So many different memories have come up because of this series. Today, I'm going to talk about 2 in particular. One a bit difficult, the other funny. Both are visions of how my dad saw life at times.
In 1984, I was sent to prison for up to 3 years. I was arrested in Vermont and spent 3 months there before being brought back to Plattsburgh, NY, for trial. Before it went to a trial, I'd accepted a plea bargain and was sentenced to 1 1/2 to 3 years. Not as bad as some I knew but bad for me, who'd heard nothing but how scary Bedford Hills prison was. I spent a couple of months in Plattsburgh's county jail. It had 4 cells for women at that time, with one room that was for the 'matron' to use for her comfort. Occasionally, they would use that room for a prisoner but not too often because it had no bars on the windows. After a fight with another female, I was moved into that room. After being there for 2 weeks and the situation was obviously not getting better between the other female and myself, they moved me to Franklin county, near the Canadian border. It was a trip of at least 4 hours in order for my parents to come visit me.
My parents made that trip once per month the whole time I was there. Our visits were always nice and the entire staff got to know my parents well. They'd just made their trip to see me for Christmas, a few days prior, when I was brought to the Sheriff's office. He told me that what he was doing was against the rules but out of respect for my parents, he wanted me to call them and let them know that I would be going to the prison before the end of the year. He did this because my dad had mentioned the possibility of coming up between Christmas and New Year's to visit me again and the sheriff didn't want them making the trip for nothing.
The whole time I was at Bedford Hills, slightly more than 2 1/2 years, my parents visited me once per month, bringing me the 35 lbs of food we were allowed, books enough to keep me busy for a week, and leaving me some cash to spend at the prison canteen every other week. The visits were usually about 3 hours long, full of laughter and family news, keeping me up to date about my nephew's growth. I never thought about how hard those visits must have been for them, just glad that they came, even during the winter.
In 1997, I got out after doing my full 3 year sentence. Within a month, my dad and I went down to visit two of the friends I'd made while there. I'd promised both of them that I'd come back to visit and I was not about to break my word to them, like so many others had done. We got there, bearing gifts and leaving money on their books. Dad and I had a great time, and both of my friends were surprised to see me there. When that first visit was over, I had a hard time walking back to the car. I was crying because it was so hard emotionally for me, knowing I was leaving and had to leave them there. We got in the car and my dad let me cry for a few minutes before putting the car in gear and driving off.
We made a pitstop a few miles away, so I could get myself together. He looked out at the view and said, without looking at me, "Now you know how difficult it's been for me this last few years. I had to walk away with a smile on my face, knowing I was leaving my baby in that hell hole. Kiddo, if you ever get the bright idea to do something like that again, think about this minute and don't. Because there's no way I can go through that again."
In early 1989, I got an interview at Dannemora prison in Clinton County, NY. Yep, the men's max facility. I'd taken a state exam and was high enough on the list to get the interview. I didn't want to drive up by myself so I asked my dad to come with me. He brought a book to read while I was in the interview and off we went. The interview went well, even though I knew I wouldn't get the job, and soon we were on our way.
I wanted my dad to see the place I'd been living in when I'd been arrested in Vermont. It was a wonderful place, a huge old barn that had been converted, and out on a dirt road past a covered bridge, about 30 minutes from Burlington. Now, I hadn't been there in 4 years and so my directions were a bit off but we finally did get there. He thought it was a lovely location, so quiet and definitely rural. And then we decided to head home.
Now, like so many men, my dad was positive he didn't need directions and we didn't even have a map with us. He said he'd follow his nose and we'd make it home without a problem. Except we didn't. We meandered and went from one road to another, never thinking much about which direction we were going. Until I looked at my watch and saw it was nearly 3 and I knew mom was expecting us home for dinner. So I finally asked him to stop and ask for directions or at least to buy a map. After listening to me whine (and yes, I did a good job at it.), he finally stopped at this little country store and bought a map. When I asked him for it, he said "Don't worry, I got directions from the owner. We go this way for this many miles and then we'll hit this route which runs south and will lead us eventually to the Thruway in NY." Not being too worried, I was okay and sat back to watch the scenery.
After driving a few miles, I noticed a sign that said "Welcome to Vermont." I turned and looked at my dad, who grinned a bit sheepishly back. "Yeah, I kinda got us lost. We were nearly through New Hampshire and heading into Maine." We laughed like loons and then I told him it was okay. At least we were still in the U.S. and not in Canada.
We finally made it home around 7 that evening. Mom was worried and upset and definitely not laughing when we told her the story of what had happened. But until my dad died in 1990, our private joke was "At least we're not in Canada."
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