MEETING HIM AGAIN

TEMPORARILY CLOSED

JRT's STORY FOR BLOGGING WORKSHOP

Bob bobs bobberlike in the Bainesburg Community High School pool; his blood pressure cuff water wings clamped on flabby biceps, afloat; his fine filament hair on his bobblelike bobblehead reaching across goggled eyes like evil black fingers. Bob, for lack of a buoyant explanation, struggles slowly, shortening his distance to the pools inner trough. Is he quitting? Upon closer inspection one can only surmise that he is having difficulty doggy-paddling with conviction.

Bob has this reoccurring nightmare. He has mentioned this to Ruth Mondo, whom Bill contacted two months ago after Lucinda combed the personals of the Bainesburg Beacon (circulation 12,852 and climbing). He described in horrifying detail the ground-ivy spiraling around his neck and the silver telephone-pole-crucifix towering above him (an obvious sign, Ruth says, of miscommunication) and the dewlapped German woman shouting, You’re tangled again! and unraveling him and studying his chart during his interruptions (he says he mouthed something to her but you can never hear yourself talk in dreams) and her heavily accented response: Quit asking me! Only the doktor can release you!

In these nightmares Bob feels a certain affinity to his chart. He emphasizes over and over again that there must be some underlying meaning to all of this. Ruth points out that his chart, in such a dreamlike state, could represent an astrological sign—"Are you a Taurus?" Bob doesn’t understand the relevance of such questions. He reminds her that even though it is not his money, she is being paid by the hour. She bases her next comment on the many variations of the same dream. "Or maybe you’re falling into a big black hole." Bob agrees. He told her about the German woman dropping his chart, how he felt the gravitational pull of it swallowing him, the giant whale of a mouth mattress caving in on him, how he panics, how he hinges forward in his sleep in a cold cold sweat, afraid to be alone. Ruth reaches out, touches his wrist, "I know how you feel." She tells him about her husband, they’re separated, he coaches track-and-field, he survived a plane crash, suffered second and third degree burns. "You need to overcome your fears," Ruth says. She hasn’t quite figured out the correct approach. How do you tell someone that twelve years of cleaning tables and trays and mopping floors in a dining area is worth going back to? How do you tell someone that filling orders at a service counter is a fine way to meet other folks, good folks, honest folks? "You’re strategically located," she reminds him.

Thirteen years ago Bob bobbed for apples at the Bainesburg Fighting Burros Halloween Bash. Most kids came up empty, begging for treats. Bob didn’t. He pinned a Delicious Red against the zinc-bottomed tub and brought it to the surface where everyone could clearly see that a chunk had been missing from the other side.

"Disgusting," Bill said. Bill’s Bob’s bestfriend.

Bob cupped his hand around the contaminated fruit before letting it drop to the hay-splattered floor. They smoked marijuana on the north side of the silo with Lynyrd Skynyrd pulsating from the barn. They devoured Snickers, Almond Joys, and yes—Baby Ruths, before meeting LeAnn and Lucinda on the senior class hayride near Jay’s Cider Mill. Back then they filled out placemat applications honoring their dreams of escaping a small-town atmosphere; As luck would have it, New Allen Road became Highway 90 and Old Allen Road morphed into the business loop which, in turn, meant their getaway came to them. But Bill saw the sick Elm trees stretching on the horizon, may I take your order? he’d say, all the while thinking that those trees had to come down. So he bought five reconditioned chainsaws with his savings, attached a magnetic sign to his rusted F-150: "Bill’s Tree Removal Service," and hired a crew. Bob politely turned down Bill’s conditional offer of employment.

Bob bobs below the surface before breathing out, before bobbling-up and chopping at the heavily chlorinated water. He sputters and somehow gets turned around. On the opposite end of the pool, in the four-foot section, senior citizens perform water aerobics under the careful tutelage of Lana Applebaum. Lana’s more Bob’s age than Ruth. Ruth’s eighteen years his senior. It is Lana who notices Bob’s flailing about and yells, "Are you in trouble? Do you need help?" Ruth’s closer, at the downward slope, one foot firmly planted near the jagged, inky black racing line of lane numbers six and seven, her left hand generating a steady undercurrent to help keep her balance, the other hand waving Lana off. "Use the ladder Bob! Behind you!—To the right!—MY RIGHT!"

Bob last visited Bill and Lucinda unannounced. They knew he’d come. He needed advice. "Let me see if I understand," Bob said while Bill poured over his paperwork, "due to the rising cost of my company’s health insurance, I’m no longer eligible for physical therapy?"

"It’s not what you need, Bob." Bill turned away and yelled for Lucinda to come in. Bob saw her from the doorwall, a half-smoked cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth. She was pushing a gas-powered lawnmower around a little tikes shopping cart and readjusting her halter-top. She turned behind a woodpile, her coiffure barely visible. "The number’s on the fridge!" She yelled.

Bill gave Bob the piece of paper. He said he wished he could do more, but they needed to move farther north and he wished Bob the best of luck in Bainesburg.

Nothing. No response. Just Bob’s drawbridge-neck lowering his unshapely head onto the arm of the couch in time for "Hogan’s Heroes." Bill offered to pay for the personal coach as long as Lucinda didn’t know. Bob quickly agreed as long as Bill set it up. "I’ll try real hard to become more active," he said. "Now if you could pass me the remote, I have a show to watch."

Bob somehow reaches the side and wedges his water-winged arm in the gutter and plants one knee in the inner trough and fans out his hands on the skid-proof tile. Up he goes, his torso meeting the stubbled floor like the forgotten touch of a woman’s unshaven leg. He deflates the water wings and peels them from his arms. Next are the goggles. He tosses them. Then he towels himself off and heads for the locker room where he sees powdered soap all over the mesh locker containing his clothes. He over spins a number on his combination padlock and starts over. He hears movement. He stands perfectly still—waiting. He hears it again—movement. Not wanting to give himself away, he carefully uncradles the lock from his hand and tiptoes toward the bathroom stalls. He sees two callused skeletal feet standing at attention. He swings the door inward revealing a man, his ribs jutting out, his burnt orange nylon running shorts draped over pencil thin thighs. He’s holding something behind his back.

"My name is Yekuno."

"Excuse me?" Bob asks.

"Yekuno. Ye—ku—no."

"Did you just put something all over my locker?"

"No sir."

"Where did you just come from?"

"ee tee OH pee uh."

"Huh?" Bob’s confused. "Ethiopia? I didn’t see you in the pool. Where’s your clothes? Why are you hiding in this stall? What do you have?"

Yekuno moves forward, waves a camera, motions how he ran through the woods and across the field.

Bob blocks Yekuno’s point of egress. "You’re not going anywhere until I get some answers."

Yekuno smiles and snaps a picture. Bob sees hunched shadows appear in the light, disrobing and twisting dripping swimwear. His eyes are shut, he topples over.

"Call 9-1-1," someone yells.

Yekuno seals Bob’s mouth and gives two slow breaths followed by fifteen chest compressions. He knows that the shadows have grown accustom to reviving the dead, but he wonders whether he’s too late, whether he has enough evidence. He knows Bob blacked out.

