Never have I been arrested.  Even being pulled over by a traffic cop makes me nervous.  Telling a story over lunch to someone recently caused a connection to be made to why I am over the top respectful of police and laws.

I was five or six years old.  It was Sunday when my Father, Mother, Brother and I went to visit my Mom’s first cousin, Dan, in an Alabama prison.  He was serving time for being caught repeatedly making and selling moonshine on a fairly ambitious scale.  On the Sabbath family members were allowed to visit and we had brought “dinner” as the meal is called down south (I grew up hearing lunch called “dinner” and dinner being called “supper”). 

As we walked from the parking lot up to the prison, the first striking memory is of a tall round tower on the perimeter of the facility.  From about three stories up through a window the guard there lowered a bucket on a rope into which visitors had to leave their keys to be kept during the visit.  For many years I thought the reason was so an inmate could not get loose and escape in a car he had keys to.  The realization came later the keys were temporarily confiscated to keep them from falling into the hands of a convict who might use the metal to made a pointed or sharp weapon.  

Once inside the prison the sound I recall most vividly is the slam the sliding jail gates made.  These moved like glass sliding doors from left to right.  The noise of them being banged shut was even louder and echoed with greater resonance than in any movie I have seen.  The deep closing clatter made the shutting feel so permanent and left a deep impression on me. 

The area I recall most clearly was fenced in outside with picnic tables. Here is where we spent our time visiting the inmate cousin.  “Dan” was glad to see familar faces from the outside and get something good to eat other than the prison food.  The adults talked for the two hours or so, catching the cousin up on family news.  My little brother fell asleep and was put on a quilt in the shade under the picnic table.  I sat mesmerized watching everyone in the prison yard and to this day can close my eyes and see a “movie in my head” of that experience.

From time to time an inmate would come by our table showing off leather goods he had made.  Wallets, a comb and case, key chains and even purses that were hand-made by the inmates was a way to make a little cash.

The yard containing the picnic area had a very high chain link fence topped off by several strands of barbed wire on inwardly angled posts.  The fence seemed impossible to climb and get over.  Clearly I remember feeling caught and shut up knowing the only way out was to be let out.  

The inmates did not wear orange prison clothing or white tops and bottoms with prisoner numbers on the back like in the movies.  Maybe they did on other days, but on that Sunday it was blue jeans and white t-shirts.  Recalling now that all the prisoners were dressed that way I assume that was the “Sunday best” that was provided to them.

There is also the story of when my Mother’s cousin, Dan, was arrested for the offenses that sent him to prison.  He lived in the country only a few hundred yards from my grandparents place where we were visiting at the time.  I witnessed for several hours all the police cars, flashing lights and law enforcement with guns while he held up inside with his wife and kids.  Clearly I remember overhearing someone comment that Dan said he was not going to be taken alive.    

After a few hours my Father who was a friend was allowed to get close to the house to talk Dan into giving himself up.  Then Dad followed the police car the dozen miles or so to the county jail because Dan was afraid of the police I overheard the adults say later.  Apparently, the fear was well founded for when my Father returned from getting cigarettes for him, he found Dan bruised and bloodied in his jail cell.  

What is written about here happened sometime just before I started first grade.  Nothing I witnessed was ever explained to me by an adult in any way.  The observations and conclusions that made such an impressions on me were all those from a child’s interpretation.  The message was simple:  Don’t be ‘bad’ or you’ll end up like Dan.  

There is gratitude for “the fear of God” that what I encountered at such a young age put into me.  Overall the effect has been positive as I have stayed on the straight and narrow my entire life.  My worst offenses have been traffic tickets.  I am grateful for this classroom called my life that has always taught meaningful lessons if only I paid attention.  For this one, I got at A+!.

One of irony’s greatest accomplishments is that one cannot punish the wrongdoing of another without committing a wrongdoing himself.  Anonymous