The journal of Stephen J. Canchola

Table of Contents:

15 January 2007

I have battled the idea of starting a journal. It is something I've done before. It's too late to worry about anything I am going to write. Using my words against me has been tried before. The attempts were unsuccessful because I didn't lie. So my words were naturally enlightening and thereby non-incriminating. I'll bet that pissed off the D.A. Here goes.

My name is Esteban, but in 1959 the Refugio Independent School District changed my name to Stephen. Bang! My name was changed, as were all hispanic names, and we were paddled for speaking our native language.

The word "hispanic" was decades from being coined. We were all mexicans or "messkins," even though all my relatives were born in Texas and our families came from Spain; we were "messkins." Civil Rights was still an idea, maybe the same is true today.

My world was further complicated, because I have albinism. I am not an albino. Albinism is something I have. It is not a nationality. So it is not who I am. I dislike the misunderstanding people have about people like me with albinism. We represent a small portion of the population, comparable to having red hair.

School taught me that I was different. I was raised to feel equal to anyone, but no better than anyone. White hair, blue eyes, and pale white skin gets you noticed and it isn't always good. Children can be very cruel and adults are sometimes no better.

I entered school at seven, nearly eight, because my birthday fell after Labor Day. I was more than prepared too. Way before I entered even pre-school, I could read and write, do math, draw, and I spoke two languages fluently. Today that would be called gifted. Back then it only hindered my desire to fit in.

My first teacher just happened to be my Uncle's girlfriend. She saw my potential and used me as her teacher's aid. Testing showed me to be many years beyond my classmates. I wasn't told though and my parents refused my placement into classes where my fellow students would have been many years my senior. They were afraid I'd pick up bad habits or get a big-head. Their desire was for me to have a normal childhood.

Psychologically, my parents did well to keep me within my age group. Educationally, my teachers became accustomed to giving me special assignments to keep me interested. So there went another strike against any hope for normality. So much for blending into the crowd.

My concession to normality was having a steady girlfriend, the first four and one half years of school. I'll call her Mary. At our age such things weren't unknown, but out displays of being a couple sweet and innocent, holding hands, sharing snacks or lunches, walking together, and dancing only with each other in P.E. class. Yes, back then dancing was part of school. Come late to class and you might have to dance with an unwanted or undesirable partner. Mary and I used to arrive to class together and immediately partner up. Our P.E. teacher was very understanding. Lucky for me because "Frosty, Casper, or Snowman" (that was me) was not a desirable dance partner. Being rhythmic and skilled was secondary to looking normal. It took me a while to figure that one out. I was clueless in that area.

Thinking back upon it, Mary must have been a very strong and independent little girl. She was certainly very pretty, popular, and right too. Mary grew to be a beautiful woman. My Dad's job moved us from Refugio before the beginning of the second six weeks of my fifth grade year. Dallas was to be an even ruder awakening for me, any hope or concessions to normality was lost. The new kid in class, was not only a herse of a different color, he lacked color and ruined the teacher's grading curve.

Lancaster Texas was the first alien land I'd inhabited. It was city. I was rural. They had a vocabulary (4 letter words) unknown to me. Everywhere I go, I am either the first or among a very small number of people to have albinism that the area has ever seen. Talk about "the circus coming to town." I grew up among the vast majority of the people in my hometown. Everyone was used to me; sorta. These people openly gawked, pointed, and laughed at me.

Science fiction/Horror movies didn't help my attempts to assimilate into Mame White Elementary. I really felt bad because no one would play with me or talk with me at lunch. It wasn't cool to be seen with the freak.

The term "freak" came from a school science book, displaying a fawn with albinism. The text explained that "it" (albinism) occurred in all species and even plants and supplied various shots to prove the point. Just my lucky that one picture was of a white ape. The book is innocent of any wrong doing. They were stating a scientific fact. Kids have a way of using selective reasoning and applying it in to broad painful strokes. It hurts to be ridiculed, laughed at, and to be excluded. It all made me introspective and my teachers tapped into that. My fifth grade teacher skillfully got me involved and eventually better accepted by my peers. Once again it involved a female classmate.

Vie, not her real name, moved in a couple of days after the assassination of President John F. Kennedy. We were all still in shock. So much so that a week after I met Vie, in class, I realized she lived across the street from me.

Vie was from "Up North." She was a platinum blonde and blue eyed. At first introduction by my fifth grade teacher, I thought she too had albinism. At that time, my younger brother was the only other human being I could say "looked like me." Now here was Vie. I was assigned to show her around and get her "used" to things at school. To Vie's credit, she never deserted me to the "cool" group. She was soon my new girlfriend and I her first boyfriend.

Boys hated me, because Vie was exotic and her desirability rubbed off on me, even though I was frumpy at best. Suddenly, girls spoke to me. Today, people would call Vie an alpha female. She was certainly in control, but she was sweet and kind. Her friendship made me feel accepted. I was too young to see a pattern. Vie's brains made me work harder and we had a competitive edge to our "coupleness." In retrospect, we either like Hepburn and Tracy or O'Hara and Wayne. My teacher must have secretly smiled at her matchmaking efforts.

Vie and I were a formed force, a team, and deeply loyal to each other. We were both cheerleaders for the other and never jealous of the other's successes. Even our Moms noticed and thought we were cute. We had separate lives, but always found time together and held hands. We functioned well separately, so our Moms didn't worry. In truth, they had nothing to worry about. We were okay together.

I should mention here that three children were born to my parents. I am the oldest, followed by a sister (three years my junior), and a second son (also with albinism) and three years younger than my sister. My sister has classic hispanic/Spanish looks. She is the normal looking one between the two white heads. She is a lovely woman and loves her brothers. She is a very strong and religious person.

My brother is a great man. He and my sister are March babies. They were always close. My brother has his own family and is doing a wonderful job raising a family. He and my sister are loving and loyal to my seven daughters. My ex has re-married and taken the younger children far away. The two oldest live in different parts of the country. My oldest has made me a grandfather at 53. My second oldest is in the Navy and will also grandfather soon. I'm 54 divorced, in prison, and soon a grandfather twice over. Life does have its turns. Pause....

16 January 2007

Huntsville finally gets winter. Too many south Texans are clueless on winter driving. The radio was full of traffic reports. Houston was a mess. Locally, we had sleet and freezing rain. It all put me in a mood for a fireplace, apple cider, chili or a rich stew. I do love to cook.

My first snow came in 1960. The great majority of us had never seen snow. The previous snowfall had occurred before we had been born. The teachers let us go out and experience snow. None of us had any heavy coats. We wore sweaters, car coats, sweatshirts, windbreakers, and the such.

Snow was so magical. I'd seen it in movies, read about it in books, and heard talk of it. It was like flakes of smoke. You really couldn't keep it. We were shown how to catch it on our tongues. That was so delightful. It was tasting and feeling a great mystery that escapes your grasp.

My girlfriend Mary said her Mom was picking us up early. The schools closed early that day. We were told that there would probably be no school the following day. This gave us a long weekend and no homework.

Mary and I sat in the backseat of her Mom's Chevy sedan. It was huge, made large by our small size. These were the days before seat belts, so Mary and I held hands and sat in the center of the backseat. The roads were already slippery, so the normal fifteen minute drive became nearly forty-five minutes. Mary's Mom was a good driver, but she tended to take the long way around to avoid traffic.

The sow was coming down fast. Soon the fields and pastures were blanketed in white. It was so pretty. I couldn't believe that we were so lucky to be witnesses of such a display. Mary's Mom deepened our feelings of awe, telling us she had only seen snow once before as a teen.

Arriving in front of my house Mary and I hugged and I thanked her Mom. My Dad's job had closed down early. He was waiting for me on our front porch. My dad was worried that I'd fall and hurt myself.

Coming toward me, with outstretched arms, my Dad fell - right on his butt. This was a sight. He laughed. I laughed, lost my balance and fell on my own butt. It was a bonding moment for Father & son. There we were on our butts, in the snow, and laughing as if we were brothers. Mom laughed from the porch. Later that afternoon, my sister and I mead teacup snowmen on the porch. We made a whole family of snow people to populate our porch. We were both bundled up with layers upon layers of clothing. We weren't poor. We, as our neighbors and friends, just had no need for snow wear.

As predicted the following day of school was cancelled. KZTV channel 10 in Corpus Christi carried the announcement and we celebrated with pancakes. My mom usually cooks. Well I mean to say, she always cooked. But that day Dad gave her the day off, since he'd been given the day off. Our two bedroom home was cozy warm. The smell of pancakes, bacon, and eggs filled our house. Steamy cups of fresh hot cocoa, not instant, were waiting for us on the table.

Back then families ate in their kitchens. Breakfast nooks, dining rooms, and breakfast bars, were as yet not part of our life. Meals were always together and filled with conversations and laughter. Those were happy days for me. The closeness of being in a family and the bonds of love we expressed, keep me warm today. That sense of love, laughter, loyalty, and togetherness are my treasure.

My Dad died before I became a father. He did walk through my unfinished home. The roof and exterior walls were up and he approved. I was glad for that. His hand upon my shoulder spoke volumes of his love for me. This cowpuncher turned Army veteran had seen his oldest son's home. I should be so lucky. I love you, Dad. I always have and always will. You were a wonderful man to me, a misfit in this world. You always made me feel connected and loved.

Back to talking about Vie. By Valentine's Day we were best friends, our Moms had met and Vie's Mom was regularly picking us up on bad weather days. We would help each other in school and after school. Playing outside, I'd taught her to punt, ass, and catch a football. We had fun doing this, spending many an afternoon or early evening with a football.

In those days, every student that wanted to trade Valentine's Cards used two sheets of manila paper to construct and design your own "mail box/envelope." This was not mandatory. Our mother's donated snacks, punch, and disposable plates, cups, and plastic utensils. Everyone was fed at our Valentine's Party. This was before the time of political correctness. No one was made to participate or eat and no one worried about law suits against Pagan rituals or the use of Saint Valentine's Day upon bulletin boards. Back then the day started with the Pledge of Allegiance and silent prayer time was afforded everyone. What a queer world we live in today?

This being my first St. Valentine's Day in an otherwise new school, my expectations were not high. My Mom told me that if I was gonna give out cards to give one to everyone: every box/envelope gets a card. Naturally I needed a special card for Vie, polite neutral cards for all the girls, "manly" cards for the boys (yes boys gave boys cards back then and no one teased), and one for my teacher.

It wasn't helpful that St. Valentine's Day card packs were loaded with cards meant to be received by girls or sweethearts. Every pack had at least one "teacher" card, but "safe" cards were not so plentiful. I now believe this was a marketing ploy. Luckily, the cards were packaged in lots of thirty-five cards and only 75¢. It was a very different economy.

Having solved my card issues, by trading with my sister, I set out to get a special card for Vie. This was a venture of secret agent proportion. I felt watched by everyone. Trying to look casual and cool, while being the palest near-sighted customer in a small town store felt impossible. I guess it was age appropriate paranoia.

A dollar went a long way. I found a card with heart shaped suckers, frosted with icing telling the recipient, "Be My Special Valentine." I took it to the counter and was greed by an obvious high school girl smacking her gum. Why do we try to hide purchases among "safe" items? Females zero in on male shyness. It must be in their genes.

"So you have a girlfriend?", she asked. "Huh, Steve?", she added. She knew me and she told the world why I was at a Duke & Ayers 5 & Dime. Just my luck. "Your Mom and Dad next door at Minyard's?", she questioned. "Your Mom is so sweet," she said. How do females set up their notes of information. A helpless, surrendering, and feeble "Yes," escaped from a suddenly dry mouth. I'm sure I must have turned apple red. Wouldn't you know it? The only colors available to me were bruises, sunburn, and embarrassment, or pure white.

How much did this girl know? At such times countless thoughts simultaneously clog one's mind crowding for attention, screaming for answers: Panic. Females know when you are hooked and ready to be gutted. "That's cool Steve," she offered. "You be nice to her, special girls are "special," she told me. She placed my selected Valentine in a separate bag and said to be careful not to break the candy hearts. She put everything into a larger bag, handed it to me, and said, "Don't break her heart either," giving me a smile and a pat on my shoulder. I could feel the heat on my face. Oh great; now I get to leave wearing cherry-apple-fire engine red. Man.

It was a cold overcast day. Having no options to hide my emotions, I went to my Dad's Mercury and waited in the backseat for my parents and siblings to return. There were obvious questions from my sister about my bag from the 5 & Dime. I was vague, offering only a comic book and cartridge fountain pen. Girls always had questions, and I needed privacy. "Vie's sister asked me if you were getting a special card for Vie," my sister whispered to me, as the car started.

Male's sense of privacy must be an illusion. Here were two little girls, my sister and Vie's little sister, both interested in my intentions. Where had I gone wrong. Did Vie know? Was I the talk of our small town and school? I was in shock.

Mercifully, i was able to dodge any further questions and embarrassment in the days leading up to St. Valentine's Day. I secretly signed all my cards, staying up late on a Saturday watching a horror movie, while everyone else slept. I used my newly purchase cartridge fountain pen and my neatest cursive handwriting on each card. I practiced Vie's several times, before I committed it to her card. I had once chance to do it right. It had to be perfect.

St. Valentine's Day Morning was bitter cold. My Dad's Mercury was filled with six kids from our neighborhood, four girls and two boys. The girls sat in back and everyone had a brown bag filled with Valentines. The girls were talkative and excited. The boys were silently terrified. The girls got quiet and then giggled. What were they discussing? The life of a fifth grader was hard enough.

Christmas had been easy enough. Though that too held its boy-girl-couples things and challenges. That had been just a matter of drawing names and exchanging gifts from out homes. St. Valentine's Day was... so public and personal. I'd have probably worried out my first gray hair, had it not been that I was born with white hair. This was gonna be both interesting and exciting. Pause

23 January 2007

Prison food is prepared by inmates. Texas calls us "offenders." They use it in the present tense. I refuse to use the term "offender." If every other group or collection of people gets to choose "acceptable" alternatives to call its own subdivision in society, I'll take either prisoner or inmate or convict. We all wear white, in Texas, the rest are grays.

Men in white prepare our food, while the grays oversee their efforts and dispense all ingredients - including spices. The meals are done hurriedly. The main objective is to (1) feed yourself, (2) steal food to sell either on the wing or in the chow hall, (3) serve the minimal amounts, and (5) exit ASAP with your stolen goods.

Fried food is the most popular. Chicken and pork are most favored, because they are "real" meat. Our fish is square. The ground beef is 2% beef, and fillers & extenders abound in all process meats, pork roll, pork pattie mix, beef patties, gray wieners, gray hot links, and pale salami or bologna.

Chicken is only in leg quarters. Pork is in chops or steaks. In actuality, they are usually more like pork chips, but it looks good in print or on the internet. Case in point, you can read that we got "ham." Freeworld folks immediately think of the pink "cured" - "smoked" hams. Think again. In here, ham is uncured. It is ham in the sense that it is pink ham from a leg. Gray meat, delicious huh?

For a diabetic, our diet is full of horrors. Pancakes four or five times a week, french toast, and elbow macaroni every time the words casserole or salad appear on the menu. It's all about saving money. It is interesting to compare the substance and preparation of the Gray's Mess to ours. They love to show off their trays as they walk through the hall to their destination. Usually they eat n their own mess hall with the school faculty and unit staff and medical personnel. But on occasion, their food is stolen and sold on the wing.

On paper, we all have the same diet, paid from the one and only budget. That is hard to reconcile once you've seen the difference or be fortunate enough to taste the difference. They do get away with it. Basically, because no outside inspectors (for that matter no one) arrives here unannounced and is allowed to enter. It helps that mostly units monitor themselves or are visited from "inspectors" that are staff from other units. Where else would this be allowed? Forget what you see in print or see on the internet. Prisons are temples to glorify waste and sustained upon the pain and sufferings of the silenced oppressed. The public, in general would be shocked. In the freeworld, I was clueless.

Movies, books, and HBO are not far from the mark. They actually underestimate the abuse and corruption. The media clamors at the abuse of terrorists. Yet, they (and the media) turn a deaf ear, a blind eye, to Americans in American prisons. Sadly, my own beloved great state of Texas ignores its incarcerated. Someday it will come to light. Then people will realize that we are not telling tall tales for sympathy. We have been telling the truth all along. You have to ask yourself; how much punishment is sufficient? How many individuals get to strike at you, either verbally or physically, before "someone" is satisfied that one is properly punished? How much must we lose or must be wrongfully taken away before the punishment meter reads full? Pause...

Disappointment is the water torture of prison. What is right is only right when someone in gray agrees. This right is also subject to the rank or shift time of the approving "officer." This is also subject to that particular mood, for that hour, and will likely change with the arrival of the next shift. Good luck on anything requiring independent logical deductive reasoning.

The inconsistencies alone are weight enough to wear anyone down. If you wear white, you are automatically under suspicion. One is considered wrong on any topic even before you open your mouth. The official outlook is "all offenders lie - all guards only speak the truth." Live in here and you would know different. The freeworld is full of sleepers. They worry about mistreatment of terrorists and ignore the abuse that is in our own legal systems and within prisons. Texas prisons are not full of guilty people.

we last left fifth grader Steve, I/he was headed for school. The halls and classrooms were alive with anxious children. This was St. Valentine's Day and everyone knew it meant a relaxed schedule and a party. There was even the electricity of Elementary School love.

Everyone managed to deliver their cards. We were given Valentine busy work to keep us occupied while the refreshments were delivered and set upon tables. The room had been decorated for over a week. The doors were adorned with that teacher's mailbox. Even the office had a mailbox. it was still acceptable to give the Principal cards. The Principal's afternoon announcements meant it was party time. Mothers, Teachers and helpful female students handed out the treats. Music was played and the building was filled with joy & laughter.

