The sounds of the forgotten men were terrifying

      I choose this writing prompt because I thought that it would be a good title for Memorial Day. Memorial day and Veteran's Day are days when we thank our servicemen for their service. This is a great notion and many people have taken to doing this all of the time. This is a great idea. I believe that many young people join the military to accomplish something great, something larger than themselves, and this idea alone makes them worthy of our thanks. Military men are often fans of tradition and values. They want to join because they had fathers and/or grandfathers who were servicemen. They are proud of their lineage and wish to inherit some of the values that they respect in others. Their days are spent doing things that I can not understand for reasons which I can not understand. I am a pacifist. I think that we should all get along and work together to improve society and humanity among all countries and nations. Even though this is what I feel should happen, I am not blind enough to think this will work. War is often necessary for peace. With war comes casualties. I think Markus Zusak' character Death said it best in The Book Thief, "I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.” 

     On Memorial Day we lay flowers at graves and remember those who went before. Memorial Day was established to remember those who died in the Civil War and we have lost so many more servicemen over the following years. My challenge to those who wish to honor those servicemen who still live and breathe is to do more than say thank you. "Thank you, is an automatic response that we teach children to say. It is always nice to hear,  but think about what the servicemen have done. It is reported that at least 20% of those returning from the Iraq have PTSD. (Many people including myself find that number unbelievably low.) Many more suffer from depression and alcoholism. At least half of those do not seek treatment. At least 5,000 to 8,000 servicemen commit suicide every year. (Veteran's Statistics) This shouldn't be a surprise we are taking young men who may have never seen death and we are showing them how to kill and watch their friends be killed. I can not imagine the trauma seen daily for these men. We teach them that if they show emotion they are weak and asking for help is not "manly". We send them back to civilian life and we expect them to readjust and we are surprised when they have difficulty. "He was in the war, and he was so strong." Next time you see a former serviceman ask how their doing. Ask if you can hang out with them. I took a writing class with two of these young men and not only were their stories amazing but they were quite frank and honest about their difficulty readjusting to life. 

       I may not agree with war or even why we participate in it, but I have respect for those who do what I can't. I think of those men who lost their live in the civil war, in fields of blood where they fought their brothers, where death was more likely caused by infection than a bullet. I think maybe they were the fortunate ones because can you imagine trying to go back to working on a farm after living that nightmare? The sounds of the forgotten men are terrifying, let's try not to forget them.

“Veterans statistics: PTSD, Depression, TBI, Suicide.” Veterans and PTSD. September 20, 2015. Web. [month, day, year accessed.] www.veteransandptsd.com/PTSD-statistics.html

The necklace: explaination

     The last story that I posted feels a bit shoddy. My best explanation was that it is an effort to combine fiction and nonfiction. The necklace hangs with my other necklaces. It was a gift from my mom who knew I liked it. She was raised in Seal Harbor Maine. She wanted to get off the island and eventually took a job as a nanny and then joined the army to do so. Her background always amazed me. She had an accent and we used to give her a hard time for being a Maniac, but she left this small town in Maine by herself and created her own life when it wasn't a very common thing for women too do. Her father drove the school bus (a sled in the wintertime), worked maintaining roads on the Rockefeller estate, and worked on crab boats. I never knew my mothers parents. They were gone before I was born, but I see them as very hardworking people doing what it takes to survive. My mom learned sailboating from one of the Rockefeller boys, babysat for Dick Van Dyke (she can't stand him and we rarely saw him on tv) and was beautiful and had no problem finding dates. I couldn't understand why she would leave this area, known nationally for it's scenery. I traveled back with my mother a few years ago and I understood why she left. I have lived in small towns, but her town was smaller, both in physicality and in mentality. I can understand seclusion due to weather, but I can't imagine the level of seclusion Maine weather would create on an island. It is beautiful country, but I couldn't live there. I am glad that my mother left. I am proud of her level of independence, to leave at such a young age, to begin a life as a nanny and in the Army. She finally met a guy from Idaho and has been happy ever since.
    My character is Anne. I like to think that there are a few parallels, but I can't imagine my mom as as a character. I have problems with combining fiction and nonfiction. I think stories should be one or the other, but I can understand wanting tell a story that you didn't witness. This necklace is such a story. Mom told me that a boy had given it to her and she later heard from the girl that it was stolen from. I loved this story. It is the sort of story that you never hear from your parents. I love the necklace, but I love the connection that it has made more. Anne is not my mother my mother us far more interesting