Bob regains consciousness the moment a big German nurse smacks his bedrail with a clipboard. Then he slips under again when she fiddles with his IV bag. Suddenly Ruth appears, suggests he start biking instead of swimming, so he clicks into a higher gear and starts pedaling. He pumps his legs toward the horizon until they burn. Then he gently applies the brakes, gliding, descending the hill, his huge aerodynamic helmet streamlining the wind. Warm fresh spring air bursts into his lungs. He’s sitting comfortably on a double gel seat. He feels truly free in the Bainesburg business district, glad to be alive, coasting, floating past the bargain shoppers browsing for books at the sidewalk sale off Old Allen Road. Then he chokes on a bug and pulls over to the curb where he coughs up an Emerald Ash Bore. He drops his bike to his ankles. Back when Bill offered Bob the opportunity to work for him these bugs were bad, they were everywhere, they were in abundance. Now though, they seem scarce, if not nonexistent—except for the one draped in spittle on the blacktop next to Bob’s rear tire.

Drew McAllister places his hardcover Kafka book back into a bin and walks over to the disoriented biker. "Are you okay, Bob?" he asks. He’s seen Bob from Lana’s water aerobics classes (his bad back subjects him to low-impact exercises) and he remembers the day Bob blacked out. He also remembers the dark man, that’s how they referred to him; All the senior men saw the dark man and feared an infestation much worst than the Emerald Ash Bore. In fact, even though they were accustomed to seeing someone revive the dead, they were not ready for a change in culture, they were not ready for the influx of folks unlike themselves. Progress be damned, they’d rather flee Bainesburg than live with folks like that. "Someone should say something to Coach Preston," Drew’s neighbor, Boris, says. "It’s okay to run’em on the track, but do they need to live here too. They’re up to no good. DANG, IT’S LIKE A NIGERIAN SCAM!"

Bob regains consciousness long enough to see Ruth’s husband standing over him with a Kodak envelope. He’s demanding answers. "Are you having an affair with my wife? Are you?" Then Bob withdraws once again into his dreamworld where Bill revs up his chainsaw and dismantles the IV stand. You are released, he says. Free to go. Bye-bye Bob, bye-bye. And Bob takes one last look at the Devil’s singed hand unhooking the heart monitor, emancipating him at the ripe old age of 31 to a dark, dark place of comfortable nonconformity.

A BLOGGING WORKSHOP

Today’s posting, actually tomorrow’s too, is headed in unchartered water. First, I’m going to post some comments from a short story called "The Therapeutic Needs of Bainesburg Bob"—a story I workshopped not too long ago. Then the next day I’ll post the story, that way, if you care to read and critique it, you can once again scroll down my blog, read these comments, and perhaps add a few of your own. Here they are:

"Too much alliteration! But it makes me laugh when I say it fast. After discussion, I really enjoyed this story. Analyzing is fun. A lot of things happen in a few pages. I’d like to know more about Bainesburg Bob. Things begin to not make sense (locker room). Who is Yekuno? What is he, more specifically, and what does he represent?

I really liked the half-eaten apple part. Most of the scenes are very descriptive and I could clearly see, hear, smell, taste and feel what you described. The over abundance of alliteration made it difficult to read and slightly put me off. I read it a few more times and liked it the more I read it.

From your writing I could not tell if present-day Bob is middle-aged or a senior citizen. Ruth, if she is 18 years his senior, would make him in his 40’s or 50’s. The fact that he’s in a swimming pool with seniors could make him old. But the title and the fact that he has "withered biceps" could indeed make him any age over 30, and have him at a rehabilitation center. It isn’t very clear but it gives the story mystery and a sense of wonder. It really made me think and read it several times, constantly looking for things I hadn’t seen previously." (www.shimmeringcheri.blogspot.com).

"Good story! Difficult to critique. Perhaps clarification of a couple of things. Evidence and the Ethiopian. Fast read. I laughed a lot which helped blend all the scenes. Good work! Bainesburg Fighting Burros – sweet name. Frantic pace! Good writing/reading. Wonderful imagery. Hilarious."

"Fear, water/pool—connection with his life??? Purpose? Is he an employee of Bill?"

"Is this the end of the story?"

"Very detailed, gives a good visual image. But story is confusing. What’s happening? Is there more? Tell who characters are right up front."

"Enjoyed the story. Was very much in the scene at the pool."

"In terms of structure I feel the plot works, but at the same time I understand the events that take place, but I fail to understand the overall meaning of what’s going on. The characters to me are very believable. They felt like people you could meet in everyday life. They just had normal life problems. They also reacted to them in a believable way. They asked for help and felt the stresses of them."

"Transitions are well written. Pool/experiences, etc. to closing in pool locker room. What kind of chart? Medical? What kind of accident? Hypochondriac?"

My short story rewrite is based on these classroom comments and a class discussion emceed by Michelle Brooks (her blog site is linked). Actually, the rewrite is more of an add-on of the last three paragraphs. I believe that not only does word association and picture association help in creative writing but so does the sound of words and sentences.

THE BIRDS

TEMPORARILY CLOSED.

THE ROUNDABOUT

Once again I've been rejected; this time in a roundabout way. If you'll recall from an earlier post (Another Pitch) I sent the Arts Editor of the Detroit MetroTimes a proposal regarding a book review of George Dila's "The End of the World." The editor loved it--well, actually she said, "Good idea," and suggested a 500-word limit and a deadline.


Enthused, I read and reread Dila's short story collection, and pondered and repondered common themes, and wrote and rewrote my review. Deadline? No problem. I sent it off with two days to spare. Then I waited and waited and waited ... We had both agreed that it should be published in their Summer Fiction Issue along side the contest winners.

I sent three follow-up emails, and here's the ONLY response I got: "I don't think we have room for it. When did you send it?" Ugggghhhh! I could've torched this lovely little bridge of editor/writer civility, but instead, I emailed a two-word message: "I understand."

Ironically, I skimmed through this week's issue and discovered that Eric C. Novak, local author and publisher of Elitist Publications, helped judge the contest. He and I corresponded through emails approximately two years ago, and I remember him complaining about how the MetroTimes refused to review his novel "Killing Molly." Consequently, a review of his book and a short story of mine ended up getting published in the very same issue of a small lit magazine. I'm hoping to reconnect with him, to see whether he'd be interested in posting my book review on his website, www.thedetroiter.com. Here I go again. Wish me luck.

THE NEVER ENDING PAPER TRAIL

We (and by "we" I mean us loyal Michigan Department of Corrections academic teachers that teach year round) have orders from high above, the puzzle palace to be exact (Lansing) to test the prisoners in school on a regular basis. Every three months we must administer a TABE (Test of Adult Basic Education) to check for grade level improvements. Then we must submit, not their grade level, but their Stanine Scores to DLEG (Department of Labor and Economic Growth), and these scores must be keyed in on each student’s CSJ-363A Form (Educational Program Plan), a.k.a. school evaluation.