The lower grades had already had their parties and departed for the day. Fourth, fifth, & sixth graders were the last to leave for the day. Everyone was relaxing.

We were allowed to rearrange our desks to sit near our friends and or Valentines. All I had to do was turn my desk around to face Vie. We had our own food and our mailboxes had been removed from our desk and laid upon our laps.

Being nearsighted (20/200), I searched for Vie's card, depending upon it being the largest card in my mailbox. Bingo. I was right. Vie had found hers and was laughing. Just the feel of Vie's card to me told me why she was laughing.

Vie and I had chosen the same design for each other! This had tremendous implications to a fifth grade psyche. I laughed too, not really knowing why, just not wanting to seem out of place. Vie grabbed my hand and said, "thank you." If Vie said anymore, I sure don't recall. She looked so pretty. Her nails were done in red and she was smiling at me. It was one of those moments psychologists now call a :peak experience."

The moment was broken with an unexpected announcement. Our school district was ending the day early. Snow was rapidly falling north of Dallas. Snow was expected soon. Buses were running early, parents were being contacted and we were advised to, "pack it up."

Our teacher advised us to pick up our mess, turn our desks to the appropriate positions, gather our books, and await the bell. All bus riding students were dismissed to the staging area in the cafeteria. Students not awaiting parental rides home, were dismissed.

Vie offered to give me a ride home. She just knew her Mom would pick us up. True to her word Vie's Mom arrived and told me she had spoken to my Mom. I had a ride home with my Valentine. ?

Vie's Mom had a blue whatyoumacallit, a four door. Vie's Mom and Vie's sister sat in the front. Vie and I sat in the back. We sat close and held hands. Vie's sister looked back and smiled. This is way before seatbelts, so movement wasn't a problem.

Vie's Mom watched the road. There was plenty of traffic and amazingly so much snow had already fallen. The steadily falling flakes kept the windshield wipers busy. Vie's sister changed the station away from traffic -weather reports and her Mom did not disapprove.

I cannot recall the radio station. AUL is all there was back then for us, but I do remember Vie's sister looking back at us and setting herself back, content with her choice. I was too caught up in the moment to notice, but I now feel someone was setting a mood.

Snow, dreamy music, holding hands with a pretty girl (your Valentine), and sitting in a backseat alone, the world was a pretty place. This was the second time I'd had snow and a pretty girl holding my hand. I didn't see that for four years later. Fifth graders tend to be locked in on the moment. I was at a place that was timeless and perfect. pause...

Good memories keep one alive in prison. They are mine. I don't need property papers or anyone's permission to have them. They remind me that life was good, experiences are not all bad, and people do/did care. ? They still care. Locks, bars, fences, or guards cannot keep love out. We are the only ones that can stop love, by shutting ourselves down. With thanks to the Judds, "love can build a bridge," and God will find a way.

I am Catholic. I believe that I am never truly alone, even in my Dark Night as Saint John of the Cross once wrote. We are not alone in the battle against depression. We are free to be able to share the load. This takes faith and patience. We cannot start our day with yesterday's defeats. We must approach the new day, knowing we have a clean fresh slate. I am not always good at this. I am not perfect at what I preach. I am still at work. Randy Travis sings, "I'm just an ol' lump of coal, but I'm gonna be a diamond someday." God and I have a plan. pause...

A quote from Plato sums up my outlook, "Be kind, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle."

"R-E-S-P-E-C-T" Aretha Franklin sings. In prison, respect is confused with fear. Everyone is due respect. Respect is freely given, not earned. We respect others, because we have first respected ourselves. This prepares us to give respect to others. We are secure in our self-respect. Such respect is not dependent on muscle, gold teeth, money, and certainly not fear. Equals share respect. Such respect is free of suspicion and jealousy. Such respect has its roots in self-awareness and self-assurance. One's "true" ways will surface in prison. You just cannot run away from yourself. Pause

Commodity trading, in prison, is based on a postage stamp economy. A thirty-nine cent stamp has a street value of twenty-five cents. A special sandwich or extra tray, in the chew hall is one stamp. Anything brought to the wing and sold is automatically double the price & shipping & handling fees.

Shortages and disappearances of food is common. Cheese, meat, and spices are at the top of the list. We used to get cured ham and turkey ham, but theft ended those items. So much of what we used to be is now lost because of greed and theft. Prisons will always lose money on food, so long as men in white and grey are allowed to handle food. The only way to go is to privatize all preparation and distribution of food. Such an endeavor would insure cleanliness, quality, and equal distribution of food resources. Today's means are corrupt.

Pork is highly valued. it is real meat, no additives. Two nights ago, pork steaks were on the menu. "Steak" is indicative of a style of cut or thickness of the cut.

Typically, our unit is a medical unit. Its population varies from two thousand to around twenty-two hundred. Typically, three thousand pork servings are prepared, to feed prisoners, staff, and guards. This includes a sliding scale "theft" quotient. Is it surprising that shortages still occur? Furthermore, is it surprising that sliced pork was available on the wing? I had to settle for a processed chicken pattie. Don't think Chick Fillet. Think Discount et Supply. A pork sandwich, on the wing was seventy five cents. Imagine that?

All that pork disappeared. You must factor in muslims, pork free diets, and liquid diets and special diet eaters to fully understand the scope of such a theft. Pat downs, strip searches, and keen eyes of highly trained professionals could not halt this love.

It was hard to eat my cool chicken patties and have my weak eyes see others consume multiple pork steaks and still sell so many on the wing. How blind does one have to be? How blind can one be? pause...

I believe the home style is known as craftsman. The single car garages open to the street and are ideal for later conversions. (That was years away.) Vie's house faced ours. The homes were mirror images of one another.

Vie's Mom parked the car. Mom and little sister exited quickly, as I voiced my thanks. Vie exited on my side of the car. I helped here with her things and set my own on the floor.

As I straightened up from putting Vie's belongings on the step leading into her home's kitchen/dining area, she hugged me. I hugged back and she kissed me right on my lips. We kissed twice. We had Vie's little sister as our witness. her sister giggled. Vie was still hugging me and said something I couldn't really hear. She invited me in, but I was so out of it that I declined. What a dope. Then I hurriedly kissed her again and ran home through the rapidly deepening snow. Had anyone at my home seen our Valentine's kisses?

I guess kids always feel spied upon. Entering my home, I was sure that all my secrets would be laid open for all to review and comment. Luckily, I was just paranoid. I was the only one that acted suspicious.

Nothing was said, but my Valentine's were inspected. Parents used to look over such things. Everything passed parental inspection and only passing comments were made about Vie's valentine to me. I did admit to buying Vie a special card and that met with my Mom's approving smile. Mom was cool, no questions, no remarks, just her smile. Thanks Mom.

The snow continued to fall. The news said something about a record snowfall. It did get deep. Our black and white television showed us all we needed to see.

Before supper my Dad called home. He had been offered overtime. The roads were a mess, so Dad accepted. He wouldn't be home until the early hours. School had already been cancelled, but our bedtime didn't change. Hell. TV back then usually ended at one anyway. Since the storm moved in though, the three major affiliates kept on going.

The morning started with the smell of pancakes. Dad was cooking. He and Mom were talking. Dad was telling all of us of his journey home and his adventure at a 24 hour grocery store. I believe it was a Tom Thumb.

My Dad had brought home what seemed a ton of groceries. He was surprised to learn that in his hurry and due to buying frenzy all they had left was extra thick sliced bread. Such an item had yet to be known as Texas Toast style. We had four loaves of it! Our sandwiches were gonna be big ones! We all laughed and settled in for the remainder of the storm. Outside, flurries were still visible as drifts appeared everywhere. The world was white and a muffled hush was all that we heard. TV brought the world to us.

In my cell, I am given to long deep thought. I do slip into depression, but I am only aware of it after the fact. Then there is reflection on those dark nights. I have had my share of pity parties. I am not immune.

Turning to prayer and talking to God really helps. Talking to any others, in here, is not a good idea. Gossip is a well used avenue. It's best to keep your thoughts between yourself and God.

The coming of February made me re-call Vie. She was a fine person, and not just because of our kisses. A person's true character always comes to the forefront. You cannot escape yourself and the observant will soon catch your little inconsistencies.

Vie must have grown up to be a fine woman and quite possibly an excellent mother. Her family suddenly moved away. Vie's Dad re-entered and within four days they were gone. I am left to wonder; why the hurry? All of a sudden Vie wasn't allowed to cross the street. I wasn't allowed to play with her and she no longer came back to school. There was a quick but sweet good-bye. I didn't even see their vehicles leave our neighborhood. They must have left at night.

Vanity makes me wonder, all the usual things. Basically, I wonder if she remembers me? Little things come to mind, holding hands, doing the twist on my house's driveway, and her kiss.

1 February 2007

February has finally arrived. It seems like January lasted forever. For that matter, February will also drag along. This month is filled with both fanfare & history. This year, we even have the beginnings of Lent, as Ash Wednesday is the Wednesday following St. Valentine's Day.

Prison politics and psychology runs something like this; if previous policies & standards cannot be met?; then these issues get redefined, the programs are re-named, and standards are lowered. What better way to appear efficient and concerned with "our" needs. Be careful not to ask for a clarification on the true identities of people represented with the pronoun "our."

PHOP, Physically handicapped Offenders program handles the needs of all prisoners defined as physically handicapped. As I write the initials are being changed. It will be awhile before any subtle changes are known. The Texas Department of Criminal Justice (TDCJ) is not known for it's good heart or expansive good will programs. Basically, they lose money.

I participate in a PHOP program called Adaptive Resources. Our undersized room has two typewriters, one brail writer, a Tele-Viewer magnifier, a tape viewer, and six IBM clones. All printing must be pre-approved and can only be done from the instructor's desktop PC. The printer isn't even in the same room.

Sadly, the program is greatly undersized, under funded, and sorely ignored. There is probably three times as many needy, as there are slots available. As with anything else, feet drag.

It would be an oversimplification to blame one person, but where do all the decisions go to be acted upon? Why have a trained leader? As in the freeworld, individual kingdoms all too often become ill-organized dynasties ruled by over officious barons or baronesses. Surprised? It all boils down to personalities and their mood swings.

The complicating issue is that we in white do not complain effectively. We either remain silent or we only look out for our self-interest. We don't share information or unite with grievances against neglect or abuse. Paramount to this "ignore it-say nothing" attitude is the shocking level of illiteracy in Texas prisons, not to mention the ease with which retaliation is dealt out.

Fan mail, wallpaper, paper balls, or just paper are grievance forms. The names will tell you how seriously they are taken. The system forms do work and sometimes they are even effective to cause change, before a Step 2 is filled.

It's a complicated issue. People do lie. But it is stupid to believe that only one side is always faultless. It is also stupid to suggest that your grievance form against officers won't buy you a surprise cell shakedown or cause you to be ordered to strip naked in the hallway. It can even get you a visit from the "goon squad" or a gang party. Imagine that?

2 February 2007

February is the month where my cousin and a very dear friend celebrate their birthdays. Both are women. Beyond relatives, a few males still call me their friend. Yet, all but two significant females have abandoned me. I am blessed with many supportive people, mostly women. Of all my supportive crew is my Mom. Tied with her is my sister.

Mary Arcelia Jaso married David Ramos Canchola, a WWII veteran and I was their first son. I am also the eldest grandson on my mother's side, and thus carry my Mom's maiden name as my middle name.

My Dad's induction papers list him as a "cow puncher." I was a cowboy and a soldier - a sergeant in the 88th infantry. He received a Purple heart for being wounded while in Italy. He returned to Refugio Texas, married, moved to Corpus Christi, and used the G.I. Bill of Rights to learn welding. He joined the Welders & Steamfitters Union Local 100 and had a long and successful career welding just about anything - anywhere. David Ramos Canchola was a great Dad, loving husband, an active faithful Catholic, and a great provider. He was also a rascal with a fine sense of humor. My Dad was a good role Model. I love you, Dad. Mary Arcelia Jaso Canchola is no ordinary woman.

I say this humbly and not just because she is my Mom. My Mom's intelligence went way beyond her all too brief schooling. In those days, rural children were needed more at home or working than in a classroom. Mom is also compassionate. I've learned many lessons from my parents and grandparents. At the op of the list is the love fore people and love of God. Saint Francis of Assissi is credited with saying, " preach the Gospel daily - use words when needed."

My Dad taught me action. My Mom taught me the same, and added the good sense of knowing when to speak and how to express myself. Prison is my fault. They are blameless.

4 February 2007

I used to believe people were basically good and lived good lives. I still believe people have good intentions and can change. That is, I used to believe it until I came to prison.

First the prisoners and their actions are for the most part settled. There are the attention getters, predators, and malcontents. The people cause problems. They are the reasons prisons are built. They believe, or act as though, they are above and beyond the rules. They are selfish and potentially dangerous. Their true nature is violent in both word and deed. Even their conversations are adversarial. They don't digress. They argue and the louder your voice the more correct one can assume your stance.

If it weren't for Aretha Franklin these men couldn't spell RESPECT. This is plain to see by their misconceptions. For them, fear and intimidation are respect. Their counterparts wear gray.

Guards view themselves as either family or "Offender Friendly." The O.F.'s are in two categories. O.F. Honest and O.F. Dishonest. O.F.D.'s can be part of Family, but O.F.H. have a short career. O.F.H's deal with alienation and frustration.

Family live by a code of silence and lies. They cover for each other. Ever wonder how cigarette, liquor, drugs, and cellphones get in prisons? This isn't a mystery. It is an ugly ignored lie. The books officially say that "guards only tell the truth." Well how special. Such conviction and fortitude is admirable, not to mention pig fertilizer.

7 February 2007

It is a task a psychological challenge to remain civil while being verbally assaulted and having your personal space invaded. It's all a ploy to mace you and get you overpowered, handcuffed and stomped/kicked with steel toed boots. Such bravery and nobleness is no longer reserved to Nazi history. America clamors about Koreans being placed in toilets and cruelty to prisoners. Wake up. Such abuses have continues since before the time of Jesus. Silence, self-respecting, self-monitoring, and public apathy keep the cycle alive. What can we expect of a world where we save the ivory-billed woodpecker, abort life, ignore the elderly, and turn a blind eye to weak and helpless. We all need prayer.

9 February 2007

Today was my Adaptive Resources class. I go there to do my work, help others, and write letters for those unable to use a computer because of blindness.

We have speech programs, that would allow sightless men help themselves, but the powers have decided to keep these things on hold. We ask why, but closed doors, as closed minds, seldom answer. One wonders. Why?

Things could be better, if only the barons & baronesses would allow it.

10 February 2007

Freeworld Saturdays were so full of activity and life. It was a catch up day and try to get ahead day. Some days you actually came close to doing so too. It was a relaxing day too.

I was raised an outdoorsman. The best invention, for me, is sunblocking. This allowed me to roam outside as I pleased. I was no longer limited to only early and late hours, or the spaces in the shade. It is so wonderful to be outside and active.

My side of the family were hunters, ranchers, fisherman, horsemen, cattlemen, and farmers. I did things, but my vision and albinism limited me in my early years. My wife's family were laborers, mostly city people. They lacked country skills. They were not outdoors people. They are good people and skilled at city life, but certainly not country.

Our first child was a boy. He did not live. The rest of our children are girls - seven God-sent girls. I love them all and early on decided to raise them as competent young women. in my family, there was no division of labor. A man's work or a woman's work is only work that needs done and someone needed to do it. My girls had their own rod & reels, as well as tackle box. They tied their own lines and all caught fish. We would eat our catch. Dirty fingernails could be manicured and polished for dates. It's no sin to get sweaty, there was plenty of hot water later on. Watching a child catch a fish or pick fresh produce and enjoy each at a table is pure joy. Their successes will not only build character, but will also seed their confidence for life's struggles. I am proud of the daughters God sent me.

13 February 2007

Valentine's Eve is upon me. I think back to my past. How many people, loves, are in our past? Each love and loss leaves its impression upon us. If we learn from these impressions, then they are all good. We learn. We improve and move on. Hurts also survive. Some may be profound and haunting. In here, one has time to play those scenes out regularly. I persevere to seek forgiveness and to offer forgiveness. Forgiving oneself is hardest to do. My prayers center on this. We will be shown mercy, as I have shown mercy. Today seems too long already.

15 February 2007

Major cold or flu. Prison is no place to get ill. In the freeworld, few medications ever worked on me for colds. I did enjoy Vick's Vapor Rub, Ben Gay, and honey lemon tea with one finger bourbon. That'll never happen in here. I'll just pass through it as best as possible. Good night.

18 February 2007

Rest feels good. Hot tea, minus any additives also feels good. I have canned fruit juices, orange-cranberry-kiwi strawberry. A few chicken Ramen's are also welcomed as I add two jalapenos. I can breathe for awhile. Some men have had this crud for over three weeks and they are taking the meds that are dished out. I think I'll suffer through it. It's hard to concentrate & keep the page dry. I may name this cold. I have a feeling it's building up slowly and will be here awhile or I'll get re-infected. Vick's would be nice. Sleep is good.

20 February 2007

This is boring. it takes a lot of toilet paper to support this thing. There comes a time when you forget how it feels to be well. I am at that point now. I crave comfort food. e.g. meaty chicken & noodles; chicken & dumplings, big bowl of meaty chili w/ jalapenos, clam chowder. All that ain't gonna happen. I'll have to settle for a peanut butter & jelly sandwich.

