Category Archives: prisoners rights

YourPillow

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VINCE

I remember the first time I saw a commercial for MyPillow.  Toward the end of the ad the announcer guy stated that they were proudly made right here in the U.S.A., with no outsourcing.  I can tell you that that is very true because I saw them being made in Moose Lake Prison in the same building that I worked in sewing men’s briefs.  Why ship jobs overseas when you can exploit prisoners right here?

I will tell you right now that I don’t have all of the facts pertaining to the MinnCorr industry in Moose Lake penitentiary but I can write about my own experience and what I heard from some of the offenders that worked on the MyPillow line.  They were paid minimum wage which I believe is still at 7.25 per hour, much better than the 50 cents per hour that I made less than 200 feet away.  The catch is, the prison takes half of the pay right off the top for the cost of confinement.  There can be other deductions from F.I.C.A., MN income tax, and federal income tax.  The workers are left with just over two dollars per hour, a pretty good amount for prison wages.  Our saying on the brief line was that we earned our pay within the first five minutes of work every day.  I say that because they sell our briefs back to the inmates at a cost of $3.25.  I could sew together 200 pair per day.  Not all of them were sold to us.  They have big contracts with other facilities like jails and institutions that buy them cheaper in bulk, but, there’s huge profit to be made with cheap labor.

I’m not saying all of this because I’m mad at the prison for what they paid me.  I’m actually in shock from looking at the MyPillow website and seeing what they charge for pillows made by people (prisoner or not) that work hard and will never get a raise, a bonus, stock options, or even a free fucking pillow.  Just for kicks, and because the website is not at all up front with the pricing, I placed a mock-order that finally took me to the checkout page.  It said that for two queen size pillows, my order came to $199.94!!  That’s before tax and does not include shipping.  It also does not include the pillow cases which can be purchased for…… only ……. $49.97.  What a steal!  Or maybe rip-off.  Now I should mention that they did have some buy-one-get one deals but I would have had to enter a promo code which they had no further information on.  I’m sure I could have found it if I was actually interested in buying one.  Even so, those are some expensive pillows.

Is there a point I’m trying to make here?  Meh.  I don’t know.  I enjoyed having a job while I was incarcerated.  It paid the bills so to speak.  And I certainly hope that my work lessened the burden to the taxpayers.  But how come the MyPillow commercial shows workers in a factory all happy and smiling when that is not even where they are made?  Made in America?  Yes.  Made proudly in America?  No.  Actually made most likely by child molesters and murderers.  I guess that wouldn’t have been a good advertising slogan.

In other news…  Today I learned that I am only 36 years old.  For the past 11 and a half months, I thought I was 37.  Somehow I just decided to skip a year.  Now I only get to be 36 for two weeks, then I actually turn 37, which sounds way older.  But not as old as 38 which I thought I would be very soon.  Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.  Really, I do.  I will stop dead in a sentence and not have a clue what word I was about to say.  It sounds like 38 year old problems, not young 37 (or 36).  That’s all I have for tonight.

Coming up on the next post:  A look back at some of the stranger things I saw in prison.  Things that I can’t un-see.

BeFUDdled

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ANNE

I am writing this on Sunday to post on Monday, which is Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. I will go to early services, then spend much of the day outside. I love the High Holidays because, for one thing, the weather is always beautiful—crisp and cool, with the leaves starting to change colors and the sky intensely blue. Even though I no longer believe in god, I feel it’s important to participate in community, so I go to services. Now there’s a new prayer book for my stream of Judaism, Reform Judaism, that acknowledges many people’s disbelief. I don’t know if the synagogue I’m going to has it yet, but I look forward to buying a copy. I think that’ll make me feel more “legitimate” walking in the door.

In the evening some friends will come over for dinner. Vince is looking forward to making a real hearty, holiday meal.

—

Vince has been home for five days. There was so little information available ahead of time that I didn’t clock on to the fact that he’s on house arrest. I don’t know the difference between probation and parole but I thought he’d be on one or the other and would be able to come and go as he pleased, as long as he was doing constructive things like job hunting or going to AA meetings.

