Memorial Day 2017

This entry was written in the spring of 2017 but not published.

Memorial Day, 2017

Two bags of Fritos Scoops

A quart of Bill’s famous chili-based dip 

Three tomato sandwiches on white bread (with mayo, salt, and pepper)

A pound of mozzarella with roma tomatoes, lemon pepper, olive oil and fresh basil

Eight steaks, marinated by the steak-marinade pro (Bill) and grilled to perfection

Eight ears of corn, grilled in the husk

Half a gallon of potato salad, by the potato-salad-making pro (also Bill), and topped with bacon.

Three onions, grilled whole

Two green peppers, grilled whole

Six Cheerwine ice cream bars

Four Klondike brand ice cream sandwiches

Countless cans of Mt. Dew, Cheerwine, and Pepsi

This list?  The food served at our house today (Memorial Day) as we hosted three incarcerated gentlemen from the local prison. They have served over 70 years among them, and each has some more to go before they are ultimately free again.

I was struck, as I often am, by the gentle calm and humility of the men as they sat in my living room and later on my deck.. I believe this is the winning combination for those who will make it to the end of their sentence and then be successful in the community following their release. The men I meet who are still full of bravado, who believe they have all the answers -- those men seem destined to return to incarceration. The gentlemen in my house today, though, exude calm, gratitude, and reserve. After decades of being frustrated by an obtuse system and having to swallow emotions to get along with literally hundreds of people literally all the time, they have channeled any negativity into peace and (now) gratitude to be in our quiet living room.

Bill recently had to replace his smartphone, and as part of the deal, he was offered a new Google Home device. So we have this gray device, about the size of a wide-mouthed, pint Mason jar, and when you ask it a question, it answers. It has  a remarkably powerful speaker on it--the sound is absolutely incredible. The other night, a Facebook meme about “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” being only “a whim away,” got me craving that song so I said, “OK Google, play The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”  And it did, followed by a delightful romp down memory lane with Johnny B Goode, Splish Splash and Rockin’ Robin, among many others.

So today, we set the rounded gray device on the porch and said, “Ok Google, tell me the weather.”  And the pleasant woman’s voice responded with the current temp and a warning that it was going to thunderstorm later in the day. The three visitors smiled in surprise.

Bill asked Chip, who has “been down” for over 20 years, what his favorite music is. “Iron Maiden!” he responded enthusiastically. Bill said, “Ok Google, play Iron Maiden,” and the cheerful female voice replied with some information about the Google Play list, and then the music burst forth from the tiny device, filling the space between us all and rocking out our small porch. Chip’s eyes grew big as saucers, and even the slightly sassier other two had to admit it was pretty amazing. I went in, then, to fix the tomato-mozz plate and could hear them on the porch taking turns saying “Ok Google,” and picking a new song. I’m not sure they made it through any single song all the way, but they enjoyed the experience and teased each other for their choices.

At one point Dave came into the kitchen and we got talking about his job as a cook at a local restaurant and his love of food. He was pleased to see the tomato-mozz plate being prepared and helped himself of some of the rejected slices of both cheese and tomato. I don’t think Stan or Chip had ever had that particular combination, and they were effusive in their gratitude for it, once the plate went onto the small table between them and was quickly consumed.

I watched as they waved to the neighbors who drove by in either direction -- happily seated on our suburban porch, smiling and waving at the Memorial Day passers by. On our block, everyone waves, and we talked a little about how nice it is to have such great neighbors.

Dave and Bill were overseeing the grill, where the steaks, corn and vegetables were being prepared, and soon enough we were passing plates of food and chomping on our small feast. We made a list of everyone’s favorite foods and what they really have trouble getting. We included what they absolutely didn’t ever want to have, and no surprise that “turkey ham” (wth???) and stewed okra topped the list. I know someone else with the same aversion, and I gave him a can of stewed okra on the one-year anniversary of his release as a reminder that from now on -- forever and ever -- he could say no. He never again has to settle for stewed okra or sweet potatoes or pork products made from turkeys and nitrates, when what he really wants is steak.

We got talking, then, about our childhoods, and all three said they had lovely childhoods--that their parents were caring and attentive, and they always had what they needed. I wasn’t surprised, actually -- these men whose circumstances had led them down three different, but equally tragic paths. None was without empathy; none had difficulty feeling connected to the people around them or the web of life energy that flows through everything. 

Eddie the Wonderdawg injured his knee literally minutes before Bill had left to pick them up, so when they arrived, we were still working out the logistics of keeping Eddie calm and off his feet. Each took a turn going over to him, introducing themselves, petting his face and making a gentle, loving eye contact. Each talked about pets they’d had and how much they had loved the connection to animals. They spoke to each other and to us about the feral cat population on the camp and how they work to take care of the cats -- how the animals can tell which people have good energy and which to avoid, and how they each take their cues from the cats when they don’t otherwise know.