23 February 2007

Getting mail was cool. It is good to know folks still care. I especially love mail from my daughters and folks from back home. You feel like a celebrity (I've never been one - so I'm past guessing). Still I really enjoy mail.

My cold seems to come and go. The nights are worse or is that worst? My thoughts wonder - err - wander. Food doesn't taste very good, my taste buds are on vacation. I think they are out with my sense of smell. My nose is making up for it though.

Sleep feels good. Good night.

26 February 2007

My nights & days are getting confused. I am sleeping all the time. For awhile I'll listen to Art Bell's show or his guest hosts. Some of those folks are really out there too. KMOX carries a broadcast called "When Radio Was." It's all re-broadcasts of classic radio shows. I used to listen to it out in the world & collected re-mastered cassette tapes of old radio shows.

The theater of the mind is great. The special effects are simple to today's, but all the charm is still there and that sparks the awe & wonder. The comedy is corny, but still funny. The commercials are forever interesting because they reflect a time gone by - so innocent.

I ventured a cup of hot cocoa. It stayed down, no expressway exit. Food is beginning to taste better and I'm awake longer too. When will my nose get with the program? You'd think it would run itself dry? Pause...

27 February 2007

This thing is going around. Soon enough we may all get re-infected by the ones just now getting it. Improvement is slow, meds seem useless even those who do take it. They just sleep. I can do that w/o any meds. My nose still runs and the body aches have returned. Yip pee.

February 28th, 2007

Its still February. Our shortest month still seems 40 days long.

This month has seen the birthdays of both my cousin Stephanie and my best friend's wife Lisa herself a great lady and a great friend. Stephanie has a new baby and Lisa is a grandmother, but don't call her "granny" she's warned me already. I wonder how my Aunt Frances- Stephanie's mom- feels about "granny" my mom doesn't like it. I'm a grandpa so my mom is also a great grandma. I'll soon be a grandpa x2, with my daughter Joy expecting. Once my oldest daughter Maria broke the ice to "grand hood" seems like the second child just appeared. I love it though. Same as I love all my seven daughters. They are such a gift from God.

My cold is weakening but grudgingly so. The nose still flews! That may have been a little too graphic? But true enough.

April better shape up.

April 1st, 2007

Where did we get April Fools Day and why was April picked?

Thankfully prisons do not observe today- So far at least. The freeworld is a different matter. I must confess to perpetrating many April Fools Day pranks. Some went over better than others.

My career was in education. I was a teacher and well recognized in my profession. It was sheer pleasure to get paid to do what I loved to do anyway. Teachers are born and graced with their abilities by God. I had a blast using my gifts and was always thrilled to see the light of comprehension ignite the smile of success and understanding. This look is also present once realizes they have fallen on an April Fools Day scheme.

Every year students try their April Fools Day pranks on anyone, specially unsuspecting teachers. Rookie teachers are the easiest marks and often fell to veteran teachers' pranks. It is a rite of passage- time honored. This particular year, I was teaching at an elementary school in South Dallas, I warned my students before hand of the April Fools Day tradition. They needed this background, because none of my students were used to American Culture.

My classroom was a Multi-Age-Group (MAG) and strictly Spanish speakers. In essence, it was a one room school house for them. They only left for P.E, lunch and recess. I covered all subjects for grades 4, 5 and 6. They were a great group, but innocent. I felt compelled to warn them and educate them about April Fools Day. Children learn quickly. P.E was third period for MAG. And because it was a large mixed class, my group had been taught well by their peers. They returned to a wiser, experienced, and ready to participate teacher because; I wanted on this happening.

Their attempts were sweet and so obvious. They were too ready to offer pranks, scams & misdirection. I would laugh, make eye contact and warn, "you do know I'll get my turn too!" they had caught the April Fools Day spirit and the rest of the day was filled with little success. Their jokes on one another were met with laughter, on both sides of the prank, and never anger. They were having fun. Still, I'd offer my caution, "it's gonna be my time to- be alert."

Lunch is another time of mixed groups for my MAG group to intermix with the student body at large. As it happen it was my turn to mingle with the playground after lunch group and have lunch with the students.

Male elementary teachers are rare. Standing at nearly 6'2" and possessing long (neatly styled- I must add) white hair, I am very visible. This also made me a magnet during lunch recess and made for a convenient launching site for my April Fools Day prank.

Taking a nearby stick, I scratched out a telephone number. Standing near it questions were soon asked. Curiosity and excitement grew from students and teachers alike as I explained the number's purpose. Shaquile O'Neal's 1-800 number was a free contest line. One only had to call and have: name, gender, age, address, and phone number to enter. There were hundreds of prizes, but the grand prize was a home computer, large TV, Sega CD video controller and dinner for the whole family with Mr. O'Neal, with limo service.

Exaggeration is usually a tip off. The number spread like wildfire. At the end of the school day, I told my students that they had already been April Fooled but they must discover the trick on their own. The hint was huge! Ask around for any tricks I'd tried to pass. I went home early, as I was entitled because of early duties and lunch duties.

The following morning, as I was signing in at the principal's office, the assistant secretary informed me that I was to wait there for the principal. It was a stern female voice that called me into the office. Why is it that any command appearance to a principal's office reluctant to enter Clueless, I was greeted with "Mr. Canchola what have you done?" "M'am?" is all that I could say. The one way conversation centered on my previous day's prank. The school was avalanched with phone calls from parents in search of a "Q". The number I'd made up was 1-800-BIG-SHAQ. The secretary was hot. The principal was disappointed and too many teachers had also fallen for my prank to speak to me. Students, parents, and educated professionals alike had fallen for it. I had to stifle myself, but lost it. The principal had to laugh then and so did the assistant secretary. They had tried to pay me back and it almost worked. The real angry person was our over head secretary and our talented and gifted teacher. The number couldn't work; the border had a "Q" but only on rotary dials. I guess my sense of honor was infectious. It was a great year for us all.

April 5th, 2007

We will have a special meal this Easter. The menu includes baked chicken leg quarters, dressing and chunky turkey gravy. As prison food goes, this will be great!

I miss decorating eggs. This activity took a life of all its own once I had my own home and family. I collects all sorts of decorating media, crayons, water colors, safe markers & paints as well as scented markers with which to customize eggs. They were all kept in large round cookies tin. The butter cookies were excellent and the tin a perfect storage place for many years.

My signature design was a blue eyed yellow duck and a baby chick. I also did flowers, daisies, andian paintbrushes, and blue bonnets were my favorites. My wife and children became devoted egg designers too. It was/is a creative outlet of self-expression and love. It was a great conclusion to our Lenten season and a visible gift to one another (relatives) in preparation for Easter it became a bonding experience and family tradition. I'll be remembering those nights of past on this coming Easter's eve. Love never dies.

The meal did taste good and we did receive an ample serving, not the usual child's plate. It was a nice touch for anywhere, especially here.

In my cell I pretended a Milky Way bar was a chocolate bunny. Naturally I ate the ears first. My snacks included a pecan fried pie and diet coke. My evening concluded with some prayers and reading a western.

April 9th, 2007

Breakfast was awesome. We only get three egg days a week. The rest of the week is predominantly pancakes with a day of biscuits & gravy (chunky water) or French toast (very bad). The French toast is closer to "blackened" bread, except the middle is usually on the raw side. I usually exclude myself from such fare.

As I said today's breakfast was awesome. Along with the usual eggs, we had huge cinnamon rolls. They were buttery and dusted with cinnamon sugar. Each was approximately two thirds the size of a dictionary.

You might wonder why food is such a big deal. Kitchen help steal, to put it briefly. They feed themselves, their friends and paying customers- Stamps being the currency of the realm. This all on the sly. Yet on those two meals; Easter and the following Monday, all went well and everyone ate. This was a minor miracle for our chow hall. It was all well appreciated.

The weather here has been quite cool. As it happens, our coats have been picked up for the year, as well as our extra blanket, and the vent covers have been removed just as a cold front through! So figure?

April 11th, 2007

People just aren't lining up to be the guards. The ones currently employed have both a high rate of absenteeism and high turnover rate. This is a very stressful place to work. The pressure comes from all sides for the workers in any gray. We can see the open contempt and hostility they display towards one another.

The ill effect is that we can get caught in the middle. We become the victim in a dysfunctional family. It can get ugly. Rule #1 mind your own business. Some folks are itching for an opportunity to flex their authority over you. One learns to read body language and avoid "issues" or potential "wrecks" in such cases, it is advisable to avoid leading with your ego. Regardless of the situation, you are always wrong. So leave it alone. Channel your energies in another direction, instead of confrontation. This isn't rocket science, except for those labeled "crash test dummies" those folks actually believe they are in control of others. Their mantra is, told him/her off or I sure gave them a piece of my mind. Just how much can one give away without losing their mind?

April 15th, 2007

Today is my nieces birthday. Her name is Baylee. Her dad, my only brother Orlando is younger than me and blissfully married to a wonderful woman named Jerry. Baylee's older and only brother is named David, after their grandpa- our dad. The pictures I received show a happy lot living in Red Oak, TX.

I've met David and am told he remembers me. That's sweet. But a bit fanciful, may only be a memory that children produce to seem more grown up and alert. Still, I have some very early memories of my own childhood. This may have a heredity- genetic thing. It may be a family trait to have early memories?

I didn't know what my niece believes of me. My being in prison and all. They've both met my oldest daughters, so an Uncle Steve is possible. I do send birthday cards and pictures that are prominent at my mom's house. They have sent me cards too still their understanding of my living circumstances is a job for their parents. My brother and sister-in-law will define me to them as the grew in and intellect. Until then, I am the thoughtful, absent, Uncle Steve

.

By now, I am grandfather twice over. My oldest daughter Maria was first with a daughter named Jany. My second oldest daughter Joy is expecting her first. I am excited for them both. Parenthood is a privilege and a blessing. To know that each is experiencing the joy of motherhood, it gives me such satisfaction and elation. Diapers for everyone. ! !

I was married after my thirtieth birthday. There was to be a son, but he is with God now. What followed were seven girls. They all are special to me and true daughters from my heart, as Daddy's Girls. A houseful of little ladies is an experience and a challenge.

The two oldest, I taught to shorthand and cook, as well as to ride bicycles and camp. All four of the oldest could fish and had their own gear. Girls can be very intense on catching a fish and even mere so on getting it to the table. Freshly caught fish is special, especially so when you know you are feeding people and those people are enjoying your catch.

Whether on shore, pier, or in one of our boats, we all enjoyed catching fish or just relaxing in the Texas outdoors. I am glad I took the time to pass on my love for the outdoors to my girls. We did have fun.

The main facility of our unit is one long hallway with offices, storage and necessities branching off perpendicular to the north/south orientation. The central area is where medical administrative, and educational sites, as well as laundry, maintenance, religious, and dining facilities can be found.

Our cell blocks are alphabetized A-E on the south side, while F-K (excluding an "I" block) are located on the north side. Each wing has a #1 & #2 designation. All wings are three tiered with 21 cells per tier, double occupancy. The cell is roughly ten feet length, six feet in width and around eight feet in height. The front of the cells is bars above which are two capable lockers and shelves. Each cell has two bunks (metal), a small table, attached stool, ventilation grid, mirror, and a combination stainless steel center serving as basin, water fountain, with a toilet before it and double fluorescent light fixture. All of this, including electrical outlet and radio reception outlet are at the rear of the cell. Amazing all this, one can understand the proximity everything has to something else in a cell. Units vary in size, design, capacity, and housing arrangements. The cells here are smallish, especially so for men over six feet tall and above two hundred and fifty pounds! ! close quarters, indeed.

Texas newspapers are full of prison stories. Leading that area are the Houston Chronicle, Dallas Morning News, and Austin. Texas wants more prisons, at least two, yet current news articles estimate that the prison system is at least twelve hundred guards short. Turnover and job dissatisfaction are high, as well as absenteeism. Texas' desire for more prisons, for now is a "field of drugs", as a Houston Chronicle article put it, "if you build it, will they come?" Texas politics, public posturing, parole board barency mentalities, and prison inadequacies make for a perfect breeding ground for slights of hand. One only need read the newspapers to see it for themselves. But our culture quickly tires of such news unless there is a body count or missing celebrity underwear. So very little gets done or more importantly observed & remembered.

What is lacking in Texas' prison system is an independent investigating agency that separates them from and above TDCJ. Self-regulation and reporting its ineffective enforcement of federal standards at a state facility is marginal at best. We live here, investigators and inspectors come here, and everything else the most glaring offenses are temporarily functional. Why not? No one enters without prior arrangements. Once the "all clear" is creamed it is back to SOP, SOS, and SNAFU. It is taughable. Our Warden is trying. You can see his actions are centered on a smooth operation. It is the time honored establishment of little kingdoms and tyrannical barons that ruin a good plan.

April 20th, 2007

I've been told that our menus are visible on the internet. It is a bit of a joke, it will tell you we eat beaked ham, pork steaks, and hamburger steaks. The ham is uncured, so basically is the butchered hog leg. Before fire envision a Vikings inspired slice, realize that it more akin to a "pork chips". All beef whether ground or patties, is 2% beef (98% fillers). My folks had a totally different impression. It is also true that minus change w/o notice and that is never a good sign.

Food is a great topic of conversation in prison, especially "meat". The discussions will eventually turn to roasts, hams, steaks, chips, turkey, seafood, and wild game. There is also take of BBQ's , smokers, spits. Everyone has the "best" design and method of cooking. Its great fun and entertainment to trade tables of feasts and parties they created.

Kill it, clean it, and cook it, how many people actually could do it? I've done it. I'd really never thought of it until I went hunting with a group of "hunters". Their primary purpose was wife escape. They know so little of the outdoors to have called themselves seasoned hunters. I never saw them field dress game, not even a fish. I offered, but was politely declined.

We packed way too much gear. I figured it was a base camp at their lease. We traveled miles and hours from home, hearth, and family only to eat steaks cooked on a propane grill and sleep in trailers. I had spent the weekend on a "sleepover". I did enjoy myself; moderately. What I missed was my expected communion with nature and the wild.

I did my duties as a rookie to their lease and a guest. I participated in time honored traditions of deer camps and did so with joy. But when I consider all their gasoline or cigarette smoke, and tuning the scopes, on the lease, I'd as soon used the money spent on my family and slept on my own backyard. I'd have seen triple to game and had my wife at my side. I never returned to hunt with that group again.

Though I enjoyed hunting, my passion was fishing. To my way of thinking, game could run into an area where hunting is prohibited or to another state, but fish had to stay in the water. Hunting season open and closed, but fishing is open year round.

y fishing avocation started as a pre-schooler. My dad made me a red and simple reel. He formed it from rods of steel, metal disks, washers and rubber tape from padding. It was all matte black and fully functional. My first fish was from the Guadalupe River about 1957. That memory is like a snapshot in my mind's eye. I was so happy, it was the beginning of a lifelong love affair with fishing and the outdoors.

As time passed, as I aged, and my "allowance" increased so did expenditures on fishing gear. I grew up primarily a boat fisherman, but soon learned the use of lures; artificial baits. My interests grew with my introduction to with outdoor programs (The Lone Star Sportsman) and a variety of fishing programs (Vigil Word; Gadabout Gaddis; Bill Dance, Curt Goudy; just to name a few). Each had sponsors whose lures were a cinch to have your stringer or creel full. As time passed the variety of lures, lines, reds, reels, and what all else exploded. Each product was supposedly better than the last and not near as effective as tomorrow's gear. I quickly learned what worked best for me and my pocketbook. I attacked fishing the way I did my studies; reading, making notes and experimenting in the field. It was a joyful research, with edible returns. My last fishing trip was on Lake Joe Pool with my oldest friend (in years known-not age) David. We had a wonderful time.

April 29th, 2007

Three inmates and I have had a running Sunday morning domino game since 2004. we stopped briefly when one was moved to another wing, but re-started our game soon after he moved back to the wing. These are the people you see daily. Men while here from, for lack of better terms, fraternities or a boardinghouse bond. We share many activities and a common misery. That understanding cements the bond.

This morning, I brought out breakfast tacos. One was re-hydrated jalapeno potato chips. The crisp potato slices are placed in a small amount of hot water; just enough to turn them into something akin to pan fried potatoes. The other choice was chili, bean corn chips, pork skin and peppers concoction that cooked overnight. The slow cooking is superb! A little special ketchup is the finishing touch to a delicious morning meal. It's nice to share and I like to see the satisfied faces. It's a great start before the game gets serious.

Whit Bubblegum, Cowboy Bob, and I were ready to play rummy with dominoes. Its one of these prison evolved games, necessary because TDCJ disallows playing cards. Its supposed deter gambling. Well? Anyone can tell you, you don't need playing manipulatives to gamble. We didn't gamble. We four play for each other's company and a chance to chew the pot. We do that well too. There are members to our little fraternity, but we are the group. We each have our own separate contacts and people we associate (kick it with), but because a table only sits four, we are the "tight" group we trust each other and are like adopted brothers and prison is the evil foster home.

There was much to do this week; as it is told a cell phone was discovered. Now? Where did that come from? Who could have possibly brought one in here? It is a huge violation to posses cell phones, cameras, two-way radios, weapons, drugs, cigarettes, alcohol or pornography within the boundaries that constitute a prison. These are but a few of the things that constitute "contraband". There are heavy penalties for the above mentioned contraband. Yet, even when the person responsible for bringing in such items is caught, enablers penalties are small, the theory being that perpetrators were coerced into their actions. Imagine that? Such underground activity nets huge returns for all parties concerned. A newspaper internet search on such topics would be entertaining.