But no, he is confined to the house 24/7 except for job hunting from 9-2 Monday through Friday and other things he has to clear with the agents. So for instance he proposed an AA meeting on Saturday night and that was approved but he hadn’t researched how far away the meeting would be or, more important, that there was a meeting at that time—which there isn’t. So he’s looking forward to fine-tuning his schedule.

Yesterday he had a two-hour window approved to go shopping. I thought he would enjoy the farmers market, with all the colors, choices, and people watching. Not to mention, it’s cheap. I dropped him off with some reusable shopping bags and went to park the car. These are the bags.

A few minutes later I got a text from him:

I don’t like it here. There are no instructions. And I’m the only one with purses.

These are the “purses,” aka shopping bags.  Do they look gay?

Bags

He was overwhelmed. I joined him and explained that everything was “two dallah.” We consulted our list for the holiday dinner and he seemed to relax into the experience. Then we went into the adjacent Asian market, which was even more crowded and full of the smells of live fish. He got a kick out of some of the items:

Fud

Last stop, Aldi, also crowded. I am normally a very slow and deliberate shopper but even I was sick of the shopping crowds, so we threw a bunch of stuff in the cart and got back to the house with time to spare.

—

It is definitely a big adjustment for me to live with someone. The condo is 825 square feet, not large by American standards.

This morning we both got up and out of the house at 7:30 am for exercise. He ran, I walked. I stopped in at the nearby YWCA to get membership info and picked up a scholarship form for Vince. I gave it to him when I got home and won’t ask him every day, “Did you fill out that form?” It’s none of my business.

On the other hand, when I walked into the bathroom and saw some clothing tags next to the wastebasket instead of inside it, that was my business.

“Vince, what would they have done at boot camp if you’d thrown trash on the floor next to the wastebasket?”

“Ah, someone would have picked up after me,” he joked. I think he was joking. Anyway, the tags were gone next time I looked. No drama.

So that’s all I have to do for a year—know when to say something and when to bite my tongue. So far there has been no yelling, eye rolling, sighing, or crying.

A great day for freedom

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VINCE

It’s good to be home. After 15 months of incarceration, I’m finally able to type my own words. The first few days have been fairly uneventful. I’ve mostly been relaxing, healing, and setting up my schedule for this week. I took the train down a good portion of University Avenue and back. There were a lot of people everywhere. it’s overwhelming. But I survived. I have a few more posts coming from my last few days in Willow River. Then it’s on to the next phase of my life. Thank you to all our followers, I hope it has been helpful and entertaining at the very least. Here’s the last few posts from prison.

8-2-15   On day two, our first full day of boot camp, we had our initial weigh-in. I had arrived in St. Cloud at an alarming 216 pounds. I did a little better when i got to Moose Lake at 201, with a body-fat percentage of 14.4%. Today we had our final weigh-in. When I saw the numbers appear, I was shocked. 173 pounds and 9.5% body-fat. I succeeded in both of my fitness goals! Then we ran our test-out mile. My entrance mile was 11:14. I shaved off four and a half minutes. One mile in 6:45. I was breathless after i ran but it still felt good.

I feel good about myself in so many ways. I am so ready to get out of here.

OK, that’s all for now. Typing is very frustrating for me. I need to work on that.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The End. The Beginning.

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VINCE

Everything seems to be falling into place.  Maybe not in the order I want it to, but aligning nonetheless.  I volunteered to be one of the two in-house facilitators of the AA meeting, in addition to the NA meeting.  It’s been a while since I lead a meeting but it is something I enjoy and have a lot of experience doing.  It’s all about service work.  Starting it here will not only make me look good with my case worker but makes me feel good inside.

—

I’m sitting in study hall, nice and quiet, when a man starts banging loudly on a table, starts crying, and leaves the room.  I finally saw somebody snap.  That’s the only explanation.  He’s been here as long as I have, I hope they don’t kick him out.  He’s a good guy, but this place can make you revisit some pretty bad places in your head.

—

What a day.  Restorative Justice has a way of making me feel good, even with seven oozing blisters on my hands from shoveling tons of wet sand.

