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April 2007
4/12/07
4/9/07
Easter in the Big House
4/5/07
4/4/07
Monday, April 9, 2007
3:12:00 PM EDT
Feeling Worried
Hearing Dixi Chicks - On Top Of the World
“It’s a boy!” The nurse and I chorused joyfully as the last grunts and groans of my love’s labor pains died away. We exchanged that look of euphoria only new parents can share, the shared relief and joy of successfully bringing a new life into the world. My words of encouragement were interrupted by a sound never heard on this Earth before and not since, the first newborn cries of our son strong, and clear ringing through the white, sterile environment. Even as my wife reached for the wee lad, the nub of his newly snipped umbilical cord poking a bloody nub to the ceiling, the nurse uttered a word that iced our veins, “Doctor!” A nod of her head and the look in her eyes told all. They bent over our son in a hasty examination and consultation before he was whisked away with barely a… “Excuse us a moment.” …
… We moved through the first metal detectors without incidence. Once I had retrieved the one locker key we were allowed we stood before the barred entrance to the “sally port.” Thick, heavy steel bars slid open and the guard grimly motioned us in. With a ringing clang and profound clunk that reminded me of prison movies I’d viewed as a kid the gate slammed shut and the two armed guards reexamined our documents and instructed us to show our “invisible stamp” below the ultraviolet light. Then I saw him through the last rows of bars, sitting with his profile to us, head shaved, leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees. Our son’s face was an emotionless mask as he stared straight ahead awaiting our visit. He hugged his mom first, they smiled at each other before he reached for his sister and hugged her tight. Did he nuzzle just a moment in her thick, tangled hair? Then we embraced, something he had rarely done since entering adolescence. He slapped me on the back grinning, “How you been dad?”…
… Summer had just arrived the trees still clothed in leaves barely nibbled and spring’s flowers had gone to seed. The morning air held a chill as dappled sunshine crisscrossed the fine sand within the batting cage. It was the start of our son’s third year of baseball and his coach had suggested I take him to a local college’s batting cage. The borrowed helmet seemed a bit large and our son pushed at it irritably as he stepped into the batter’s box. After a few awkward swings I stepped behind him as I’d seen his coach do at practice. “Remember.” I said patiently, “Coach said to choke up on the bat and open up your stance a bit, here,” I tried to guide his hands up the bat and adjust his stance. He shifted his hands before shrugging me off, “Umm… thanks dad but I can do it!” There was just a hint of irritability in his voice but it could have been his eagerness to finally get hitting after weeks of empty promises. I lugged a basket of baseballs up to the pitchers area and adjusted the protective screen before making the first pitch. To say my pitching was accurate, or even over the plate most of the time would be an overstatement. But in time, with some practice we improved together. I zeroed in on the plate and our son begun connecting more with the ball. One well-hit shot sizzled past my ear, “There you go!” I encouraged, “That’s a shot to make the other team take notice.” I began to sweat as the morning wore on and our son looked more and more confident at the plate. Suddenly my pitch threw me off balance, I stumbled away from the protective screen and a ball cracked from the bat to hit me square in the stomach. “OOF! I collapsed to my knees, clutching my stomach and gasping for air. He was at my side, eyes wide with terror, concern in his voice, “Dad? DAD! You OK?” …
…The visiting area is jammed with people, and the room is abuzz with voices. Our son points to the seats across from him. Although this is a face-to-face visit the contact is minimal; no hugging for more than 10 seconds (someone timing these?), kisses only on the cheek, no inappropriate caresses, and inmates must sit across from the visitors. This is far better than visitation by phone & seeing him behind a sheet of Plexiglas… and a world of improvement over the video-screen 20 minute visits we suffered through in one jail. Because of the distance traveled we have an “extended visit” so we stumble and lurch through two hours of conversation.
“How’s work?... Got the taxes done? … How was the three hour drive?... Much traffic?”
We get the scoop on the food, his newest work assignment, the latest cellmate.
He inquires about our recent magical musical mystery tour of seeing Eric Clapton, a local percussion & marimba ensemble, Doc Severson’s farewell tour, and Blue Man Group - all in a week’s time.
People come and go all around us as a tide of mothers & fathers, grandparents, sisters & brothers, buddies, and sweethearts take their places before their loved ones in blue. “Got the Folsom Prison Blues” Johnny Cash used to sing.
An elderly man sits down a few seats away from our son. The man nervously rubs his wrinkled hands upon his bright blue jeans, staring straight ahead. A woman walks over and they embrace then kiss before she reluctantly separates and sits across from him.
To our left, over in the corner, two boys perhaps two and four years old have crawled under the seats and are poking their blond heads out from between a woman’s legs giggling at the man seated across from them. He smiles and makes a face at them before an elderly woman tries to coax the boys out to sit in her lap.