A recent spot "surprise" shakedown netted a prior of starched white pants. They stood up straight, against the bars in evidence to the starch used. Starch and extra clothing is contraband. Some people just need to stand out.

Future generations will laugh at our present culture and fashion. We are overly absorbed in both. These trends aren't lost in prison. Where and why did the obsession to wear oversized clothing begin? Can this be blamed upon absent parenting? Children being allowed to purchase their own clothes, before they were ready for making responsible decisions? Could this be a side effect of poverty? Is it possible that oversized clothes evolved out of a need of clothes to fit more than one person? Is the formula like? JP needs jeans & a shirt, so does TD, BO and KC, but the money is only there for one set of clothing. The complicating factor is that everyone is a different size and height, JP being a 48/34 & a 6x shirt? Who knows? The fashion statement isn't lost to neither Hollywood nor the TDCJ inmate. The bigger the better, because cutting slits in a waistband and tieing off with a shoestring solves it all. A large waisted (36 inches) can easily wear a 5x. One is now in style. GQing in the pen is not end in sight.

Which brings me to think about all those large dial watch with four push buttons and four mini dials with their own little hands, why are all those dials necessary? What do those dials measure? How many dials or displays are needed or are possible to put upon a wristwatch? I guess it is like shaving razor heads? When will there be enough blades present to insure a close shave? Perhaps we will be satisfied when a razor can "remove the uppermost layer of skin and leave you with fresh pink-baby-soft skin glowing in a healthy time" the add may say. We are suckers for novelty and slaves to our vanity. We may never learn.

I'm a diabetic: type II. I require both an AM and PM injection of insulin. My AM injection comes around 3:00 AM. My PM injection is consistently after 5:00 PM (1700 hrs). Free-world doctors would advise against this schedule, as would the American Diabetic Association. Just when does medical trump security? Many times inmates are forced to eat before they are allowed to get glucose check or injection of insulin. the powers, of the day, want to close the chow halls door and the chow hall workers want to close early, for their personal reasons.

This whole dance is complicated when an emergency (e.g. suicide attempt, fight, heart attack, or other such priority) causes the nurses to stop accepting insulin patients to attend to the emergencies. The caged waiting area then becomes crowded, backed up and testy. It's not a pretty sight. To make things worse, a shift change of medical personnel and door guard can occur at such time too. That's when the situation can get ugly. In such cases, it is not unheard of for some men to go unfed. This is rare though because the alternative is to accept a brown paper bag meal. First of all though, one has to be offered. A guard must supervise the filling of the bag and then deliver the bags to waiting diabetics. One can imagine how such an "extra" task is viewed? The language can be peppered with attitude. Imagine that?

My mom's sides of the family are excellent cooks. Because of my albinism, I couldn't play outside for much of the day: sunburn city. The 50's and 60's had yet to yield sun blocking lotion, so I had to stay indoors.

I spent a lot of time with both my mom; my Grandmother (Mama). They were kind and industrious women. Today one would call them multi-taskers: multi-talented. They were as frontier women able to cook and can; knit and kneel; sew and shoot; sow and reap; as well as raise children and keep a house clean and doctor ills. These were strong, intelligent, caring women: a rare breed. I was blessed to have been born into their care.

Children are full of energy and questions. I was above normal in that aspect. So I am told ? to keep me busy, I was given lessons and tasks appreciate to my age and dexterity. My greatest joy became cooking, fishing and learning. Each of these could be done away form the burning rays of the sun. I even became skilled in gardening, but this only happened later in life. Along the way I developed a sense of humor, sensitivity, and creativity that has greatly enhanced my life and those around me. Thank you Mama & mom. My eldest daughter Maria credits me as "always having time for them" & "putting aside my own tasks to help them". Kids say the dearest things. My role models were women. This is not to under credit the males in my life. This is to say that mom and Mama were always there, especially in the middle of the day; while the men worked.

Maria also says that I have a talent for bringing diverse people to a table for a meal and welcoming them into our home. I should have given that child a large allowance. I love you too, m'hija. ?

It is true, I do love to entertain and make a meal a presentation. The whole social stimulation thing is so embracing. Perhaps heaven is a lot like that too. We are at ease and enjoying one another, because we are different, but also share a common sense of decency and love. I didn't mean for that to sound like a sampler message. But it is warm & funny.

We had a volunteer named Rose. She is a former teacher and just recently retired from her prison volunteering. Rose has earned her retirement. She is a warm, intelligent, generous, insightful woman. Rose doesn't know what a treasure she was to us. Her place may never be replaced. Rose, you are unique and truly a child of God. ?

Pause...

April 30th, 2007

Rain. The sky darkened, as cloud banks gathered from the east. The warm temperature dropped and the first crack of thunder made our lights tentatively blink. It was a beautiful surreal sight. The world took on a look of fantasy. Such moments inspire the mind. One can almost make out the outline of a winged dragon, passing high above, headed to a secret cave. In the briefness of interrupted electricity, for the slightest of time, clocks froze and anything was possible.

My Free-world home had a huge glass atrium. It was a wonderful place to experience nature and the elements. I could watch the sun go down and gaze at the stars as they appeared. The morning sun was a spotlight illuminating the trees and giving the squirrels their first warming rays. The glass room was a magical place.

Our atrium was also our Christmas room. Each year it was elaboratively decorated with static cling appliqués, lights and garlands. The tree stood in the south-west and gifts many times swelled to knee high limits. I supposed my wife and I spoiled our daughters, but I don't regret it. It's better this way, instead of wishing I'd done more. Those were great times and I'm sure our daughters have vivid memories of those occasions ?.

In prison, one misses that human contact of love and closeness. It's just not available here and even feared upon. The hell in prison is separation from such personal encounters common in the Free-world. One is physically alone-isolated-untouched.

Every guard is a baron, of sorts, while on duty. Each wing is a separate barony. These are the "rules" and the "the rules enforced". Each baron chooses their own path. Inmates soon recognize this and behave accordingly.

Tonight the wing is relaxed. The speakers are booming and mischief is afoot. Sociologically, one can feel the lack of tension. No one is loudly cursing. The dayroom has the sounds of men enjoying sports and each other's company. As a parent, I am reminded that too much quiet can be alarm, for now, all is good. Roughly three hours remain in the current baron's rule. Meanwhile the rain continues and intermittent flashes accompanied with booms of thunder continue outside my window. The air clean, with a hint of wetness and a light chill cools me. This is a good night for dreaming and tasting magic, if only while I sleep. April is ending well. Thank you God.

May 2nd, 2007

It rained yesterday. The electricity was out, nearly four hours. The quiet was awesome. Everyone, in white, was sent to their cell (rack-up). We stayed this way until suppertime, @ 5:40 pm. We were racked up again and were allowed to shower after 6:00 pm. Our usual time is around 4:30 pm. The television reception was out nearly all night. It may still be out today?

With the electricity out, everyone is on edge, especially wing guards. These people, like us, know only what they are told. The men in white, also frustrated by the outage, take their anger out on the wing guard. The language is rough and loud, with everyone venting. Once the power returned, we all relaxed but we remained in lockup more. I spent my time sleeping, and the waking, read my book Stalemate

Medications are either dispersed one pill at a time or KOP. KOP's get a month's issuance of medications in blister packs, This is a medical unit. Consequently, many men were on medications. The waiting like can be lengthy. We used to have both a North and South Pill Window, to lessen the long and at times testy lines. Aside from rumors, the truth remains that we are, once again, using only one pill window: southside.

This morning I was blessed. It was time to refill my KOP's and such acts are only allowed on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. This rule has a way of making an extremely long line, especially since only one window is operative and at that only twice a day. Thank you, God. The line only had seven men, when I happily joined the waiting line. I am good now for nearly thirty days.

This month has Mothers' Day, my second daughter Joy's birthday, and the first birthday of my beautiful first grand-daughter Janey. Her parents Javier and my eldest daughter Maria (his wife) are very happy. I am now a Grandpa and soon will be made a Grandpa once over, by my daughter Joy. I'll get used to it. I have seven girls. So, grandchildren are in my future. I'm lovin' it!

Wednesdays are my morning Catholic Bible Study Classes. Our volunteers Frank and Sharon share so much with us, bringing the Good News into our midst. They are very special people. I look forward to our meetings. We get spiritually fed and laugh as we learn. Too bad every unit doesn't have a Frank and Sharon.. Somehow, I neglected to mention that Frank and Sharon are a married couple, recently so too. Their pet Pouchee Cat is often a secondary, comic relief, element to our class. Yes. Prisoners do miss having pets. So Pouchee Cat has a prison following.

Pets have always had a place in my life. Dogs, horses, rabbits, birds, and finally fish and cats. This was Refugio, Texas, pets were everywhere.

Living in North Texas, I concentrated on dogs and fish. Once I married cats joined the group. I love cats, dogs, and fish for different reasons and appreciate each on their own merits. Fish can entertain both cats and dogs. Cats and dogs can quietly co-exist. But you'd have a secure lid for your fish tank. Cats can foul your water and hunt your fish. Once that has been established the fish are safe and the cats give up stalking your prize fish. Though I can't think like a cat or assume what goes on between their ears, I have seen cats stare at a fish for hours. Dogs will do it too, but soon tire and sleep. I often wondered what my four legged pets thought about fish? Perhaps, as like for me, fish were just fun to watch and lowered your blood pressure? Ues, I do miss pets.

May 3rd, 2007

Tuesdays and Thursdays are our dessert days. Today's bonus is we are getting chicken leg quarters. Chicken is one of our 'big deal" meals, basically because there are no fillers, soybean, or noodles involved. The evil three make up way too many of our meals, as does cornbread and pancakes.

Since it's chicken day, folks will be acting up. The guards are on watch for stealing, but some will get away. It is all part of the "game." Some guys make it through the line four times, before they move on to the other chow hall. These folks are good at their game. They use props to get through multiple times.

Round 1: homie goes through the line as "handicapped," cane and glasses; he is seated in the handicapped section and gets his tray.

Round 2: homie stashes his glasses and laves his cane behind, each chow hall has two serving lines; he enters line 2 and repeats Round 1 except now he eats in the non-handicapped section.

Round 3: homie goes back to line 1 as a non-handicapped diner.

Round 4: homie puts on his "handicap" gear and eats from line 2 as a 'handicapped" diner. It's been too long for him to bee recognized as a previous diner.

There are many other games. This is just one. At ten thirty today, the games will begin.

Considering that I stand nearly six-two and have albinism, thee handicap gear game is useless to me. I am just too recognizable. What game do I have? What? Who me?

May 8th, 2007

Cinco de Mayo's lunch meal may have been prepared with good intentions, but it really missed the mark. I'll bet it looked good on the internet though: beef enchiladas, refried beans, Spanish rice, Mexican corn, greens, and pineapple enpanadas. How did it all turn out so poor?

Inmates cook the food and guards approved its preparation. One has to wonder: why were perfectly good ingredients so wasted? Didn't anyone know how the food was both to be prepared and cooked?

The enchiladas were not cooked with a chilé sauce. They turned out dry and tough. The ground beef was virtually tasteless, as were the beans and rice, which turned out dry/tough in texture. While this was bad enough, the pineapple enpanadas were really sad.

An enpanda is like a fruit pie one can hold in one hand. The dough is seasoned with anise, which gives it its distinctive flavor. The dough starts out as a circle. The filling is spooned in the middle and spread to within an inch of the edge. The circle of dough is folded in half along the diameter, sealing the semi-circle edge. The empanada is baked and can be either dusted with sugar or glazed.

Wee had flavorless biscuit dough enfolding to what amounted to "airbrushed" pineapple, covered with an unrecognizable sticky, slightly sweet, coating. The enpanadas looked so huge, but it was mostly biscuit. The end result was a poorly supervised medial cooking class error.. Better luck next time guys.

Mothers' Day is coming up and so are postal rates. Postal rates are unpredictable. Mom has always been the same. I never really knew just how blessed I was to have been surrounded my a Mother's Love and to have so many Mother figures in my life loving me.

1971, August, saw me entering college. Here is where I truly learned to appreciate my loving parents, especially my Mom, Mary Arcelia.. She was my first teacher and my best. Mom is a very special woman.

Mary Arcelia is the eldest of six children born to Donato Sr. and Lucia: my maternal grandparents. Times being what they were she was excused from schooling because of a pressing need for her to be at home. She quickly took to the jobs at hand and thus became an accomplished cook and skilled homemaker. In those days such skills were important and stressed for a proper young lady. She also became skilled in shooting and using a slingshot. My Mom learned to sew by hand and a Singer sewing machine. She made clothing for adults and children. She was very skilled with a needle and thread.

Though my Mom never had to learn to drive a motor vehicle, she had carpentry and upholstery skills. She once enlarged our living room, in our house at Jeter Street. My dad was at work. So with my sister and my help, she shoved a wall and enlarged the living room all before Dad returned home AND had supper ready. What a gal. What a Mom!

In college, I learned about "bad" Mom's behavior. It was a Child Psychology class that shocked me. I heard stories about others' Moms that truly shocked me. I was very naïve, to say the least. I could believe what I was hearing. Suddenly, I was made aware of just how lucky my life had been. So much we take for granted, because we are only aware of our own life and so ignorant of the world. Thank you, God, for good parents.

May 10th, 2007

Shakedown. It started Wednesday night. W were just unaware of it beginning. The bare bones is this: A) you stay in your cell all day, unless you receive any medical care, i.e., dialysis or diabetic car. B) you prepare all your property to be searched by the guards--laving your locker and shelves (2) clear of inspection. And C) your meals come in a brown bag called johnnies. This year's trend is have a single piece of bologna, a peanut butter sandwich, and a bag containing 28 small prunes. Breakfast is cereal, milk, peanut butter sandwich, one boiled egg, and prunes. One never knows just how long this schedule will last. This all usually takes place twice a year and is boring, boring, boring!

May 11th, 2007

Happy Birthday Joy (USN). Joy is my second oldest daughter and also very bright. In high school she played trumpet, French horn, and keyboard. Her junior year she decided to join ROTC. I am proud of her desire to serve her country, but I was secretly crushed to see her stop playing. I love her though and always will love her. As her sisters, Joy has occupied many spaces in my memory reel and a secure place in my heart. I love you, mi hija Joy (Porkchop). She is a fine young woman, 23 today, and will soon make me a grandfather. Her first child and my second grandchild. Thank you, Joy, for all the smiles, hugs, kisses, and most of all your love. Happy Birthday.

May 13th, 2007

We are still in shakedown and that means more johnnies which calls for more sandwiches. This in turn means that the guards are taking on jobs usually only done by inmates. Such as and not limited to putting together our johnnies and their own meals.

We have had smelly and watery bologna, target peanut butter sandwiches (this is where the ingredient is placed, maybe near the center of the bread and thee top slice is pressed down), target tuna sandwiches and today a cheese sandwich (just cheese and bread--not toasted), raisins, and a peanut butter sandwich (target verity). I wonder how OM is faring? They just don't realize how their breath and clothes smell of "their meal." But then coyots are too wylie for us.

I recall Mother's Day and the feasts we had, either at home or at a restaurant. It was Mom's choice. On occasion she even did dishes. In time, this was modified.

Once I was married, my Mothers' Day took on three locations. My Mom in Lancaster, my Mother-in-law in Ohio and my wife's Mothers' Day at home. Each lady is so very special to me. My Mother gave me life, my Mother-in-law gave life to my wife, and my wife mothers our children of our hearts. My life would have been incomplete had anyone of these women said no to life.

My Mother said "yes" to me and my albinism. My Mother-in-law said "yes" to a pregnancy before marriage and was a serial MIA because she carried my future wife. My wife, though, barren because of leukemia, opened her heart to children that need a home. There is a good story there, but the middle and end are too painful to relate herein. I have shouldered my responsibility, assuming fault beyond my cause. She runs from herself and the reality of her involvement, even her continued disasters in relationships. I'll bet I get blamed for that too. I pray for her and her future, because she still has the children. Her layers of lies have slowly peeled away and others are seeing what I saw behind her façade. They now "know" I haven't lied. Personal tragedy, an abusive childhood, combined with an abusive young adulthood, before our marriage, makes for a full plate. I now understand that I took on too much and was naïve to believe I could help her: love her: through her psychosis.

I guess Monday will be our turn to be searched and ransacked; our possessions rifted and thrown about, as the coyotes decide what is "excessive."

Excessive is not really defines. It is left to the guard at hand. This year if one has two tubes of toothpaste, one is thrown away. How many pencils or pens may we possess. If it is excessive, why was it sold to us? At the point of sale, shouldn't we be told, 'You can only have three pens--not five." This is just an example, but the point is: When is excessive, excessive? Too many games and little or no consistency. Meanwhile and corrective actions are after the fact and rarely is restitution available. Basically this negates any accountability on "their" actions. Coming to terms with all this, one can search history and the Bible to see that guards have a tradition. It is their choice to either choose a stereotype or to adapt to the characteristics' of a qualified professional. But then isn't this the mission for everyone?

"Be kind because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle." 
								-Plato

I was once invited to a family/company BBQ dance at a Dude Ranch. It seems like another, this never could have happened to me, but is truly did play as I write it. I'll call her Lynda, Spanish for beautiful. She really is so pretty and aged so well too. Her soft hair was as a crown upon her delicate face and clear eyes.

We went hiking (long walk), bareback riding, and dance. She loved to dance with m. Lynda was just tall enough to need a stair step to kiss me. I quickly learned to appreciate stairs and steps. I she ever reads this, she will recognize herself. I hope her spouse doesn't. But this was all before him. In the long run, he came out light years ahead. She deeply loves him and I am nobody in her life. This is as it should be too. Lynda seems too good to be true and too good for me. She is one of those women I felt too pretty for me.