After breakfast (which is after aerobics), nine of us donned our reflective vests and hopped in the van, trailer in tow, and headed for Hinkley.  We love riding in the van.  And we were treated to a 40-minute trip.  We were told we would be working hard, and that we were going to work on a house for Habitat for Humanity.  Both statements were true.

Essentially we dug a four foot moat around the 30’ x 60’ house, two feet deep, four feet wide.  Then we put blue Styrofoam insulation down to guard against frost.  Then, after three hours of shoveling the sand out, we shoveled it back in.  Ugh.

In the middle of the operation, I did get a side job of varnishing six wooden doors.  That’s something I have some experience with and enjoy and, well, it’s way easier.  But I still ended my day with load after load on the scoop shovel.  Each scoop no less than 50 pounds.  Our uniforms were destroyed.  We were bleeding.  We were hungry and tired.

And after all of that, the man in charge gave us a tour of the house and said it was being built for a single mother of three who had been working for five years taking care of mentally and physically disabled adults, but couldn’t make ends meet and was now homeless.  A tear came to his eye when he thanked us for our work.  There may have been some tears in our eyes too, or maybe I just had some sand in my eyes.

He told us how generous Wells Fargo was to donate the property.  3M paid HFH for the opportunity to have volunteers come and insulate the entire house.  Whirlpool donates appliances to every—every HFH house.  And an un-named source donates the highest quality and efficient furnaces, water heaters, and air conditioners.  And countless people donate their time in any way they can.

For their house, the soon-to-be-owner must put in 260 hours of her own time on the house, put $100 down, and pay a mortgage of $300 a month, interest free.

Yeah, I feel good because I worked hard for somebody who is in need.  I’d like to do more things like that when I get out.

[ANNE: This will be Vince’s last post from inside prison because … he is being released today!  As you read this, I will be in Willow River watching his graduation ceremony.  Then he will walk out the door, with the clothes on his back and about $300.  I will have an avocado in the car for him.  We’ll drive straight to a 1:30 pm appointment in St. Paul with his ISR agent.  Then I will bring him home.  I got the landline phone, as required.  Thanks to friends pitching in, I’ve got a bed for him and toiletries and some books and a few clothes that won’t make him stand out as an ex con.  I am so excited.  So happy.  We’ll post a report on how it went, with photos, next time.]

Froggie Went a Courtin’

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VINCE

I just came back from a lawn mowing where I took the life of an innocent frog.  It was a cold-blooded murder in the most literal sense.  Wait.  Are frogs cold blooded?  Hmm.  I may be wrong but it sounded funny in my head.

I don’t like to kill things, so I felt bad for a few minutes.  I didn’t do it on purpose, but when his (her?) severed head was staring into my eyes, I could still see life and I’ve been thinking about it ever since.  Now that I’ve written about it, I can let it go.

I once killed a deer, for meat, and I once killed a deer with a Pontiac Sunfire.  Oh, and some squirrels, which I also ate.

—

After months of no formal discipline, I got an intervention today.  That is my sixth in five months, not bad.  The guy with the most discipline in my squad has 21 and three Learning Experiences (LEs).

An intervention is basically a military gig, not a rehab intervention like you might see on TV.  Mine was for not sleeping under one of my two sheets.  It’s very petty.  If I do it two more times which I won’t, I will get an LE.

—

I redeemed myself today for killing the frog.  I saw him/her just in time while I was pushing the Frog Killer 2000 over the grass, and helped him along into the garden.  Oh, yea, there were two of them.  So if I ever kill another frog, I’m even.

—

We’ve been working lately in CD on the “ripple effect” of our crimes.  Well, most of us have.  The guy who shot at somebody several times but missed still claims his offense has no victim.

I never denied that selling drugs hurt society, people’s lives, families, and of course the children.  I’m sure the money given to me for meth could have been better spent on food, clothing, and shelter.