The Necklace

Anne didn’t think that she had ever wanted anything quite as badly as she wanted to get out of class. It was Thursday and there was one week left of school for the summer. She had started counting down the days last month, crossing them off the calendar in her her room every morning as she got ready for school. Ending the day with math was not Anne’s choice. It was hard enough to focus at the beginning of the day, but by this time her mind was counting down the minutes. She forced herself to focus. Anne knew that if she could just focus for the next 15 minutes she would be able to pass next week’s final. Another 30 minutes until school was over, 8 days until school was out, life seemed like one big countdown. If she only knew to what. All that she knew was how much she needed to leave this hole of a town. She hadn’t decided how yet, but she knew it would happen. It had too! Her two younger brothers were already talking about going into the military as soon as they get out of high school. Clayton the youngest  wasn’t but, he was the wild one. No one knew what or where he would be tomorrow but there was little chance that the little island could hold him for long. The school bell woke Anne from her daydreams. She quickly copied down the problem on the chalkboard and figured she’d sort it out at home. She wasn’t a great student but it didn’t mean that she was dumb.

Anne lived in Seal Harbor, the less populated side of the island that She wanted to leave so badly. Seal Harbor was 10 miles from Bar Harbor located on opposite sides of the island. You could ride a bike if you had too, but it was pretty easy to get a ride from someone because Seal Harbor provided support for the more touristy Bar Harbor. Mount Desert Island could barely be called an island, after all you could access it by road unless the ocean was really high. Winter storms stopped most travel in Maine. Anne felt as if that island were a prison. It might as well have walls around it for the way it completely cut the islanders off from the rest of the world. She was tired of people who knew everything about you, or at least thought they did. Anne walked home from school thinking about how she could name every one who lived in each one of the houses she passed, where they worked and where they were right now. This was no Mayberry though. Alcohol flowed through the town like water. This was a sea town. People worked on crab boats and fisheries. They worked hard and played hard.  There were good years and lean years, but the good years weren’t as good as the lean years were lean. Things never quite evened out. It seemed as though the only one who might succeed here would be the bar owners. The same fights would happen to the same individuals every other week.

Anne knew she was attractive, but more importantly she was practical. She had known too many girls that got trapped on the island by falling in love with some man. She’d had boyfriends but she was careful not get too serious. She had known for years that it was more important to her to leave the island then to find a man. She was supposed to keep her three younger brothers in line. They weren’t difficult and she knew where they could be found at any given time, well except for Clayton and her mother had already written him off anyway. As long as the boys got food and were home and in bed at a decent hour it didn’t matter what they did.

Summer was slightly more tolerable because of the tourists and sometimes the sailors would come into the bay. She would help her mom working at the hotel in Bar Harbor. It had worked into some spending money as well as jobs babysitting for those with summer homes in the area. Those people were more interesting because they were outsiders but she knew how they felt about her. She was simply “the help.” Not really smart enough to talk to, but yet safe to watch the children while they go to a party. She was no more than “the local girl.” As dismissive as those people were, they could provide a way out. She had heard of the rich hiring nannies locally and taking them with them in the winter. This seemed like a good possibility but she hadn’t liked many of the parents that she had worked for. They were spoiled by their inherited wealth they thought little of their own decorum but demanded that “the help” be proper and presentable. Summer also brought sailors and fishermen into the harbor and to the clubs. It brought new life into a dying world that was sick of winter and of itself and its winter’s confinement. Anne and her friend would sit at the crossroads and give false directions to the tourists.  Anything to pass the time.

School had been out a week when Anne found Billy at her door. He was a year older than she was and had just graduated from high school. Billy had worked on his dad’s lobster boat since he was 11 and Anne was sure he would stay here until he died, just like so many others. Billy said that dad was working on the boat today so he was stuck in town and wondered if she would like to go down and get ice cream with him. Anne thought why not, she’d been out with Billy before and he had always been harmless enough. As they ate ice cream Billy asked why it was so necessary to leave the island. Anne looked at Billy and saw the same thing that she saw in her parents, and the mailman, and the neighbors, and practically everyone else that she had known all of her life. They were all the same. “Billy, sometimes I swear there isn’t a new idea in this whole town. I want to meet people who don’t know where I grew up. I want them to not know where my parents work.”

“That’s all great Anne, but where are you going to live? Who’s going to pay your bills. At least here you know what’s coming.”

“Billy, that’s the point I need something new or I’ll die.”

“Ok Anne, but you’re going to be here at least one more year right?’

“Yes Billy, I’ll be here.” she sighed.

