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Short Time - A Soccer Mom Goes to Jail
March, 2001
It was still dark when I boarded the Greyhound Bus that would take me to jail. And while I am all for other people using public transportation, deep down I just feel that busses are below me. I don't know where this snobbery comes from, but I am so above busses. The couple that took the seats across the aisle reinforced my prejudice. She was a skinny white teenager with bad skin and stringy Cloroxed-yellow locks falling from dishwater roots. Her makeup was simple - a thrice over with face powder offset by black liquid eyeliner. Her mate was at least double her age (and weight), but that didn't keep him from wearing a giant black Stone Cold Austin t-shirt, with a slogan that included the word ASS in glittery capital letters. He was carrying a surprisingly attractive baby called "Bubba", and when he turned and leaned over to pass the baby to its mamma, he shoved a good length of his hairy butt crack directly in front of my face. Just a few moments before, through quiet tears and "I love you"s, I saw a shared hurt in the eyes of my husband and our nine-year-old son, and knew I was the cause of their pain. Right then, with that man's bare ass only two inches from my face, I felt so low that I knew I deserved to be on that Greyhound Bus.
Seven hours later I got off the bus, walked to a cheap motel, checked in, and then walked to my lawyer's office. For more than a year he'd been telling me I wouldn't see jail time. But the week before my court date he changed his tune and told me to prepare for a twenty-one-day sentence. "Not to worry though, because Good Time is one day off for every three days served. Also, when they check you into jail let the guard know you've already served a day in jail on this matter and they'll apply that to your sentence. So, in the end that's what? Six days off for Good Time and a day already served. Hell that's only thirteen days. And you may get kicked out early if the jail over crowds. You'll be out in no time. Now, sign here to indicate you understand the judge can sentence you to up to two years in jail no matter what the DA recommends." I also signed papers saying I was pleading guilty and that I understood all the rights I was giving up by doing so. On the way to court the next morning, my attorney realized he was missing some important paperwork. Never mind, he'd get it from the District Attorney. Except that she didn't have the paperwork either and sent someone to fetch it. This meant instead of having my shameful situation laid out in front of six people who were, like me, in court for sentencing, I was put off until the next session, where there were more than 50 people waiting to plead not guilty to traffic violations. In front of a packed courtroom, my name is called.
I stand and plead guilty to two felony charges, admitting I had embezzled $22,000 by changing the "Payee" portion on a number of checks coming into my employer. The DA pointed out that on top of that I had conned the banks and police when questions arose, by making them believe I was following directions given to me by my boss, who just happened to be overseas and difficult to contact. When the forgery specialist from the police department showed up unexpectedly at my office wanting to discuss some altered checks the bank had alerted him to, I didn't bat an eye. My demeanor was so cool under questioning that soon the officer was empathizing with my situation. Just look at me! A suburban Soccer Mom with a part-time job who is only trying to do her boss a favor.... by juggling her funds. What a silly situation. As the cop and I emerge laughing from a private office after twenty minutes, I called out teasingly to my co-workers, "Tell the officer what a nice person I am." Laura and Susan fall over themselves defending my goodness. "Christine?! Oh my gosh, she's just the sweetest thing." "Christine is wonderful. She's so good. She would never do anything wrong." They look, because they were, sincerely horrified that anyone could even think I'd done something wrong. My tale too audacious to have been made up. My performance so fine, that nobody bothered to pick up the phone to verify my story. I continued to alter checks for six more months, when I finally stopped myself by leaving the job. The DA recommended 80 hours community service, twenty days in jail, a repayment plan, and two years probation, during which I could not take a job handling other people's funds. Then it was my lawyer's turn. In all honesty, I think that I got a very good deal, but still desperately wanted to stay out of jail and had paid my attorney $5,000 to do it. I expected him to explain my mental illness, the fact that I'd brought the theft to my employer's attention on my own, that I went to the police on my own, got a shrink, etc. Instead, my attorney said, "Well your honor, it's a strange case because no one knows where the money went. She and her husband were both working, and didn't need the money. The husband never saw a dime of it and was unaware of her actions. As for the probation, it will be difficult as a felon for her to find new employment. I don't think it's fair to further narrow her options by forcing her to find a position that doesn't require to handle money." What?! The previous afternoon, I sat in his office and heartily endorsed the "no other people's money" clause. I hoped I wouldn't take someone else's money again, but why even have that be an option? The DA got everything she asked for, with the exception that I would be able to handle other people's money. I was to report to the jail by noon. My lawyer told me to think of my twenty days in jail as a vacation from doing dishes.