When our six-hour visit was over, and it went so quickly, I was sad to say good-bye but happy to know we would be seeing them each again soon.

The journey to Memorial Day had started a few months ago when we got word that we were finally able to attend the volunteer orientation at the local prison. As a woman, I am only able to participate in volunteer events that happen at the prison itself. Bill, though, was able to sign up as a sponsor to assist with community integration events, such as hosting three men at our house for a Memorial Day dinner.

The orientation was an interesting experience -- unlike any other I’ve attended. The entire group was included in the first section, where on-site volunteers and community sponsors were “trained’ together. The entire training consisted of a thorough and well-presented discussion of PREA, or the Prison Rape Elimination Act of (hold onto your hats) 2003. It is the first Federal legislation to address the rape of prisoners, and it was passed in the 21st century. Less than 20 years ago. (If you haven’t already, do look for John Oliver’s rant about prison rape. He brings his usual wit and sharp understanding to this not-very-complex-but-somehow-still-perplexing problem, and I love him for it.)

So the on-site volunteers and the community sponsor volunteers sat through this extensive presentation about prison rape elimination and the consequences of a sexualized relationship with incarcerated individuals, and then the on-site volunteers were sent on their way with a schedule of on-site events. No discussion of how to get in touch with lead volunteers for each program; no discussion of what the programs entail or what one might expect from any of them. “Off you go. You’ll get your volunteer card in a couple of months, and you can’t come onto the camp until then.”  The staff person in charge of volunteers later complained of the attrition rate following these volunteer training events (that happen exactly once a year -- no more, not ever, no no no.) Attrition? After this highly organized, insightful training? No way!

The community sponsor volunteers were handed a copy of the rules and asked if they had any questions. Shockingly, there were quite a few. 

Oh, and the state requires a reference for each community sponsor. So please turn to the person next to you, introduce yourselves, and complete a reference for each other. Wait, what?  Yep. The state requires it. So here’s your reference.

There were about three wives still in the room, although there were many more community sponsor volunteers there. I wondered why there wasn’t more of an effort to include household members in the training. After all, in a men’s prison, shouldn’t the wives be informed of the PREA as well?  Yeah, well, if Jenny was running the place, a lot of things would be different.

After almost eight weeks of waiting, we finally got our volunteer cards and were able to attend a volunteer event on a Tuesday evening. I had heard about this program on Tuesdays -- I was told that the volunteers sit at tables, and the incarcerated men were happy to have the opportunity to talk in an unstructured way. It opens with a prayer, there are announcements, and it closes with a prayer, but it is otherwise an unstructured opportunity to discuss life issues and, in some cases, prepare men for their release.

On this particular Tuesday, we walked into a room with volunteers sitting, as Bill had described, at different tables. Some tables had one, others had two volunteers, and all tables had mostly empty seats. Bill had been going a couple more times than I -- I was on call, actually, the week the cards arrived. So I had a vision of my other experiences with unstructured crowds, where I am the nerd sitting at the empty table, and people are walking by as I’m making friendly, smiling eye contact, waving; but they walk past, choosing any other table but mine. This is an experience I’ve had far too many times to dismiss, and I was sure I would find myself at the one empty table in an entire room of volunteers and residents. But I should have realized Bill had already gathered a crowd, and as soon as door on the resident side was opened, a rush human energy filled the room, all boisterous, pleasant, and joyful. Five incarcerated men sat at our large table, their seats pre-determined in that way social order naturally happens among people who know each other well. Two were Chip and Stan, whom we had taken out on pass the Sunday before, and several others joined us as well. I had trouble hearing in the ambient noise of the room, but could feel the positive energy regardless of what was being said. After a few minutes to greet one another, we listened to an opening prayer and then the announcement about proposed legislation to increase minimum sentencing (you know, to fill all those for-profit prisons that are currently under capacity), and the efforts of some to fight it. We heard from someone scheduled for release in a couple weeks -- take care of yourself; stay focused on yourself; stay away from toxic people. A message we could all hear more often. Snacks were then served with remarkable efficiency; I saw another volunteer I know, who introduced us to Dave; and before I knew it, the closing prayer was being offered, and we soon ushered out the door.

I can’t wait to go back to the Tuesday group, and I can’t wait to host the guys back at our house. Work schedules means I will see more of Chip and Stan, and Bill will likely be the one who sees the most of Dave. For now, we’ll focus on the next pass, the next Tuesday event.

Blessed be, y’all. It’s such a strange and wonderful journey...

The Story of Barry

The Story of Barry takes place over ten years ago, and to fully appreciate the nuance, I remind you that things were very different for me then. I had been living with Sue Ellen for several months, recently divorced, and experiencing what I would later recognize as my darkest months. 

