We spent most of yesterday visiting a friend at the Grafton Correctional Facility. I had filled out the visitation papers several weeks ago in hopes of being included in the holiday pilgrimage to see Steve. Although I have known people who have been incarcerated, I have never gone through the trouble of an institutional visit. This was a first for me.
I make no excuses for Steve, neither does his family. Twenty six years ago, at the age of nineteen, he committed an armed robbery which ended in the death of an innocent person. He is serving thirty years to life. At this point, he has spent more time behind bars than he spent on the outside. Steve is living with the consequences of his actions, and although he would love to have his freedom someday, he realizes his sentence was just. Because of the efforts he's made to educate himself in the field of horticulture, and because of the overcrowding of today correctional facilities, he faces a parole hearing next month, which he hopes will lead to an early release.
The correctional facilities house an entire society of invisible people just like Steve. A select few of these hidden members are fortunate enough to have not been forgotten by family and loved ones. To them they remain painfully visible, as they go to great lengths to show their support through gifts, correspondence and visitation. This creates another entire social structure which most of us don't even realize exists. These are the people who waited for hours in an overcrowded, well secured, reception area along side of us, to make contact with a lost loved one.
As numbers are called, and families move slowly forward to be searched and run through security, the pressure of a time limit hangs over every one's head. It doesn't matter if one has driven hours to make this visit. Nor does it matter if they have waited even longer for their number to be called. There is always the chance that because of the overcrowding, they may not make it through security before the time restriction of visitation is reached and lock down occurs. Those who are unlucky enough to be the next number on the list are turned back to their cars and a long ride home. This time we were among the last group of guests who made it through security and were allowed inside the facility.
The visit with Steve was animated and upbeat. We force fed him horribly over priced vending machine treats which he doesn't normally have access too except during visitation. We were surrounded by families and more children then one could imagine. It wasn't sad or depressing. Even under these conditions, the human spirit survives and even thrives because love and support is provided through visitation. Their families give these inmates the hope needed to endure their incarcerations. Some have been providing this active support for twenty six years or more. I cannot even begin to imagine the enormity of such a commitment. How easy it would be to just walk away from someone who has made a critical mistake and neither deserves nor expects such a sacrifice.
With all the pressure and stress that the holidays bring; all the worry about the right meal preparations, seating arrangements, and petty family arguments; I found more love and real family commitment behind those prison walls than I have seen during all of the other holiday celebrations. It's made me feel a little better about Thanksgiving!
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Friday, November 27, 2009
First Snow
The first snow, and the woods at the Western Reserve is calling me. Holidays are so stressful. I almost wish we could do without them and just celebrate each day one day at a time. The only tonic I know of for a weary soul is the silence and aloneness that nature provides. And I am one weary traveler today. So I will search the woods for answers, ask the trees for advice, soak in the music of the birds and enjoy one brief moment of true peace.
Maybe there's something too broken in me to fix. I'm hoping I can trust the woods today and the ocean next week to make repairs and restore my faith in the promise of an uncomplicated life. I'm all out of answers right now.
Friday, November 20, 2009
Behind Closed Doors / A Short Story
The squad car pulled up alongside a woman who appeared to be wandering aimlessly down the berm of the Twenty Fifth Street Bridge. The officers left their vehicle and approached her cautiously, sensitive to the possibility of any suicidal tendency's she might be harboring. She starred straight ahead and continued her slow steady pace, seemingly unaware of their presence.
"Ma'am." the officer quarried. "Ma'am. Pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge. Can we give you a lift into town? Ma'am are you alright?"
She stopped, then and turned slowly to look blankly into the officer's face.
"Can I see some ID please?" His request firm, but gentle.
Without a word, she began searching her pockets in what appeared to be a feeble attempt to comply with the order. At last her trembling hands produced an envelope from somewhere inside her jacket. She handed it to the policeman and began to weep. Silent, silver, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to brush them away.She spoke at last, with great effort, whispering, pleading. "My children. I have two children. They're home alone. I .. I.. left them there."
"When did you leave them?" The officer demanded.
"I...I..d d don't remember." She stammered and began to sob, collapsing on to the pavement.
The envelope contained the medical records of one, Mary Anne Preston, who resided at 52692 Bridge Water Lane. Upon further examination, the records indicated a recent medication change for the treatment of schizophrenia. An unfilled prescription lay nestled between the folded sheets.
