degrading as it fits this particular dissertation.  The first gentleman was not really an idiot.  In my judgment, he didn’t do crazy things–he just did things crazily.  He, of course, became the butt of the community’s jokes but it did not manifest itself in any sorf of depression on his part.  He would laugh right along with the rest of us.  The second gentleman simply fell victim to demon rum. 
 
image via wikipedia

For the purpose of this narrative, which, by the way, is true, I’ll refer to this gentleman as ”Pete.”  Pete was homeless.  He lived on the bank of Saltcreek about a quarter-mile southeast of town.  He was the town’s handyman–could build or fix about anything.   One thing I might mention:  you never paid Pete until the job was completely finished or he would go to Fuzzy’s and get drunk and forget to come back.   Moreover, he was a sign painter without peer.  He would hitchhike to the county seat or other nearby towns to paint gold leaf lettering on business windows. Pete did not paint the letters directly.  He would daub big globs of gold paint on the glass, allow it to dry overnight, then return with a single-edge razor blade.  He would scrape away the paint he didn’t want leaving behind exquisite script unmatched by any big city artisan.  For this he was paid good money.  He could probably have purchased a home.  Instead, he bought whiskey.

Living on the creek bank in the summer isn’t all that bad.  As a boy I’ve done it a few times myself on weekends.  Wintertime, when the creek freezes over, is a different matter and that’s where the justice part of this story comes in.

Every so often Pete would get in his cups to the point that the town marshall would have to haul him in.  The  Justice of the Peace would sentence him to 30 days in jail and then suspend it until a later date.  Pete would carefully plan these episodes so that , during the summer months, he would be arrested six times total.  Each time he would be sentenced to 30 days, suspended until later.  Then, when the first frost appeared on the pumpkins in October Pete would turn himself in to the sheriff and spend the six cold months of winter in jail.
That’s what I call justice with a little compassion thrown in for good measure and you sure won’t come across it in Florida.

Well, the years passed and a group of WCTU ladies who never knew Pete but heard of this disgusting travesty got up enough votes to put the understanding Justice of the Peace out of office.  The new one put Pete in jail during the summer and let him duke it out creekside in the winter.  Two farmers running their trap lines found him one morning just after daylight.    He could have entered the VA’s nursing home but Pete was never much on entitlement programs.  He wouldn’t have liked knowing that the county had to pay for his burial.