Living in the bestie’s house, in the cupboard under the stairs, is often a sign that things aren’t going well. But this was intended to be a stepping stone to greater things. It was, unfortunately, a mis-step instead -- a diversion from my intended path and down one of those side paths that ends abruptly at the precipice, and you realize you have to turn back and retrace your steps to get back on the main hiking trail. Those side paths entice you with the promise of adventure and, literally, a path less traveled. But a few yards in, you realize the path’s lack of traffic is due to its crappiness, not a romanticized belief about adventure. But I digress…

So I was living in the cupboard under the stairs and traveling back to North Carolina pretty much every weekend. My friends were an incredible support system during this time, and while I was barely hanging on, I was greatly bolstered by the most amazing village. Frequent trips home kept me sane, and pretty quickly I was able to move back.

But during this time, I was putting a lot of mileage on my car, and on one particularly lovely afternoon, I drove the reliable station wagon to the Ashburn Service Station, about four blocks from the bestie’s house. 

Now keep in mind, this was 11 years and about 80 pounds ago. I was slim and boobacious, and in preparation for dealing with car guys, I had put on a black tank top and well-fitting bell-bottoms. I walked into the Ashburn Service Station and, in one of those miraculous moments, had instant rapport with the guy behind the counter. His colleague was inexplicably on his hands and knees under a desk, so I kind of ignored that guy. But Barry and I shared an immediate chemistry. I can’t remember the exact conversation, but we traded light-hearted jokes very quickly and were both laughing within seconds. The exchange continued as I explained what I needed, and he explained that there were a few people ahead of me, and within a few minutes, I was walking the short distance back to the bestie’s house.

I was on the bestie’s front porch when the phone rang to tell me the car was ready, and so back I turned. Clearly, Barry had bumped me up to the front of the line. He was a reasonably good looking guy with kind blue eyes. He wore a gray jumpsuit of the service station variety, with his name embroidered on the label over his left pec.

When I walked back in the service station door, the colleague was now seated at the desk and joined in the jocularity. “Barry! Who will you be taking to the Christmas party?” he asked. “Why, I think this beautiful young lady right here,” Barry answered, gesturing to me. “I have the perfect beaded red dress,” I answered. And from there we launched into witty stories of Christmas parties past and don’t-get-drunk-at-work lessons learned. I paid my bill and collected my car. I was just pulling in the driveway at the bestie’s house when the phone rang, and again it was Barry. A version of “I never do this and we never date clients, but really… I feel like we have great chemistry and I would hate to let the opportunity pass…” and he asked me out. I said yes but warned him I might go to NC that weekend and would let him know.

Regret set in shortly after, and by the time the bestie came home from work and was listening to my story while she prepared dinner, I was sure I could not follow through. I was just too raw from all that happened and I couldn’t see myself dating someone now. Also, witty rapport notwithstanding, Barry and I were from different worlds. How could this possibly work?

The bestie was pulling for me to have a good time -- cut loose a little bit -- let someone take me out and we can just have a good time. But she also knows I don’t really do casual, so it didn’t take long for her to get on board with the “I just can’t do it.” 

“Look,” she said, “just call him. Explain you JUST got out of a relationship and you’re not ready. He will totally understand.”

She was right, of course, and I TOTALLY planned to do just that.

Except I didn’t.

It was Thursday morning, as I got ready for work and packed to leave from there to go to NC for a three-day weekend, when I remembered I had never followed-up with Barry. I felt awful.

I called the bestie at her job. But here’s one more thing you need to know before I proceed: the bestie and I sound EXACTLY ALIKE on the phone. We have known this ever since we met, in an office where I was temping and she was a permanent employee. Literally every single person who spoke to me on the phone said, “Hi Sue Ellen!” and I spent half my day saying, “This is Jenny.”

One time I came into a boyfriend’s house while he was listening to his messages on an answering machine (this was a long time ago). I could hear Sue Ellen telling him something, but the weird thing was she ended the call with “OK, baby. I’ll see you later. I love you!” I trust my bestie, and I trusted my bf, so I was like, “Why is Sue Ellen saying she loves you?” The bf laughed uproariously. “Baby, that was you.” It was an old message he had saved, and it played before the new one he needed. That’s how much we sound alike.

So while I felt horrible about not calling Barry sooner, you must also know, I’m an absolute pussy about these things. I just am. Maybe Jennytoday would pull up her big-girl pants and make the call, but Jennyoftenyearsago absolutely would not. What am I afraid of? What could possibly have gone wrong? I literally have no idea. But I absolutely could not have made that call.

So instead I called the bestie and -- because she is the WORLD’S GREATEST FRIEND -- she agreed to call Barry for me.

But you know, because I am the one telling this story -- you know there is more. Here’s what transpired.