Lynda has a young face, even today. My white hair confuses people. They either see me as old, or Norwegian. They never really see albinism. When Lynda and I attended a 4th of July penthouse (not the magazine) party, a waitress called me Grandpa. That really put me off, but I tried to let it pass. Maybe Lynda noticed. Lynda was the perfect lady and I always treated my dates with respect and was always the gentleman. We had wonderful times together, but something went wrong and as the song goes, "Yesterday was all w had." When I screw up, I don't waste time or effort. I really screwed up. I am happy for her. She is a beautiful person, inside and out. God is in her life and as Grandpa I am happy for her and her husband. God bless them both.

May 18th, 2007

We, my wing, went though "Shakedown" yesterday. It's been a week since it started. They did a good job and several were very considerate about going through our stuff. There were some that were brutal and abusive in using their power. It was sad those guys treated as nothings, as if their little belongings were infested and worthless. Such treatment isn't right. But then no one is accountable, responsible, or of an attitude to change. Finally, who is to enforce change? A system that is so entrenched within its own corruption and monitors itself or cleans up for "planned" inspections, is full of itself. I was blessed. My inspector was considerate of my weak vision and didn't throw things at me, as if dismissing its worth or cleanliness. She was by the book, all the way, but neat.

The guards are saying that we will remain in this mode until Monday. It's all up to the Warden. Only he decides when this is over. The duration does feel excessive, but then so does it all.

Our kitchen must be saving money. We regularly get peanut butter; three times a day. Everything is a sandwich, except cereal, prunes, raisins, and boiled eggs. Twice we have had icingless white cake. We did have a chopped BBQ brisket sandwich, air brushed on, from prepackages half gallon containers/ That was pretty good. You can see, where at time, they are trying. The main work is done by inmates already shookdown, so the workload isn't all upon the guards. They make out it is though. Thy just supervise--observe--the jobs. It's a tough life.

A prison's lifeblood is its prisoners. Guards watch, yell, and handle security. That is hard thankless work, yes. Still excluding any administrative, teaching, and medical, just about any other job is done by an inmate. I am going to concentrate on food service.

Stealing is by far the number one problem in the kitchen, followed closely by both waste and bad preparation. Men work at food service to feed themselves, their "homeboys" and to make a profit. Stamps in the chowhall and either get you another full tray, a special sandwich, or extra anything currently available. Stolen food is sold on the wings at a premium, because "a mule" had to bring it in. It is usually twice the price of the identified items in the chowhall: fifty cent minimum. As in the chowhall, one can buy in bulk/multiple lots. An enterprising soul buys in the chowhall, carries it to the wing, and sells it at a higher price. No sales means he eats his carry-in. Inmates are not the only food thieves. They are also not the only consumer of specially prepared foods, otherwise unavailable to the general population. The inmates' payback is some of their treasure: nice deal. Because our wing usually either goes last or near last to supper and I have to get my P.M. ins

So here I am in line and am announced as the "last to eat." Part of our meal is made up of hot links, with broiled cabbage on the side. The guards serve meats and this one gave me three links. This was very generous and kind. He knew it was going, so why not give it to me? And inmate was serving the boiled cabbage. I asked him for a second scoop. He refused and dumped the insert's contents into a trash can. He expected a stamp for an extra serving of cabbage? I smiled and quietly walked away.

This is how wee treat each other. Why? Had my request been for a premium item, e.g., baked potato, potato salad, dessert, or macaroni with cheese, I could have seen his point. But cabbage? Meal times are a circus of activity and hidden secretive misbehaviors. It is easy to emotionally flare up and have a scene, usually earning you handcuffs. I'm never gone to that extreme, but since arriving at the Estelle Unit, I have learned to smile and stay clear of problem children. It's amazing what one can learn by silent observation.

May 22nd, 2007

Monday (21st) was our day to come "off Shakedown-Lockdown." The process started on 5-10-07. That's a lot of brown bag meals (johnnies) and way too many peanut butter sandwiches.

During a "Shakedown-Lockdown," all men in white are confined to their cells, less medical emergencies or dialysis or those men in the hospital. The purpose of this exercise is to systematically search cells and personal property, to find contraband. It is done at least twice a year or at the Warden's discretion. It is a mess. Admittedly, the process is necessary. This isn't a Boy Scout Camp, so things are stolen, trafficked, and resold at a discounted "street value," e.g., Midnight Mart/Five Finger Discount. There are also dangerous discoveries, excessive medications, weapons, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, and the illegal list can even include disposable cell phones. So a routine "look see" is needed.

This year's exercise was lengthy, extensive, but neat. As one can guess, Shakedowns often lead to abuses. Some men are harshly searched, leaving their possessions broken, falsely confiscated, or in such a disarray that one mistake the scene of a hurricane for a shakedown. One has to commend the guards though, they did a very good job and most were respectful of our meager possessions. This was a good year.

Now everyone is anxiously waiting for their wings to turn at commissary. My locker has an echo and I am not alone. I am looking forward to some soft drinks and a pint of Blue Bell Banana Pudding ice cream, among other things. Commissary varies from unit to unit. There are universal items though such as hygiene, OTC medications (no Vick's or Alka-Seltzer), underclothes, very limited electronics (mostly outdated, factory over runs, discount, cheap quality), greeting cards, stamps, food stuffs (pouches-no cans) and ice cream.

Basically each wing gets two trips per month (spend periods). Your spend limit is determined by custody level, discipline restrictions, and area of housing. The limit is seventy-five dollars per spend period.

There are two commissary windows, one on the northside and another at the south end. Ten wings go in rotation being first. The first two wings in the rotation usually get a "second spend." If one has not spent his limit at the first spend, one is eligible to purchase items equal to the remainder of his original seventy-five dollar spend. This is a rarity, but always welcomed. It's the only store in town, so it is well used.

Here is the problem with having a commissary. Not everyone has money. In here your money all comes from the freeworld. One either has means, or not. Texas prisoners work, but are not paid for their labor. The indigents either do without, or scheme to meet their desires. This often leads to stealing of state property, stealing of others' property, or extortion. It can get real ugly. Men see what they want and will use any means necessary to achieve their goal.

There are many men that haven't heard from anyone in either years or ever. This means no support, as well as no money. Perhaps it's an over simplification? But why house indigent and non-indigent together? Why even have them on the same wing. We are not allowed to possess anything from the commissary that we haven't purchased. We must keep receipts from the commissary to prove ownership: otherwise, the items are confiscated and possible disciplinary actions can bee taken. The aim is to discourage gambling. It is a tangled web and, very possibly, there are no clear cut solutions.

May 28th, 2007

Today is both Memorial Day and my parents' anniversary, if my Dad still lived on earth. In Refugio, TX, they dedicated bricks bearing the names of hometown deceased veterans. I had many relatives that did service in the military. Some died in battle, one died days after his discharge in an auto accident returning home, and some returned home tot live a long life, as my Dad, David. Today we remember.

Our unit back to having just one "Pill Window." This is where medications are dispensed and KOPs (Keep On Person) blister packs are handed out. This single window does incorporate a double line, but that line frequently stretches seemingly forever. In such cases the wait can be over an hour and a half. This unit does nothing for these men taking psyche-meds and attending Anger Management classes. In general, everyone involved; pill dispensing ladies, guards, and inmates can become testy. One can guess who gets the shortest end of the stick?

I figured today would be a good day to collect my blister packs, It was too. My unit was less than ten minutes. I went to the window, presented my I.D., and told the lady my wing. She scanned my card, started to tell me that my pills were not as yet delivered. The computer screen registered my identity, it logged my presence, and she cursed me! Now she had to retract her lie and collect my blister packs. Why did she have to curse me? What wrong had I done her? But basically, why did she start to lie? Her duty is to dispense medications.

I said, "thank you," and proceeded to breakfast. I took a seat and placed my blister packs on the floor near my feet. An inmate passed by and seeing my packs said, "Hey--she said no KOPs on the holidays and wouldn't give us our pills." I had my pills only because she had accidentally scanned my card. Once you are scanned, they have to dispense all your medications. Lucky me. Simple blessings are so sweet. Thank you, God.

Last night's dinner was salami, bologna, cheese sandwiches, potato salad, and a double heaping helpin' of whole kernel corn. I wonder if the internet menu matched what we were served? I did like the food. It is a very popular meal and rare. I'll take what I can get.

Our wing started going to the commissary this past Friday. Some of us still need to go. Need is qualified because I don't need a pint of Blue Bell Banana Pudding ice cream, but it sure goes down well. I'll go Tuesday and stock up. My locker currently has an echo.

Out in the world, we are encouraged to share. In here, extortion and gambling make sharing difficult, even possibly earning you a disciplinary case for tracking and trading. It is possible to "make a spread"--fix a bowl of food and share it, but one must use discretion. Silly how an act of love and charity can be troublesome. 'Whatsoever you do for the least of my brothers--that you do unto me." Are some rules to be ignored? Someday, I'll get the definitive answer.

May 30th, 2007

I really don't like the hassle of going to the recreation yard. I'm not a big fan of strip searches and standing naked in the midst of strangers. But this is the way things are done in prison. Still, I decide to go to rec.

Prison is noisy and the cement floors and our cinderblock walls make for a constant echo. It's an assault on one's hearing. The outdoors is just so much easier on one's nerves and hearing.

I was sitting talking with John. We were discussing adobe houses, solar electric panels, paranormal events, and food. We were facing away from the basketball courts and track. It was still light outside and we both have light sensitive eyes, as well as having very weak eyes.

The rec yard went quiet. A guard told us to move toward to green. Our hands were inspected. This meant there had been a fight. We'd never even heard a struggle or yells. Odd but true.

Next thing was, we were told to enter the building and proceed to "disciplinary." We were to be questioned along with everyone else on the yard, in groups of ten. "Oh boy!" I tell John. "You wonder why I don't go to rec?" I'd not been in nearly eight weeks and now this. I wasn't having fun.

We were questioned and politely searched. Our evening was over. I wonder when I'll return to the rec yard?

May seem to have gone by quickly. There has been plenty of rain and a few blackouts. The weather has been mild to cool and I really enjoyed it.

I had another visit from Cindy. She is the widow of my deceased best friend Bob. I was best man at their wedding and often visited them. When I was single, it was nothing to stay at least two weeks. We were all close friends. We enjoyed each other's company and had laugh filled times together.

Cindy's visit was great. We talked and she brought snacks at our visit. It had been shakedown/lockdown time and my locker was empty. I was hungry and feeling down. She came by and made my week. Cindy is an excellent conversationalist and easy to look at too. I treasure her friendship. When one comes to prison, one quickly sees that true friends are rare. I once read that "a true friend is one that rushes to your side as others rush away from you." I am blessed with some amazing friends and a wonderful family, not mention loving daughters. They are all my "hearts."

These are the people I love and love me in return. They are my hearts. I am in their hearts and they are in me.

It was my eldest daughter's Maria's idea. She once wrote me in one of her letters, that "I was always in her heart, because she'd put me there to stay." That girl is wise. I love here phrasing and the thought is so endearing. Statements like that one tell me that I had to do something right raising her and her sisters. I do miss them so. If it be God's will... well you know. I dearly love them as well as all my hearts. I am blessed. Thank you, God. I'll keep praying.

A random thought passed my mind. Though I come from a family of native Spanish speakers, I am the only one that is state-certified as bilingual. That is too odd. Such a talent is well rewarded in education and in state employment. I should know. I did it. Funny hoe something you've done all your life, speak, is suddenly marketable. I have SMU to thank for it and Dr. Polte for his faith in my skills. Now, I just wish I'd have stayed for my doctorate.

May 31, 2007

This month ended well. It was rainy and the month passed quickly. My extended family was to travel to Refugio for a dedication of bricks emprinted with the names of deceased hometown veterans. Well, the machine somehow malfunctioned. Repairs will delay the ceremony until November. I am sad for them. This was also to be a family reunion of sorts and now that get together is postponed.

Tomorrow is my day to use a computer. Mr. Goodson shares his talents with us so we are allowed usage of six desktop PCs. It's bare bones, no internet. Like TX would ever allow us such a luxury. Hell, we'll eat lobster, before we log on.

Basically, the Adaptive Resources bank of computers are for word processing and a limit graphics capabilities. Still for someone like me, an ex-bilingual computer tech, it is a delight to get ones hands on a keyboard again.

In the freeworld, I had three desktops and a laptop. I enjoyed using computers and teaching others their use. In here, I do get to help but only when asked. One can learn so much on one's own. Those folks get such a sense of accomplishment and all because they did it on their own. Such lessons are learned well.

August 1st, 2007

This is usually the hottest month of the year in Texas, maybe the USA too. Some prisons are air conditioned. The Estelle Unit used to be as such, or so the old timers tell me. The ductwork is present and some areas do get AC. So, it is possible, but not any longer.

The major part of the unit is without AC. Prisoner living quarters, main hallway, showers, chew halls (except OM - officer's mess), and dayrooms are all un-air conditioned. All this brick, concrete, and steel retain plenty heat throughout he day. It makes for one hot night.

Fans are for sale at the commissary and made available to indigent prisoners. There are ceiling fans on the wings and two fans in the dayroom, as well as a pair of exhaust fans. The hallway has strategically placed fans to help the duty guards cope. Even so, this place becomes an oversized convection oven under the Texas heat. It is truly miserable.

We prisoners live here. To some extent one gets acclimated to heat. The guards have it the worst. They literally live from AC to AC. They are fully dressed. We can wear gym shorts, shower shoes, and T-shirts. We can retire to our cells and wear just our boxers. Guards and staff speak freely in our presence. We don't exist in their world, so we are ignored. We are only present, when we need "correcting", usually cursing followed by personal spare invasion. Being quiet and observant is educational and alarming.

Who doesn't dislike the heat? Everyone would like relief; an iced drink or a cooling breeze? The radio reports a heat index of one hundred and three. The blue ice thirty gallon containers are dispatched and brown insulated twenty gallon, spigot, canteens are wheeled out to dispense iced tea or ice chilled bottled water is handed out. Must be nice. In many cases, punishments are given out to any inmate possessing ice, except for dialysis patients. It's difficult to see beads of sweat on containers and knew that none of it is yours. It's made worse by guards that taunt us with their ice. It is hard to imagine the mentality behind that behavior, considering how Texas holds these people in such high esteem. Can people be so blind?

August 2nd, 2007

My relative, won't use relation or none, wrote me a goodbye letter. The letter said that since I'd not written since April '07, I must want to cut relations have a nice life bye. Anyone that knows me knows that my personality is as such that I bring people together not cast aside. So, the letter's tone was particularly disturbing and confusing.

I had indeed written four letters since April. Where did those letters go?

The second and enlightening piece to this puzzle came from my sister Melinda. She had spoken to our brother Orlando. He was very confused, because he had received three empty envelopes from me. Why? I'm not in the practice of sending such things. Our brother was concerned that, possibly, I was angry with him. This is untrue. I am angry with this lost mail and the hurt feelings, as well as confusion their loss has caused.

The common denominator in all this is a designation of "Free Matter For The Blind and Handicapped." Federal law has strict guidelines for its usage and one must be "listed" to participate. I qualify. I've been legally blind all my life.

I use magnifying glasses to do all my reading and writing. I have to remind myself to write bigger than my handwriting "appears" to me through close proximity and magnifying lens. My handwriting bears this out.

All the letters lost were labeled "Free Matter..." All my "stamped" mail arrived intact. Is there a hidden message here? The bottom line is once I turn over my mail it becomes your mail in-transient. It is going to you. You are free world. You have a credible voice. Your mail is protected. My mail goes through a non-postal authority before it touches federal hands - much like a business mailroom. Even that pales in comparison, because this mailroom essentially is responsibility free and held unaccountable. Texas is full of itself, especially so in the prison system. Why is that so? Can "they" be so blind?

August 4, 2007

We have two sets of Catholic volunteers. Three Wednesdays a month Frank and Sharon lead us in bible study. Every second Wednesday Frank and Kathleen come to share the bible with us. With regularity each also provides a morning Communion service for the class. Frank and Kathleen come every third Friday night and do a Communion service that is open to all Catholics. God has blessed us with these people and we are thankful for them and their efforts in God's service. Thank You, God.

Frank and Sharon B. are recently married. Frank and Kathleen M. have been married for many years. Both men are in their sixties with younger wives. Both Franks met their wives at or through church. God has His ways. Their classes are important to me and I always leaved filled and enlightened. Volunteers are scarce in Huntsville. We are among he blessed.

The lights went out on the evening of 8-7-07. They stayed out until 1:30 AM on 8-8-07. It was nearly 6:30 PM, when my fan stopped, and collective groan came from everywhere at once. Within a minute backup power was restored. This power did not include fans of ventilation fans for us.

At such times, we are "racked up." All men in white go to their cells. All work ceases. All movement ceases. Everything is shut down. Groans and curses of protest fill the air, as men reluctantly walk to their cells, some cheerful to get an early release from work. It's a noisy time of transition. A ht nigh awaits us all.

Our mattresses are plastic coated. They invite perspiration and collect our sweat throughout the night and into the early morning hours. There is no air circulating. Our fans keep us relatively comfortable, but with a radio reported (predicted) high heat index of 103°, we sweat. The mid-day report echoes in my head as I fan myself with a legal pad cardboard back. These brick and concrete walls retain heat. It's dark outside. My battery powered alarm clock says its 11:00 PM, as I remember, and my wall is still hot. I'm drenched in sweat. A pool has formed in the lowest part of my mattress. This is beyond boring. The heat and constant yelling are too much and I fall asleep from boredom and exhaustion.