My Arrival
Upon my arrest several months ago, I spent 28 hours in jail. With the information I gleaned from my previous stay, I prepared for my adventure as best I could. I deprived myself of rest in hopes of sleeping the first couple of days away. I figured out how much cash I'd need to purchase shampoo, deodorant, and a deck of cards. When you are booked into custody, all monies you have on your person go into an account for you to purchase commissary items. You don't want to bring too much cash with you because upon release your balance is returned via a check that has PRISONER'S TRUST FUND emblazoned on it. I'd be too mortified to cash it. Commissary is ordered once a week and received four - five days later. If order day is Monday, and you arrive on Tuesday, you're waiting eleven days for shampoo. I had planned to get my hair cut short before my incarceration but had been too depressed to leave the house long enough to get it done. I took the wires out of my bra so they would let me wear it. I plucked my eyebrows and prayed I'd be able to find the pluck lines when I get out - it took years to get my eyebrows right. I applied several coats of deodorant. I wore the clothes and shoes I wanted to wear on my bus ride home after my release. I chose comfortable socks and planned to tell the officer checking me in that I suffer from athletes' foot, so she'll let me keep them. The thought of putting my bare feet in community plastic sandals, even though I've just watched them come out of the disinfectant bath with my own eyes, gives me the heebie-jeebies. I've got a thing about bare feet anyway, but please.... After my sentencing, I go to a pay phone and let my husband know what happened. I get my period, three weeks late, on my walk to the jail. I arrive in the lobby 34 minutes early, check in with the receptionist and sit down in the lobby. The guard who calls me in seems nice enough even as she rolls here eyes after seeing I have two bags of stuff to be searched and checked in. We step into a small cement room and she tells me to get undressed and put my clothes in a bag. She has me lift my arms and breasts. She looks behind my ears and under my tongue. I bend over, spread my cheeks and cough. The guard then clamors over a cement partition and asks me what size clothes I need. I am issued a pink Hanes t-shirt, granny-style pink Hanes underwear and a patched army green prison outfit. Clothing is exchanged twice a week. She hands me disinfected plastic sandals. I shudder when I put them on even though I have been allowed to keep my socks. I ask if my day served months earlier will apply to my sentence. "Only if the judge specifically ordered that. Your attorney should have taken care of that at sentencing. Too late now." My picture is taken and the photo becomes part of the plastic bracelet around my wrist. My extra clothing is checked in and bagged. The guard begins to go through my purse. In jail, the things you come in with are called your "property". For example, if you and another inmate are being processed out at the same time they may ask you, "Do you have a cigarette on your property?". I brought my birth control and my sanity pills. I ask if I will get my meds during my stay. "It's a case-by-case basis." I am allowed to write a note to the jail doctor explaining I will get violently ill if I'm pulled off my meds suddenly. We run into the doctor in the processing room and he assures me I can have my drugs. All the paperwork done, I am issued the following items.
1 hand towel to be exchanged twice a week.
1 hotel sized bar of soap
1 Bic razor - ?!
1 black pocket comb (Handy Tip! Break teeth off the comb and insert in tongue piercings to keep them from closing!)
1 tattered rule book
1 thick aqua melamine cup
1 short handled toothbrush and a tiny tube of toothpaste
2 pieces of paper, 2 envelopes and a golf pencil
1 mattress, a kind of lumpy plastic gym mat
1 pillow, a smaller lumpier plastic gym mat
2 hole filled sheets.