The bestie called the Ashburn Service Station and Barry answered. She said pretty much exactly what she had coached me to say. “Barry! This is Jenny! I’m so sorry you haven’t heard from me sooner. I am heading to North Carolina after work today and I won’t be available to go out. I have to be honest, though, I think I said yes too quickly.” She went on to tell him how much I appreciated the offer; how he was definitely right about the chemistry and it wasn’t his imagination; but that I just wasn’t ready, having had a recent divorce and terrible break-up. She added for good measure, that my sights were set on moving back home, and I was spending all my free time in NC.

Barry was extremely gracious. He expressed his gratitude that I had called at all, and said over and over how nice it was that I hadn’t just blown him off. Of course, she said, it was the least I could do. After all, he had been so nice to me, and we had indeed had great chemistry. 

They ended the call on good terms, and the bestie saved the day for me. (Again! She really is the best.)

But then something incredible happened. The bestie was calling from work, and no sooner had she hung up the phone, than her phone rang. The LCD screen on her phone lit up with “Ashburn Service Station.” She stared in disbelief. What in the world?

She answered, but instinct told her it had to be Barry. After all, they had JUST hung up. He must have dialed back immediately. To be safe, she disguised her voice as she provided the corporate greeting, “Thank you for calling TCA, this is Sue Ellen.”

Sure enough, a familiar voice replied, “Hi, this is Barry at the Ashburn Service Station. I’m calling for Diane.” The bestie transferred the call and from where she sat, she could hear Diane’s conversation, two cubes over. Diane had taken the first of several company cars over to the service station for regularly scheduled maintenance. She would be trading out several different ones throughout the day, and Barry would be doing inspections, oil changes, and tire rotations on each. He was calling to tell her that the first was ready and she could bring up the next.

The bestie would take half a dozen calls from Barry that day as one car needed something extra, another didn’t have the right VIN number written down, etc. Each time, she told me later, she had to disguise her voice when “Ashburn Service Station” showed on her caller ID.

She acted out the situation to me. She described how when the phone rang, she put on this strange new voice he wouldn’t recognize. I had assumed she used a southern accent, or maybe went full New Jersey. But no. She went SEXY. Like a 900 operator. “Thank you for calling TCA…” Imagine a breathy bedroom voice, slowly drawing out every syllable. Straight-up sex worker, now. And she told me how she had taken one of Barry’s calls, used the sexy voice, transferred him to Diane again. As she hung up the transferred line and turned in her chair, she saw her boss standing there, staring. “What are you doing???” he asked. “Why are you talking like that???”

She explained the whole thing--the hastily accepted invitation, my hesitation, my unwillingness to call, her BESTIEness, Barry’s gratitude. Her boss stood staring while she went into every detail, ending in “and today, of all days, Diane took the cars in for service.”

He stared another second and then shook his head. “Women!” he shouted, exasperated, and walked away.

But this is a Jenny story. And if you know anything about Jenny stories, you know it doesn’t end there…

It would be a few more months before I would move back to North Carolina, and in that time, I continued to make the round trip most weekends. More than once, I took my car back to Barry for service. He was always very gracious; we still had great chemistry. He is an incredibly nice guy.

One day, the weather cooler now, we stood by my car in the sunshine. He checked my fluids, tucked a few rags under the hood to make the task easier on the fly; spotted me a container of antifreeze to keep in the back. We chatted pleasantly while he worked. All of this extra service free for me as he said, “I understand things have been rough for you, Jen, but I just want you to know, we would have made a great couple.” He went on to talk about his life, how he felt like we could have been good together. Not pushy at all, not rude. Just genuine and nice.

“You know,” he said, “I just got out of prison after serving almost 14 years…”

Wait. WHAT?

Remember, this was more than ten years ago. Before I met Bill, before I had ever set foot in a prison, and long before I had hosted incarcerated people in my home.

Barry went on to tell me that he had been a primary source of marijuana in the US and that he had imported most of it from Central America. He described driving 18-wheelers filled with weed across the border. The month he was arrested he had made $14 million. He said if you smoked weed (that you hadn’t grown yourself) on the east coast 15 to 20 years before, you were smoking his. He also felt some nostalgia for the time, saying, “If I felt like Cajun food for lunch, I flew to New Orleans. I didn’t bother with a Cajun restaurant -- I went right to the source. And then flew home.” 

Now, though, he was just trying to find some space in his son’s life and help raise him into a good man. He wanted a simple life -- a chance to work, go home, and relax. He wasn’t looking for anything flashy or to fly somewhere for lunch. He just wanted an easy, simple existence, drama free.

As circumstances would have it, that was the last time I saw Barry. The bestie introduced herself shortly after (without giving away our secret), and has seen him many times since. He met a nice woman, and they settled into the life he had hoped for. His son did indeed make it to manhood and is a good person. And I, of course, went on to the crazy life I call mine. I have to thank Barry for opening the door to thinking about people who have been to prison in a different way. And I’m glad he got exactly what he was looking for.