I remember being cold. I'd dreamed of fall and chilled winds. I look at my clock and see its 1:30 AM. I am two dazed to realize that my fan is on. I thank God and finally come full awake. I just lay there soaking in the steady breeze my fan is giving me. It's drying me off, chilling me in the process. I'm not complaining, nor am I covering up. It feels great!

August 9th, 2007

Today was our commissary day. Such times are a celebration for everyone that goes and those that are given things. The big item is always ice cream. There are about a dozen different confectionary frozen treats and near as many pints of ice cream to choose.

Commissary days are also days of much stress. People have gambling debts and contraband debts to meets. Not everyone is eager to pay up. People are expecting payment and there are those that avoid making payment.

These debtors and debtors are easy to spot. One can easily see a lifelong pattern of behavior in their movement. Some guys try to pretend that they didn't have money, by paying a small amount to a third party to carry their purchase. The one in debt will carry a near empty bag of just hygiene products to appear poor. Bad idea. Getting caught in such a lie can get one hurt. The dumb sheep get fleeced. It's a festive time and a hard time, because you sometimes have to say "no" or become an "enabler" to an addict.

Football season is coming up and I can't wait. Since 1960, I've been a Dallas Cowboy fan. People love them or hate them. I know. I don't disguise my love for my Cowboys. I have a subscription to their magazine.

This is Houston Texan territory, so Cowboy coverage is not as I'd wish it. My magazine fills in many rules for me. At times, I can catch Cowboy games at WOAI from San Antonio or the BEAR in Waco. Night games are he most easy to receive.

TV coverage of Cowboy games is only possible when it doesn't interface with a Texan game yip-pee. The dayroom is too noisy and seats do not allow me to see the game. I usually just stay in my cell and avoid the hassle. In my cell, I have a clean toilet, my locker, my trunk, and my fan. The amenities aren't stadium suite, but they are comfortable enough.

My Cowboys look good in paper and early coverage agrees. Still everyone looks good before training camp and in the press. Still everyone is hopeful and everyone's spirits are high.

August 11, 2007

Today was Walt's birthday. I'd though he was older than me. Come to find out, he is younger than me. Life can line a man's face and make him appear years older.

We had a little celebration for Walt. He was all smiles. Bigger plans had been laid, but supplies were missing from the commissary shelves. We were able to improvise and a good time was had by all involved.

I'm back again on AM insulin injections. This means that I wake up at 2:15 AM to be prepared for whenever the doors open. It could be 2:30 or 3:30 AM whenever the doors roll open. You just never know.

I return to my cell at or after 4:00 Am from insulin and breakfast. No use getting any sleep because showers are at 6:00 AM. It's not an easy schedule available to us. The routine keeps one tired. Could this be by design? Who knows? This is eating up my writing and reading time. Appointments (lay-ins) only complicate this schedule and take away needed time to sleep and recharge ourselves. Basically, it's boring.

August 12, 2007

I did restrain myself Cowboys vs. Colts. Yes it was preseason. But who plays to lose? The offensive line looked good and Tony Romo did well. I listened to the game first in Spanish and then the second half came through in English. The Spanish station had an echo of English and that was mentally confusing, since I understand both languages. It was a chore to concentrate.

My Uncle Arthor took me to my first Dallas Cowboy game. I was in the fifth grade and three friends tagged along. Back then student tickets were like a dollar and everything was priced right. Eight dollar nachos were far in the future, as were one hundred dollar plus seats. We ate, we drank (sodas), we cheered and had a wonderful time. Uncle took us to other games, memorable matches, but that first one was magic. Everything was alive, vital, and bigger than life. My Dallas Cowboys were right there, before my eyes. Thanks Tio. I'll bet Dewayne, Dennis, and David can remember it too. It was great fun in the sixties.

August 14th, 2007

My Dad's birthday is coming up in September. He is years deceased, but his memory is just a thought away. My Dad, David, was large in presence though only about five nine. He was very active in my life. There were many times that he was the only male present in the audience. He'd always stand & wave so I'd know he was there. My Dad wasn't shy.

My boyhood heroes were the New York Yankees. My grandfather Donato (Mom's Dad) had a Philips 27" black and white television. In those days, 1958, that was a huge screen. The whole effect was like a piece of furniture warm and inviting a part of your family. Today's televisions lack personality and warmth. TV's nowadays are components, just a piece of a system a servant cold and indifferent a genie with 150 channels laden with smut.

KRIS channel 6 of Corpus Christi was an NBC affiliate and carried the National Baseball League "Game of the Week." My grandpa's team was the Yankees, so they were mine. PeeWee Reese and Dizzy Dean did the games. The main sponsors were Gillette and Falstaff beer. Around the seventh inning Dizzy would animate his name and croon "The Wabash Cannonball" in full voice. You could depend upon it. My eyesight really limited my ability to play baseball. The ball was too small and the sky too bright. My Dad and my uncles played and I wanted to play too. But the times weren't right. My time would come. Technology hadn't caught up to my desire to play ball.

My Dad introduced me to softball. The ball was bigger I could catch it at close range and hit too. I had an uncle that played with the Houston Colt 45's, later to be re-named the Astros. He provided gloves and my Dad bought a softball.

I did have good hand-eye coordination and quick reflexes, while also being fleet of foot. I could hit the ball, but fielding was out of the question. The sky was too vast and too bright. In those days dark glasses only obscured your field of view. Consequent ally, I was the kid that, "he's on your team not mine" and last picked.

August 16th, 2007

Will August ever end? Well one less hot day and one day closer to fall comforts. This place won't let you freeze to death, but broiling is another issue & you can only take off so many items of clothing. It's been worse in our chow halls, because many of our fans are out and the doors are usually closed, so the air flow is really restricted. Don't worry though the officer's mess (OM) is air conditioned. That's just to set your mind at ease and they do get ice in their glasses. You wouldn't want them to suffer. Sure.

The guards favorite reply, as they crunch ice before you is "Well you shouldn't have come to prison." So? This line allows them to be such _ssh_l_s? Care to buy a vowel? This one line is carte blame to be abusive and neglectful? I wonder if I could have been a guard? Such thoughts do make me pause and wonder.

Several years back a young man, a guard here, died in an auto accident. His passenger had been dropped off before the fatal crash, narrowly escaping death herself. It was very sad, especially so because the guard was so young. An obituary from a Huntsville paper surfaced. It was the recently deceased guard's life in print. No one, to my memory is ever written up in a bad light and his was no different. His lines told of a gentle kind Christian man. This is not the man in gray I'd encountered. We all have our faults and he had his. I was pleased to see people loved him. I didn't hate the man. I just wished I'd met the man described in the obituary. It's too bad that such a man wasn't employed at the Estelle Unit.

August 19th, 2007

It's been a spell since I've had a visit. My people are either old and or ill. A trip to Huntsville is a major production for them. They love me and write me. They help me out too. Physical contact would be nice, but I understand their limitations and health issues. I love them all.

My letters to my Mom always end with hearts labeled with street numbers which represent my loved ones' homes. There are x's & o's for each inhabitant. I call them, collectively, "My Hearts." There is one lone heart unnamed. God and I know her name & she'd know it too. I love my hearts.

August 20th, 2007

My radio is acting up. Radios cost thirteen dollars and thirty cents. Think of a Dollars Store digital alarm clock radio, AM & FM, no speaker, headphone jack, and a connection for a coaxial cable. Such an item would run you around five dollars in free world money AND come with a speaker.

My radio is five years old. TDCJ goods are top of the line merchandise, if you shop at scratched, dented, cheap, poorly designed, factory second outlet dumpsters. You would not want their fare. We don't want it, but this is the only place to shop.

The process for a new radio is simple. Turn in your old radio along with your property papers (proof of ownership), and fill out a blue slip (official request for a replacement). I'll do that soon enough. I'll wait until the end of pre-season football, so I can have a new radio for the regular season kick-off. The timing should work out for me too.

August 22nd, 2007

We had a Communion service before our regular Wednesday Catholic Bible study. It was nice to have both. Thank You, God.

My radio is all but worn out. It's nearly five years old and I guess it's time for a new one. I keep going back & forth on this issue. But I believe I'll do it finally.

August 25th, 2007

September 5th will be our turn to go first to the Commissary I plan to turn in my radio on Monday 8-27-07. This way my paperwork will be completed and a new radio will be waiting on me. I'll celebrate with a pint of Blue Bill strawberry ice cream and a cold Big Red soda.

August 27th, 2007

Sometimes one can have too much idle time. The old saying comes true. Men will devise plans for entertainment. All too often the activities lead to trouble.

I like to stay busy. I tutor G.E.D. algebra, and Spanish. I even aid in grammar & composition. I study my bible, participate in a weekly bible study, and attend Catholic services every time one is offered.

My study of the bible came in earnest, once I was incarcerated. In the free world, I was not as diligent in my scriptural studies. Here my studies help me and those I meet. God has shown me many things and put some wonderful teachers in my path. My meditations center me on the churches teachings and shed light on my journey. Thank God.

Reading has always been one of my favorite past times. As a child even before I attended school, I was a reader. My parents were reading role models. I learned that reading could also be for fun and entertainment; the Internet was decades away, as was countless cable channels. Our current generations are readers, for the most part, but their endeavors are different than my generation, causally speaking.

Prison is full of closet illiterates. They complain about needing glasses, but can see the television well enough. They have no difficulty tilting their head, craning their necks to stare at female guards' postures. So, acuity isn't an issue. They're cool though, in their pressed clothes, polished boots, sagging pant (3 sizes too large), gold teeth, and bad behavior. Just don't ask them to read or attend school. That isn't cool.

August 29th, 2007

I really do try to avoid profanity. Whenever it does come forth, people are a little shocked. I'm embarrassed. I stopped telling dirty jokes four years ago. God keeps reminding me of his presence and I don't want to disappoint my Lord. This is why cursing bothers me. I know the words, intentions, spellings, and meanings, but I choose to make an effort. Those words can come out all too easily.

Today, I lost my temper. I'm not proud of it, but it happens. I'd asked a friend if he wanted to read a book of mine, entitled "Anansi Boys" Some mouth breather misunderstood, thinking I'd said, "A NAZI Boys." You can't imagine how that felt, as they say in here, "I went off on the man."

I was angry because such talk can cause problems. In prisons rumors, gossip, can all too soon be seen as fact. People just need to mind their own business.

August 30th, 2007

This NAZI thing isn't funny, but it is taking on a life all its own. People know me laugh. They know it's all a bad lie. I've even carried the book around as an illustration. In time, I'll feel easier about it all, but it still gets under my skin. I need perspective, I need to pray about it and get distance.

Many new faces both on the wing and in gray. TDCJ has a problem keeping folks employed. Texas can only offer so much and these folks aren't biting or running to get hired.

Few guards cause stress. The stress builds until it has to leak out. This is when fights break out. The men in white aren't the only combatants. It's been guard on guard, same sex & coed, as well as staff on staff and staff on guards.

The issues are complicated, but it boils down to who is in control and who bosses who. I've seen guards refuse to follow orders from a superior officer (rank) racial slurs incur. It gets ugly fast. It's gotten so bad that yells for attention arise either "inmate fight" or "guard fight."

Money is not a stress reducer, nor is it a reason to work. Does everyone really have a price? How high is that price? What's your sale price? What is your integrity worth? Keep your eyes and ears open. You can learn a lot as an observer. When does an attempt to subdue an inmate become a brutality, an assault? Once the cuffs are on why must a man be hit or gassed? For that matter, when a man surrenders, goes to his knees, and clasped his hands behind his head; why club him and gas him before you cuff him? When as angry man is quietly escorted from a scene; why physically push him from behind and verbally assault him? Why curse when you've run to a fight scene only to discover that "the party is over"? But then all this isn't stress. Or is it an act of protracted adolescent aggression bullying which is condoned through a code of silence? "Well? You shouldn't have come to prison," is their explanation. As if this moronic idiom can be explain way such behavior. The rule book says, "all inmates lie - all guards only speak the truth." And ya'll believe it.

August 31st, 2007

We were given meal cards (color coded). I am assigned a "Diet For Health" (DFH/ diet from heel) card. This means that my meals are available from line # 1 in the south chow hall. This card practice is not uncommon. In the long run, it will speed up serving time and cut down on line congestion. There is "supposed" to be one single file line waiting to be served. The guards are supposed to monitor this. Leave ill-mannered children to their own devices and chaos is bound to happen.

It is all too common for double lines to legged with line skippers and even those passing all the way to head of the line and grabbing the next available tray. Who is in control? Occasionally a fight breaks out and chaos ensues. Why? Why even "allow" double line to form? It's all in plain sight of the uncaring guards. Is this possibly seen as an opportunity to have a "party".

There is nothing like sitting quietly, enjoying your meal, and have a congested line erupt into a malady because someone cut too far up into the line. Ever been pepper sprayed because of a bad aim or just being in the area? It can put a damper on your meal. Good luck getting served again too. Triple A needs to hear of this.

So it's on to September and one month closer to another major shakedown. I can hardly wait. The holidays are getting here. We here look forward to special treats purchasable through the Commissary.

September 1st, 2007

This month has my Dad's birthday (deceased), my nephew David Ryan's birthday, and my ex's birthday. September is also the month when beloved people left this existence. There is a lot to consider and recall.

My Dad passed on his love of BBQ meats to me. Countless hours, I would watch him at his task. It wasn't idle time. It was a running lesson how to prepare the pit, judge the heat, prepare the meat and know when it was done.

Today's grills and pit range from the very primitive to starship technology. The popular ones are stainless steel and generally resemble outdoor restaurant quality cooking appliances. I learned the old fashioned way. My only concessions were to propane, electric starters, and soaked woodchips. Mostly though I used charcoal, seasoned woods, and slow cooking method & Dad's way.

My Dad had his own business for many years. As a trained-educated welder, he'd do repairs, construction, decorative, and even go-carts. He also built his own pits and grills. Many a time, I'd watch him take seemingly mismatched metal odds & ends and construct a BBQ pit. Some were made from huge propane tanks or barrels that were perched upon a trailer; many times the trailers were his design too. My Dad was a very creative man, with great energy.

He never taught me to weld, but then I never asked. I never developed the desire to weld, until later in life. Still, I never asked. Perhaps, I should have? I did learn to sweat weld pipes for plumbing and later developed the finer touch to do circuit work. So, in my own little attempts, I was following in my Dad's footsteps, with torch and tongs. Thanks Dad.

September 2nd, 2007

I'd said nothing of Labor Day. My Dad made a big deal of Labor Day. We'd have massive BBQ's. Mom was busy with potato salads, baked beans, vegetables, and desserts.

Dad was outside just after dawn, getting the coals ready and preparing the meat. It was common to have chicken, ribs, sausage, and pork at such times. Everything had to be done just so. Each meat had its science for proper doneness. The basting sauce was always done in the same saucepan, an ancient all metal pan. Butter, vinegar, and spices were carefully simmered until the mixture was perfectly blended. Nothing was done in haste. Everything was in slow motion and near ritual on its routine.

Lunch was on schedule for anywhere between noon and one thirty. Once the pans of meat arrived at the table, grace would follow and the meal began. This was pretty much "the" meal for the day. Eating progressed at an even rate for the rest of the afternoon and continued throughout the evening. Late night BBQ snacks were impromptu - casual dress. Besides, who dresses up for a BBQ?

Occasionally our BBQ's included goat, lamb, and venison. Early on, briskets weren't part of the fare. But once briskets were added? They were always present. Usually, there were bread and biscuits served. My Mom knew and understood my love for homemade flour tortillas. Making homemade tortillas is a labor of love. My Mom would make tortillas for us and they hardly ever survived the initial serving. They were/are that good.

September 5th, 2007

David Ryan is my only blood nephew. His sister Baylee is my only blood niece. Baylee's birthday has passed and David's just past too. Baylee was born during my first year of incarceration. David was born, while I was still walking free. His first confirmation date is also the same as two my daughters, Katarina & Adriana.

Well David, I hope you enjoyed your iguana birthday card I sent you? We'll meet again. I'll BBA for us all and even make the tortillas. If its God's will, I'll put it all together too. We'll have a great time. The starting bell rings after grace. ?

September 7th, 2007

The NFL season is just about to open up. I've been a Cowboy fan since 1960. Through good and bad, they've been my Cowboys. They're the family team. My incarceration puts me deep in Houston Texan territory. Hence, poor media coverage. Prison sucks like that.

Throughout the years, Sundays were church, big meals, visitors, and the Dallas Cowboys. Meals never ended, because after grace, it was up to you to feed yourself. Disposable dinner ware Mom's concession. Though holiday games meant at least the initial feeding was done on fancy plates and silverware. All succeeding endeavors were on disposable dinnerware.

The selections were always eclectic and somehow came together to make for some memorable meals. Everyone ate and everyone watched the game. We cheered, we laughed, we cried as the games unfolded before us. It was quite a sight. Our house just seemed to be the gathering place for us all. Mom & Dad welcomed everyone and soon my friends became adopted sons & daughters.

September 9th, 2007

My family, from marriage, is on my mind often. One of my daughters, we only had girls & seven of those, named me "Big Angel." Bless her. All the little ones called out "Daddy" first. They were my shadows and my own little angels.