My criminality has affected my family as well.  I didn’t directly try to bring harm to them, other than stealing some money from My Mom years ago, and borrowing money more recently without, so far, paying it back.  But I see my Mother, now in her 50s, still beautiful, energetic, kind, and unbelievably patient, without a husband, and I wonder if I am indirectly or directly responsible.  Is that where the shame took hold?  Am I such a black sheep that she didn’t even bother?

She’s had boyfriends over the years but they didn’t stick.  I see myself in the same boat.  37 with no wife and kids, no girlfriend waiting for me out there.  Maybe together, we emit a powerful toxic odor that that repels potential mates.  Hmm…I hope not.

The point is, even if I am not responsible for her mating habits, I am seeing that my choices affect more than just me.  And it can ripple a long way out.  I’m not just staying clean for me, I’m doing it for the whole pond.

[ANNE: My heart sank when I read this.  Vince is in no way responsible for me being one of the 7% of American women my age who have never married.  Take out the lesbian women who couldn’t marry, and I am part of a really small club.  I always wanted to get married.  I assumed I would.  I wrote a blog post about dating years ago that demonstrates the effort I put into finding a mate.

Like a lot of things, it’s complicated.  I wasted my 20s and 30s—the years when most people marry—on Kermit and other alcoholics, abusers, and just plain jerks.  Then I took a break from dating to figure out how to stop doing that.  Then came Vince’s lost year, when I was too distraught to think of anything else.  Then, the older you are, the harder it is to meet people.  So it was a combo of bad choices, bad timing, bad luck and yes, Vince was a factor but far from the only one.  Being single is far from the worst fate, so now I claim my spinsterhood as if it was my plan all along.]

An Exception to the Rule

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VINCE

I remember working at the Kemps Ice Cream plant in Rochester for roughly a year.  Possibly significantly more or less, I have no idea.

I worked in the wrapper room.  Seven lines of different flavors, brands, and styles would come through a Plexiglas wall from the production line and into one of the various machines to be individually wrapped, then bundled in four or six packs, then shrink-wrapped together before going into the deep freeze for several hours.

I worked a machine called an Amerio.  Sort of a recycling freezer.  31 levels high, the ice cream would be pushed in from the front and out the back came the now frozen bricks onto a conveyer belt that flowed down to a separate room for wrapping.

I worked with a guy I’ll call Bill.  Often we worked 12 hour shifts in the summer time.  We got to know each other pretty well.  We joked around a lot, had some serious conversations, and once we even went out for a beer (just after I had started drinking again after five years sober).

Very shortly after that I lost my job and never saw or talked to him again.

Years later, while looking at the Olmsted County Sherriff’s Office In Custody roster online, looking for anybody I knew in the meth world, I saw his name.  Just below his name was a charge that even criminals despise.

It turns out Bill had a fairly long standing relationship with a 12 year old girl.  The police had letters he had written to her, and her to him, describing, in too much detail, their love.

I sit here now and am a little upset that I ever spoke to him, not that I knew anything about it.  I would like to write a lot more about it but I can’t.  I will someday, when my mail won’t be read before it’s sent out.

—

I had a one-on-one with my CD counselor just a moment ago.  We talked for a half hour about my worries and wants and my thoughts about employment upon release.  His advice, go out and live life.  He said he had full confidence that I would be good at being sober, but he wanted me to go out and be a good person.

Then he threw me a curve-ball.  He thought I could make a great CD counselor within five years, by which time I would have gotten my Bachelor’s in Social Work and then on to a LADC or something like that.  I tend to daydream and space out a lot even if they are really important.  But he made me feel like I was really capable of doing something with my life, even if it takes a while.  So, I have that going for me.

—

Today our squad had our re-entries.  What’s that?  Where we go into a room and one by one we talk to our CD counselor and case manager.  It’s really scary for the people that have not been doing any hard work.  All my counselor said to my caseworker was, “He’s doing exceptional work, and he facilitates the NA meeting on Friday nights.  No worries.”  She smiled (nobody has seen her smile) and told me I was also the exception to the rule on her end.  I have been approved to move to St. Paul upon my release!  No more worries.  I was the only one in my squad to be approved so far.

