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Journal 2
Page 1 • 2 • 3 • 4

February, 2006
My Time in Prison

I've been in prison twice.

Prisons have always intrigued me. Maybe because I spent so much time in large institutions during my formative years, ages 13 to 26. I was in the seminary for nine years and then the Army for four more years after that. I'm used to sleeping in big dorms with lots of guys around, no privacy, big dining halls, and marching back and forth between buildings.

So I jumped at the chance to visit a local women's reformatory. I was asked to come in and talk to some of the ladies, to tell a story and then show them how to tell their own stories some day. The Activities Director felt it would be good for the inmates, after they were released, to tell others about their experiences, as a kind of therapy.

The reformatory is located in a rural countryside, but rolls of razor wire atop steep fences greeted me as I pulled up. I had to empty my pockets, take nothing inside with me, and pass through outer and inner security gates. Actually, I'd been there once before, when, after traveling an hour, I arrived to find the place in a lock-down, and my visit canceled. That was before I carried a cell-phone in my car.

I felt sorry for these women. I could see the longing in their eyes to return to their families, especially to their children. On the way out, I saw display cases filled with hand-sewn items for sale, made in the prison craft shop.

When I went to a men's correctional institution, not too far from Columbus, I put on a full program. I stewed over what stories to tell. I liked the idea of doing O.Henry, since he once served time in the Ohio Penitentiary, right here in Columbus, for embezzlement. I thought the inmates would be hooked by that.

I drove into a desolate parking lot, next to a stark monster of a building, probably built during the Depression, set way off from the main road. After emptying my pockets, I was escorted into a huge, well-buffed administrative hall, with a towering ceiling. One inmate was painting murals on the walls.

From there, in the bitter cold, we walked onto the "yard." Right out of The Shawshank Redemption. Inmates in their blue jackets were huddled around, smoking, their shouts echoing around this slab of concrete, big as a football field.

We crossed to the recreation building where the men, in their after-dinner time, were lifting weights, and the gym was alive with several basketball games. A flyer about me had been posted on the bulletin board, and a P.A. announcement was made that I was about to begin.

I learned that those who filed in the room set aside for me were attending the prison high-school. They had been sent by their English teacher. The Principal of the school, a caring man, was in charge and knew all the inmates by name. He turned the microphone over to them as a kind of warm-up act. Admonished to "keep `em clean," they took turns telling jokes. Some of the guys took this opportunity to really show off. Good for them.

I used this time to mill around and get a feel for my audience. The inmates brought clip boards, paper and pencil. They had been instructed by their teacher to take notes on my stories and answer some questions, but they were worried. So, putting on my teacher cap, I patiently explained what plot, character, setting, and theme meant.

The men were very attentive. I think my hyper-sensitivity about content was probably a bit unfounded. I had stayed away from any mention of romance, guns, or criticism of the prison. I did tell the O.Henry story "A Retrieved Reformation" about a safe-cracker who tries to change his life and eventually ends up a hero. I found it ironic, sometime later, when I saw a documentary on Johnny Cash's visit to Folsom Prison. He started out immediately making fun of the prison drinking water, to hoots and hollers, and got away with it!

After I was finished and we were walking back across the yard, one of the inmates approached me and wanted to know if I would listen to one of his poems. "Of course," I said. I was very touched. We talked a little bit about poetry; I wished him luck, and we shook hands.

The men lingered on the yard, as if to delay the inevitable. Shouts rang out and echoed again. One last smoke. I'm sure they felt good just to be outside. The guards finally had to get them moving and back to their dorms.

The inmates took a left and I took a right, through security, to the parking lot.

Freedom is such a precious thing.

December, 2005
The Man with the Ring

This was my third waiting room experience of the year (see below for the other, much happier visits). I was in a dermatology outpatient clinic, just north of Columbus, having some minor surgery. It was to be an all-day appointment so, as usual, I brought a supply of books, story notes, snacks, pencils and pens in my gym bag. And I was looking forward to some quiet time in the waiting room where I could think out some projects I was involved in at the time.

After my first round with the doctor, I went back to the waiting room which was rather small, on the corner of the building, with only a couple of chairs and couches. There was another gentleman there, who, I guessed, was waiting for his wife. He was probably in his mid to late 70's, a big man with big hands.

I had no sooner got settled and took out my notes, when I heard a whistling sound, not the wind whipping around the building but a jarring, unsettling invasion of my ear space.

Now, you have to understand, that I am very sensitive to noises, especially if I am trying to think or read. A barking dog will drive me to distraction. A working fingernail clippers will send me packing. Anyone popping gum will get my deepest stare. And, whistling? You get the picture.

I'm thinking: "How can I handle this? I have a whole day to try and relax here and now this!" He was whistling softly, but in this room, it was as if he were doing it into a microphone.

Then I noticed the ring. On his right hand he had the biggest ring I'd ever seen. Chunks of gold were expertly fused together with an enormous gem mounted on the top. I was intrigued. Finally, I couldn't resist.

"If you don't mind my asking, there must be a story behind that ring!" He smiled and seemed delighted to tell me his story. "The government sent me to Sir Lanka during the War," he said. "I worked on their distribution systems, and the Sri Lankans gave this to me as a gift. Look, that's a star sapphire. They mine them down there."

"Do you mind if I look at it?"

He took off the ring and passed it over to me. I had always wanted to see a star sapphire up close.

After I'd examined the ring and tried it on, I gave it back with one of my cards. "If you ever get tired of it, give me a call," I said and we both had a chuckle.

Fortunately, he didn't care to take all my time. Soon we both went back to our own pursuits--I to my books and he, well, he began to softly whistle again. Only this time he sounded like a meadowlark.

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