Watching children learn and seeing their little lights of comprehension and accomplishment is a blessing to behold. It's addictive to teachers. That look and accompanying smile, with squeal of delight is delightful. I even had videotapes of the youngens taking their first steps. I hope divorce hasn't caused the lose of those tapes? The tapes reveal my dedication & love for my children. It also displays the absence of my spouse. Oh, she was around but she was distant pre-occupied with her own interests; either telephone, friends, or Internet. Don't ask me though. Ask our daughters; our daughters' friends' and teachers. For awhile there, I was considered either widowed or divorces. Her absences were her choice. We never shut her out. She chose not to participate. We are divorced and she is remarried to one that once scorned her attention for sake of his mother (my wife told me so once). I pray for them. They have our daughters less too with children and one that was removed from the family. Losing parental rights may disturb my ex, but it's hard to tell. Kentucky common-wealth court records and child social-family services hear this out. Don't take my word for it. The separation hurts me, but it is all out of anyone's control. My ex makes her own selfish choices. I guess her new husband, elderly spouse, must agree with his wife's decisions. Otherwise it's an issue of dedication and backbone. He would know best.

September 11th, 2007

More memories of loss, cause me to re-live past events. We all have permanent memories of tragedy. For me, I have Kennedy, King, Kennedy (Robert), Oswald, space shuttle, and 9-11.

I awake to the events of 9-11 in prison, Amarillo to be precise. I thought a movie was on television. I could hear cheering and saw some men like dancing in the dayroom. It was confusing, because I was unaware of the true meaning behind the televised scenes.

My neighbor rushed in and told me to tune into my radio. The shock was very disturbing. The cheers and dancing came from the pea's Muslims. Now, I was pissed.

How can anyone cheer at the death of innocents? How can an attack as such coward ace, be seen as courageous? Tears filled my eyes, as rage built in my chest. I was helpless. I shuck with anger and slumped in pain for all the lose of human life.

Until that morning , terroristic destruction happened in foreign lands, not on American soil. These fanatics (lunatics) were in my homeland. The world changed. We joined the countries touched and manipulated by terrorist.

I love peace, but eggs must be broken and pigs slaughtered if I want bacon and eggs for breakfast. I am a hawk. I must be free of fear and fell secure in my own land. I will fight for freedom and my beliefs. I will not tolerate bullies. All Muslims are not alike. Kill, they don't get along with each other, sort of like Christians and Jews.

But? Who do you fight? The cowards are without uniforms. Can anyone live in isolation? Can we all have respect for one another and eventually live in peace? It would appear the answer is no. An infidel is to be either under rule or under the blade, a peaceful nation? This is not an easy problem to solve. Centuries have passed and the original issues persist. Why? Generations of people have worked for a solution, but no answers have been found. I feel Americans will slowly lose their stomachs for war. Side issues and hidden agendas seem clear. Yet, what are we to do? How do we deal with terroristic manipulation of our lives? Will we ever be safe again or were we ever really safe? Has it all been an illusion?

In prison, all inmate gatherings are attended by guards, except Muslim services. Muslims are allowed special meals with free world food, brought from their volunteers. No other religious groups are allowed such festivities and exclude anyone except Muslims. Am I still in America? One nation under God...I wonder? Is it this way in the free world? Who stole the melting pot? Beware of the next presidential election. We are going to be surprised. We may not like what we get.

September 13th, 2007

The wing changed again. Men move in; men move out. The personalities constantly change. This time two of my friends, book reading, book sharing friends moved to two different wings. Our small discussion groups were thinned out. It's hard to discuss a topic in honest. Outsiders feel compelled to add their unsolicited views. Their facts, in reality are opinions, are far fetched.

In prison, everyone knows it all. Only they ever lived or experienced life. They don't listen to others. They just wait to talk and try to control the conversation by shear volume and opinion. They're not talking with you. They are talking at you and at the day room.

September 14th, 2007

Prison offers several diet menus, on paper, regular, renal, high calorie, and diet for health (DFH). Renal and DFH meals are obtainable to those possessing the appropriately designated cards. One punched number equals one meal (B-L-S). The diet lines are the fastest moving and are only served on line one. Don't get me started on prison food. It would be against the law to feed this food to free world people.

September 16th, 2007

On this wing, one either loves the Dallas Cowboys football team or one loves to hate them. There is apparently no middle ground. I've been a Dallas Cowboys fan since their beginning; 1960. Win or lose; they are my team.

Two weeks into the season and we really look good. Tony Romo, Cowboys' quarterback, is showing that last year wasn't luck. Tony just seems to come alive & make things happen. The wing "boo" birds are silent for now.

In prison (TX), cards are not allowed. This goes for dice two. This is an attempt to stop gambling. HA! These folks are gonna find a way to make bets. Is it so hard to figure out what's happening? There is a blanket on the floor - in the corner. Under a nearby bench is a horde of dollar pouches of food ; tuna, mackerel, SPAM, chili... Similar hordes are visible on the table. Does it take a rocket surgeon or brain scientist (sic) to figure out what's going on? Yet no one questions it.

September 18th, 2007

My sister has a new car (used but new to her). She has been needing reliable transportation and now she has it. She is planning to paint it blue: Dallas Cowboys blue. We are fans.

My Mom & only best sister are now planning to visit me on my birthday: Saturday November 3rd. I'll be 55.

I haven't a clue as to how a man of 55 is supposed to feel. I had my Dad as a role model, but my Dad always seemed young to me. My Uncles seemed aged, but then I didn't live with them. So, monthly changes were more perceivable to me.

My cell doesn't have a mirror. I really don't have a self image, concerning youthful or aged appearance. In a recent poll, I was guessed at an average of 40. We must be suspect of the results though. The math was sound and correct, but one needs to factor in Ss's willingness to please the researcher; telling me what they believed I'd swallow. Therefore, I feel it reasonable to use a variance of ± 27.3 years. Prison research is odd.

September 21st, 2007

Our lives are full of people that end up being our teachers. They leave their mark upon us and everyone afterward benefits from their labor. One such teacher was a beautiful young woman that thought me interesting and boldly asked me out. Being a gentleman, I'll not use her name, but the details are all true and great memories all the same.

I can, be an extrovert in many areas, except when it came to women. They were and remain a mystery to me. But in there is the wonder of it all.

It all started at a 4th of July party at the LeBaron hotel in Dallas. I was dating a model, but her interest in me was unclear. Her attentiveness to me was slipping and she was clearly smitten with a nearby cop. She wondered away from the hot tub and pursued her new interest. At first I thought it all a play to get me committed to her or some other such love head game. All pretense ended, when she asked me if I could get a ride home. So much for her. I'd call a cab first, rather than depend on her transportation. The hot tub was a little more empty and I sat there imagining all eyes on me getting publicly dumped for a cop.

Sitting there drinking my non-alcoholic fruit punch, I was approached by a pair of shapely legs. "Mind if I sit there?" she asked pointing to the space on my left. I took her hand and helped her slip in, enjoying the view inch by curvy inch. We exchanged names, but she already knew mine. We talked about the party and made small talk sharing bits of our history. Later that night , she admitted to having "researched" me. No one had ever done that before.

The master of ceremonies announced a pool dance and I took a chance. She accepted my offer, where upon we reconvened in the main pool. I couldn't swim, but the pool was only midsection high to me.

She was about 5'5" to my 6'2", so I carried her in the pool. We churned up the water to Glen Miller's "In the Mood." She was light and didn't mind being held close or twirled around. Her laughter filled my ears, as we danced, and obviously drew attention. By the end of the dance, we'd created a large space just for ourselves, thereby drawing an audience of onlookers and a cheering section. It was like a scene from a musical and magical. It was also great fun. We ended the dance with her in my arms. I held her chest high and she took a Ginger Rodgers' pose, extending a long shapely leg skyward. Wished I had a picture of that pose. It wasn't a dance contest, but the MC did award us two free drinks. Funny man, the whole affair - food and drinks were free. But we accepted the applause and felt like big shots.

We spent the rest of the evening together. We watched fireworks displays from around Dallas trough 360° windowed view of the Metroplex of the Jabber wacky penthouse disco-club. We danced. We hugged. We held hands. We were quite the item on and off the dance floor. We'd changed into evening wear and amazingly matched, as if we'd discussed what to wear beforehand.

Funny how just re-telling this meeting is getting me ahead of myself and pulling me into the moment, passed so many years past. It's alive in my head and the heart too has its memories. Real moments never die.

My friends at the party noticed our mutual attraction. Stand around a tall albino & you are hard pressed to get lost in the crowd. Stand next to a pretty woman & one gets noticed. Re-enter the model. I was polite, but reminded her she had left me and that she wasn't socially responsible for me nor I for her. Holding my new dance partner close, I invited the model to join "US". She exhaled cigarette smoke in my general direction, declined, turned, and walked away swinging her hips. Her message was just as clear. I was beyond caring.

"Shall we dance?", I asked and we did. We stayed on the floor for the full set, dancing a long lengths in one another's arms. She drew me closer than I had expected and I felt tears well up in my eyes. I wasn't as tough as I'd thought & I wasn't as far beyond caring as I'd figured.

I felt numb for awhile until the chords of "Color My World" came to my ears. I realized where I was and who was in my arms. "Are you back?", she asked looking up into my face. I nodded yes, looked her in her eyes and smiled as she rested her head into me. The set ended and we exited the dance floor hand in hand walking close together as if we'd done so for years. Hollywood can't write better than this.

We took the elevator down and went to the pool area. It was closed and quiet. It was just the place for us. I can't recall our conversation, but I do recall laughter and hand holding under the Texas sky and Dallas cityscape visible to the east. We were seemingly alone, though others were out there too - lost in their own little worlds; singles connecting.

It seems she and I could talk about anything, especially religion. She was Catholic too and even had a brother named Steve. She wore glasses, but at close range they were put safely aside. She removed mine, smiled, and then gently kissed me. It was light, but it filled me with excitement. It was at the Astro Drive-In in Dallas. It was our first kiss. I got a "not bad" from her and her giggle in my ear. The lessons had begun, she led by example and made it clear she wanted me to mimic her moves back to her. I was rewarded with more passionate kisses and increased proximity. She admitted her inexperience, but she added that she wanted to improve with me for us. This made me laugh. I had to admit my own inexperience, which made us both laugh. It took me years before I finally saw Tarzan Lord of Graystohe. There were lessons to learn and practices to be held. I hadn't planned on summer school, but I wasn't protesting. Excellent dreams too still happen.

September 25th, 2007

Some diet guru, working for TDC, has signed off a menu plan that includes at least 48 pancakes within a month for diabetics. My free world dieter would be having fits. He didn't like it when I had pancakes twice in a month and that was only eight pancakes. The TDC website has our menu. BUT. The individual units can (and do) change it. We always eat well whenever inspectors are expected. The key word there is "expected." No one is allowed to give us a surprise inspection.

If a news agency could penetrate this dietary conspiracy y'all would be shocked. But then this is old news to us in here. Corruption runs wild, when an agency polices itself and truly answers to no one.

September 27th, 2007

So now I hear that colored paper will be allowed until 12/31/07. A mailroom employee told me the end date was to be 9/30/07 and even quoted me a price to return my newly arrived colored paper & envelopes. Hearing the "facts" from someone supposedly "in the know", I took care of business and spread the word. I appeared an idiot when the revised word was spread. I should have know better than to trust administration and grays. I wonder why such errors happen?

Whenever it happens, I will miss colored paper and envelopes. It's a small thing, but I enjoy color. I can only wonder at the true reason for a white only policy concerning paper. We may never know the truth, because only a select few (bobble heads) know.

September 30th, 2007

Today is my ex-wife's birthday. She is a troubled soul - very insecure with heavy bags from her past. She can be a lovely person and was for many years with me. Her anger and sense of self importance are her ruin. I do pray for her and her new husband. I pray for her happiness, because she battles for her own acceptance of herself. Happiness begins within yourself. Happy Birthday my love.

September seemed so long. I've said (written) it before, certain months just seem longer than their calendar measure. Perhaps painful memories are the cause? I'll have to meditate on that one.

Come on October and the cooler weather it brings. For a south Texas born country boy, I sure love cold weather.

Note:

I am going to try and hold back stamps. I regret this is arriving so late. My endeavors are to improve.

October 1st, 2007

Pumpkins. That's what I recall about my October past. There also dancers, parties, and German festivals. The year just seems to blossom for me.

I enjoyed carving pumpkins. Over the years, I had a collection for tools for my avocation: pumpkin carver. I wasn't outstanding, but I was passable and no one ever complained about my work.

Lancaster used to have a pumpkin carving contest, but I never entered. I did my work for my wife and children. Perhaps my children will still recall just how much pumpkin guts remained after my tasks were completed. It's fun to watch a child's eyes light up when they recognize exactly what you are doing. None of my girls (only had girls) were ever scared of Jack-o-lanterns. They giggled and laughed at my creations. If nothing else, I was entertaining.

Hopefully those special moments will be part of their memories of BigAngel as I was known. They have certainly filled my mind and heart with loving and joyful memories. Thanks girls: Daddy loves you.

October 3rd, 2007

I so enjoyed dancing. It didn't matter, so long as it was partner dancing: two step; polka; swing; Virginia Reel; Schotich; tango and so many more. My favorite was a waltz. I believed it to be the most visibly beautiful dance and a dance of love.

It is amazing how many people can't or won't dance. I started dancing at a very young age. In the fifties dances were also a family event and everyone danced. It was a big part of social life. You were expected to learn. Even the schools had classes. Dance was part of P.E. Today it is probably politically incorrect to dance and touch someone. It's the to traumatizing for a boy to be left out or have to same sex dance because they weren't enough pairs or maybe too depressing for girls to dance with "icky" ugly boys.

These PC police would argue that the non-touch dances are hygienically safer too not to mention cutting down on possible predatory behaviors. Boys touching girls! Oh my! Have we all just lost our minds? When did all this stupidity begin? Who keeps the idiot fires burning? Why?

I've personally taught hundreds if men and women to dance and they all enjoyed. I've taught cousins and friends alike to trip the light fantastic. I've even competitively danced and done well. Oddly, I didn't marry a dancer. That's a long story, maybe for another time. I don't want to get into that capsule again.

Live dances have a mass appeal because of repetitive, almost drill instruction steps. They (live dances) make you part of a group-you belong because you are in the step. Live dances do not require a partner; you don't have to touch anyone.

Square dancing requires you to pay attention to a caller, be organized into a larger group and cooperate with a partner. You movements are important because everyone has clocklike steps to execute. You need a partner and you need a relationship with that partner. At least a relationship that teaches you trust in someone else's actions and an allowance to correctly anticipate moves: e.g. you learn to get along, serialize, and behave properly. This isn't freestyle (no real style) or bizarre gyrations (epileptic). There's a place for that.

I guess I'm too old to appreciate a person spinning on his head or crawling off like a worm. I'm surprised by a shapely feminine butt shaken (not stirred) in my face. What's the message? And why take offense when that message is answered? There's a place for that too: strip club or whore (not Ho) house. It's certainly sexy or crude depending on your view, but I wonder why people are shocked at bad behavior at such events? It does take two to tango.

Let's consider the waltz. It moves to a tempo. It has precise steps and a rhythm all its own. There is plenty of room to individualize a waltz's presentation. It is a partner dance where each dancer depends upon the skill of the other. Waltzes are beautiful to watch and joy to perform. Good waltzers will seek out skilled partners because practiced dancers feel the steps and are considerate of their partners.

The waltz is a touch dance. So much can be silently said between practiced dancers. The waltz can after be the beginning of a deeper relationship and a vehicle to deepen a serious relationship. It all starts because of a common skill, practical moves, and trust in keeping your feet off one another. It is a sonnet of understanding that can still put a smile on my face. At its deepest expression, a waltz is a dance of love and an unspoken promise of commitment. I love to waltz. She will remember it too, because she sought me out whenever a waltz was played. I should have married that one.

October 6th, 2007

In less than a month, I'll be 55. As a teen, I can recall wondering about life in year 2000. Being a real fan of science fiction and especially time traveling I was in awe of the possibilities. Funny how kids dream and adults smile.

True there are great wonders and inventions, but our development seems stunted. We appear to have fallen short of our great expectations and accomplishments. It is as if we deliberately slowed down or hit a technological barrier.

I grew up in an era still functioning on tubes and struggling into transistors, circuit boards, and later chips. I had a great fascination in electronics, especially television and radio. Many stores had "tube testers." One could get numbered stickers there. They came in pairs. One for the tube and one for the socket. Bad (burned out) tubes could be tested and replaced as need dictated. You could fix your own sets with relative ease.

These tube testers allowed me to fix radios and televisions. It wasn't so difficult, but I was hooked and at the tender age of seven. Back then special tools weren't necessary to open up a set. Common tools were all you needed to access the "guts." It was common knowledge that electricity was to be expected. Nowadays folks seem to have gotten dumb. Sadly their ignorance does cause injury.

I left the technological world and all testers, as well as specialty tools behind in January 10th 2000. I was a radio operator and computer technologist. I built homemade HAM radio antennas. So much fun now set aside. At nearly 55, I wonder what I'll see next.

October 8th, 2007

I'm in this nostalgic mood. Is this old folks process? What ever happened to our space race? NASA got to moon and we seem to be still resting on that victory. Our rocket science is hopelessly stuck in its technology. At this rate, the Robinson family unit leave earth for maybe a couple of thousand years. Being politically correct, our modern day Robinsons will be a blended family (Brady Bunch if you will). Steve Urkel will stowaway, as will an antagonist of suspect sexual orientation: nationality. The major will be Hispanic and what will be replaced by an asian female cyborg. Could this make it to a small screen? Hopefully, no.

