When I began kicking around the idea of writing about local street name honorees, I wanted the stories to reflect cultural, racial and gender diversity. Ideally, the selections would include a few contemporary people, not just historical figures. That aim led to this column.

After years of commuting, I could drive the roads between Waterford and Hartford in my sleep. Sometimes I nearly did. However, a few years after retirement, I was surprised to notice an unfamiliar sign designating part of Route 82 as the Officer H. David Cordell Memorial Highway. I sent an email to the Salem Town Hall asking who David was and how he got his own road.

The answer was sad but inspiring. It demonstrated that history is as current as this morning’s sunrise and that we all contribute to it every day.

Constable Cordell thought it was a hoot riding around Salem in a pick-up truck equipped with nothing but a bubble light on the dashboard. The truck didn’t have a two-way radio, and since cell phones weren’t available yet, if David saw something suspicious, he had to call the Colchester State Police Barracks from a pay phone. Still, it felt good protecting the town he loved. Watching over Salem made him happy.

David hadn’t had a privileged start in life. He grew up in Asheville, North Carolina, a town hard hit by the Great Depression. Asheville refused to default on its massive debt, struggling with poverty for decades before finally paying back every penny.

The city’s austerity meant not participating in 20th-century urban renewal programs, in contrast to many other cities that were busily improving themselves by bulldozing historic buildings. (For example, New London razed many treasures, including a Mount Vernon-styled mansion on Broad Street, built in 1796 by a friend of George Washington. A grocery store was erected in its place.) The happy outcome for Asheville was the preservation of one of the best collections of art deco architecture in this country.

Asheville’s sense of civic responsibility must have been contagious because David caught the bug and displayed that quality throughout his life.

After high school, David couldn’t afford college, so he went to work in the coal mines, performing dangerous labor that didn’t begin to satisfy his desire to serve others. During the Vietnam War, David enlisted in the Navy; although the war was unpopular, David thought volunteering was the right thing to do. After serving, he mustered out in Groton and became a police officer in Salem.

David immersed himself in his new career. Upgrading equipment, like the bare-bones truck, became a priority. He took courses like accident investigation and crime scene photography, often at his own expense. But his biggest contributions were his character and personality. David had a way with people, quickly earning their trust and adeptly diffusing tense situations. Many parents credited David with straightening out their children. He helped change a tire with the same dedication required for solving crimes. He was Salem’s go-to guy.

When David died in 2001, his family, friends and the entire town of Salem were heartbroken. They and the world had lost a very good man.

According to Connecticut Substitute House Bill No. 295, the portion of road now honoring David used to be called the Jonathan Trumbull Highway. That’s incorrect, and the accuracy of the bill’s wording is suspect anyway, as it misidentifies the location of the road. Still, that made me think about everyday heroes and how fortunate it is that every era has them.

As I learned about David, it occurred to me — and I liked the thought — that if there were a club for “Americans Who Make a Difference,” pedigrees, wealth or fame wouldn’t be requirements of admission. Depending on our service to others, it would be a club that you and I could join.

Carol Sommer of Waterford is a self-proclaimed history nut. She writes a monthly history column inspired by local street signs.