“Well then, I have a gift for you. It isn’t much but I found this necklace and it made me think of you.” he pulled a little black box out of his pocket.

Anne carefully opened the box. The necklace was different, it had a large translucent greenish stone in the pendant with golden filigree surrounding it. Anne thought it was really beautiful,  but she was careful to keep her reaction under control. If Billy knew how excited she was he might overestimate his position in her world. “This is really lovely Billy are you sure you want me to have it?”   

“Of course I do Anne, I saw it and thought of you. I won’t get to see much of you this summer and now that school is over for me I’m not sure how long it’ll be before you find some other gorgeous guy to settle down with.”

Anne relaxed a little with that statement, but decided it was still a good moment to make her escape. She looked at her watch, “Oh’ Billy, mom’s going to be home soon and I still have to collect the boys from down the street. Their working on Dave’s new clunker. If you weren’t so much fun to talk to I wouldn’t be running so late. Now help me get this beautiful necklace on and I’m going to have to run.” She let him put the necklace on, gave him a kiss on the cheek and told him one more time that it was very beautiful and she hurried out the door. She knew that little kiss on the cheek in the ice cream parlor would get around quickly, but the necklace really was nice. So what if it started a little gossip she’d lived with worse. The gossip would just make her more determined to get out anyway. She went home but didn’t get the boys. Mom wouldn’t be home for two hours, but Billy didn’t know that.  Anne was going to work in the hotel laundry starting tomorrow, but mom was going to let her sleep in so she’d have to find a ride. So she picked up the phone and started calling the most likely candidates. It wasn’t long before she found her ride. Sam was taking several people over and he didn’t have to be at the gas station until ten.

Sam stopped by to pick her up at nine thirty and their were already four other people in the car. Anne knew most of them and they talked about what they had planned for the day. Anne notice the only girl that she didn’t recognize looking at her. Mary was sitting next to the girl and introduced her as Emily and said that she was going home to Bar harbor after spending the night at Mary’s house. Emily said hi and asked Anne where she’d gotten her necklace? Anne reached up and fingered the pendant. “Oh, a boy gave it to me the other day.”  

“Was it Billy Washburn?” Emily asked

“Why yes, it was do you know him?”

“Yeah, I used to go out with him, but not anymore.” Emily said scowling.

“Gosh Emily I really don’t like Billy that much. I just thought he gave me a nice gift. Don’t get mad at him.”

Emily’s scowl turned into a smile. “Hey listen Anne, it’s okay. I didn’t know you, and Billy stole that necklace from me he’s the loser not me.”

“Oh my goodness, Emily! I had no idea. Here please take your necklace back.” Anne tried to undo the clasp behind her head but in her excitement it was being difficult. Emily reached up from the back seat and put her hand on Anne’s fumbling ones.

“Anne keep the necklace. It really is okay. Keep it as a reminder that boys can be awful. - Sorry Sam, you’re great. - Just don’t wear it around Billy okay? I’d like him to know that it didn’t mean that much to you.”

“Emily thank you and Billy is a worm. I’m glad you dumped him. Sam, can I get out here? Thanks again Emily it was really nice getting to know you, and I hope to see you around. Take care everyone.“

Wait by Galway Kinnell

WAIT

                     

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become lovely again.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

Lessons from prison

     My years working in prison have taught me a few things.
     I learned to appreciate my freedom. I hope I never forget the inmate that told me that he just wanted to be able to walk in a straight line, forever. Or the inmate who was being shipped out of state that claimed that he was seeing the world on the installment plan. Somedays just walking outside and going through those double gates, means the day is behind you. It is time to move on. I get to choose what my day consists of, even if the day is totally crappy it was my choice to make.
      It's okay to trust your instincts. Your brain feeds off of a myriad of input. Just because you didn't recognize the problem doesn't mean it isn't a problem.
    It's okay to have a twisted sense of humor. Sometimes you have to look hard to laugh, but it can be more important to be able just to laugh.
     The phrase I learned is "all of my buttons are broke." It means that you can't get a reaction from me no matter what you do. Other people don't deserve the ability to control your emotions.
    "Do your own time." We all have problems but worrying about your own is enough without taking on other peoples problems. My thought is to remember what my "sphere of control" is. Why worry about things that you can't change? I think this is the hardest thing for humans to accept.
     I have learned that listening, politeness, and respect can take you much further in solving problems then you can imagine.
    I have learned ugliness can look beautiful, but not to discount ugliness because it is ugly.
   I have learned much in my eight years working in prison. I could have probably learned these things anywhere, but I wonder if I would have listened as well.

