Ronda Rich

Syndicated Columnist

His name is Calvin. There will never be a monument, a bridge, or dirt road named for him.

But in this part of the South, his name, Calvin Stewart, will be engraved in our hearts forever.

Calvin was a patrol officer for the local sheriff ’s department. From the time I moved here, he left brightly-colored Post-It notes on the fencepost or mailbox. It always had a lengthy note attached with words of kindness — such as he agreed with something I had written.

For about 10 years, I thought I was special and that I was the only one who received these notes of humor, kindness, and encouragement. Then, one by one, I discovered that he left them on houses throughout a five-mile radius.

I first met Calvin in the post office, dressed in his uniform. He, the postmaster and I began a conversation about firearms.

“I know how to load and shoot but like Scarlett said in ‘Gone With The Wind’: ‘I can shoot straight if I don’t have to shoot too far.’” He looked serious. “Miss Ronda, you need to let me teach you. I want you to be safe. And some’ums likely to try to hurt you when the mister isn’t around.”

One day, Tink, who long made friends with Calvin, was at Mama’s house, was setting up for a live social media event we were about to do. I pulled into the driveway to see Tink’s SUV backed up to the side porch and a county sheriff ’s car behind it. There was Calvin, in the bulletproof jacket he wore until he was 72, and his hand on his pistol, ready to draw.

“Miss Ronda,” he said seriously as I got out of the car. “I think someone’s tryin’ to break into your Mama’s house.”

I tried to hide my smile. “That’s Tink. We’re going to do some live social media.”

He relaxed, removing his hand from his holster. “He’s got a new vehicle. Just wanted to make sure ‘uns were safe.”

Of course, when we went live on the air, I asked Tink, “What were you doin’ with the law down here?”

Until John Tinker moved from Beverly Hills to the Appalachian foothills, he had never heard the expression “the law” — this despite the fact that Tink, a very hard worker from the age of 14, had worked for the Vermont State Police while he was attending a very fancy college.

The sad day came when Calvin on Patrol (COP) left post-it notes saying that he was finally retiring. The entire rural community felt like he was moving to another planet.

When I discovered that no one was planning a retirement celebration, I said to Tink, “We have to do something.”

I went to our little town hall and they readily agreed to help. I borrowed crystal, china, silver (thank you Sherrill), made food, ordered flowers, decorated, and asked the Attorney General to write a letter to thank Calvin for his 50 years of service. Calvin’s eyes glistened when he saw the beautiful spread and all the people who came to write post-it notes for a scrapbook. It was the South at its best.

About three months later, I stopped by town hall. “Oh!” exclaimed Sandra, “Calvin left something here for you.”

It was a sizable wooden case with an antique key and a greeting card attached. I opened the card to find a drawing of Jesus, looking heavenward, and a note from Calvin saying he remembered that I’d once written a column about Singer sewing machines. He had found this one, in the wooden case, about a hundred years old, at an antique store.

“I wanted you to have this Singer. It needs some work but would be worth it. Again, I have so much appreciation for what you did for my retirement party. It meant the world to me.”

The hearts of most Americans are downright good.

Ronda Rich is the best-selling author of the new “Sapelo Island: A Stella Bankwell Mystery.” Visit www.rondarich.com to sign up for her free newsletter.