For nineteen years, a man in a lawn chair has sat at the top of Hasty Hill with a hand-lettered sign:
SLOW DOWN—KIDS, FARM EQUIPMENT, AND DEPUTIES AHEAD.
He has cost this county millions in avoided tickets and at least one life we know of.
The county tried to arrest him in 2019.
Last Tuesday, the sheriff’s department tried something else.
They gave him a uniform, a title, and a radio code.
The town is still arguing about whether it is legal.
Roy Setzer does not care.
He is back in the chair.
Roy is seventy-eight and retired from the tire plant.
His chair sits on his own fence line, forty feet off the right-of-way.
That is the only reason the 2019 arrest attempt died.
You cannot cite a man for sitting on his own grass holding his own opinion.
The sign appeared after the Kesterson girl died.
She was sixteen.
There had been no sign, no deputy, and no second chance.
Roy built the warning that week.
He has not missed a rush hour since.
Nineteen years.
Flashers during rain.
A thermos in August.
Truckers flash their running lights when they pass.
That is how the hill says thank you.
The sheriff’s department gave Roy a volunteer position:
COMMUNITY TRAFFIC ADVISOR, POST HASTY.
His radio code is SIGNAL 7—ANGEL REPORTING.
His first transmission became legend:
“Signal 7. Hill’s slow. Everybody lived. Coffee’s hot. Out.”
Part 2
Hasty Hill had always been dangerous.
The road climbed sharply, narrowed near the crest, and curved before dropping toward the farms.
Children crossed near the lower bend to reach a bus stop.
Farm equipment used the road during planting and harvest.
Deputies drove it when responding to calls on the far side of the county.
Drivers who did not know the hill often carried too much speed into the curve.
Roy Setzer knew the road from decades of commuting to the tire plant.
He knew how rain changed the surface and how frost settled in the shaded section.
He knew that a truck coming over the crest could hide a tractor until the last second.
He also knew that drivers reacted differently to a person than to a permanent sign.
A person could point, wave, and make eye contact.
A person could recognize that the driver had not noticed the children.
Roy’s warning began after the death of the Kesterson girl.
She was sixteen.
The accident changed the way Roy looked at the hill.
He built a sign by hand and placed his chair on his property.
The first sign was plain.
The message became more specific as Roy learned what drivers needed to see.
Part 3
Roy sat at the top of Hasty Hill every weekday during the rush hour.
He wore a reflective vest and held the sign toward traffic.
In rain, he turned on the chair’s flashers.
In summer, he carried a thermos.
He watched for children, tractors, trucks, and emergency vehicles.
If a driver slowed, Roy gave a thumbs-up.
If someone ignored the sign, he wrote down the plate number only when there had been a genuine danger.
He did not chase drivers.
He did not block the road.
He did not claim authority he did not have.
He simply warned people before the hill made the decision for them.
Truckers learned the routine.
They flashed their running lights when they passed.
Roy called it the hill’s thank-you.
Residents began bringing him coffee and replacement markers.
Farmers told him when equipment would be moving.
School bus drivers waved.
Roy became part of the road’s safety system without being part of any official system.
The county estimated that traffic enforcement revenue had declined near the hill.
Some officials called that a problem.
Roy considered it evidence that people were slowing down.
Part 4
In 2019, the county tried to arrest Roy.
Officials argued that his sign interfered with traffic enforcement and warned drivers about deputies.
Two commissioners said he was helping criminals avoid tickets.
A deputy approached Roy’s property and ordered him to remove the sign.
Roy remained in his chair.
He was on his own fence line, forty feet from the right-of-way.
The county’s case became difficult.
The sign expressed an opinion.
The chair sat on private property.
Roy was not stopping cars or impersonating an officer.
The arrest attempt collapsed, but the argument remained.
For years, the county debated whether Roy’s warning was a public service or an interference.
Last Tuesday, the sheriff drove to Hasty Hill.
He parked beside the chair.
Instead of issuing a citation, he handed Roy a vest and a radio.
The department offered him a volunteer position as Community Traffic Advisor, Post Hasty.
The sheriff said the department could not ignore the effect of Roy’s work.
If people slowed before reaching the curve, everyone benefited.
Roy accepted the position without changing his routine.
He kept the sign.
He kept the chair.
He accepted the radio code.
Part 5
Roy’s official designation is still being debated.
Some county officials question whether a volunteer traffic advisor can operate from private property.
Others point to the years of safe crossings and slowed vehicles.
The sheriff’s department has not asked Roy to stop.
His radio code remains SIGNAL 7—ANGEL REPORTING.
He uses it when the hill is clear, when farm equipment is moving, or when weather makes the road dangerous.
His first transmission is repeated around town.
“Signal 7. Hill’s slow. Everybody lived. Coffee’s hot. Out.”
The Kesterson family knows why Roy began.
They have never treated the sign as a joke.
Neither do the drivers who see it during rain or fog.
Roy is back in his chair every weekday.
The sign is freshly painted.
The thermos is beside him.
The radio rests on the arm of the chair.
Truckers still flash their lights.
The hill still rises, curves, and drops.
The law may eventually decide what Roy’s position is allowed to be.
Roy has already decided what he is allowed to do.
Warn the children.
Warn the farmers.
Warn the deputies.
Keep people from needing a second chance.
Signal 7 is still reporting.