True meanderings

    I have started this blog with a few simple ideas. The first was that I really enjoyed free writing in my

writing class and I would like to continue. With that in mind, how do you get better if you are just writing in a

notebook and no one else sees it? I got some encouragement in college, and I lead a creative writing

workshop at work, and I tell them that you only get better with practice. I feel it necessary to practice what

I preach. There are a few difficulties. Like feeling like I am still talking to myself because I get very little

feedback and wondering if there are more than family that are reading  these crazy ramblings. I also wonder

if I am getting better by simply forcing myself to put words on a page. It may be better to write. fix, review

and then post. I am getting better at rambling on the page but I don't think that was ever a problem.

      I had in mind a book ramble for this evening, but I think I have rambled enough for now.

My sense of the world

    I am totally lacking a sense of smell. I can’t smell a dead skunk in the road. I usually see this as more of a blessing than a detriment. I know that there are some things that I miss out on, but there are far more that I happily avoid.  Apparently smell triggers memory even more than most of the senses. Maybe that could be a better excuse for my “memory moments” than “senior moments.”

As much as you can’t explain a color to someone who has never seen it, you can’t explain a smell to someone who has no reference. What difference has a lack of smell made in my world? I would say that it has made very little. There a very few times that you have to compensate for a lack of smell. Once I woke up a neighbor in the middle of the night to smell my house. It may sound funny, but when your gas heater doesn’t seem to work and the pet is sick and you begin to get a headache, well “gas leak” does slip through your mind. I should add that neighbor and good friend was still drunk from her evening and she couldn’t get past the idea that I wanted her to smell my house because I thought that someone had been there, and when I called the gas guy, he tried to assure me that “anyone can smell a gas leak, they add stuff so it smells really bad.” Duh dude!

Everyone asks me how food tastes when you can’t smell. My answer is tat I don’t know how things taste to you, but I certainly have my food preferences. They used to say that you  couldn’t  tell if you were eating an orange or a lemon if they couldn’t smell or see it. They never picked me, because I assure you that I can tell the difference between the two.

There are things that I’ve always wished I could smell. I would like to smell the forest on an early morning.  I know the air feels different on my skin and I think the smell must be amazing. I want to smell what the air is like after the rain. I want to smell fresh cut grass. These are things that I have heard talked about growing up. They have made a mental imprint and as odd as my choices may seem can you imagine not smelling them? I know roses and chocolate smell great, but I have no idea why grass smells good.

I have been skeptical of others when they told me that it smelled like rain. I have wondered why beautiful flowers were quickly thrown out. I learned that when going by a dead skunk all conversation in the car will abruptly cease. These are things that I figured out by guessing. Rain may not smell but lightening burning the air does. Beautiful flowers can smell too sweet, and people hold their breath when faced with really bad smells. I can taste fumes in the air and allergies and asthma don’t seem to miss the sense of smell.

I am never sure if my clothes smell okay. I am perhaps overly concerned about keeping the cat’s litter box clean. I have stopped wearing perfume and have thrown out all I’ve purchased. I had two siblings that are legally blind. Having no sense of smell does not make me handicapped, I know the difference! It is just one of many, many things that makes me unique. Besides, it may make it easier for me to work in a prison.

My superpower

I’ve thought about which superpower I would like to have, and of the myriad choices available I have rejected them all and created a new one. I wish to have the power of possession. I guess this is a demonic superpower, but I am sure that is because a few unfortunate souls were confused and misdirected in their usage of it. I would only use my superpower for the good of others. I mean, think of it you could take possession of anyone at any time. I think it should only be for three minutes. You might each other’s conscious if it were too long.  To be a true superhero I would make one of my first acts to have a certain presidential candidate resign at their next press conference. I am well aware that I do not have a wealth of knowledge from which to rule the world, but give me some time and I know that I could improve things in three minute increments. Maybe I could help out adjusting the attitudes of a few people in the middle east. I mean, three minutes of someone else’s viewpoint can change someone’s life. My own life is pretty good on it’s own, but I might have to possess the person who writes my paycheck for a few minutes every few weeks. I would like to have a few minutes in the mind of some really great people. What would it be like to visit the mind of Neil deGrasse Tyson? Of course we would have to pick a moment when he was alone because I’d probably tell a fart joke in those three minutes and Mr. Tyson’s reputation would be forever ruined. I’d like to travel through the mind of the Dalai Lama and see if the peace reflected on the outside runs through to the soul. Of course if my power is possession, do I need to have a corporeal body? Would it be possible to travel through the fourth dimension - time? I think it would be much better to meet Albert Einstein as Charlie Chaplin, then as Sandy Riggs. I could meet Tesla as Mark Twain and then meet Twain as Tesla. I could sit down as Hitler’s mom and have a good talk about peace and love, and if that didn’t work maybe he would have tried to escape prison the first time that he was sentenced. Maybe I could possess animals too? Edi Amin could have had an encounter with a hippo and Pol Pot could have ran into one of Cambodia’s venomous snakes. I’ve never wanted to live forever. I think eternal life is the dream of the dull, but can you imagine life divided into three minute segments in the body of whoever you choose?

