Hello to all of you,

Thanks for coming by and sharing my stories. Unfortunately, my smelly cellie continues to pollute this tiny living space. I am thinking about letting our military know that I have a guaranteed major weapon for them. Just put him downwind any place where there is a threat to us, and they will surrender and beg for mercy.

Here's another happy memory from my days with Grandma and Grandpa:

I spent all of my free time with my Grandma and Grandpa on their farm. I was always the apple of Grandma's eye. We would raise and sell every kind of vegetable you can think of. My favorite time of the year on the farm was mid-August, when we would have a long row of purple-blue Concord grapes, long clusters of the most beautiful grapes I've ever seen. Grandma would cut the top ones, and I would lie on my back on the pine needles and cut the low ones. She would be at peace with the world during these times that we shared together. She told me later on that at that time she and Grandpa had been talking and wondering if I would stay with them when I got out of high school to help them run the farm. Both of them agreed that I would probably get married and wouldn't want to stay with them and help them. That's when I stopped her and told her that I would always stay with them and run the farm, for that is always all I ever wanted to do. If only it would have worked out that way, how different my life might have been.

Sundays were Grandma's fried chicken days. She would start early in the morning. I would be sitting patiently at the kitchen table behind her, with my elbows on the table and my chin cupped in the palms of my hands. She knew I was a leg man, and after the first batch of golden-brown fried chicken was finished, she would grab a paper towel and bring me a hot-out-of-the-pan chicken leg that would melt in your mouth. Then she would pat me on top of my head before returning to the stove to finish cooking. Life was grand then. Who needs to go to heaven? Just let me go over to Grandma's house on Sundays for the fried chicken again. That's my heaven!

Grandpa was a terrific salesman. After Grandma and I had finished picking the ripe vegetables, whatever was left over after eating, canning, and sharing with other family members, he would sell. Surprisingly, he didn't have an old pick-up truck, but a '67 blue Chevy Malibu. We would put into the trunk and back seat of the car the fruits of our labor to sell. Everybody knew Grandpa, from the supermarkets on Jefferson Davis Highway to the Firestone tire store to the Meadowbrook Country Club, we hit them all. And after he and his barefoot grandson had sold everything, I was usually awarded with a six-pack of strawberry Nehi. My life was certainly grand then. If one could choose his heaven to spend his eternity in, that little farm back in the 1960's and 1970's would surely be mine!

See you all again real soon.

Hello to you all,

I am grateful for the folks who have read my new blog and a kind person who responded. It is a lonely life in my tiny cell, and being able to communicate with you means so much to me. My cellie is not much company, as you might guess. Since he has no life on the outside, any conversation has to be about this place - and he has to be right always. Sometimes, just to keep my sanity, I will agree with him on a particular topic that I know he's dead wrong on. He will pause and realize I'm agreeing with him. So what does he do? He'll change gears and contradict himself, just so he can disagree with me. And so my days go.

Now let's go back to my memories from the late 1960's up to 1975, which was a grand time to be living in America. Rock 'n' Roll was in its prime and still king, while westerns ruled the TV.

My grandparents' farm was a magnificent couple of hundred acres of fields and rolling hills, beautiful massive oak and pine trees, and several flowing creeks running through this landscape that was nestled among other passed-down from generation to generation farms in the eastern part of Chesterfield County, Virginia. Surprisingly, it was only a stone's throw from the city of Richmond. Today, one would probably have to drive fifty to sixty miles into the country from Richmond to find such farms. But as late as the 1960's and into the middle 1970's, it would only be about a ten minute drive down to the south of Richmond on Jefferson Davis Highway to be among the farms and open country. Not long after the end of the Vietnam War, a population explosion evolved in the area. The older generations seemed to all die off, leaving the farms to their children. Almost all of the children that I knew in the area sold off to real estate developers, and subdivisions of homes sprang up quicker than the spring corn that once graced the same open fields.

In the early 1960's, my parents rented a small, quaint little house on a street called Merrywood Road, which was halfway between Richmond and my grandparents' farm. Grandma did not have a driver's license, so Grandpa would drive her over to our house to care for me and my baby sister while my parents were working. I can plainly remember as if it were yesterday eagerly waiting for her to come over to stay with us. Every morning before she arrived, I would take my crayons and color small pieces of paper, then carefully hide them around the house. Behind the refrigerator and the sofa, in the cabinets - you name it, I hid the small pieces of paper there. And then, no sooner would my Mom leave for work then I would grab my Grandma's pinky or her pointer finger with my small child's hand and lead her around the house to find the hidden pieces of paper - almost always taking her directly to the spot where I had hidden them. Like the very good grandmother she was, she played right along and looked surprised when we found one piece after another. Sometimes, when situations get too tough and unbearable in here, I'll reach out into the air and grab her finger once again for comfort and strength.

During this time, before she would leave with Grandpa at the end of the day, she would cook supper for us. If there was something on my plate that I didn't want to eat, maybe squash or some vegetable that young kids don't like to eat, I would begin to cry because my parents would make me eat it. Grandma and Grandpa would stand at the back door acting as if they were preparing to leave. Grandma would look at me and say "If you eat your vegetables, I'll stay longer." I would stop my fake crying long enough for her to take her coat off, but then I would refuse to eat my veggies. Of course, this would lead her to put her coat back on and head toward the door. Then I would proceed with my fake crying again, and she would take off her coat again. She and I had a human yo-yo game going.

As time went by, and I grew up on their farm, any time I did something wrong Grandma would never punish me or say anything. However, on the way home with my parents, Mom would confront me on what I had done wrong during my stay with Grandma and Grandpa. Here I thought I had gotten away with something. But grandparents can be tricky. Perhaps it was payback time for the human yo-yo games.

Thanks for sharing this with me. I will send more along soon.

Hello to you all out there.  I was born and raised in the Richmond, Virginia area. I am an inmate in a state prison in Virginia. I have many childhood memories I want to share with you, as well as an inside first-hand look at life in a maximum security prison. I hope you will respond to my messages. A good friend on the outside will send me your responses, and I will answer you via the same route.

These days, my cell mate is a 6' 6" 255 pound giant, a hillbilly from a small town in West Virginia.  He spends his days either eating or sleeping. It's like living with Big Foot in a tiny cage. Showers do not interest him, and deodorant is unknown to him. His body odor is beyond description. He does not read a lick, and he's content to watch whatever TV show I am watching. He is a good example of someone who has been institutionalized. His world is within these walls, and his topics of conversation refer to situations and people here. When he does touch on a national or international topic, it amazes me to hear how dull minded he is and how he never has the facts straight.  It would be bearable if we each had separate jobs to do outside of our cells during the day. But unfortunately someone in the prison was caught trying to make a weapon. As a result, we are on total lock-down. He and I are stuck together in the cell 24/7. It is trying my patience and my determination to keep on my good behavior so I can be transferred to a level 4 prison, which I have already been approved for twice. Unfortunately, those prisons are filled with new people, and there is no place for me yet. 

I spend a lot of my time thinking back to my early years. It helps me to deal with the present when I can reach out to the happy memories I have of my grandparents and their unconditional love for me. 

During my very young years, my parents both worked, and the care for me and my younger sister was given over to my paternal grandparents who lived on a nearby farm. I was their first grandchild, born on January 27, 1961. They had raised two sons who both flew the nest and married in 1960. I quickly filled the void left by their departure. And I am here to tell you that I really hit the jackpot with this stroke of fate. For they would have seven more grandchildren, but I would always be Number One. They loved me and spoiled me to death.

More to come, friends. I look forward to your responses.