At this point, each teacher considers whether a student can be fast-tracked, meaning scheduled for GED testing based on TABE scores, circumventing the qualifying round. If not fast-tracked, then students with low TABE scores that are deemed ready for the GED Exams must qualify for the GED Exams and shall be administered a series of GED half-tests which are given and scored by me (see above picture).

According to Lansing, both GED Exams and half-tests must occur monthly. However, GED Exams can not be administered by an academic teacher (conflict of interest) or school psychologist (too few). So a vocational instructor must do this. However, the latter two testing procedures are unnecessary if an inmate sentenced on or after December 15, 1998, has "exemption status." Form CAJ-789 "GED Completion Exemption Form" solves this dilemma, helping any inmates deemed "too slow to learn" from being stuck in prison forever based on the "No GED, No Parole" law. However, this does not preclude said "Slow Learners" from going to school and TABE testing.

Sound confusing? There’s more—but why bore you. Also, try explaining all these scenarios to a functionally illiterate inmate. Or worse, a street-smart convict.

I remember a certain young man (sentenced under the "No GED, No Parole" guidelines) who sat on his dairy ere for approximately fourteen months doing absolutely zilch. He wanted to prove to me that he was indeed a slow learner. "I’m going home," he claimed.

After I consistently jammed him in three-month-intervals with bad school evaluations, the parole board granted him a parole anyway. With official papers in hand, he showed me his "out" date and declared that attending school no longer mattered. Of course, his declaration of independence was a bit more animated and vocal, but I wished him well just the same.

Two weeks later, he returned to my classroom. The school principal "dropped a dime" on him, meaning "made a phone call." His parole had been snatched. He had to sit in all six of my classes until he earned his GED, thus earning his parole. As an added measure, the principal would periodically drop in and ask, "How’s Billy Madison doing? You got him to the 2nd grade level yet?"—an obvious reference to his last TABE scores, where he shaded in his scantron sheet without opening the test booklet. I advised him not to feed into the principal’s comments. "If someone puked in the corner," I’d say, "would you lap that up to?"

In time, his behavior and work ethic improved. I remember one particular day in which he looked rather glum. "What’s the matter?" I asked. He proceeded to tell me that the police went to his momma’s house with a warrant for his arrest. I asked him why, and he said, "For failure to report to my parole officer."

"Kind of hard to do when you’re still in prison, isn’t it?" I couldn’t help chuckling.

To make a long story longer—within five months he earned his GED and paroled. Last I heard, he went back to slinging packets and ended up back in prison. His freedom lasted approximately two months. I guess some paper trails never end.

SACK OF POTATOES

They say she fainted, the lady from Puerto Rico, the one crowned Miss Universe, and my wife said some guy carried her off the stage like a sack of potatoes. Is this true? Not even a gurney? Or better yet, a wheelchair? Must’ve been quite a sight, kind of cheapens the whole event don’t you think? Victory at what cost?—being thrown over some man’s shoulder and hauled away—there she is … Ms. Raggedy Ann. She might as well get used to it though, her life for the next year will no longer be her own. Too bad she couldn’t’ve given a victory speech, or been paid to say something like, "I’m going to Disney."

And what of the young chap in today’s picture (circa 2000)? What possessed him to pose with Ariel? Okay, I’ll admit, I’m using the Bob-Dole-third-person-approach to distance myself from the actual event. It’s working, isn’t it? Afterall, he made his in-laws wait nearly forty-minutes baking in the Florida hot sun. His rather massive frame (he had a few extra pounds back then and looks back at it that way), stood in line towering above a gaggle of small children. They were already terrified at the size of most of the Disney characters (especially the Beast), but now they had to contend with a grown-up jostling for position. As a diversion tactic, their parents or legal guardians asked them about previous autographs collected in their official Disney autograph books. And when the man finally got his turn and approached Ariel, the little mermaid became somewhat nervous, forcing a smile, not once, not twice, but three times as the man argued with his wife to get more than one shot, to make sure the settings on the camera weren’t changed, to hold still dammit, hold still. . .

What some people will do to perfect a moment in time. At least Ariel was able to sit, her torso poking out of a rock-turret with a fake fishtail dangling down the front of it.

MENTAL HEALTH CARE NOTES

I can’t say whether any of the observations I’m dispensing are true or not, but the slow moving sea of blue turtles—that’s what I call the inmates dressed in matching blue outfits coming back from their morning medlines, the ones that’ll unintentionally block you from passing them on the way to the school building—are somewhat subdued. I’m not talking about the OPT (Out Patient Treatment) prisoner who’ll spit his pill into the flower beds in an act of defiance. No, not him. But the one’s that know, really really know, that without their medication they just might do something harmful to someone else, or worse, to themselves.

The defiant ones, on the other hand, actually think they’re in control. They’ll seek the attention of others. Unbeknownst to them, they can be easily manipulated into doing something "unique." Stuff like, "I’ll give you this Honey Bun if you shave your head and eyebrows," or "I know you can’t be held responsible, so quit taking your meds because I need you to stick someone for me."

A few months back, I had a student, an odd duck of sorts and a loner, reach across my desk for some writing paper, and as he extended his forearm, I saw that he was a cutter. He quickly explained that he had accidentally scraped his arm on a piece of metal. Later that day, I observed him facing the classroom window, weeping. Perhaps the doctor has increased his meds because I no longer see the uncontrollable sobbing. He is not a defiant OPT prisoner; however, the Department of Mental Health would probably be a better place for him. Ironically, guys like him are not as big of a concern as the defiant ones. It’s my belief that the latter are more prone to suicide attempts, and if rounds aren’t made regularly, they may actually succeed.

On a lighter note, today’s picture is of my mother-in-law showing off her x-rays. She explained what was ailing her, however, after one week, I seemed to have forgotten what it was. I do know this—her health insurance is better than most U.S. citizens. If she doesn’t like her doctor’s diagnoses or advice, she’ll get a second, and sometimes third opinion. Inmates have access to health care too, limited, but still available; one opinion, not several. For a small nominal $5 fee, whether it be a broken bone, ruptured kidney, or torn ligament, they can be treated, that is—after they answer the following question: "Do you smoke?"

MY FIRST PELLET GUN

Yesterday evening, around 7:30 P.M., I was cooking steaks on my backyard grill when I heard a commotion. My wife heard it too. I peered through the shadowboxed fence and saw three young men in their 20’s pile out of a vehicle with vanity license plates that read, "CAR SPA." One of them, Chris, our neighbor’s son, flung a beer can onto his parent’s driveway. Then a fist fight ensued between him and the driver while the other dude decided he’d had enough and peeled out in his own car.

My wife asked if we should call the police, and as always, probably because I don’t like to get involved, plus they weren’t really connecting with their punches, I said, "No." I tried to go back to my grilling, but they got a bit louder, signifying that their pseudo-fight was starting to get more heated. I opened our side gate and continued watching them. Chris was trying to get something from the other guy’s right hand. It was metallic silver and by God when I heard the click I yelled for my wife to get me the phone on our deck and to go in the house.

But I wasn’t sure. Was it a gun? Turned out he had a pair of pliers and at one point he was swinging them wildly at Chris. Disgusted, thinking they’re both drunken jerks, I went back to the steaks which were now overcooked. We ate our dinner inside with the television on just loud enough to drown out their shenanigans.