++++++++++++
From the downtown police station, a squad car was dispatched to the Preston address in the hopes of retrieving two minor children. Officers Benjamin Quinn, and Bart Wilson responded to the call, winding their way through the urban development in search of the address.They pulled into the driveway of a large century house, neatly landscaped, with the address displayed in bold bronze numbers on the cedar shake siding. Exiting their vehicle, they strode quickly to the front door of the residence. Unable to catch a glimpse of the interior because of the tightly drawn drapery, they pressed the door bell and listened for the sounds of children's voices. They heard nothing.
Once again they rang the bell and got no response. Could the report be wrong, they wondered? Were there really two small children left alone inside this home? With a tone of authority, Officer Quinn rapped loudly on the wooden barrier and called out, "This is officer Quinn of the Preston Police Department. Please open the door!"
From within, a frightened child's voice called out, "Go away! Mom's not here. She said not to open the door to anybody."
Lowering his voice, so as not to further frighten the child, Ben began to reason with her. "It's OK sweetie. We found your mom. She's sick and she asked us to come and bring you to her. You need to open the door. Is there anybody else in there with you?"
The tiny voice from within began to plead once again. "My brother Tommy is here. I have to take care of him. Please, please go away. Mom said no one. Tommy is scared. You're scaring him."
A second child began to wail hysterically as if to confirm her accusations.The officers listened helplessly as the screams rose to a frantic pitch. Ben tried again and again to convince the little girl to open the door. She responded at last by grabbing her brother and dragging him away from the door seeking a hiding place. As the cries of panic faded quickly into the furthest recesses of the house, Ben made eye contact with his partner. Wilson nodded, and together they slammed their shoulders into the old wooden door, shattering the frame and the lock.
Once inside, the odor hit them like a physical presence. Then the complete and utter chaos within the home took their breathe away. Only a narrow path winding between piles of strewn garbage, dirty clothes and dishes encrusted with dried and moldy left overs, led them beyond the front door to the room where the children were hiding. This was not a temporary living condition. Such filth could only be the result of months of neglect. How long, they wondered, had these children lived like this?
Carefully, the two men edged their way between the piles of garbage searching for the two small refugees. They found them at last cowering in the corner of the equally disgusting bathroom. The young girl, Officer Quinn guessed she was about eight or nine years old, had her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother. She eyed the officers warily, making no attempt to leave her hiding place. Ben knelt down on the filth encrusted tiles and opened his arms to them. Only Tommy sought comfort in this mans embrace, leaving his sisters arms for the security only an adult could give him.
As he gathered the boy into his arms, tears filled Ben's eyes. How was it possible to have victims when there was no crime? There were no bad guys here, no one to hold accountable for the trauma inflicted on these children. How does one fight mental illness, poverty and ignorance? He had a badge, a gun and years of training which provided all he needed to protect the innocent, and yet they were useless against these silent enemies.
These were the events that forever changed us, he thought. This is what molded children into who they would become. What would it do to these tiny victims? Would it break them, or make them stronger? He could rescue them now, but he knew he was playing only a small part in the outcome of their future, and certainly the terror of their rescue would also be a part of today's memory. He could see it in the young girls eyes. He would never know the rest of story, for only time would reveal its final chapter.
"Ma'am." the officer quarried. "Ma'am. Pedestrians are not allowed on the bridge. Can we give you a lift into town? Ma'am are you alright?"
She stopped, then and turned slowly to look blankly into the officer's face.
"Can I see some ID please?" His request firm, but gentle.
Without a word, she began searching her pockets in what appeared to be a feeble attempt to comply with the order. At last her trembling hands produced an envelope from somewhere inside her jacket. She handed it to the policeman and began to weep. Silent, silver, tears rolled down her cheeks, and she made no attempt to brush them away.She spoke at last, with great effort, whispering, pleading. "My children. I have two children. They're home alone. I .. I.. left them there."
"When did you leave them?" The officer demanded.
"I...I..d d don't remember." She stammered and began to sob, collapsing on to the pavement.
The envelope contained the medical records of one, Mary Anne Preston, who resided at 52692 Bridge Water Lane. Upon further examination, the records indicated a recent medication change for the treatment of schizophrenia. An unfilled prescription lay nestled between the folded sheets.
++++++++++++
From the downtown police station, a squad car was dispatched to the Preston address in the hopes of retrieving two minor children. Officers Benjamin Quinn, and Bart Wilson responded to the call, winding their way through the urban development in search of the address.They pulled into the driveway of a large century house, neatly landscaped, with the address displayed in bold bronze numbers on the cedar shake siding. Exiting their vehicle, they strode quickly to the front door of the residence. Unable to catch a glimpse of the interior because of the tightly drawn drapery, they pressed the door bell and listened for the sounds of children's voices. They heard nothing.