Our daughter is now talking to her brother; they lean towards each other and speak in rapid tones. My love and I turn to each other and converse, trying to allow them some semblance of privacy. They are a mere 18 months apart and often seemed to operate as twins while growing up; playing together when young, sometimes sharing friends, although NEVER sharing a classroom (except for orchestra) even in high school. They were only a year apart and in high school seemed to know many of the same classmates, and teachers…
… “You are NOT going to believe what Katie K was doing in Mr. S’ class today!...” Our daughter stopped to take a bite of chicken before continuing, “He was writing a math problem on the board and she starts texting someone on her phone, who was in class, and it was Jason, you know, his parents own the hardware store.”
My son just laughs, “Yeah well you know Mr. S. an earthquake could happen and he’ll just keep on going…” They laugh at this image of an oblivious teacher who has even been reported to overlook kids rolling joints in the back of the room.
After a swig of apple juice our son explains how he and his buddy Ken were the only ones to ace a recent geometry test in the much-maligned Mrs. K’s class. Shuddering, our daughter grimaces, “She is such a witch! I hope I NEVER get her for math. I hear she never stops yelling at the class if they don’t get her stupid explanations!”
This meantime chatter isn’t meant for my love and I so we respectfully withdraw but keep a keen ear for tidbits of valuable information. These are precious mealtime rituals I loathed missing when teaching a night class. Sometimes the conversation would extend to include the lowly parents ☺ and it would stretch on into the night as the dishes crusted over… Our son is describing a technique he sometimes used during swimming lessons to help a child learn the butterfly stroke. He and his sister taught swimming lessons at the same time, although in different programs, and they often exchanged teaching techniques. “I take the kid’s arms and bring them around like this…” As he waves his arms about he knocks a full glass of apple juice off the table and it shatters on the floor sending shards of glass and sticky juice all over the floor and cupboards. The spell is suddenly broken…
…The guard walks over and hands our son a yellow slip then walks away. “Five more minutes,” our son waves the paper like a flag. Suddenly there is so much to say and we finish in a flurry of conversation until I can see the look in his eyes that says, “Time to go.”
We embrace again; promise to visit next week, minus our daughter who has a prior commitment. Passing through the gate I look back and realize our son is the last one left in the waiting room. He looks so small in that vast room of stiff, metal chairs; barred windows; and blank cracked walls. He sits with his profile to us, shaven head bowed, leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees. His face an emotionless mask as he stares at the floor awaiting a guard to escort him back to his cell. “Happy Easter” I whisper.
-“I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that don’t work.”
-Thomas Edison-
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3:12:00 PM EDT
Feeling Worried
Hearing Dixi Chicks - On Top Of the World
Easter in the Big House
… We moved through the first metal detectors without incidence. Once I had retrieved the one locker key we were allowed we stood before the barred entrance to the “sally port.” Thick, heavy steel bars slid open and the guard grimly motioned us in. With a ringing clang and profound clunk that reminded me of prison movies I’d viewed as a kid the gate slammed shut and the two armed guards reexamined our documents and instructed us to show our “invisible stamp” below the ultraviolet light. Then I saw him through the last rows of bars, sitting with his profile to us, head shaved, leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees. Our son’s face was an emotionless mask as he stared straight ahead awaiting our visit. He hugged his mom first, they smiled at each other before he reached for his sister and hugged her tight. Did he nuzzle just a moment in her thick, tangled hair? Then we embraced, something he had rarely done since entering adolescence. He slapped me on the back grinning, “How you been dad?”…
… Summer had just arrived the trees still clothed in leaves barely nibbled and spring’s flowers had gone to seed. The morning air held a chill as dappled sunshine crisscrossed the fine sand within the batting cage. It was the start of our son’s third year of baseball and his coach had suggested I take him to a local college’s batting cage. The borrowed helmet seemed a bit large and our son pushed at it irritably as he stepped into the batter’s box. After a few awkward swings I stepped behind him as I’d seen his coach do at practice. “Remember.” I said patiently, “Coach said to choke up on the bat and open up your stance a bit, here,” I tried to guide his hands up the bat and adjust his stance. He shifted his hands before shrugging me off, “Umm… thanks dad but I can do it!” There was just a hint of irritability in his voice but it could have been his eagerness to finally get hitting after weeks of empty promises. I lugged a basket of baseballs up to the pitchers area and adjusted the protective screen before making the first pitch. To say my pitching was accurate, or even over the plate most of the time would be an overstatement. But in time, with some practice we improved together. I zeroed in on the plate and our son begun connecting more with the ball. One well-hit shot sizzled past my ear, “There you go!” I encouraged, “That’s a shot to make the other team take notice.” I began to sweat as the morning wore on and our son looked more and more confident at the plate. Suddenly my pitch threw me off balance, I stumbled away from the protective screen and a ball cracked from the bat to hit me square in the stomach. “OOF! I collapsed to my knees, clutching my stomach and gasping for air. He was at my side, eyes wide with terror, concern in his voice, “Dad? DAD! You OK?” …
…The visiting area is jammed with people, and the room is abuzz with voices. Our son points to the seats across from him. Although this is a face-to-face visit the contact is minimal; no hugging for more than 10 seconds (someone timing these?), kisses only on the cheek, no inappropriate caresses, and inmates must sit across from the visitors. This is far better than visitation by phone & seeing him behind a sheet of Plexiglas… and a world of improvement over the video-screen 20 minute visits we suffered through in one jail. Because of the distance traveled we have an “extended visit” so we stumble and lurch through two hours of conversation.