[ANNE: I felt nervous when I read that last paragraph.  I say I’m not superstitious but I am a Midwesterner, and we have superstitions that go like this: 1) “Never saying anything good about yourself because you’ll sound like a braggart, and everyone will look askance at you but not say anything” or 2) “Never say anything optimistic because that will immediately bring back luck down on you.”  Or was it that I’ve known a lot of addicts and alcoholics, and they tend to be Janus faced in many ways—in this case grandiose today and ripping themselves to shreds the next?  In know!—I think I’ll just be proud of how well he’s doing.]

Reading, Writing, Ready

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VINCE

Today is one of our work crew days, but they haven’t had much work for us to do of late.  They sent us out for an hour to do drill and ceremony but so far that’s it.  I haven’t lifted a splitting maul, a saw, or a rake since my first month here.  Don’t’ get me wrong.  I do plenty, but some days I get bored with sitting in my blue plastic chair.

On the plus side, I have two new Bill Bryson books to keep me occupied.  A Walk in the Woods and Neither Here nor There.  I’ve read 117 pages of the former since I checked it out last night and I’m completely immersed.  I now want to hike the Appalachian Trail, just like I wanted to visit Australia when I was reading In a Sunburned Country, and I wanted to visit outer space and a lot more when I read A Short History of Nearly Everything.  I don’t know what I’m going to do for reading next, I’ve exhausted all the authors I know and I still have weeks to kill.

—

I finished the 276-page A Walk in the Woods in just under an hour.  I may have to start reading less.  I sat in my blue plastic chair nearly all day, neglecting my body by getting zero exercise.  Maybe it’s okay to do nothing once a week.

I read these books and wonder about my ability to write my own.  I have certainly lead a life worthy of writing about but I don’t know how I could put it all together with all of my missing memories, lack of proper punctuation and rather short vocabulary compared to any book I’ve read.  In the last book there must have been a dozen words I have never seen before.

I’ve been writing this blog for nearly a year, and I wonder if it would even fill in a hundred typed pages in a book.  When I’m out I can finally check out this blog for myself and type instead of write.  But who knows, I kind of like writing by hand.

—

Thinking back to when I started writing, I had no clue what boot camp was about.  I heard so many things from so many sources, none of them very accurate.  But I wrote them down as if I was an expert on the subject.

I say that to say this, everything I write is written as I remember it.  And although my life has been crazy enough to have no need to embellish the truth, I’m sure some of the people involved in some of the stories might remember things differently.  One thing I can tell you is that every word since the first post has been written by me completely sober.  Sometimes it’s difficult to look back through the fog for details.  Sometimes I don’t want to.

—

Another Sunday in the bag.  Days seem to last forever, yet the weeks fly by.  I hope I’m ready for the real world.  It scares a lot of people.  Prison scares me, so I am going to make sure I never come back.  I will be a success.  I am ready.

—

Here’s the deal: I’m going to wind this thing down.  I want to write, and I will.  Unfortunately, I’m very restricted here in what I write.  I can’t say bad things or bad words.  I can’t give unfavorable opinions about any aspect of this program.  I simply don’t feel free to be expressive and explicit.  So, I will write a couple more posts then take some time off.

I’ve enclosed a picture of myself from when I arrived at Moose Lake in November.  I wish I could show you a picture of me now.  The difference is substantial.

Vpic

It’s been quite a journey.  I can’t wait to apply the knowledge I’ve gained here out in the world.  I’ve worked hard on so many levels.  I am lucky to have had the opportunity to be immersed in such an intense program.  It’s like Hazelden on steroids.

Thank you for reading.  Feel free to ask me questions via comment or feedback or however it all works.

LeCordon Blue

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ANNE

My last post looked at the reasons that kids born into poor or blue collar families are highly have a hard time negotiating the college admissions process.  Low expectations, parents who know nothing about the admissions system, day care instead of preschool, and a lack of exposure to enriching opportunities like music lessons or travel.

