Going through a tattered trunk filled with old things dating back to my teen years I came across an old wallet.  Two things were inside:  a photo of my brother when he was about thirteen and a small much yellowed clipping.  I remember cutting the piece out of a Sunday newspaper “Parade” magazine and recall it was writing by a man in prison.

Why do we usually view the past as a straight line from then to now, yet view today as filled with uncertainty and chaos?  In time what makes us feel lost today will eventually be perceived as part of a future straight line view. Why can’t I have that future view now? 

It’s quite ironic I found that clipping in a wallet made by a convict.  In my formative years road maintenance, right of way mowing and trash pickup on state highways was done by trustee convicts.  These were not “chain gangs” like the movies where men are chained to each other.  All dressed in white except for their prisoner number on the back and front of their shirt and jacket, these men were free to do their work unencumbered by bindings.

In these prison work crews were usually six to ten men who were transported in the back of dump trucks.  One or two guards with side arms were present to keep track of the convicts. Usually these men were those imprisoned for nonviolent, lesser offenses and had little to gain from trying to escape beyond extending the time they had already been sentenced to.  That’s why they were called “trustees” and were men who appreciated being allowed out in the open.

The work these men did was patching potholes, putting up signs, picking up trash and driving tractors to mow the right of way.  Most appreciated the chance to work and do something meaningful.  I’m not sure of the amount but seems like that got a quarter an hour for their work or less than $3.00 per day.  Back then cigarettes were less than fifty cents a pack and so a few bucks was a lot for men who had so little.

My home Alabama county had nothing but two lanes roads until about ten years ago. In my early driving years the convict work crews would block a lane when doing work on the other side.  At each end of the work area a convict would have the job of directing traffic into the one open lane.  It never failed if you were stopped and had to wait the prisoner there would try to sell you leather goods they made.  Wallets handmade and tooled were small enough to carry in their pockets and pull out to sell.  The one I found in my old trunk was one of those:  navy blue dyed, thick leather with a tooled design all over one end.  There is no memory of what I paid the convict for it, but I remember clearly the man and joy on his face that I bought it.  Such happiness for just a few dollars for something so well made that had to have taken days.

Around lunchtime convict crews working within a few miles would come into the family store I worked at in my early teens.  This was back in the days when soft drinks almost all came in reusable bottles that were worth three cents to a bottler.  We paid two cents per bottle to anyone who brought them in.  The prisoners would frequently bring in bags (we called toe sacks) filled with bottles they picked up on the side of the road.  We paid two cents for each one to the convicts who always seemed respectful and polite.

Once observation that sticks with me yet today is almost all the men on the work crews were African-Americans.  As the years passed I connected the dots to realize that these men were being discriminated against, likely to a degree I can’t even imagine.  Yet, they were probably better off than some since they got to “work” on the “outside”.  I can’t imagine what went on with minority men who were viewed much more sternly.

Today I am grateful for several things learned seeing these prison work groups as a kid.  Between seeing these crews and visiting my Mom’s cousin in prison one time I gained a healthy respect for the law and the basic values I was taught.  Witnessing the appreciation of the convicts for being “free on the outside” helped me know I never, ever wanted to be locked up.  Seeing their appreciation for tiny, little things made an impression never to be forgotten. And my memory of the work crews is a vivid reminder of the discrimination that went on in the Deep South when I was growing up.  All those nameless men on the work crews taught me well by just by their presence.  I am grateful.  In return I tell their story here as a testament to the fact they lived.

Inside these walls
things look so gray.
But, the crimes I committed
are why I’m here today.

I keep my head up
and learn to cope.
Freedom will come again
and this gives me hope.

So many different people
with faults to accept.
Looking to God with a smile
is all I have left.

My life has been better
and I still have waters to wade.
I plan to make my life good;
Turn lemons to lemonade.

From “These Walls” by a prisoner identified only as C.S