Ken and Barbie

According to Time Magazine, Ken will still love Barbie when she obtains more “realistic” proportions. Thank goodness! I was really worried about that one! I am not sure that I feel that Barbie really needs to obtain more realistic proportions. I think of toys the same way that I think of books. They shouldn’t be real. Children need to dream. They need a fantasy life. It is important in children’s development. I mean if they want realism they have their mom who lives in sweatpants and jeans and doesn’t have one quarter of Barbie’s wardrobe. Not to mention dad is no Ken doll. They both have real lives and real things. Their possessions are small and worrisome, not mortgage free or replaceable like Barbie’s. They are people with complex hard to understand relationships. Dolls are simple things with whatever life that we choose to give them. I think it is adults who have problems with a child’s fantasy world. I can understand wanting to get rid of stereotypes, but I don’t know how much realism we need to add. Are children really judging the way they look based on Barbie. If they are I think that is more of a failure of society and parents then it is Mattel. There is more than enough realism for every child out there. My biggest hope is that every child gets the opportunity to avoid it as long as possible. G. K. Chesterton said that “Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Besides as Ken said in the Times article, would you like to be the one to tell Barbie that she’s fat?

To all of the mom's out there ~ Sarah Kay

“If I should have a daughter…“Instead of “Mom”, she’s gonna call me “Point B.” Because that way, she knows that no matter what happens, at least she can always find her way to me. And I’m going to paint the solar system on the back of her hands so that she has to learn the entire universe before she can say “Oh, I know that like the back of my hand.”

She’s gonna learn that this life will hit you, hard, in the face, wait for you to get back up so it can kick you in the stomach. But getting the wind knocked out of you is the only way to remind your lungs how much they like the taste of air. There is hurt, here, that cannot be fixed by band-aids or poetry, so the first time she realizes that Wonder-woman isn’t coming, I’ll make sure she knows she doesn’t have to wear the cape all by herself. Because no matter how wide you stretch your fingers, your hands will always be too small to catch all the pain you want to heal. Believe me, I’ve tried.

And “Baby,” I’ll tell her “don’t keep your nose up in the air like that, I know that trick, you’re just smelling for smoke so you can follow the trail back to a burning house so you can find the boy who lost everything in the fire to see if you can save him. Or else, find the boy who lit the fire in the first place to see if you can change him.”

But I know that she will anyway, so instead I’ll always keep an extra supply of chocolate and rain boats nearby, ‘cause there is no heartbreak that chocolate can’t fix. Okay, there’s a few heartbreaks chocolate can’t fix. But that’s what the rain boots are for, because rain will wash away everything if you let it.

I want her to see the world through the underside of a glass bottom boat, to look through a magnifying glass at the galaxies that exist on the pin point of a human mind. Because that’s how my mom taught me. That there’ll be days like this, “There’ll be days like this my momma said” when you open your hands to catch and wind up with only blisters and bruises. When you step out of the phone booth and try to fly and the very people you wanna save are the ones standing on your cape. When your boots will fill with rain and you’ll be up to your knees in disappointment and those are the very days you have all the more reason to say “thank you,” ‘cause there is nothing more beautiful than the way the ocean refuses to stop kissing the shoreline no matter how many times it’s sent away.

You will put the “wind” in win some lose some, you will put the “star” in starting over and over, and no matter how many land mines erupt in a minute be sure your mind lands on the beauty of this funny place called life.

And yes, on a scale from one to over-trusting I am pretty damn naive but I want her to know that this world is made out of sugar. It can crumble so easily but don’t be afraid to stick your tongue out and taste it.

“Baby,” I’ll tell her “remember your mama is a worrier but your papa is a warrior and you are the girl with small hands and big eyes who never stops asking for more.”

Remember that good things come in threes and so do bad things and always apologize when you’ve done something wrong but don’t you ever apologize for the way your eyes refuse to stop shining.