Everyone’s situation is different, but I have to write at least one more post about what happens when kids from poor families do aspire to attend college.  It should be easy.  If they start at a community college for their first two years, then finish at a public university.  Pell Grants should cover their cost of attendance.  Students can take up to six years to complete their degree, which allows them time to work, which covers their rent and other living expenses.  Even private colleges can be a good deal for lower income kids, if they have good grades, because private colleges offer much more financial aid than public institutions.  They should have to borrow minimal, if any, in student loans.

But what can happen is that low income kids get all excited about for-profit colleges that are national chains and advertise heavily on TV, the radio, and the web.  These are places like LeCordon Bleu School of Culinary Arts, where Vince wanted to go when he was 16 and had dropped out of high school.  He stopped in to get information and they pounced, completing all the paperwork for him to take out student loans to cover the $40,000 tuition.

That’s $40,000 per year, for a two-year program.  That’s how for-profit schools make their shareholders very, very happy.  LeCordon Bleu has a graduation rate that’s better than Bemidji State University, but at 48% that still means 52% of students drop out under the worst possible circumstances: no degree, which means no prospects for a decent job, and on the hook for tens of thousands of dollars of student loans.  That’s U.S. Government money–aka tax dollars–going to subsidize for-profit colleges.  It makes me sick.  Back then I knew very little about the whole college aid picture but I understood that $40,000 was a ridiculous amount to pay to get a degree as a pastry chef.  I refused to sign the forms for Vince and he was furious, but maybe some day he’ll thank me.

Recently Vince asked me to send him information about culinary schools.  He was interested in earning a degree in the work he’s been doing for 20 years.  I checked out our local community and technical college and their tuition for a full-time student was a little over $3,000 per year.

But unsophisticated students can get into trouble even at community colleges.

Fast forward.  Vince has completed four months of treatment at Hazelden and a year living in a Hazelden-sanctioned halfway house in West Palm Beach, Florida.  He has settled in Rochester, Minnesota and is working at Spencer Gifts.  He decides to pursue a degree at Rochester Community and Technical College.

I was working at the job I mentioned in my last post–the college enrollment consulting firm–and offered to help Vince figure out the financial aid picture.  He seemed to think this was intrusive and unnecessary.

To make a long story short, he took out over $30,000 in student loans and dropped out a few credits shy of earning his associate degree.  What was going on in that financial aid office?  Wasn’t anyone tracking that no student needed that much in federal loans to attend a college that cost $3,000 a year?  Wasn’t there an underwriter to flag that this was a high-risk borrower?

He subsequently defaulted on those loans.  The penalties and interest have piled up astronomically.  Unlike other debt that can be discharged in bankruptcy, student loans are inescapable.   As Vince would say, “Ugh.”

It probably feels overwhelming to him; not what he needs as he is about to be released to make a fresh start.

Welcome to the Country

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VINCE

To say that alcohol lowered my inhibitions would be an understatement.  It pretty much rendered me retarded.  That said, here are a few things that I probably thought were funny at the time.  Keep in mind that these are only things I remember doing or people told me I had done in a blackout.

  • To impress “the ladies” I once downed an entire bottle of bubbles. You know, the kind you put the wand in and blow through it.  What followed must have been amazing to see because several people stated they couldn’t believe I had done that.  Within one minute I started throwing up (with considerable distance) a clearish-pink foam that expanded even more once it hit the ground.  The carbonation in the beer accelerated the bubbling process in my stomach and became fairly painful.  I groaned in pain while heaving, making a noise no animal on earth would use as a mating call.  After a few minutes it was over, I was surrounded by foam.  Without hesitation I grabbed a fresh beer.
  • Standing by a river with friends down in Iowa, I found a dead fish and took a bite out of its belly and spat it out at one of them at which point I started throwing up, he started throwing up and in no time at all we were all on the ground doing the same and trying not to laugh which was not easy.
  • Passed out, blacked out on a canoe trip I was responsible for not only tipping a canoe, but sinking it forever along with the oars, cell phones, cooler, cigarettes, and clothing. I don’t know why I was naked, but I do know that it was a long walk back to my friend’s truck.  Hey, at least we didn’t have to carry a canoe back!
  • Nothing makes a better combination than alcohol and shot guns. Especially when I don’t have any glasses or contacts.  So, one day a few of us went “hunting.”  We would usually look for squirrels, crows, or anything that moved.  I saw a crow circling overhead and decided it was mine, even though we were using slugs.  I “aimed” and fired four times, missed, reloaded and missed four more times.  I saw one of my friends running toward me to I smiled and waved at him.  He didn’t look too happy.  He informed me that I had actually been firing wildly at a bald eagle.  We put the guns away.

