Local Legend, Sonny Baca: A Life of Service, Honor, and Heart in Socorro County

After nearly 50 years in business, 83-year-old Sonny Baca is ready to close his shop doors—but not his connection to the town he’s helped shape for decades. “You just can’t afford to run a business anymore,” Baca said from his office at Baca’s Towing, shaking his head at the rising costs of tires, fuel, and insurance.

“Everything’s gone completely crazy, and you can’t find dependable people. I figure I’ll just keep the property and turn it into storage. Something simple, so my wife won’t ever have to worry.”

That mindfulness of the bigger picture has defined Baca’s life. Born and raised in Socorro County, Baca served in the U.S. Army during the Cuban Missile Crisis and early Vietnam years. His pride in service runs deep, but his stories come with a realist’s edge. “We had to go with World War II equipment,” he said, chuckling. “But people were brave. Nobody was afraid to stand up for what was right.”

That same grit carried him into law enforcement. In 1976, during America’s bicentennial, Baca was elected sheriff of Socorro County. Around two years prior, Frank Chavez, owner of the Owl Bar in San Antonio, had been murdered and the case had gone cold. During his campaign, Baca vowed to bring the killers to justice. After being elected, he made good on his promise and cracked the case he said everyone had given up on.

“I told them, if I didn’t solve Frank’s case in my first term, I wouldn’t run again,” Baca said. “People said I couldn’t break myself out of a paper sack. But we did it.”

Baca said the investigation faced resistance from all sides—from the DA’s office to local judges—but persistence paid off.

“We had to go all the way to Mexico to bring back a witness,” he said. “When the suspect finally confessed, it wasn’t just justice for Frank—it was justice for this community.”

His law enforcement philosophy was simple and rooted in compassion. If he busted kids partying, he’d give them until Sunday, when he’d see their parents at church, to tell them what they’d been up to. “Because,” he said. “Who cares for you more than your mother? Your father? You knew the parents. You knew the community. So you took care of the community.”

After serving four years as sheriff and a term as undersheriff, Baca left the force when an old Army injury caught up with him. But his sense of duty never wavered. In the early 1980s, he founded Baca’s Towing, a business, he said, that was built on honesty, hard work, faith, and the support of his wife Genivive, whom he married in 1967.

“Everything we have is because of her and me,” he said. “She’s my partner in everything. She’s always stood beside me.”

Through the years, Baca also helped preserve local history. When the county considered removing the old Bataan cannon from Socorro Plaza, Baca stepped in to save it.

“That cannon meant something,” he said. “It was dedicated by local men who survived the Bataan Death March. We raised the money ourselves [through Baca Towing], cleaned it up, and set it up again. It’s still standing there today.”

He remembered when the cannon first arrived, in the mid ‘50s, he said. He had gone to town and had run into the sheriff, Lee Graner, whom he said was always a larger than life hero in his mind. He said Garner was there, dedicating the cannon, with around 10 original POWs gathered huddled around him, hugging and crying.

“I was out there, shining shoes,” Baca said. “When I got home my mother asked, ‘What’s new in town?’, and I told her about the cannon they were putting up. She said, ‘Do you know what that indicates? Son para Bastardos de Bataan. The [Battling] Bastards of Bataan.’”

When, as an adult, the city wanted to tear the cannon down, Baca said he “made a stink about it.” He took it to his workshop and restored it. before long townspeople were stopping by with $1, $5, to help the cause. In the end he and his friend, Joe Saavedra, whose father was a POW, raised enough money to not only restore the cannon but install the Veteran memorial that still stands at the Isidro Baca Veteran’s Park.

Even as he prepares to slow down, his words carry the same conviction that’s defined his life.

“This country’s always been full of good people,” Baca said quietly. “We’ve just forgotten how to look at each other as Americans.”

If you would like to make a recommendation for the Local Legends feature please email jcarranza@dchieftain.com

After nearly 50 years in business, 83-year-old Sonny Baca is ready to close his shop doors—but not his connection to the town he’s helped shape for decades. “You just can’t afford to run a business anymore,” Baca said from his office at Baca’s Towing, shaking his head at the rising costs of tires, fuel, and insurance. “Everything’s gone completely crazy, and you can’t find dependable people. I figure I’ll just keep the property and turn it into storage. Something simple, so my wife won’t ever have to worry.”That mindfulness of the bigger picture has defined Baca’s life. Born and raised in Socorro County, Baca served in the U.S. Army during the Cuban Missile Crisis and early Vietnam years. His pride in service runs deep, but his stories come with a realist’s edge. “We had to go with World War II equipment,” he said, chuckling. “But people were brave. Nobody was afraid to stand up for what was right.”That same grit carried him into law enforcement. In 1976, during America’s bicentennial, Baca was elected sheriff of Socorro County. Around two years prior, Frank Chavez, owner of the Owl Bar in San Antonio, had been murdered and the case had gone cold. During his campaign, Baca vowed to bring the killers to justice. After being elected, he made good on his promise and cracked the case he said everyone had given up on.“I told them, if I didn’t solve Frank’s case in my first term, I wouldn’t run again,” Baca said. “People said I couldn’t break myself out of a paper sack. But we did it.”Baca said the investigation faced resistance from all sides—from the DA’s office to local judges—but persistence paid off. “We had to go all the way to Mexico to bring back a witness,” he said. “When the suspect finally confessed, it wasn’t just justice for Frank—it was justice for this community.”His law enforcement philosophy was simple and rooted in compassion. If he busted kids partying, he’d give them until Sunday, when he’d see their parents at church, to tell them what they’d been up to. “Because,” he said. “Who cares for you more than your mother? Your father? You knew the parents. You knew the community. So you took care of the community.”After serving four years as sheriff and a term as undersheriff, Baca left the force when an old Army injury caught up with him. But his sense of duty never wavered. In the early 1980s, he founded Baca’s Towing, a business, he said, that was built on honesty, hard work, faith, and the support of his wife Genivive, whom he married in 1967. “Everything we have is because of her and me,” he said. “She’s my partner in everything. She’s always stood beside me.”Through the years, Baca also helped preserve local history. When the county considered removing the old Bataan cannon from Socorro Plaza, Baca stepped in to save it. “That cannon meant something,” he said. “It was dedicated by local men who survived the Bataan Death March. We raised the money ourselves [through Baca Towing], cleaned it up, and set it up again. It’s still standing there today.”He remembered when the cannon first arrived, in the mid ‘50s, he said. He had gone to town and had run into the sheriff, Lee Graner, whom he said was always a larger than life hero in his mind. He said Garner was there, dedicating the cannon, with around 10 original POWs gathered huddled around him, hugging and crying. “I was out there, shining shoes,” Baca said. “When I got home my mother asked, ‘What’s new in town?’, and I told her about the cannon they were putting up. She said, ‘Do you know what that indicates? Son para Bastardos de Bataan. The [Battling] Bastards of Bataan.’” When, as an adult, the city wanted to tear the cannon down, Baca said he “made a stink about it.” He took it to his workshop and restored it. before long townspeople were stopping by with $1, $5, to help the cause. In the end he and his friend, Joe Saavedra, whose father was a POW, raised enough money to not only restore the cannon but install the Veteran memorial that still stands at the Isidro Baca Veteran’s Park. Even as he prepares to slow down, his words carry the same conviction that’s defined his life. “This country’s always been full of good people,” Baca said quietly. “We’ve just forgotten how to look at each other as Americans.”If you would like to make a recommendation for the Local Legends feature please email jcarranza@dchieftain.com