Between the years of 1948 and 1953 the flatlands of northwestern Indiana were home to the best sheriff any American county has ever seen. The man's name was Harry, and you would do right in conjuring images of a handsomer, softer-spoken version of Andy Griffith; a man with a tender smile and a spunky wife, and who, in later years, would find a favorite novel in Atlas Shrugged.
Because of its proximity to Chicago, this particular county had an enduring problem with an overflow of mob-related crime and corruption. Even though slot machines and all other forms of gambling were illegal, its presence could be found in nearly every little shop, restaurant, and convenience store in the county. At the behest of Governor Schricker, Sheriff Harry and his two deputies (yes -- all two of them) embarked on a mission to clean house in Newton County.
The sheriff and his deputies painstakingly searched out and confiscated every slot machine in their domain, in spite of the general popularity of and affinity for such things. As could be expected, they stepped on a few toes along the way. But Harry was a man of great determination, and dadgum it, the thing had to be done. Once in his possession, he turned them all over to the judge.
Days later, the slot machines were right back where they'd started. The judge was on the payroll of the gangsters, of course, because what's a truly great story without an abominable setback? Harry and the deputies were back where they started.
What's more, the cheeky criminals had a beguiling notion: pay off the sheriff to look the other way. A fur coat was offered to his wife, but she would have none. $40,000 cash, then? In a day and age when a man's house could be bought for $3,000? Surely Harry could not resist that!
Harry, however, was a principled man. He turned them down flat, and then redoubled his efforts, along with the deputies, to resolve the slot machines once and for all.
One might have thought, perhaps, that he would gather them up, take them to the governor himself. They had been commissioned by Schricker in the first place; why not leave them in his hands?
Never one to expend needless energy, Harry made his rounds to each of the slot machines, this time armed with a sledge-hammer. He and those trusty deputies destroyed every single one.
That man was my great-grandfather. And today would have been his 95th birthday. He passed away when I was only in second grade, but I have the fondest memories of him. I never knew him when he wasn't sick, though I desperately wish I had. He was a remarkable man, and paging through one of those questionnaires that thoughtful relatives fill out for their descendants, I learned that his favorite color was blue; his favorite TV show was I Love Lucy; and that when he first met my grandmother, he thought she was snotty.
I will always miss him, and always wish that I'd had more time to get to know him. But I'm thankful for my grandfather who still remembers stories of when his dad was sheriff, and for the time spent happily discussing such topics so near to my heart.
(Additionally, tomorrow, New Year's Day, would have been my great-grandmother's 93rd birthday. I always thought it remarkable that two people from such a rural area could meet and marry with birthdays on New Year's Eve and New Year's Day respectively. My great-grandma always said that it wasn't fair, because people would party it up for his birthday and be hungover for hers. But it didn't really matter what she said, because whenever she told that particular story, she always had a twinkle in her eye. Photo: Harry and Dorothy on their wedding day.)
Happy New Year, friends!