[ANNE: I got a postcard from Vince, in which he wished me a fun trip.  Then he couldn’t resist adding, “Germany sounds like a lovely place where they have loved people of our faith for a long time.  Just remember, if somebody asks you to take a shower in a large metal room, run!”  Vince has always been a joker.  One of my favorites was the time he got kicked out of Hebrew School for writing his name on a name tag as “P. Ness.”  I had to act serious in front of Vince and the rabbi, who was humorless and thus terrible with teenagers, but I laughed out loud when I was out of earshot.]

A Visit, at Last

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ANNE

I went to visit Vince on Sunday, for the first time in over eight months.

Given my last experience with visiting, my subsequent six-month ban, the fact that my last four letters to him were destroyed, and that he’ll soon be released, I thought I could skip this visit.   But he really wanted me to come.  I’m his only visitor, so he hasn’t seen anyone from the outside for a long time.

Friends made suggestions for what I should wear to prevent a repeat of the unfortunate “low-cut blouse” episode.  A nun’s habit, suit of armor, a sleeping bag, a burqa … the list went on and on and it was all very ha, ha, ha but I was really very anxious.  It’s indescribable unless you’ve experienced it firsthand—the feeling of being at the mercy of a stranger in uniform—the powerlessness, uncertainty, and fear.  And I’m not even in prison.

Problem was, I don’t own a T-shirt or a button-up shirt or a turtle neck.  I don’t like clothing that constricts around the neck.  I was inspired to put on one of my uncle’s dress shirts—the uncle who died in December whose shirts I took for Vince.  I could have fit two of me inside it.  The sleeves fell down six inches below my fingers and the shirt tails fell to my knees, but it I could button it up to my neck.  Maybe it would bring me good luck.

The hour-and-a-half-long drive to Willow River went smoothly and I arrived a few minutes before visiting hours.  The gate was closed so I pressed the intercom button.  A voice told me to leave the grounds and wait on the highway until visiting hours started.  I looked at my cell phone and said, “You mean, in four minutes?”  “Yes,” he answered.

A year ago I would have made a sarcastic remark but I wasn’t going to take any chances.  I said, “Okay” and backed down the drive.  I killed the engine and reflexively reached for my cell phone, then realized I had not left the grounds so I started the car up again, drove out to the highway, and sat there on the side of the road with my emergency lights on as cars and trucks zoomed by me.

After four minutes I drove back in and the gate was open.  This facility is much smaller than St. Cloud or Moose Lake.  There were no bars, metal doors, metal detectors, or guards behind plexiglass.  My hand was shaking as I filled out the visitor-request form, but within 10 minutes I was waved into the visiting room and there he was.  When I hugged him I could feel how much weight he had lost.  “People would pay to come here!” I said, laughing.  “I know, mom, I’ve never been in such great shape in my life,” he said.

“And by the way, I just got a demerit because you arrived early.”

What a splash of cold water!  Vince got a demerit because I arrived four minutes early.  It would be one thing if I had known this was a no-no, but I had checked the visiting rules online the day before and they said nothing about it.  “Don’t worry about it, mom.  That’s just how how it is.  There’s no way of knowing what the rules are until you break one.  They’re looking for a reaction, and I won’t give it to them.  Just don’t show up early when you come to pick me up on my last day.”

“If I were staying in longer, you could do a video visit,” Vince told me.  “They’re promoting it heavily—one hour for only $99.95!”  We burst out laughing at the absurdity of it, but he explained that a hundred bucks was cheap for the many families who had to drive from Chicago and pay for hotel rooms.

Our two hours together flew by.  I drove home and felt completely drained.  Two hundred miles, two hours with my son, two weeks til he comes home.