Outside The Box

Last week, we wrote “A Shadow on the Badge,” remembering some of the misfortunes afflicting the Towns County Sheriff’s Office over the past half-century; misfortunes that seem disproportionate to the small size of our community. A few folks—among the unfortunate number who inform their opinions by reading headlines—thought the article was unsupportive of law enforcement. Perhaps it was a vocabulary problem. A shadow is not a stain, and a reflection is neither.

The risk of attracting low-information responses goes up when we float a draft of an article on social media hoping for feedback or engagement. Sometimes that works. Frequently, it’s not worth the effort it takes to select all the images containing bicycles and traffic lights just to be able to log on.

Thank God for newspaper readers, whom we’ve long maintained are smarter than your average bear. Studies consistently show higher engagement and knowledge retention among readers of print, while those who rely primarily on social media platforms like Facebook for news can be deficient in those areas (except, of course, for my own Facebook friends and yours). Social media encourages rapid responses without full engagement, while newspaper readers, being more deliberate, invest greater effort and are more likely to “think before they speak.”

So this week, we’ll continue the discussion for the more deliberate readers among us and tell a story that highlights the personal risk and sacrifice required by anyone who wears a badge, no matter how they are remembered in the historical record or the court of public opinion. The cold weather that just arrived in our area is a perfect segue.

I don’t think I’ve ever been colder than on March 12, 1993, camped out in the Horse Creek WMA with a group of adjudicated teenagers, stranded after flooding rains were followed by temperatures in the teens and sustained winds of over 40 mph. Communication with the outside world was sporadic. Phone lines were down in many areas, and when we did get a call out, it required an hour-round-trip to a payphone.

The Georgia DNR and the Telfair County Sheriff’s Department were well aware of our situation, and we mutually decided that our best response was to shelter in place. Over 100,000 people in central Georgia were without power due to freezing rain and wind. The kids, in their cold-weather sleeping bags inside tents pitched in a young stand of bushy loblolly pines that protected them from the wind, were better off than most of their parents shivering at home. We also had enough peanut butter and “government cheese” to heat a small warehouse.

Meanwhile, one hundred eighty miles to the north, “The Storm of the Century” buried Towns County under 2–3 feet of snow with drifts over 8 feet in places due to the relentless 50 mph winds. Temperatures dropped to single digits, and widespread power outages lasted for days.

My widowed aunt lived alone at the end of a long gravel road, and her nearest neighbor was over half a mile away. Family and neighbors checked on her during the beginning of the storm, and when the roads became impassable with snowdrifts and downed trees, they continued to call to make sure she was okay. Country folk look after their neighbors in hard times.

When my aunt stopped answering the phone, someone called emergency services, but they were unable to commit to a rapid response without a verified emergency. They were simply overwhelmed. Roads that would later be plowed with the help of the National Guard were treacherous and, in places, impassable because of the number of downed trees.

When Sheriff Rudy Roach heard that my aunt’s safety was in question, he loaded some blankets and a chainsaw into his personal vehicle and set out on the 12-mile trip to check on her. I can only imagine the risks he faced: tires spinning in the snow, stopping to clear downed trees, ice forming on the windshield, and a constant wind bringing low visibility in blizzard conditions.

He found my aunt in her dark cabin without power. The fire had gone out, and the inside temperature was well below freezing. She was bundled up in bed, covered with quilts and blankets. Sheriff Roach physically carried her out of that house through the snow and drove her to safety. He saved her life.

Stories like this—of quiet heroism in the midst of a blizzard—remind us that wearing the badge isn’t about glory but about fulfilling a profound duty. I didn’t hear about my aunt’s story from Rudy himself; he never mentioned it.

Sheriff Roach’s story does not stand alone. There are countless others that can be told of each and every one of the administrations “shadowed” by misfortune, whether they are remembered for their last day in court or the rumors that float to the top of the historical record to obscure the depths like an oily film on the water. They are stories which remind us of the selflessness that defines true law enforcement: stepping into the storm when others cannot. May their sacrifices never be forgotten, and may the weight of the badge always be lifted by the strength of the people they serve.