“How’s work?... Got the taxes done? … How was the three hour drive?... Much traffic?”
We get the scoop on the food, his newest work assignment, the latest cellmate.
He inquires about our recent magical musical mystery tour of seeing Eric Clapton, a local percussion & marimba ensemble, Doc Severson’s farewell tour, and Blue Man Group - all in a week’s time.
People come and go all around us as a tide of mothers & fathers, grandparents, sisters & brothers, buddies, and sweethearts take their places before their loved ones in blue. “Got the Folsom Prison Blues” Johnny Cash used to sing.
An elderly man sits down a few seats away from our son. The man nervously rubs his wrinkled hands upon his bright blue jeans, staring straight ahead. A woman walks over and they embrace then kiss before she reluctantly separates and sits across from him.
To our left, over in the corner, two boys perhaps two and four years old have crawled under the seats and are poking their blond heads out from between a woman’s legs giggling at the man seated across from them. He smiles and makes a face at them before an elderly woman tries to coax the boys out to sit in her lap.
Our daughter is now talking to her brother; they lean towards each other and speak in rapid tones. My love and I turn to each other and converse, trying to allow them some semblance of privacy. They are a mere 18 months apart and often seemed to operate as twins while growing up; playing together when young, sometimes sharing friends, although NEVER sharing a classroom (except for orchestra) even in high school. They were only a year apart and in high school seemed to know many of the same classmates, and teachers…
… “You are NOT going to believe what Katie K was doing in Mr. S’ class today!...” Our daughter stopped to take a bite of chicken before continuing, “He was writing a math problem on the board and she starts texting someone on her phone, who was in class, and it was Jason, you know, his parents own the hardware store.”
My son just laughs, “Yeah well you know Mr. S. an earthquake could happen and he’ll just keep on going…” They laugh at this image of an oblivious teacher who has even been reported to overlook kids rolling joints in the back of the room.
After a swig of apple juice our son explains how he and his buddy Ken were the only ones to ace a recent geometry test in the much-maligned Mrs. K’s class. Shuddering, our daughter grimaces, “She is such a witch! I hope I NEVER get her for math. I hear she never stops yelling at the class if they don’t get her stupid explanations!”
This meantime chatter isn’t meant for my love and I so we respectfully withdraw but keep a keen ear for tidbits of valuable information. These are precious mealtime rituals I loathed missing when teaching a night class. Sometimes the conversation would extend to include the lowly parents ☺ and it would stretch on into the night as the dishes crusted over… Our son is describing a technique he sometimes used during swimming lessons to help a child learn the butterfly stroke. He and his sister taught swimming lessons at the same time, although in different programs, and they often exchanged teaching techniques. “I take the kid’s arms and bring them around like this…” As he waves his arms about he knocks a full glass of apple juice off the table and it shatters on the floor sending shards of glass and sticky juice all over the floor and cupboards. The spell is suddenly broken…
…The guard walks over and hands our son a yellow slip then walks away. “Five more minutes,” our son waves the paper like a flag. Suddenly there is so much to say and we finish in a flurry of conversation until I can see the look in his eyes that says, “Time to go.”
We embrace again; promise to visit next week, minus our daughter who has a prior commitment. Passing through the gate I look back and realize our son is the last one left in the waiting room. He looks so small in that vast room of stiff, metal chairs; barred windows; and blank cracked walls. He sits with his profile to us, shaven head bowed, leaning forward with his elbows upon his knees. His face an emotionless mask as he stares at the floor awaiting a guard to escort him back to his cell. “Happy Easter” I whisper.
-“I haven’t failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that don’t work.”
-Thomas Edison-
Written by madmanadhd Blog about this entry |
Add to del.icio.us | digg this
This entry has 11 comments: (Add your own)
-
What a beautiful blend of two stories. Life has a way of coming full circle. I pray that soon, your son will be , next to your side , as he once was.
Also, I want to thank you for the lovely comments , you left for me, in my journal.
Much love and hugs,
Barbara -
P.S. I saw Eric Clapton too, in September. Was he great or what??!!
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What a moving entry, Michael, the contrasting images of past and present. What seemed like problems then seem like no big deal now. I've thought of your family often since the last time you wrote. How much more time does your son have to serve?
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Thank you for stopping by my journal. I have enjoyed your journal, and I will come back again.
Kelli
http://journals.aol.com/kamdghwmw/noonmom
4/15/07 5:49 PM
Marti
http://journals.aol.com/sunny