tryin'

I drove up to north Georgia yesterday so I could visit my youngest brother today. He is only allowed visitors on Saturday and Sunday, from 9 AM to 3 PM. I got lost (as unusual) and even went to the prison annex by mistake, but I did finally get there at 10:15 this morning. We had a very upbeat visit that was nonstop until 3 PM! Apparently, they are quite generous with visit length (though that may not be so on holidays, when they have more visitors than usual).
I had brought my $20 in quarters (the only money allowed and the maximum allowed) for the machines. He feasted on foodstuffs he didn't usually get: Buffalo chicken wings and cheese-stuffed pizza "bagel" with marinara. I had a pretty good chicken salad sandwich from those machines. Later, I got him some bbq pork rinds, an ice cream bar, and peanut M&Ms, then we split a Butterfinger. And we talked and laughed and talked and laughed and talked.
The really nice part? We were actually IN each other's company, for the first time since June of 2007. We were allowed to hug when he came in and before we parted, which was very nice. During the visit, I could reach over and touch his hand whenever I wanted. It was so much nicer than visiting through the reinforced glass window when he was incarcerated here in the county jail.
At the prison, visitation is held in one large room, with chairs set up in various groupings. Prisoners are allowed up to three approved visitors at a time. If there were three visiting, they would sit in a grouping of three chairs across from a tiny plastic table and a single chair for the prisoner, for example. The guards walk around while everyone is visiting, but really leave you alone. And all of the groups are good about keeping their conversations at a decent level so they aren't obtrusive to an adjacent group. Prisoners are to remain seated at all times, but visitors are free to go to the vending machines and microwaves.
Visitors are not allowed to bring anything into the visitation area except the $20 in quarters. If you wear glasses, you cannot bring the glasses case, for example. No purses, no photo books (I tried to bring one of mine and had to take it back out to the car and start the entrance process again). Your driver's license and keys are kept at the guard station and you are given a visitor ID badge and a numbered disc to regain your license and keys when you leave. They did allow me to wear my scarf during the visit, but that may have been an exception. My jacket had to be hung outside the visitation area and retrieved when I left.
ONLY approved visitors are allowed. NO ONE CAN JUST DRIVE UP AND VISIT. You must first fill out the two-page application to become a visitor, an application which grants the prison the right to run a background check on you. That takes about ten to twelve weeks to be processed. At the end of that period, you may call and see if your background check made you eligible to visit - they won't contact you about the result. Once the background check is complete and you are approved, it is then up to the inmate to place your name on his visitation list. He is ONLY allowed to do so twice a year, in May and in November. So, I have let all know about this process so they can take the steps NOW if they would like to visit him this summer.
The prison is about six hours from Savannah, depending on traffic around Atlanta and McDonough and Macon. I actually made it home in 5 1/2 hours today, as there was hardly any traffic once I was clear of Atlanta. Last night I stayed in Rome, which is less than an hour from the prison.
My brother was in great spirits and had even had a haircut on Monday to get ready for the visit. The prison had finally granted his repeated request for a new uniform to wear and new boots, so he was quite pleased at that. (The uniform and boots he's been wearing since late summer were paint-splotched from a paint detail he was allowed to participate in prior to an inspection of the prison.) He really looked GOOD and not at all like that horrid picture on the GA Dept of Corrections website. THAT did my heart good - I truly hadn't known what to expect. But his skin looks great, since it hasn't been ravaged by alcohol or other drugs in years now, and his eyes sparkle. When I first saw him, I reflexively greeted him with his childhood nickname and gave him a big hug! I told him, later, that I could see the young brother I had several decades ago,the young brother who had gone on to make such a bad series of choices in his life.
Away from the substances and people who had influenced his past life, he has been working hard to forge a new path, to make good decisions with a clear mind. He's even been taking classes for his GED and has been doing well in all of them, scoring in the 90's on the practice tests. He has a goal, a program of study he wants to enter, and the attainment of his GED is the next step toward that goal. I know my grandfather is quite proud of him, as am I.
Why? He is making positive choices, choices to benefit others, not just himself. He could choose to continue with drugs - they're as available in prison as they are on the streets outside your door - but he is consciously deciding to distance himself from those substances and the people who deal them and take them. I would like to think his son, now approaching thirty, might choose to make those same decisions, to learn from the mistakes of his father, to consider the effect of his choices on the lives of his children. Time will tell.

picasso

Today, when I was going through some old papers, I found a free-verse poem an artistic friend had sent some time ago. Here it is:

"Each second we live is a new and unique moment of the universe,
a moment that will never be again.

And what do we teach our children?

We teach them that two and two make four,
and that Paris is the capital of France.

When will we also teach them what they are?

We should say to each of them: Do you know what you are?

You are a marvel. You are unique.

In all the years that have passed there has never been another child like you.

Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move.

You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven.

You have the capacity for anything.

Yes, you are a marvel.

And when you grow up, can you then harm another who is, like you, a marvel?

You must work, we all must work, to make the world worthy of its children."

- Pablo Picasso

braving the cold

I am so very proud of myself. For two mornings in a row, I have thrown myself out of my warm house to venture into below-freezing temperatures.
Sure, I can hear it now: “People do that all the time, that isn’t anything special.” Well, perhaps people do sally forth into such temperatures all the time, but “I” do NOT.
I am fortunate enough to have been born a Georgia peach, meaning I did not have to acclimate myself to such harsh weather conditions as a child. I am fortunate enough to have lived my life within six degrees of this latitude for my years as an adult, with only two exceptions. For two years I was in Panama, basking in warmth which never dropped to less than seventy percent of body temperature. Savannah is thirty-two degrees north of the equator; the Canal Zone (now an extinct area) in Panama is only nine degrees north of that imaginary line and has beach weather all year – ah, bliss!
I’ve had my chances to move farther north. Before my first marriage, the Navy was set to send me to Ireland and my soon-to-be husband to Panama. As my future duty station was designated a better selection (due to its location in Europe), there was no possibility of him being able to join me there. So, after informing the government of our impending wedding, I released my choice assignment and choose to accompany my spouse to Central America. Good decision!
This discussion of my first marriage brings me to the second exception to my living at thirty-two degrees north. He and I met during the brief span of time spent at school near Waukegan, Illinois, at forty-two degrees north. I had arrived there in mid-April from Orlando, Florida, and was shocked by the cold temperature. I had to forget about my halter tops and shorts and don my knee-length greatcoat and gloves again. By the time of my departure from that area in the first week of August, I was again clad in my greatcoat.
I found it difficult to believe that people would CHOOSE to live under such conditions, but then I married the man from Oregon, who had lived his life just a bit more north of that latitude. I should have known that he would want to eventually return to the upper west coast and its climate. Although his longing for home was not the reason for our divorce, I must state for the record that I am sure it was a contributing factor. We did travel there once and spent much of the month of another April in its rainy chill, perhaps made more daunting after the bliss of Panama life.
Oddly, my second marriage was also to a man from a latitude which is forty-plus degrees north. Fortunately, his time in the military had allowed him to discover the (almost) snow-free existence of life in Savannah and he was not interested in dragging me off to Michigan. He did try to encourage me to seek employment in northern states after I obtained my degree, but I resisted mightily. Honestly, I believed then – and even more so, now – that life spent in that harsh environment would be miserable and just might kill me.
Now that I have hypothyroidism, I am even more sensitive to the cold. Every year, as the arctic blasts wreak havoc, I seriously consider moving farther south. Maybe one day I will, but that day is not yet arrived.
For now, I am proud of myself for simply braving the below-freezing temperatures for two mornings in a row.