Last night, the second night of Passover, we had an adventure which we could have done without. While I was computing something, I heard Rhoda shouting from the kitchen and when I rushed (as slowly as I could) to see what it was all about, water was all over the floor and pouring out from the disposal unit under the sink. It looked like a tsunami. So,I put on my bathing suit, scuba gear, fins, glasses, and swam heroically to the water faucet and turned it off. Somehow, the water found its way onto the living room carpet where Rhoda had set the table for our dinner. Our neighbors, the Strumlaufs, were invited to join us, but now it was out of the question. We soaked up what water we could with a lot of towels, and we set up a fan in the living room to dry the carpet. Then we carried all the food into the Strumlauf's apartment; turkey breast, drumsticks, asparagus, gefilte fish, soda, and all the other traditional Passover stuff that RH+ cooked. Fortunately, this morning, a maintenance man came and installed a new garbage disposal unit. The timing of this flood was somehow coincidental with the story of Moses who parted the sea so the Israelites could escape with their Manischevitz Matzoh and wine, and Jochebed's brisket. But tonight we're back to eating pasta
I continually think about what I can write about in my blogs that might be of interest to all the relatives and friends (whoever they might be) and a few months ago, my son Bobby, wrote an account of his one year sentence to a County jail in California in 1987. I found it fascinating because, for one thing, I was never in a county jail; and secondly, it carried on the family tradition of always having some member in jail--like my two grandfathers who landed in Sing Sing for arson. So, here is part of Bobby's story when he was 32.
MY LIFE IN THE COUNTY JAIL....BY BOBBY LOU ROSS
I was housed in a minimum security county jail work farm ("Sheriff Peter J. Pitchesss
Honor Farm") and performed clerical duties for the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department, being a most trusted "trustee". I was also in charge of handing out, and taking constant inventory of the knives and cutlery for the kitchen staff. It was an experience I won't forget. I can't watch "jailhouse" movies; they make me queasy. I was able to do "easy time" (it wasn't hard time) for 3 personality traits: Intelligence, physical strength and humor.
The night I arrived in "Camp Snoopy" (minimum security), the 200 or so "new fish" were asked several questions to decide their stations, or jobs.When we were asked "who can type?" I raised my hand and no-one else did! I got the job as clerk in the kitchen office and helped the Sheriff Deputies type out their reports and other letters. I ate with the Sheriffs ( a dozen or more) in the office (once in the officers mess) and did not have to eat with the other inmates 5 days per week. I ate steak when it was on the menu, and fish, and chicken, ice cream, and anything I wanted, pretty much. Never a late snack, no such thing. I would bring some back to the barracks on occasion and trade it for $ or cigarettes or favors like getting my kitchen whites pressed in the Sheriff's laundry facility before visiting day. Mom or sister Bonny would come on those days and it was so nice to see family, you would not believe. Being incarcerated sounds as bad as it is. You have no FREEDOM. I think privacy is a freedom and I had none. Not ever. Constantly surrounded by no less then than a dozen other guys (no chicks at all!) all day, every day...privacy is a freedom I missed dearly.
The barracks we were housed in had no less than 100 guys in it. Twenty-five (or more when they needed to add some) bunk beds lined the walls of the metal corrugated bunkhouse and a shower room and bathroom were halfway down. No fan or a/c in the summer and it would get to be 110 degrees in there or more. Remember this was in the mountains north of where Bonny and Mom lived. In the winter it would get to be near freezing and the barracks had one gas heater on each end of the barrack. All we had to wear was pajama like clothes and in the winter, the lucky ones would have Levi type jackets.
I will continue this story in installments, and to create suspense, withhold the cause of Bobby's incarceration until a later date. Meanwhile let's keep your tsk tsk's to a minimum.
I continually think about what I can write about in my blogs that might be of interest to all the relatives and friends (whoever they might be) and a few months ago, my son Bobby, wrote an account of his one year sentence to a County jail in California in 1987. I found it fascinating because, for one thing, I was never in a county jail; and secondly, it carried on the family tradition of always having some member in jail--like my two grandfathers who landed in Sing Sing for arson. So, here is part of Bobby's story when he was 32.
MY LIFE IN THE COUNTY JAIL....BY BOBBY LOU ROSS
I was housed in a minimum security county jail work farm ("Sheriff Peter J. Pitchesss
Honor Farm") and performed clerical duties for the Los Angeles Sheriff's Department, being a most trusted "trustee". I was also in charge of handing out, and taking constant inventory of the knives and cutlery for the kitchen staff. It was an experience I won't forget. I can't watch "jailhouse" movies; they make me queasy. I was able to do "easy time" (it wasn't hard time) for 3 personality traits: Intelligence, physical strength and humor.
The night I arrived in "Camp Snoopy" (minimum security), the 200 or so "new fish" were asked several questions to decide their stations, or jobs.When we were asked "who can type?" I raised my hand and no-one else did! I got the job as clerk in the kitchen office and helped the Sheriff Deputies type out their reports and other letters. I ate with the Sheriffs ( a dozen or more) in the office (once in the officers mess) and did not have to eat with the other inmates 5 days per week. I ate steak when it was on the menu, and fish, and chicken, ice cream, and anything I wanted, pretty much. Never a late snack, no such thing. I would bring some back to the barracks on occasion and trade it for $ or cigarettes or favors like getting my kitchen whites pressed in the Sheriff's laundry facility before visiting day. Mom or sister Bonny would come on those days and it was so nice to see family, you would not believe. Being incarcerated sounds as bad as it is. You have no FREEDOM. I think privacy is a freedom and I had none. Not ever. Constantly surrounded by no less then than a dozen other guys (no chicks at all!) all day, every day...privacy is a freedom I missed dearly.
The barracks we were housed in had no less than 100 guys in it. Twenty-five (or more when they needed to add some) bunk beds lined the walls of the metal corrugated bunkhouse and a shower room and bathroom were halfway down. No fan or a/c in the summer and it would get to be 110 degrees in there or more. Remember this was in the mountains north of where Bonny and Mom lived. In the winter it would get to be near freezing and the barracks had one gas heater on each end of the barrack. All we had to wear was pajama like clothes and in the winter, the lucky ones would have Levi type jackets.
I will continue this story in installments, and to create suspense, withhold the cause of Bobby's incarceration until a later date. Meanwhile let's keep your tsk tsk's to a minimum.
No comments:
Post a Comment