Today’s picture: As a fifth-grader in 1973, I received my first pellet gun. I knew the responsibilities involved having taken a gun safety course. I still have that pellet gun, among other firearms.

In last week’s news: Michigan Governor Jennifer Granholm signed six bills that would give armed citizens who shoot in self-defense added protection against lawsuits and criminal charges. Unfortunately, our dear Republicans, who introduced these bills, cried foul, saying she didn’t really believe in them, that she really did it to gain votes, afterall, her constituents are the antigun crowd. I’m just glad that as a homeowner, I’m no longer required to flee my property. In fact, I can now use deadly force not only in my home, but my garage and yard as well. Barn too, (although, I don’t have one).

Advice from a current student of mine doing time for domestic violence: Never date a barmaid because there’s free alcohol involved. Turns out, he violated his parole by bringing a pellet gun into a bar and threatening his girlfriend. Do they have enough laws protecting a place of business? Our dear barmaid could’ve saved the taxpayers some money and not faced criminal prosecution or lawsuits if she just . . . well, you know . . . imagine that.

SONS SOMETIMES RISE

In a recent staff meeting we discussed concentrating our efforts on teaching the short-timers, those darling inmates that have a chance of parole. Sure sounds like a winning strategy, doesn't it? Well, you’re probably not going to believe my reaction, and that’s fine, but this is what I said, "Give me the lifers. I’ll take them, I’ll teach them."

Back in 1992, when I first started with the Michigan Department of Corrections, my outlook was much different. Why should I, or anyone else for that matter, waste time teaching someone that would one day be carried out in a pine-box (figuratively speaking)—and handcuffed too, because no one really truly dies in prison; there’s legal issues involved and there’s a chance they’re faking their own death and trying to escape.

In the early 90’s I remember a young man (actually I thought of him as a naïve, immature kid) that entered my classroom with a nasty temperament and a bad attitude. We had a policy back then that any inmate without a high school diploma must go to school. This kid explained to me that he was "doing all day," and why should he care about attending class? We battled often. I’d write major misconduct tickets as a temporary fix—hell, if he couldn’t come out of his cell then my workday would run much smoother. Also, I wouldn't be held liable if he hurt another inmate on my watch, especially the precious short-timers. Unfortunately, he’d come back angrier than before, claiming that I was a racists, that I couldn’t break him. This went on for well over a year.

One day he approached me as determined as ever. "Listen," he said, "My mother’s dying and I want to make her proud."

He earned his GED in a very short time afterward. At the GED ceremony, dressed in cap and gown, this young man introduced me to his mother. You could tell she was dying, but at that very moment, she was happy to see her son do something positive. His name is Darryl Woods and the attached article from Thursday’s Detroit Free Press proves my point: "I’ll teach the lifers."

NO BIG DIG WOES, NO 48236

My water’s green, sun caused it, too much algae and not enough plant coverage over the pond’s surface. The fish don’t seem to mind. In order to see them my wife bought a plastic feeding ring, a medium-sized floating peace sign that the fish attack every time we cross the bridge. They’ve been conditioned to think a few fish pellets will be tossed their way.

Davey’s family gave us an expensive beige umbrella to cut down on the algae by blocking out the sun’s intense rays. One of those fancy jobs, where you crank it to a certain point and it turns and tilts to the angle you desire. I staked its heavy wrought iron base into the dirt, but the wind got a hold of the umbrella and beat it to the ground nonetheless. Now I’m thinking Davey’s family should’ve taken it to Texas, what with 100+ degree temperatures near Houston.

Other than that, the pond is structurally sound. No big dig woes. No water leaks. Last tally: approximately 1 grand spent on the project. This weekend I’m going to lower the water level and extend one section another two feet, just enough to place a large skimmer. Once I’m finished, the pump (which sits near the bottom of the pond on a red plastic milk crate) will be housed inside the skimmer. I’m hoping to cut down on unwanted debris floating in the water. Again, another strategy to battle the algae.

Today’s picture is a close-up of me on the bridge. Do you think my wife and I should have a garden tour? She's a master gardener and knows how to show off our landscaping designs. Or maybe I could model it off in "Better Homes & Gardens," or keep it local with www.Signaturemag.com (although my zip code isn’t 48236). I’ve never been one to shy away from the camera. It’s all about the presentation, isn’t it?

GYM SPELLS

I guess I’ll tell it like it is: State employees coming through the prison’s front gates, whether they deal with inmates directly or indirectly, are subjected to harassment. The same rings true for inmates entering my classroom. We’re all just bags of meat walking through a door, or gate, or whatever—take your pick.

Yesterday, while checking attendance, an inmate whispered to me (if you can do such a thing from arms length away) that he would not be able to attend class any longer today because of a physical ailment. Keep in mind: he's a weightlifter (aren't they all?) chisled out of granite. I, in turn, asked him if he had a medical detail excusing himself from class? I know not to pry into an inmate’s private health matters, none of my business, unless I’m spit on or bit. He blurted out, "I have colitis."

Let me reinterpret this for you: The young man did not want to shit behind the half-wall in our school hallway. No privacy there. He wanted to crap back in his unit. And of course, this is based on the assumption that he really had to go at all. He claimed to have forgotten his medical detail back at his "house." (Last week he demanded a cane from healthcare for his ailing back.)

Since he put his business out there, I had to give him an opportunity to "save face." He already started warning his classmates, "Stay out of my video!"

"I’ll tell you what," I said, "if you can spell it, then you can leave."

Unfortunately, he went into a tirade about our student-teacher relationship becoming irreparably harmed due to my callous insinuation regarding the credibility of his health problem. I said, "I’m not questioning your health. I’m not a doctor, I’m a teacher. What I’m questioning is your ability to spell."

"Oh, you got jokes, huh?" he replied. He started mean-mugging me.

I paused, took my time, then continued, "For instance, if you had the flu, you’d probably spell it f-l-e-w."

Not only is physical pain a good way to learn, so is a heightened sense of arousal, i.e. through embarrassment. Remember, our prisons are full of bad spellers.

JELLYVISION

No one knows Jack like Jack knows Jack. Ain’t that right Jack? I’m referring to Jack Brandenburg, a State Representative for Michigan’s 24th District and a Macomb County Republican whose re-election campaign includes a state takeover of Detroit.

Seems Jack cried foul in a letter to his constituents regarding a Detroit Free Press editorial claiming that he missed 123 votes. Well—yeah—he’s not disputing the number, in fact he agrees with the number; It’s just that they were "unfair" and "irresponsible" in reporting it because he had "extenuating circumstances." They knew, Jack claims, beyond a reasonable doubt why he had missed so many votes.

Gosh Jack, now I understand how you operate. When you came to visit our prison, you weren’t interested in finding out about the education programs or what purpose they served. You certainly didn’t speak to any of the teachers. Your quick chicken-walk down our hallways had been enough to justify slamming us in an editorial for the very same FREEP you are now mad at. What was the title of your editorial again? Oh yes—"State Prison GED Program Deserves Cuts." Seems you were armed with all kinds of data, all kinds of numbers that you could twist in the wind regardless of the facts, especially the one where the Michigan Department of Corrections produced half the GED’s in the state last year. Guess that doesn’t matter, probably has more to do with your hatred of Detroit.