Back to NASA...Our space program is working on toys, but we just can't seem to be developing a better delivery system. It's like a steam powered airplane. Can we truly "think outside the box?" Or have we just moved into a different box? Only time will tell, and meanwhile Buck Rogers smiles, as Mr. Spock raises an eyebrow.

October 9th, 2007

Our conversation today turned to Unidentified Flying Objects (UFO's). There is a wide range of both belief and disbelief on the subject and our conversation acknowledged this variance. I am a skeptical believer. Something exists and many explanations (both sides) are too weak. There are too many unexplained instances, as well as compelling photos, not to mention physical evidence. Something is happening and it is beyond our understanding.

'59-'60 was my first grade year in Mrs. Barnhait's class at the Refugio Primary School. For $1.20, you would get a year of "Weekly Reader." This was an eight page paper magazine for children that was written in age appropriate language. It had puzzles, jokes, a cartoon strip, and some very interesting stories.

Part of the "Weekly reader" program was the "Weekly Reader Book Club." Their books were grouped by age and general subject matter. My first book was on UFO's and unexplained events. It was to be the coolest book in the world to me. The readability level was beyond my age range, but not beyond my reading level. It came with pictures and suggested further reading titles. This was great. There were real books on the subject.

There are many stories that are both compelling and equally annoying. The one that has captured my attention is the story of the Hills from the mid sixties.

The Hills were bi-racial couple that were supposedly abducted and under hypnosis had their experiences tape recorded. It is important to note that each subject was hypnotized separately and that their testimony remains a benchmark for similar investigations. Their stories are but half the tale.

Betty Hill's story includes a request she made of her alien abductees where she asked for proof of their meeting. The request was honored only to be denied by a higher alien official, later present. Betty cried, because she felt no one would believe her.

In her despair, Betty made a conscious effort to memorize everything she saw so as to offer her proof of the contact. One such memory was a "star map," if you will, she saw several times. Her reproduction was meaningless to observers for decades: just another piece of paper.

The computer age and better telescopes proved Betty's map to be real. Using state of the art computer modeling, Betty's map was indeed accurate. It was drawn from a point of view unknown to human eyes.

Her map was from an alien point of view. How could Betty have drawn such a map, unless she had seen it? Betty saw what we will never see unless we travel out into space and witness it from an alien's standpoint! Explanations against Betty's map defy statistical possibility. Betty was somewhere of extraordinary importance. She knows something.

October 10th, 2007

"Just herd them like cattle," the man of authority said. Dressed in free world clothes he wore the self-satisfying grin of either an imbecile or arrogant protected adolescent. I am not of a herd. I will not play their dehumanizing role.

Most everything in prison involves a line. Everywhere we go, a line is sure to follow. All I have is time. Lines can be frustrating, but they can be beneficial. I pray, when I remember to do so. I'm no saint, but as Randy Travis sings, "I'm just an old lump of coal, but I'm gonna be a diamond someday."

I refuse to be pushed or shoved, and I likewise refuse to be herded or treated as mindless. They have my body, but even that is not theirs. I belong to God and serve a higher master. Beware how you ill-treat me, because my true owner sees all and their will be a final judgment for us all.

The mouth breathers speak of "respect." Well if it weren't for Ms. Franklin's song, they'd not a clue as respect's spelling. The meaning is assumed to be akin to, "I got my way because society owes me." Or as I've seen it written, "They oh me." These are the same guys that get colds and ask me for "antibiotics" and go to the commissary and buy "cosmetics" (hygiene products). These prison peendits confuse fact with opinion. Everything they say is fact. Whatever I say is an opinion. This logic has strong racial lines. They'll tell you so too. It's time to take a deep breath and remember that we all need prayer and a Savior.

October 12th, 2007

Next week we (Catholics) are promised a visit from Father Payne from St. Thomas Catholic Church in Huntsville. It has been over a year since our best visit by a Priest. A Priest's presence means both an opportunity for Confession and Mass. This will be a luxury for us. We get a general Communion service, but a Mass is special. I am a Catholic by birth, but still important is that I remain Catholic by choice. I've seen and read the alternatives. Thank you God, I was born into the faith and likewise Thank you for revealing faith to me. I am confident in my birthright and continued free will choices.

My main concern in morals is abortion. Until Roe vs. Wade, every Christian belief was against abortion. Man made a law (fashioned a golden calf) and abortions ceased to be considered murder. Man made it legal. Man gets to decide when a child is to be born. Why?

Is abortion the eleventh commandment? Oh so? Children are okay unless they are coming at a bad time or to unmarried people. An abortion is then seen as a "return to sender" arrangement. Sure. God will just send it back at a more convenient time to a better place.

Or we can take the stance that it isn't a "real" human yet. It's a zygote; a fetus; a cell cluster; or any such dehumanizing attempt to avoid saying, "a life." James 2 (twenty something or other) says that a body w/o a soul is dead. That baby is alive. So, that baby has a soul. How can we view that baby as not living?

Unborn livestock, unmatured crops can be insured against their lose. How so? Well there are living things that have a natural-predictable journey of life and value. To interrupt that process is to cause death- a cessation of a natural God directed progression. Yet we hold that baby with such contempt, that a law was enacted to protect those that would see its life arbitrarily ended. We are messed up. A judgment awaits us all.

October 15th, 2007

The day routine can get all messed up and it comes down to counting heads. It does appear simple, but then it takes forever to get the count justified. The daily schedule continues to fall behind and the lost time mounts up. Each shift contributes to the delay. Lunch normally over at 12:15 is now delayed until 1:30 pm and they are still feeding. Second shift takes over at 2:00 pm. They inherit the delay and, as they say, "the goes on." Supper usually is over and 6:30 pm. But thanks to highly trained professionals, supper is still being served at 7:30 pm. This delay slows, and third shift workers getting to their jobs. This will delay breakfast and it only gets worse.

October 17th, 2007

It was another messed up day. Now the guards are angry with one another. This one doesn't like that one and that one isn't going to take any order from him and he isn't going to open the doors for that girl. Espree de corps? Role models? Or just victims of stress.

I'll need another book tonight. I can't see the televisions. So, books are my television or theater of the mind. I greatly enjoy sci fi's , mysteries, westerns, and humor. This follows along with my taste in television.

I may read three novels at a time. Alternating subjects gives me variety and how many chapters I read creates anticipation and an aura of suspense. I can get wrapped up in a good novel, especially one on time travel or alternative universes. These things may exist too.

It is interesting to contemplate an alternative me, in an alternative life: free and living a life closer to my younger years' dreams. I'd be dancing with my dear one and enjoying my children around me. Ah, to dream such things.

October 19th, 2007

The outward appearance of a prison has changed and modernization is easily seen. So too one can easily encounter guards whose behavior and attitude toward the incarcerated has remained the same as those depicted in moves. It is important to note that not all guards not afflicted with an overactive superego so well as protected post-adolescent trance. Many leave the profession because they have to endure their coworkers frustrations and all coerced into a self-centered protective "code of silence"- "we protect our own" environment. The duplicity of their lifestyles becomes too much of an emotional burden and the good guards leave. They leave, but not before they are labeled as "offender friendly."

Too many of the guys are without sufficient life experience to handle men. Whether individually or in groups men can be hard to handle. Anyone in management can attest to having to been tested because of group dynamics. Give a youngster leadership and beware. Any issue you carry needs to remain outside your employment.

Teachers are trained to avoid "power struggles" and remain cool under pressure. Guards are evidently trained to intimidate by volume, proximity, physicality, and numbers. Their actions often are arbitrary and only serve to incite a negative response: "Shut your bitchass mouth."

True many prisoners begin with an attitude that is counterproductive to meaningful discourse; but who is the professional? As humans we all wrestle with responsibility and admitting when we are mistaken. The TDCJ handbook clearly states that "all offenders lie. All TDCJ employees only tell the truth." How fortunate for us all, as both incarcerated and as a society at large. We only need to seek guidance from God and guards. And chair sings a Jackie Duschannon refrain, "what the world needs now is guards more guards": with apologies to the artist. Mi culpa.

To get an accurate picture of a prisoner guard relationship, ask a volunteer. The teachers, nurses, staff, guards, and administration deal with people that are under stress and mentally pre-prepared to be combative. These are forced relationships and thereby stress interactions. How many of us want to be remembered under those circumstances? We are hardly at our best and certainly not even close to normal in our behavior.

Religious volunteers arrive with a different mindset. They "volunteered" to be here. Their presence is not defined as employment and thus carries no responsibility to receive a paycheck. Plainly put, these people have choices. We are not here to give meaning to their bank balances or car payments. We don't represent an element, hated, needed to be endured to make house payments or a liquor store purchase.

Exiting religious volunteers have often told us of their "training," they received before being allowed to enter. After all prisons are not filled with boy scouts and saints. There are those that will attempt manipulation or try and establish a relationship. Those men quickly lose interest and leave. So "being forewarned is to be foretold." The larger group want to be in those religious classes and actively participate. These volunteers see us as we are and as we can be. We merely respond and live up to their expectations. God will change you. All you have to do is get involved and stay in tune.

Medical assistance in prison, can be entitled "DenialCare." This is an HMO whose mission statement starts with, "save money first." Patients are an afterthought. Medical care appears to be "scripted," a healthcare plan based upon a "flowchart system." The underlying motive being, "do as little as possible, for as long as possible, as inexpensively as possible."

The hallmark of this minimal practice in medicine can be seen when doctors at the University of Texas Medical Branch (UTMB)\John Sealy Hospital at Gabeston. Texas give orders to TDCJ medical staff.

Countless medical orders are either changed or even ignored once a patient is a prisoner returns to the Unit. Row didn't a qualified doctor just treat a patient? Why ignore the care and aftercare instructions? One can make a case for the use of generic medicines. But to ignore professional medical care directives seems contrary to a creed that says, "do no harm." Professional arrogance, save money first attitude, or just stupidity? The incarcerated are caught in the middle. We are not even "allowed" to contact a patient advocate. Dig a little, spend some time searching, and the truth will surface. TDCJ counts on your ambivalence to keep their secrets.

October 24th, 2007

Cold weather arrived last night. I don't know the relative temperature, but a soft drink left on the cement floor is pop machine cold. The vents are still open and my window is three quarters pane less. The breeze does pass freely into my cell. That window was damaged back in early April I've complained and the guards have reported it. The guards ask me if my window has been fixed. I answer "no" and just shake their heads. "They are not in any hurry to make such repairs. My cell is like a refrigerator.

They've passed out winter blankets and our coats. Being tall neither blanket nor coat was available for me. I must wait. Luckily, I have a thermal undershirt and a heavy t-shirt. Hopefully, my winter necessities will arrive soon. All I can do is wait. I'm cool just chilling.

The diabetic community is currently enduring difficulties. It is important to first note that the Estelle Unit is a "medical unit." Supposedly, guards here receive training to deal with prisoners with medical issues. Will the OJT just isn't working out.

The issues revolve around whose domain rules highest: security or medical. This being a "medical unit" one would naturally believe that medical issues supercede. Though if you ask many guards they will say, "ok PHOP (Physically Handicapped Offenders Program), y'all have had it easy to long. We have a leader that stands with us. You shouldn't have come to prison. This attitude is counter to the posted mission statement. How can medical conditions be ignored?

Prisoners are continually "ordered" to eat before we take our glucose checks (finger sticks). This is to accommodate "their" need to serve meals on the run-quicky. Following ignorant-uneducated-orders like this negates a true fasting finger stick reading resulting in an inaccurate dose of insulin.

Medical's response was to remove many diabetics from a sliding scale and prescribing static dosages for both AM and PM injections. Furthermore, medical feels that these static dosages now mean that there is no need for non-sliding scale patients to do finger sticks. Are these people mad!

The whole idea of finger sticks to monitor the usefulness and effectiveness of your insulin dosages. So many standard American Diabetic Association and American Medical Association guidelines are being relaxed or ignored. Everything I learned through my HMO and ADA classes, as well as read in diabetic maintenance books has been trashed in prison.

Here's the math. Four days a week (sometimes five) diabetics are served 3 pancakes (w/diet syrup), plain oatmeal, and two canned fruits. That's at least 4 times pancakes a month. Does anyone see a problem? Well, TDCJ "dieticians," medical, and TDCJ authorities feel it's okay. Once again, "well you shouldn't have come to prison," is their response. Coming to prison does not give TDCJ license to ignore ignorance, sloppy work habits, penny-pinching health poor menus written by ill-trained dieticians. Can it all be about money? How can doctors that take an oath to "do no harm" remain silent, buying into stupidity? Oh yeah. The answer to it all is, "you shouldn't have come to prison." Of course, how could I have forgotten?

When it rains it pours. A female field guard, riding a tractor lawnmower, hit the window at the end of the JI block. That was back in April of '07. Here we are in October and it has yet to be fixed.

Last night the force of the wind coming through our broken window was as such that put my shirt upon the crossbar to block it. As I slept, my shirt was silently confiscated. Never mind that my hanging shirt had not been a problem, so long as I'd been awake. The door opened and closed without incident. Yet somehow, as I slept my shirt was an issue. Why wait until I was asleep?

Thank God, I managed to secure another shirt, so I could go to the infirmary and take insulin. The zippered shirt was too small, but it managed to cover. All is well, as sensible heads saw the need, understood the cause, and logic prevailed. Thank you God.

October 25th, 2007

Ever since last month, we have had two types of real cards. White cards are for renal patients, while the other is for Diet for Health menus (DFH). In the beginning, both card holders went through line one. A guard paper punched your card. You were given an appropriate tray. This routine worked well all through September and about eleven days of October.

Now the mouth breathers have figured out how to beat the system. It starts out by crowding the line and creating the second parallel line of men. One at a time a man will break line ahead of someone that has had his card punched. Taking a try to either an occupied or empty table, the man jumps in line to have "his" card punched and gets a second tray. Why can't guards see this? Why do the guards "allow" men to cut in line or create a double line? It's all about their "schedule." Get in, get out; all you gotta do is keep things going. Can you hear the cheer? "Well you shouldn't have come to prison." Can a tattoo be made? It all boils down to job commitment and one's desire to do a quality job. And! Whose responsibility is that? Can anyone help me here?

October 27th, 2007

Saturday mornings are my tutoring sessions. Currently, I am tutoring Spanish and algebra. My student is eager to learn, as well as bright. He is just inexperienced. He is doing well and his instructors are pleased with his efforts. It is satisfying to see his test results and hear him recount his success. That's what teaching is all about. It is time well spent.

Sunday will be a bye week for my Dallas Cowboys. I'll have some cell time to read and work on my letters. Because of a recent commissary visit, I have food in my locker. I can eat in, as opposed to eating in the busy chowhall. Weekend food, especially our lunch menu can be disgusting. I'll just dine from the selection in my locker. I am sure to have a meal nearly ready to eat.

As for tonight? I'll dine light and listen to old time country tunes on KIVY-FM out of Crockett, Texas. Greg the town barber is the Saturday night DJ. His weekly program is also carried on the internet. The show gets requests from far off lands, overseas and from the military. It all has the charm of radio from a bygone era: very small town sound. I just love it too. It takes me back to better nights, better dancers.

October 28th, 2007

I could go out and watch a football game, but I won't. I'll go play dominoes with my buddies. Terry is currently missing. He is off the unit and in a hospital in Galveston, Texas. He had a bad brown recluse spider bite on his leg: just below the inside of his knee. He looked bad before he left. It was sad to see him suffer and essentially be ignored by medical. This is supposed to be a medical unit. "They" sure don't act like it. Who knows when Terry will return. I sure miss my buddy.

October 30th, 2007

Here comes Halloween. As children it's the costumes and candy. As adults it can boil down to the same, except as adults we relive the adventures of role playing and "dress-up." For me it was all of the above and dances.

As a child, I went in for monsters and scary things. When I grew up, I was into the romantic side of getting into a costume, as well as play a part. I didn't go to as many costume parties as I would have liked. Most of the ones I did attend, had people just wearing a mask and having a prop. Some came dressed in the workday uniform only altered.

One year our Sunday night Catholic bowling league encouraged us to dress up. I'd never gone bowling in costume. One of our team's members was either sick or out of town. So, we needed a substitute. I would ask "her" to join us for the night. "She" accepted and in the spirit of the evening agreed to dress up for the event.

I went as an Hawaiian shirted vampire tourist. She came dressed as a ghoul-a very sexy ghoul at that. She wore rights and a sheer-raggedy party dress-right things. She was gorgeous, in an Elvira Mistress of the Dark way. She responded to my get up. I felt lame because how many vampires wear glasses? I couldn't keep my eyes off of her. One of our opponents that night, an older man fatherly figure spoke to me in private. We were the second highest scoring team in our league and they were a very close third.

In private, he told me, "We got ya Tonight. You're gonna trip on your (male organ)." I am sure I blushed. He slapped me on the back and said, "don't let her get away." Was I that obvious? I'm sure I was. Billy Joel had a hit song out "Uptown Girl." I had an idea. There was a jukebox and I selected several songs, but every second song was "Uptown Girl." Whenever I was near her and the song played, I brush her arm or reach out and politely touch her, singing under my breath, "she's my Uptown Ghoul." The effect was instantaneous. She gave me such a smile and warm intimate throaty giggles. I didn't even have to be near after awhile. The song would play and I just had to make eye contact. All of this had to be noticeable to everyone since the song kept playing. I don't really understand all its effects, but we bowled great and slaughtered our opponents. I never tripped but both of us must have gathered an inspiration from our mutual attention. For me it was being near my new Uptown Ghoul. To this day, I can still hear that song and I'm there again at Forum Bowl. Songs do have that effect on me and more than likely, maybe, one more person. Perhaps one day, she may tell me about it.