Your voice is small but don’t ever stop singing and when they finally hand you heartbreak, slip hatred and war under your doorstep and hand you hand-outs on street corners of cynicism and defeat, you tell them that they really ought to meet your mother.”
― Sarah Kay

Who are you when the spider crawls?

      Who are you when you see a spider crawling somewhere unexpected? I turn into this evil person who wants nothing more than death and destruction. I am normally a very calm and cool individual, and mindful of all creatures, but the sight of an unexpected mouse or spider turns my heart into something which resembles Pinhead from the Hell-raiser series. There is a sick twist in my heart when I see a spider on the log that I am about to feed into the fire or to send down the drain with a rinse of scalding hot water. A small amount of acknowledged joy goes into ending the life of a vile creature. I blame my father for this. One of my jobs when I was younger was picking the bush beans. My father used to take all of the daddy long-legs he could find in the yard and put them into the bush beans in order to cut down on the harmful insects. I hated picking those beans and feeling the tickle on the back of my leg. I enjoy walking up and seeing a spider on his web. They're incredible hunters and I have let some live on my porch for weeks. I know they're there! That is the difference! It's the one that just crawled out from something that I handled that bothers me. Now tell me you don't do the spider dance.
     Maybe tomorrow we'll look at this from the spiders point of view, but I doubt that I can muster up enough sympathy to do it justice.


   

Cabot (the end)

Joe,

        I have to tell you about Mr. Howard, the old man that I live with. When I first moved in with him, he pretty much left me alone. Now we appear to be at the glaring stage. He doesn’t talk much, but I definitely know when I’ve done something that he disapproves of.  I looked up the word curmudgeon in the dictionary the other day. It was in a book that I was reading.  As soon as I saw it I thought of Mr Howard. The first definition was “archaic.”  He is definitely an old man, but archaic seems more descriptive, something totally out of touch with today’s reality.  It was the second part that fit better” a crusty old man” that is totally Mr. Howard. Apparently this tier was part of a program to move the younger people entering into prison in with the old men doing life. I don’t know why Howard lives here ‘cause I can’t believe that he’d sign up for such a program. He keeps saying “the kids” are ruining his quiet time. I don’t think that I’ve seen the man smile yet, but I can recognize his glare from the next room. He seems ancient, but when we go out on the yard he can run forever. He’s all wrinkled skin and sinew. Apparently my name is now “Kid.” And he says that I’m lucky because I’m quiet and like to read. I think that was a threat, but I’m not sure.

                                                                                            Resident of Tier C, Cell 129, IMSC

                                                                                            Jeremy Cabot

       

Jeremy’s second time in her office was much easier for both of them. He fidgeted out of nervousness. He picked at unseen spots on his clothes and on himself. It was distracting, but it was also pretty common. His posture was not as locked, and he was much more communicative at least until she asked him about what had brought him to prison. Marcia saw Jeremy turn away and stare into the corner. She realized that she had pushed too far.  She had tried to recover with talk about prison stuff but she knew her chance was over for the day, and sent him back to his housing unit.

Marcia was happy that, the powers that be, had put Jeremy on the program tier that had been her idea. She realized that the people who were in prison for a long time had ways of coping that administration couldn’t teach or even understand. Marcia knew Howard and she knew Jeremy would be astounded at how much the two had in common if they ever talked about it, but she doubted if that would happen. She also knew that in spite of his cantankerousness, Howard had been the first person to sign up for her program. He knew that the kids needed direction, and being a lifer he’d seen too many kids return time and time again.

Marcia once again pulled her pad over and wrote: STILL FOCUSING ON PRESENT AND AVOIDING THE PAST, OBSERVATIONS MORE THAN PARTICIPATIONS, RECOVERING

Joe,

        Howard had this TV, and an officer came in to search our cell and so I took my book and sat in the dayroom. I saw the officer comeback out with Howard’s TV! I asked what was wrong because I knew it was his. The officer said that it wasn’t “adequately marked.” He told me that he left the confiscation paperwork on his bed. By the time Mr Howard got back from the gym later I was so afraid to tell him what had happened that I almost left before he came in. As soon as he walked in I blurted out, “A cop took your tv and left you the paperwork.” He glanced at the paperwork, chuckled and said “fish” and said that he’d had a good workout today, he’d worry about it tomorrow. Sure enough the next afternoon he had his TV back.

