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Ticket to Romance

J. Ross Archer

    The blinking red, white, and blue lights I see in my rear-view mirror startles me. Daydreaming, I must not have been paying attention to how fast I was driving. I pull over and wait for the highway patrolman to approach my car. I know to be aware of small rural communities and their speed traps, but I guess I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. The state patrolman gets out of his car after a pause of a few minutes and approaches. I wondered what I had done wrong, speeding, lane violation? I roll down my window and wait.
     “Good evening, officer. Was I doing something wrong?”
    “You were doing fifty in a thirty-five mile per hour zone, but that’s not the only problem you have young man. I ran your tag through the outstanding warrants list, and my computer search showed the car you’re driving is stolen.”
    “But that’s impossible, officer, I bought this car new; I can show you the paperwork.”
    “We’ll let the Screven County Sheriff sort that out, young man; you’re in his jurisdiction.”
    He finishes searching my person. “May I look at your registration, driver’s license, and insurance card? I remove them from my wallet as fast as I can and hand them to him.
    “They appear to be in order; you may put them away. Mr. Archer, please get back into your car and follow me to the county jail.”
    “That sheriff’s cruiser behind you will follow you.”
    We drive only a few blocks to what appears to be the jail, a two-story brick building that would be attractive but for the bars on the windows. The officer in the sheriff’s car gets out, walks over to my car, and opens my door. I find it strange that he wore civilian clothes without a gun or badge visible.
    “Welcome to the Screven County Jail, Mr. Archer. I’m Donald Jamerson, Sheriff of Screven County, Georgia. Come inside, and we’ll go about resolving this stolen car problem.”
    I follow him into the jail through what looks like the living area of someone’s home. He noticed the puzzled expression on my face and explained.
    “In this part of the country, Mr. Archer, many small-town sheriffs like myself live in the jailhouse. The bottom floor of this building is my home.”
    He motioned to the two women busy in the dining room and made introductions.
    “Mr. Archer, meet my wife, Elizabeth, and my daughter, Joan.”
    “I’m pleased to meet you, ladies.”
    The courtesy that is being extended by an arresting officer, and sheriff at that, baffles me. He is taking me, a possible felon, into his home and introducing me to his family; I am perplexed.
    “We are ready to eat dinner, Mr. Archer. Please join my ladies while I go to my office and make calls about your situation.”
    He sensed my hesitation and extended the invitation once more. “Go ahead. It’s perfectly Ok.”
    “I’m sorry, sir, I’m just confused by the treatment I’m getting here.”
    “Yeah, I guess it is a little unorthodox. I’ve been the sheriff of Screven County for over twenty years, and before that, I was a Georgia State Trooper for twenty years. So, Mr. Archer, I’ve learned a great deal about people. I observed right away that you’re a clean-cut young man, and you don’t look like you would be a threat to anyone. Just relax and join my wife and daughter for dinner; I’ll be with you shortly.”
    I am less than comfortable as I sit at the dinner table, but both women put me at ease with their warmth and charm. Elizabeth and Joan are very nice looking and outgoing. Joan appears to be around twenty years old, and she is especially attractive. I realize I’m hungry and eat while engaging in pleasant conversation. I become more at ease as dinner progresses.
    “Tell us of yourself, Mr. Archer, where are you from and where are you headed?” Mrs. Jamerson seemed interested in learning something about my life.
    “Please call me John. Well, I was born and raised in Fitzgerald, Georgia, and I’m twenty-four years old. I completed my three-year tour with the army four weeks ago, and I’m headed to Dahlonega, Georgia, to complete my senior year at North Georgia College. My mother and father live in Fitzgerald, and my sister is a nurse in Albany. I believe that covers my life in a nutshell.”
    “Oh, so you took a break from college to serve a tour in the army?” Joan is not only pretty, but she also has a delightful voice.
    “Yes. I ran out of money at the end of my junior year, so I joined the army and saved enough money to return to school and finish my degree and my ROTC requirements.” There is a wide grin on Joan’s face, and Mrs. Jamerson is smiling, too.
    “It will surprise you to know Joan is a sophomore at North Georgia now! My goodness, what a coincidence. ROTCÉthat’s the military part of the college, is it not?”
    “Yes, ma’am, it is.”
    Sheriff Jamerson returned to the room and joined us at the table.
    “What are you folks talking about; did I hear excitement coming from the table?”
    Mrs. Jamerson relates the gist of our conversation to the sheriff, and he is equally surprised by the North Georgia College connection between his daughter and me.
    “Well, what a pleasant coincidence, imagine that,” he said with a grin. The sheriff has a habit of smiling every time he speaks—a pleasant, reassuring smile.
    “Excuse me for interrupting your conversation, folks, but I want to put Mr. Archer at ease. I learned that the tag number of the stolen car you’re driving is one digit off from your tag number recorded in the state computer system. The state bureau said the mistake was a computer glitch. That news relieves you, I’m sure, son. At least for your trouble, you were able to meet the two of the prettiest ladies in Screven County— and you had a good dinner. I’m sorry I had to put you through a scare and inconvenience, but you are once again a free man and, by the way, here’s your ticket for speeding in my county. You may mail the fine to the address on the ticket.”
    “I deserve the ticket, sheriff, but I never thought I was not free. Not only were you and your family nice to me, but you even welcomed me into your home. This interlude was not an inconvenience, Sheriff Jamerson. It was a delightful treat. Thank you. This incident gives rise to a story that no one will believe. However, Sheriff Jamerson, I want to ask you a question, if I may.
    “Ask me what you like.”
    “Why do you not wear a uniform, a badge, or carry a gun? Isn’t that unusual, sir?”
    “Well, it is unusual, but it’s like this, son, I know everyone in this county, and they know me, so there’s no reason to advertise who I am when they already know me. You might think it odd because most sheriffs wear official attire and carry guns. I’ve never felt the need to carry a weapon in this county. Does that answer your question, son?”
    “Yes, sir, it does. Thank you.”
    “Well, listen, it’s late, and the local motel is closed for renovations. Why don’t you stay over tonight in our guest room and continue your trip to Dahlonega in the morning? No sense in driving on tonight. That will allow you and Joan to talk about changes in the school that might have occurred while you were in the army. Since the two of you will be classmates, it would be rewarding if you two got to know one another.”
    “Are you sure that’s not too much trouble, Mrs. Jamerson?”
    “Not the slightest bit of trouble; that settles it then, breakfast is at seven o’clock, John.”
    “Excuse me while I clear the table. Joan, you and John go out on the porch and get acquainted.”
    “I have to respond to a call out in the county. I’ll see you in the morning, Mr. Archer,” said the sheriff.
    Joan and I sat in the swing on the front porch and talked for two hours, getting to know each other and discussing changes at the college. Time passed too quickly. Our conversation came easily as if we had known each other for a lifetime. We talked about life goals, and we talked about someday having families. We talked about our dreams and aspirations, and we talked about many things other than college.
     “Joan, I can’t believe what has happened over the past three hours, but I will not resist it. What a night!”
    “It is rather unbelievable, isn’t it? It’s getting late.” Joan rose from the swing, kissed me on the cheek, and wished me a good night.
    The most important thing I learned that evening was that Joan did not have a boyfriend. This young lady smote me, and I hoped our relationship might continue and blossom when we were back in Dahlonega. Something told me she shared my anticipation.
    The unplanned meeting with Joan and her family occurred on September 3, 1960. I married Joan on July 22, 1962, and I still have my ticket to romance.

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