Well Jack, I wish you the best of luck in your campaign. Take it easy with your new hip, don’t pound the pavement too much. And thanks for letting me know that you missed only 17 votes due to your hip surgery. And thanks for letting me know that you missed 13 votes when you had the flu this spring. And thanks for letting me know that you missed 93 votes in two days due to the misdiagnoses of your son’s lymph node cancer; glad to hear that it was only a mole. Yep: 17 + 13 + 93 = 123. And thanks for letting me know that you’ve been working since you were 12 years old. And thanks for letting me know how long you’ve been married, your wife’s name, and how many kids you have.

Gosh Jack, I feel like we’re such good friends now. Your follow-up email regarding your criticism of our program made me feel much better. Thanks for acknowledging that I work with a "difficult population." Thanks for stating that what I do is "truly heroic." (I have to be honest with you, Jack: the scar on my forearm isn’t from an inmate—I had 2nd stage Melanoma a few years ago). Thanks for all you’ve done for me, for your representation, for patting me on the back. I’m still wondering if you’ve found the soft spot to stick the knife?

THE ACCIDENTAL THEME

I agonized over the cell phone for three long months. It’s crucial to the story, to the plot line—who has the goddamned cell phone? I said this to myself over and over and over, again and again and again. The prison-tutor in my classroom, a poet in his own tortured right, was certain that I had finally went off the deep end. Never mind his braided horns, or his tattoo of Satan on his neck, or his extremely long curled-over fingernails, he was a black Frenchman from Quebec, a D-prefix (fourth letter in the alphabet meant fourth time in prison)—never mind all that—HE WAS A RELIABLE SOURCE—in fact, he insisted, "The cell phone doesn’t matter. Forget the cell phone."

Out of desperation, out of a sense of helplessness, I let go, sent the story off, knowing I had failed. Three months later, while my tutor sat in segregation for having a little "holiday cheer" in his cell, I was awarded Wayne State University’s 20th annual Judith Siegel Pearson Award for a short story concerning women’s issues. Instead of feeling triumphant, I felt confused. Sure the $200 was comforting (I hurried up and cashed it), but I didn’t understand my own story. Here’s the link: (Jail Bait).

It wasn’t until later, when the prison-tutor-poet came back from segregation (turns out he inadvertently put baby powder in a small unmarked plastic container, or so he says) that I had figured it out. The final judge, WSU’s faculty member Bill Harris, author of numerous plays including "Robert Johnson: Trick the Devil," "Riffs," "Coda," and "Every Goodbye Ain’t Gone" must’ve seen it all along. One word sums it up: Miscommunication.

DWB from my POV

We saw Davey and his family off to Texas, carried a box of miscellaneous items back from their house for sale, walked past some neighborhood kids, ages 10 to 14, shooting hoops in a driveway. They yelled at the 2 semi-trucks laboring along, “Bye-bye, Davey, bye-bye.”

“They’re already gone,” my wife said, nodding in the direction of a Ford Expedition farther up the road, disappearing from our subdivision.

The kids went back to their game and we continued our walk home. The plan was to get our vehicle and go grab a quick bite to eat. It couldn’t have been more than 5 minutes when we approached the same spot where the kids were playing basketball, however, the scene was much different. My wife, always the driver, asked whether we should stop to see what was going on. I told her, “No, keep going.”

This is what I saw in the side mirror: Mrs. Witkowski holding a kid tightly to her bosom, trying to restrict his movement as he sat on the side of the pavement; Mr. Witkowski on his cell phone; Another adult herding the kids into the house. I looked out the back window to get a better view and saw a black man standing near his Pacifica, both arms gesticulating wildly above his head. “Turn back,” I said, “this doesn’t look good. People drive too damned fast down this street.”

My wife looped around the block and we got out. The unidentified adult approached the teenage driver (I had been wrong in thinking he was an adult) and tried to calm him. I glanced at his Pacifica, which seemed new except for the dent in the front right fender. I approached Mrs. Witkowski, who was doing a great job of keeping the kid calm. “Let me know if you get tired,” I said. I glanced at the kid’s left leg, mangled, with tire marks on it. Within minutes, three police cars, two firetrucks, and an ambulance, all of them with sirens blaring, cordoned off the street and went to work. Not that it should matter, but keep in mind: everyone at the scene was white, except for the driver.

This is what happened: The 16 year old driver had just received his license and was driving extremely slow through the subdivision, babying his new ride that I had learned later had a pre-existing dent. The kid ran to retrieve the basketball, saw that the car was crawling along, so he grabbed the ball and turned, his left leg slipping out from under him and right into the path of the Pacifica’s rear tire. From what I heard, the driver kept saying, “My momma’s gonna kill me. I’m going to prison. Oh man, I crushed his leg.” No one wanted the kid to hear any of this.

EMS rushed the kid to the nearest hospital with Mrs. Witkowski by his side. All I kept thinking of was my last words to Davey, “Remember what I told you…” but he finished my sentence for me, “they fry people in Texas so behave, I know, but I’m not going to prison,” he assured me with confidence. Now, if only the 16 year old driver could believe the same thing; afterall, it wasn’t his fault, it was an accident, a horrible, horrible accident.

DARK MATTERGY

Yesterday’s post generated an anonymous comment about Jack Kevorkian, a.k.a. Dr. Death, (the word "hell" came up repeatedly) which kind of reminds me of his artwork. From what I’ve heard, Jack’s paintings are like Hieronymus Bosch’s "Garden of Earthly Delights"—fiendish in nature, and twisted for sure. Jack also wrote a book that most critics claim is self-absorbed, ghoulish, and plain bad rambling. Not to be offensive, but does Jack have Alzheimer’s?

Today’s drawing won 1st place at the 2004 Exhibition of Art by Michigan Prisoners (University of Michigan) under the graphite sketch category. I refuse to elaborate on the artist’s criminal past except to say that next to Jack—well … let’s just say Jack would come out looking like our future American hero.

The graphite sketch, with its controlled, calculated lines, definitely defines the artist. He tutored in my GED classroom for approximately 8 years. In fact, he had been tutoring off and on in various prisons since I was in grade school. One of the corrections officer’s stated that this inmate was living his life vicariously through me; man did that send chills down my spine. By some twist of fate, the artist/prisoner in question was transferred to another facility earlier this year.

His artwork, titled "Dark Mattergy," is hanging in my basement office (he donated it and said I could do whatever I wanted with it), so for two years I have been submitting his sketch along with my poem superimposed over it to various literary magazines. I’m not sure if it’s my bad poetry, or his bad sketch, or simply his horrific past, that has made it difficult for me to get it published. Therefore, I leave it up to you to pass judgment. Please, don’t be afraid to criticize, fire away.