A week later I dusted his nightstand and I moved this picture that he had of an old house. I thought I put it back exactly, but when he came in he glanced at the nightstand and growling he asked if I’d been in his stuff. I said that I had just dusted and he said that he would dust his own stuff from now on. Man I don’t get it! It wasn’t like I took and ruined it or something. He’s a crab, but he’s a little scary too. I mean he’s not like the guys with a million tattoos or anything, but there is something about him. I think he is as real as you can get and nothing wants to make me crawl into a hole like the glare that he dishes out all too often.

                                                                                                        The fish aka Newbie

                                                                                                        Jeremy Cabot

Joe,

I haven’t told you about the old man’s rules yet. The first one is “Mr. Howard.” I was told to call him that, and I am not starting off with a problem because I can’t follow somebodies rules, I mean whatever, right? Some of his other rules? Well if I buy stuff, I keep it. I can’t trade or sell it. He says he’s had too many cellies bet, trade, and owe themselves into deep trouble. If there is something I need before I get my commissary he will get it for me. Yeah, I was afraid that this would make me seem like a bit of a patsy, but the whole tier is used to people that live with him doing this. Like I said, it’s like living with your parents but without the respect.

                                                                                Jeremy Cabot (aged 12)

                                           

Marcia chuckled at Jeremy’s description of Howard. She had to admit he was sort of right though. Howard would have a hard time relating to Jeremy’s depression. Jeremy was one who was more likely to withdraw into himself while Howard dealt by acting out. Hence Howard’s bad behavior lead to more bad behavior while Jeremy’s depression would be more self-harming. Howard saw himself as Jeremy’s instructor. He would issue rules and laws but not really communicate personally. It would be a tough pairing but Marcia grew anxious to see where this was leading. She wrote RULES and hurried on with her reading.

Joe,

        I was playing cards with Jimmy, Matthew, and Randy and all of a sudden Randy falls on the floor and starts shaking. I thought he was joking, and I sat there while Matthew went over and said something to an officer.  Jimmy asked me for my sweatshirt and stuck it under Randy’s head. Then I heard the officer call medical and say someone was having a seizure. They made us cell up while they took Randy down to medical. Man, I hope he’s ok. He looked awful flopping around on the floor like he’d been hit by lightning or something. That floor’s cement too. I talked to Jimmy as soon as I could and he says it happens all the time, especially to those guys who have done alot of drugs. He thought Randy would be okay, he only fell off his chair. It would’ve been worse if he’d been standing up. Sure enough, Randy was back a few hours later. I ran over and asked if he was ok, and apologized for not knowing what to do. He said no big deal and asked me who won the game. These guys are tough.

                                                                                            Jeremy the Wuss

Joe,

        I’ve been thinking a bit more about you. Nobody would understand me writing to you like this. I’m not even sure I understand it. It’s all so confusing. We lived next door to each other the whole time we were growing up. We played hoops in the driveway. You told me about your first date with Jennifer Michaels. I remember that you thought that you loved her and were going to be together forever, but I think that was four girlfriends ago. Even now that you aren’t here I feel like our lives are twisted together even more than before. I haven’t been able to tell anyone about that night. I’ve spent more time avoiding thinking about that night than you can imagine. No matter what I do I can’t avoid it. It’s become an increasing part of my life and I think I’m going to have to face it. I don’t know if I can make it through this dark hole but the hole is only getting larger.

                                                                                            Miss You

                                                                                            Jeremy

        Marcia liked the story about Randy. Randy was mentioned without introduction and was possibly a sign that Jeremy was making more friends on the tier. The fact that he was getting new friends showed that he was developing concerns outside of himself. The focus away from himself was a definite shift for Jeremy. Marcia wrote EXPANDING HIS WORLD.

Marcia read the last letter twice she was looking for signs of anxiety. What she saw was more reminiscing and fondness between two old friends. While it might have sounded romantic in other contexts. This time it was just sad. It was possibly a farewell to a good friend as Jeremy was going to face the darkness alone. Marcia wrote SAD, ALONE, FACING DARKNESS.

Joe,

        Howard’s walked in while I was writing a few times and he never asks what I’m doing. I guess that’s part of the phrase that I keep hearing around here, “everyone does their own time.”  You aren’t supposed to get tangled up in other people’s stuff. I mean if you count mine this tier has fifty four stories. Some are sad like Jimmy’s, how he never had a chance until he came here. Some are scary. I don’t know Howard’s story but the fact that he’s down for life without a chance of parole says it’s pretty horrifying. He told me the other day he was about my age when he was arrested the first time. I hadn’t thought of Howard being my age. It is almost unimaginable.