Once again they rang the bell and got no response. Could the report be wrong, they wondered? Were there really two small children left alone inside this home? With a tone of authority, Officer Quinn rapped loudly on the wooden barrier and called out, "This is officer Quinn of the Preston Police Department. Please open the door!"
From within, a frightened child's voice called out, "Go away! Mom's not here. She said not to open the door to anybody."
Lowering his voice, so as not to further frighten the child, Ben began to reason with her. "It's OK sweetie. We found your mom. She's sick and she asked us to come and bring you to her. You need to open the door. Is there anybody else in there with you?"
The tiny voice from within began to plead once again. "My brother Tommy is here. I have to take care of him. Please, please go away. Mom said no one. Tommy is scared. You're scaring him."
A second child began to wail hysterically as if to confirm her accusations.The officers listened helplessly as the screams rose to a frantic pitch. Ben tried again and again to convince the little girl to open the door. She responded at last by grabbing her brother and dragging him away from the door seeking a hiding place. As the cries of panic faded quickly into the furthest recesses of the house, Ben made eye contact with his partner. Wilson nodded, and together they slammed their shoulders into the old wooden door, shattering the frame and the lock.
Once inside, the odor hit them like a physical presence. Then the complete and utter chaos within the home took their breathe away. Only a narrow path winding between piles of strewn garbage, dirty clothes and dishes encrusted with dried and moldy left overs, led them beyond the front door to the room where the children were hiding. This was not a temporary living condition. Such filth could only be the result of months of neglect. How long, they wondered, had these children lived like this?
Carefully, the two men edged their way between the piles of garbage searching for the two small refugees. They found them at last cowering in the corner of the equally disgusting bathroom. The young girl, Officer Quinn guessed she was about eight or nine years old, had her arms wrapped protectively around her little brother. She eyed the officers warily, making no attempt to leave her hiding place. Ben knelt down on the filth encrusted tiles and opened his arms to them. Only Tommy sought comfort in this mans embrace, leaving his sisters arms for the security only an adult could give him.
As he gathered the boy into his arms, tears filled Ben's eyes. How was it possible to have victims when there was no crime? There were no bad guys here, no one to hold accountable for the trauma inflicted on these children. How does one fight mental illness, poverty and ignorance? He had a badge, a gun and years of training which provided all he needed to protect the innocent, and yet they were useless against these silent enemies.
These were the events that forever changed us, he thought. This is what molded children into who they would become. What would it do to these tiny victims? Would it break them, or make them stronger? He could rescue them now, but he knew he was playing only a small part in the outcome of their future, and certainly the terror of their rescue would also be a part of today's memory. He could see it in the young girls eyes. He would never know the rest of story, for only time would reveal its final chapter.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Addicted
I said it couldn't happen to me. I even made fun of my friends who had fallen prey to the addiction themselves. They kept trying to draw me into their habit, but I just laughed and said it was too stupid to even consider. Then one day, consumed with boredom, I tried it. It was the beginning of the end for me. After only a few weeks, I must admit my shame and confess, "My name is Sandy and I'm a Farmville-aholic!
Yes I now own a small farm on FB and it has become the first thing I check every morning and the last thing I log into before bed each night. I own horses, cows, sheep, chickens, and even an ugly duckling which promises to turn into a swan in a few more days. I not only feed these animals and milk my cows, I even have my avatar pet them which produces little hearts which float from the tops of their heads and makes them moo or cluck or whatever noise they make.
I visit my neighbors farms and fertilize their crops to earn bonus points which will eventually allow me to expand my farm. Someday I may even earn enough to build a house. Right now I only have a chicken coop as buildings are expensive. With winter coming, I am working hard to at least provide my livestock with a barn. Until then I continue to plow, plant and harvest my existing crops in an effort to become a successful virtual-farmer in this tough economy.
Go ahead and shake your heads. Whisper about the waste of time and the foolishness of my habit, but until you've tried it, keep your judgements to yourself. It could happen to you!
Monday, November 9, 2009
No Wisdom Within Me
Today I find no wisdom within me
Only sad observations of life at it's most difficult
I see a child with a broken heart
A young woman with poison in her blood
An aged senior weeping bitterness through every pore.
I would mend the broken heart
Administer antidote for the poisoned blood
Bathe away the angry sweat
If only I possessed such power.
Heal them, I cannot
Today I find no wisdom within me.
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