CRASH AND LEARN

Today’s picture isn’t a cut and paste job, instead, it’s created from one of those standard computer programs where you insert your face onto Mount Rushmore or over a famous athlete or astronaut, or in this case, an entire photo supplanted into an old newspaper article.

I chose the Hindenburg. And why not? I’ve never been one to be politically correct or to shy away from controversy, and it seems to me that by using this tragic event, I’m supposed to write something funny. But when is it ever okay to write a comedic piece based on an actual real life catastrophe? The Twin Towers? I think not. Hurricane Katrina? Maybe. Is there a standard amount of time, like when you drop a piece of barbecued chicken on the floor (ten-second rule)? Or how about the recently widowed—when is it okay for them to move on, seek out the companionship of others, date, marry, and … well?—you know.

My take on it is that if the tragedy is personal, something you’ve experienced, then you own it and can do whatever you’d like with it, whenever you feel comfortable. (You may still offend someone, but that’s the risk you take.) Seems therapeutic to me.

"But this doesn’t explain the Hindenburg?" You ask.

No, it doesn’t. I’m not connected to this historical event in any way, shape or form. In this case, I’m guessing that it’s far enough removed from the living so as not to offend anyone. Also, natural disasters and accidents seem much more tolerable than terrorist acts. And I’m not into making fun at the expense of others, no sirree, no smudged newspaper ink here.

HOW PEOPLE MATE

I’ve never found myself in a compromising situation (unless you count my days being single) and I’m not here to create waves, even if unintentionally like that male model from the Sears & Roebuck Catalog. You know what I’m talking about because at that particular point in time every woman knew the page by heart, had the catalog binding broke—a jagged crease approximating the page in question—glimpsed the small shadow of his inner thigh, and pointed it out: TEA BAG EXPOSED. Us kids heard about it on the news. We had to look too. And so did everyone else when the opportunity arose. Sears claimed it had been a printing defect, a wayward smudge of black ink.

The poor guy must’ve been embarrassed beyond one’s comprehensible imagination. A regular modern day Joe Boxer (Sears & Kmart have now merged) and the professional photographer, editor, or lay-out person, must have studied thousands and thousands of pictures, scrutinizing each one to make sure the so-called barn door had been shut tight, before settling on this man’s innocent, natural pose. Where is he now? Has he outlived the embarrassment? Or is he proud of his fifteen minutes of fame?

Observation: At my place of employment, the female workers usually wear smocks—that way they’re not revealing too much backside to the male prisoners, triggering the criminal mind's overworked libido. On the other hand, some of the young male prisoners walk around with their asses hanging out of their trousers, unknowingly inviting every sexual predator within eyesight the opportunity for some booty. A person’s sexual desires are driven by what they perceive; the question is: do you want to be framed into a picture that you can’t get out of? I certainly don’t.

BLANCHED MESSAGES

Never mind Harry Potter and Hogwart’s School of Wizardry. I’m not into mainstream, popular fiction. No way. Let’s be serious here: your best writers have "a cause," "a struggle," "issues," something worth fighting for. James Baldwin, a froggy little guy, had two strikes against him that can be summed up in three words: gay black man. Richard Wright, three words: communist black man. And if I may:

Dear Oprah, you missed the message in your movie adaptation of Wright’s "Native Son." You never utilized the story line where Bigger Thomas (the main character) intentionally murders his black girlfriend. Instead, you chose to concentrate on the suffocation of the white girl. Bigger Thomas accidentally kills the white girl and that becomes the only focal point of your movie. The black girl doesn’t count. This is what Wright wanted to get across to the reader—how society values one race over another. I guess we know who you cater to—white, middle-class, housewives. No wonder 50-Cent dissed you. So what’s your latest Oprah Book Club pick? I know it’s not Donald Goines.

When I was completing my undergrad studies I enrolled in a Black American Writers course. As part of my grade, I had to submit a paper and give a class presentation on a writer of my choice from the anthology: "Dark Symphony, Negro Literature in America." However, with the professor’s permission, I was allowed to study Donald Goines. I wanted to stress the point that there’s actually a place in mainstream fiction for ghetto lit and that perhaps Goines should have been included in this anthology. The professor knew the risk I was taking and explained to me going in that my message would go over like a lead balloon. Why? Because I was the only so-called "Honky" in the class. And guess what? After the presentation, not one person, minus the professor, enjoyed it. My message got lost in the color of my skin.

If I had a chance to do it all over again, I wouldn’t change a thing. Part of the prison culture is a steady diet of Donald Goines’s novels; afterall, he did time in the Michigan Department of Corrections on numerous occasions. The black prisoners are astonished that I, a so-called Harry-Potter-looking-mother, have read all sixteen of his books. And why not?

BLIVETS

After one week of vacation, I returned to work not knowing whether personnel had put a stop order on me. A stop order is the equivalent of "the wall of shame"; it’s where they post your name and photo id on their metal detector to remind the gate officer that you’re no longer permitted inside the facility. For those of you new to my blog, I had received a memo requesting an updated teaching certificate. Although I followed the necessary protocol, six credit hours of course work and a renewal application to the Michigan Department of Education, personnel for some reason thinks I’m lying. Now they’re sending me nasty emails with more threats of termination. Gee, makes me feel like I’m the criminal in here.

I remember discussing bad teachers with one of my inmate students; he thought it was a great idea to have all teachers re-fingerprinted for a digital database. It seems the Michigan State Police tossed out the old teacher fingerprint files in favor of a system more computer orientated. After pointing out that I didn’t have a problem with being re-fingerprinted and having a thorough background check, that I just didn’t feel I should have to fork over $80 to have it done, another inmate chimed in, "Shit, if you want it for free, then commit a crime." HOT DAMN! Valid point. Chalk one up for Mr. Einstein. (For another fresh prison educator perspective visit the following site: www.frombehindbars.blogspot.com.)

Anyway, I’m back inside the prison and all I’m thinking is "blivet" on account of all the work I’ve got to do. Serves me right for taking a vacation. Do you know what a blivet is? It’s ten pounds of shit crammed into a five-pound bag.

Today’s pic is from late 1996, it’s back in the day when inmates were allowed to wear their own clothing—now, as Michigan taxpayers, we not only feed and house them, we clothe them too. Notice my messy desk and the inmate demanding answers. My duties included the following: GED teacher, graduation coordinator, acting school principal, inmate newspaper supervisor, and hostage negotiator. No gray hair then, but not for long. I remember some hotshots from Lansing paying us a visit. They wanted to know why our student enrollment had dropped. The Deputy Warden of Programs sent them to me. I thought the answer was quite obvious, take your pick: 1) incoming prisoners were not being tested for classroom placement because the school psychologist had been recovering from gall bladder surgery, 2) filing and school details weren’t being completed because the school secretary had been out on stress leave, 3) the facility decided to save money for custody issues by not hiring a replacement for the school principal who retired six month ago, and 4) a school waiting list had been created due to our special education teacher being sexually assaulted by an inmate. They didn’t want to hear all this; they wanted to know what plan of action had been implemented. Maybe blivets refer to people too, only on a much grander scale.