                                                                                            Just a story

Joe,

        I don’t think that Howard and I can be friends. We’re as different as night and day. I was reading in my bunk and Howard said “I’m glad you’re doing better.” I thought I was dreaming. I mean I know that I didn’t answer for at least two minutes because I had to convince myself of what I heard. Finally I said, “What.”

He said, “Damn, boy are you deaf? I said that I was glad that you are doing better.”

I asked what he meant and he said that I was laying off of the pills more and talking to people and occasionally “getting off of my ass” and going outside. He told me that he’d almost asked them to move me when I came onto the tier. He was afraid that I was so depressed that I would actually try to kill myself. I actually laughed when he said that it wasn’t going to happen in his cell. I said that I was glad that I was doing better too. I think that was our longest conversation since I moved in. It was at least our deepest one by far. Miracles will never cease.

                                                                    Astonished in cell 129

Marcia thought that most people would read these two letters as a minor development, but Marcia knew it was more than that. Both Jeremy and Howard were finding common ground. It was also Jeremy realizing that maybe he wasn’t the monster that he had previously seen himself as.

Joe,

        Howard and I actually had a conversation yesterday. He said that being sent to prison didn’t mean your life was over, and then laughing said, it wasn’t like I was doing life or anything. My sentence was relatively short and then he asked me what I was going to do after I got out. I told him that I really had no idea. That I had plans to go to college before …. But I didn’t know now. “So what’s stopping you now?” he growled. I told him that I lost my scholarship and I wouldn’t have enough money. He laughed at that and said that the government liked to help out former inmates, that it made them feel good, and that there were scholarships available if I really wanted to go to college. He asked what I wanted to study. I told him I wanted to write, and he nodded and said he’d seen me writing alot. I think I growled a little when I said that was different and he said that a story was a story. I started to think about our story. Yours and mine, I wondered if I could write it out. What would it look like? Would people want to read it? Could I face people if they knew our story? I guess I would have to face people who knew our story any way, would it be better if they heard it from me?                                                             

                                                                                            Jeremy Cabot, the Daring writer?

I remember it was snowing that evening. I had borrowed dad’s car to pick up Stephanie. That was the night that she dumped me. Not really a great loss, but I still went over to tell my best friend about it. You came up with the brilliant idea of getting high, and showed me your pot stash. The folks were home so we told them that we were going to go target shooting up the hill. I snagged a bottle of Jack out of the cupboard. I somehow figured that I could talk your sister into getting us one to replace it before dad noticed. We drank and smoked but we got tired of listening to each other babble and whine about girls yet again. So we decided to target shoot. At least then I wouldn’t be lying about that. After a while we made a game of setting up the target and then shooting. It kept getting darker and we kept shooting faster. We were both shooting pretty well in spite of the booze and pot. But then somehow you didn’t get out of the way and I shot. That’s all I remember! Some old guy found me along side of the road stumbling around and freezing. It wasn’t until they went to find the car that they knew the story. The judge knew it wasn’t intentional, but he said that he couldn’t let me walk. I’ll never forget my mother’s face on that day. I couldn’t even look at your family. I don’t see how I can face them ever again. Mom said that they moved away. She says it was just an accident, but the only truth I know is that you were my best friend and I took your life. I survived, I’m not sure how or why but I survived.

                                                                                            Jeremy Cabot

                                                                                            The survivor?

Marcia looked at that question mark for a long time. Would Jeremy survive?  She restacked the letters and closed the file. She thought of Cabot as she put the file away and relocked the cabinet.  She looked at her notes, and chuckled it was a barely legible list of words on the page. She knew sometimes first quick impulses were more important than deep analysis. As she looked at the list of words, Marcia thought that Jeremy Cabot #93527 may have just managed to do more rehabilitation than she could have managed. She also realized why Cabot might have reacted so strongly to Officer James’s handling of the notebook. Cabot had just put his story on the page it was the first time that it existed in a solid form. It was the thing that Jeremy had been hiding from the world. He wasn’t ready to be exposed, but maybe this was what was needed. In time, allowing others to hear his story would help Jeremy even more than it would help others.

Her eye was drawn to her desk and the picture of her ten year old son. She wondered for the thousandth time how different these people were from her own family. She walked back to the computer and wrote on her electronic calendar to schedule a “routine” visit with Jeremy Cabot on C tier. She wrote in her notes to watch for signs of depression and to suggest that the drug rehab class might ask him to write his story. As she finished her notes she heard the tones on her radio sound and as she heard her name called on the radio to segregation she wondered if it would be suicide attempt. She wondered if she could help this one.