"CORN"

By the time my brother and I were teenagers our parents decided to adopt a girl, that way our mother wouldn’t be so outnumbered. After countless donations to Catholic Social Services, frequent visits and interviews by social workers, and the casual acquaintance of William X. Kienzle, author of "The Rosary Murders," the Archdiocese of Detroit concluded that it would be in my parent’s best interest to adopt a boy. Most teenagers are susceptible to raging hormones, so I had a feeling this would happen; each social worker had asked my brother and I how we felt about having a young female in the house and about splitting an inheritance three ways. Not wanting to be saboteurs, and also being fairly shy, we shrugged our shoulders in unison, feigning disinterest in the whole interrogation process. We knew the adoption idea went bust when our dad gave them an ultimatum: girl or no deal. He also decided they wouldn’t get one more nickel out of him.

I don’t know exactly how it happened, but our parents got involved in a foreign exchange-student program, and by the time my brother and I were commuting to college, we had females from Spain, Sweden, and Portugal living at our house. Over time, our dwelling became a foreign embassy; we had girls from Columbia, Argentina, Brazil, and Mexico for sleepovers with the foreign exchange-students living with us.

Our first live-in came from Spain. For some reason, my dad thought if he talked loud enough and slow enough she’d understand his english. The poor girl was appalled to see us eating corn on the cob at the dinner table, and after learning a few select words and sentences, she explained, "In Spain we feed it to the pigs." We encouraged her to try it anyway, and reluctantly, after applying butter and salt, she decided it wasn’t so bad afterall.

Today’s pic is of a wild boar my dad shot long ago on a hunting trip in Tennessee. The older the pig, the tougher and nastier the meat. Notice the yellowed newspaper in its mouth—CORN. Guess some writing prompts start by word association.

BOB, NOT SANFORD

My brother and I were Disco Devils. No kidding. So don't even think New York discotheque or John Tavolta's "Saturday Night Fever." We were much too young for that. We weren't even of Sweat Hog age. Think Disco, as in the name of our now defunct elementary school (they turned it into a library) and Devils, well, that was the nickname printed on our sweatshirts and other school fundraising paraphernalia. At that age, we were much more intune to "Sandford and Son."

Every Friday after school, my mother would have all our stuff prepared to go, including her homemade chili, for our weekend get-a-way to our cottage on Shady Lane. It took between 1 1/2 to 2 hours to get there, and by the time we unpacked, ate dinner and gathered around the warmth of our fireplace, Redd Foxx would be clutching his chest and, in his typical Fred G. Sanford role, claim "I'm coming to join you, Elizabeth." My dad always got a kick out of Sanford's antics, and he'd pull a few himself, such as asking if we'd like to watch something else--the rabbit ears on our television only picked up one station.

Today's picture is testimony to how much my dad loved that show. He even claimed that one day--when he retires--he'd like to own a junk yard. Junk yards, according to him, are better than gold mines. After 38 years of work, he is now retired and enjoying his newly found freedom, mostly tinkering with anything mechanical at his retirement home one street over from where our original cottage stands. Last summer I gave him an old riding lawnmower, which is parked not too far from this old truck. He cabbaged the seat and placed it on his small rowboat. He has always had a knack for finding a use for whatever is donated to him.

OLD LESSONS

Back in the mid-80’s I quit engineering school and my grandmother tried comforting me by saying, "Hey, not everyone’s college material. It’s okay to work instead, as long as you’re happy." I was taken aback by her comments, what a thing to say to your grandson. Here I am having an identity crisis and her statement validates my actions—after all, I did quit college—thus validating her words. Arguing the point seemed … seemed … well, pointless. Nothing could take away the sting of her words back then, except time.

In hindsight, I truly believe my skillful interaction with inmates can be contributed to my experiences as a failure, to the missteps I’ve made along the way to becoming a man. I remember my dad suggesting I fill out an application for employment at Ford's new engine plant in Romeo, Michigan. I think he had already spoken to someone, stuck his neck out, called in a favor, and I told him I wasn’t interested. Puzzled, he questioned me as to what I wanted to do with my life. I didn’t have an answer. "What’s wrong with you?" he asked. "All these years Ford Motor has put food on our table, and now suddenly it’s not good enough for you."

I understood the message I conveyed, but the truth of the matter was that I had to figure this out on my own and I didn’t want people saying, "That’s Bob’s boy, he got him in." Don’t get me wrong, I’m proud of my dad’s accomplishments, I’ll never duplicate his achievements, it’s just that I’m the one that has to get up each morning and face myself in the mirror. So now, when an inmate claims that I think I’m better than he is, I tell him, "I’m one mistake away from being in prison myself." They understand my message. Fortunately, I’ve figured out my calling: teaching. Somehow, stumbling along my chosen career path, I found my niche. Stumbling along, it seems, has served me well. If I had chosen employment in the struggling auto industry, there’s no telling where I’d be. I do know this: There’s no turning back.

One final word. I remember an old-timer-inmate with twenty-five years under his belt asking me if I knew a certain person. He was referring to my deceased grandfather. I dismissed his question, not wanting to reveal anything about family. My grandfather never wanted to give up farming back in the 70’s, but my grandmother convinced him to lease his farmland to the big corporate farmers and pursue his GED. Once he earned his GED, he found employment at a prison in Jackson, Michigan, where he continued to do what he loved, farming—only this time he had to supervise inmates. I can imagine my grandmother’s words of wisdom when confronting my grandfather about their farm; I bet it stung.

TOOL TIME IN BAD AXE, MICHIGAN

I had to get away, simply had to, so I dropped everything I was doing (which wasn’t much) and made the 2-hour trek to my grandmother’s house. It seemed like the most logical thing to do, to go visit someone on house arrest due to an oxygen producing machine and hose. Not that she can’t get out—she had just finished cutting her grass before my arrival—only her portable canisters limit her to eight hour increments maximum.

We had a nice visit. I learned that my dad had been over a day earlier picking cherries, and a pie most certainly awaited me at my parent’s retirement home some fifteen minutes down the road. On the way out, I noticed the Huron Daily Tribune on my grandmother’s kitchen table, particularly an article in the lower right corner. I told her that the parolee arrested in Bad Axe came from the facility where I worked. She, in turn, told me that she knew the family. Wonderful, I thought. Let me recap the article for you as briefly as possible.

The parolee was originally doing time under the "650 Drug-Lifer Law." After a substantial amount of time in prison he was granted a parole. On July 15th of last year he was caught naked as a jay bird in a Holiday Inn Express watching a pornographic video while his partying teenage friends did God-knows-what in an adjacent room. His new charges included: accosting a child for immoral purposes, 3 counts of indecent exposure, 3 counts of selling/furnishing alcohol to a minor, and 1 count of malicious destruction of property.

Well, guess what? After 8 months in the Huron County Jail, our dear troop leader, sorry Boy Scouts of America, had been dismissed of all charges and handed over to the Michigan Department of Corrections for possible parole violations. However, prior to this, while sitting in the hoosegow, our dear friend gained valuable information on a man accused of repeatedly suffocating his blind/diabetic wife. Prosecutors in that case, found his testimony very very helpful. Wonderful. Not only does the MDOC have to deal with an obvious parole violator; they also need to figure out how to protect him. Yee-haw. Perhaps he needs more oxygen to the brain; he's certainly a real tool. Ain’t that right, Mr. Tim-the-Tool-Man-Taylor?

I-PICK, NOT U-PICK

I told Davey (he hadn’t moved to Texas yet, nine more days) to take my picture. He asked why. I told him not to ask questions, to get my camera off the bench and take my picture. He picked up the camera. From the viewfinder, eyeing the raspberries I had picked, he asked, "Can I have those?" I told him he could pick his own as soon as he TOOK MY PICTURE! He pointed out all the times I shooed him away from the raspberries, then asked why I needed the picture. I didn’t feel like explaining myself, I said, "For my blog."

"What’s a blog?" he asked.

By now the hot sun was beating down on me and the mosquitoes were making lunchmeat out of my shoulders, neck, and arms, and I didn’t feel like playing a thousand questions. "Snap the picture Davey," I ordered.

I’m surprised he captured my smile; it looked natural and not forced. I scrambled out of the pickery bush, grabbed my camera, and headed for the house, leaving my wife to supervise Davey, knowing that he would have a hard time finding any ripe raspberries. In a couple of days I'll be able to pick some more, at least another quart or two.

REALITY BOOM

Even though the weatherman said chance of rain yesterday, I went canoeing. There’s something about putting paddle to water and gliding along that has a calming affect on me. I forgot about the "to do" list at home, all the incidentals I promised to get done before my week of vacation is over. The wood deck and wood fence aren’t getting cleaned and stained; The wood trim on the house isn’t getting painted; The new screen doors, which I purchased last summer, are still propped against the garage wall begging to be installed. By gently stirring the water and causing movement, I am able to enjoy the moment.

Reflecting back, I feel a slight tinge of guilt for not checking at least one item off that dreaded list. Not that it should matter. As soon as an item is scratched, some new chore comes up and has to be prioritized. Trips to Home Depot—I like to call them $100 errands—remind me of other projects that fell by the wayside. The real trick is not getting overwhelmed, not shutting down and doing nothing at all. In a civilized society there are responsibilities that can’t be ignored, that simply need to be accomplished.

Today is the Fourth of July, need I remind you. Last night the neighbors lit M-80’s and Roman Candles from our street. I know that when I get today’s newspaper I’ll pick-up sulfur smelling paper shrapnel and burnt wicks off my driveway. Tonight will be no different, they’ll make an extra trip to a fireworks tent or purchase more illegal explosives from the back of someone’s rented U-Haul. As you can tell, I’m not into the whole loud banging euphoria of patriotic bliss. I’d rather spend my time quietly gliding down a river. Unfortunately, while paddling along, some father along the shoreline allowed his son the pleasure of throwing a few firecrackers into the air. Peace can only last so long, until the reality of the day hits us hard.

RAISED IN CAPTIVITY

While cleaning my home office area—or at least attempting to work through the myriad piles of magazines, newspaper clippings, and legal notepads—I came across a June 1997 issue of GQ with Will Smith on the cover. Procrastinating as usual, I started fanning through it. Music section: Joe Strummer, The Clash (Isn’t he dead?). Advertisement: Moore. For Less. "Striptease." Video now collectibly priced to own (Why?). Cover article: "Will Smith Saves the Planet." (Promo piece for "Men in Black.") Then I saw it. Human-interest story: Gary Fannon.

At the age of 18, Gary was tried and convicted under Michigan’s "650 Drug-Lifer Law" for dealing over 650 grams of cocaine. We had first met in 1992 when the classification director gave him a detail to tutor in my GED classroom. I remember him answering fan mail every day while his mother fought vigilantly to get him out of prison. I had to remind him to put away his mail and help the students. He had asked if I was familiar with his case, but I acted like he was just another number doing time. He told me about entrapment. How a dirty undercover cop convinced him to score some coke, 26 ounces for $32,000 to be exact. How he set up the drop point, got scared, and wanted out. How he and his girlfriend decided to go on vacation to Florida. How he was arrested in Georgia for speeding and brought back to Michigan.

He told me all of this back in 1992. Being a fairly new employee to the Department of Corrections, I may have been somewhat naïve; however, thinking back on it, if it were my situation, and the drug deal went down without a hitch, meaning the coast was clear, I’d’ve been back in Michigan demanding my money. That’s neither here nor there. The 1997 GQ article focused on Gary’s transition back into society after ten years in prison; he was released on July 26, 1996. Not once did I remember seeing him in the prison law library. His mother fought his battle for him, getting his case overturned.

One final note. In 2001, while eating a Thanksgiving dinner at my wife’s cousin’s home in Novi, I was asked whether I knew Gary Fannon. Choking back dry turkey, I admitted that I did. Turns out, he went to their open house inquiring about their $340,000 home—a house I certainly couldn't afford in today’s market. He didn’t make the purchase, but maybe he came into some money. What do you think?

CHASING SHADOWS

I’ve had a woodchuck disturbing the natural tranquillity of my wife’s backyard garden for quite some time now. We’ve seen him rooting around in the wildflowers and perennials making his way to the banana peppers and tomato plants. Sometimes we’re seated next to the pond and he’ll skitter along like it’s nobody’s business but his own, approaching the garden like its a gigantic smorgasbord.

I’ve tried to catch him, placing banana peppers, cut apples, and sliced watermelon in a trap, but he’s too smart, I might as well be chasing shadows. Instead, I’ll end up with a wayward squirrel or, as you can see from the picture, a baby possum. With my luck, I’m bound to catch a skunk next. Of course, since my wife’s always been a big fan of James Herriot, I’m not allowed to kill any of these critters. Catch and relocate is my modus operandi. I know that if I trap a skunk there’s no way I’d kill it on account of it releasing its glandular concoction one last time.

As for the possum, his mother was probably close by, so I let him go on the spot. Plus I’m more concerned about trapping that damned woodchuck. Eventually he’ll slip up. I have all summer.

TATTOO YOU

My vacation has officially begun. One full week convict free. Perhaps when I do get back to work they’ll let me inside the walls, since according to my employer’s records I am no longer a certified teacher for the State of Michigan. Enough! That was yesterday’s post.

As I’ve said, time for some much needed R & R. My wife’s already on me about not shaving. Remember the episode of "Cheers" where they had a beard-growing contest? Didn’t the mailman’s beard come in all uneven and patchy, like a dishevelled werewolf? That’s how mine would look.

You’re probably wondering about the "tat" too. We had a going away party yesterday for our neighbors whom are Texas bound (their son is Davey, "Gobstoppers & The Muffin Monster"). I fell asleep on our pool deck. Davey and his friends thought it’d be funny to tattoo my face. Of course I flinched, but decided to pretend I was still snoozing. They had fun with it, saying stuff like, "No not there, too many craters. Watch the wrinkles. Over here, there's no hair." Now I just have to remind myself not to rob a convenience store since I have an easily identifiable mark. Wouldn't want to become an immediate celebrity on "The World's Dumbest Criminals." Have a great Fourth of July everyone, and stay away from those illegal fireworks!