I expected to go into a quad cell. A quad cell is a big cement room with a shower off to the side. The room has a wooden bench, bolted to the ground, facing a television that's bolted to the ceiling. There is a stainless steel table with four stainless steel stools also bolted to the cement floor. The whole front wall is glass, like at the zoo. There are four cells off the main room. Each cell has a bed and a stainless steel toilet and sink. My plan was to keep my head down and read the time away in the room.
Instead of a quad room I'm led to a double. One cement room with a bunk bed, a stainless steel table and stools, and a television. There's a cubby off to the side with the toilet, sink and shower in plain view. Good things about a double room: Only one personality to live with as opposed to three. There is an actual door with only a small window instead of a whole wall of glass. Bad things about this: No privacy - no room to keep to oneself. Also, the toilet is in plain view of your roommate (or roommates as the jail overcrowds) at all times. I can't go in front of other people. I've spent up to five days in a row at my parents-in-law's house and never pooped once. But twenty days seems a bit of a push.
The most serious issue in jail is of course The Roommate. What if she's scary? What if she's just been pulled away from her crack, alcohol and/or tobacco and wants to take it out on me? Unlike the Loony Bin, where I've also been held against my will, county jail doesn't provide tranquilizers or nicotine patches to its inmates. Suddenly the positive side of the window-as-wall concept becomes apparent.
Lucky for me, one look at my roommate puts me at ease. Her name is Stacy and she smiles as she jumps off her bottom bunk to help me heave my mattress to the top bunk. Stacy is twenty-three years old and is here for a PV (parole violation). She's been in and out of jail for years due to drug arrests. Her dad is a "chef" (meth cooker) who spent his life in and out of jail. Her single mother, a recovering addict, is a recent born-again Christian who sometimes preaches at the jail. Stacy and her older sister were both born drug addicted. Stacy is the lucky one - her sister is blind. Stacy has pictures of her puppy and her boyfriend by her bunk. The boyfriend is a drug dealer missing a front tooth. There are no photos of her six-year-old son. Stacy's son spends half his time with his dad and the other half at Stacy's mother's house. The boy has been told Mommy is just too busy to see him - he doesn't know she's in jail. This ploy might have made sense if Stacy was just in jail for a couple of weeks like me. But Stacy has been in for three months and has three more to go. "My mom says my boy is really mad at me. He doesn't even ask for me anymore," Stacy cried one night after phoning her mother. I say, "Maybe someone should explain to him that you want to see him, but you've been naughty and got a time out. You'll see him as soon as you can and you won't be naughty anymore so you won't be taken away again." "No. Then his dad will figure out I'm in jail and will try to get full custody." Stacy has told me that the boy's father is drug free and from a loving and supportive family. He has a good job and takes great care of the boy, even sending him to private school. I don't say so to Stacy but I think the boy would be better off if his daddy got him full time.
There are twenty beds for women in this county jail and Stacy seems to know most of the women in them. She peers out of our window and makes silly faces at her buddies in other cells through the glass. Her friends make silly faces back. She holds up signs, "The Simpsons are on channel 13", "Is there an AA meeting tonight?", "Who's coming to visit you this week?" Stacy says she liked jail the first few times she was here. It was never longer than a couple of weeks and she got to see all of her friends. I tell Stacy I am taking copious mental notes because this experience is so foreign to my social group that my friends are curious to know what it's like. She ponders this. "Jail's not a bad place. It's just a place to hang out for awhile. There's nothing wrong with being here." She tells me about her friends and why they're here. "This one buddy of mine upstairs is going away for a long time. He was out on probation and he cut this guy's tongue off. He'd cut someone's tongue off before, but he gave the tongue back so the guy could get it stitched back on. But this time he wouldn't give the tongue back. Fuck, he made his point, give the tongue back. The guy deserved it though, he was always talking shit about people. You should hear him try to talk shit now - can't do it without a tongue can he?" Even though I am wincing at the story, the comment makes me laugh. Stacy has a speech impediment herself. She sounds like Gilda Radner doing Babwa Wawa. Even her most squalid stories have a child-like quality to them. ("One time when my giwlfwiend and me stayed awake thiwty-thwee days stwaight on cwack.....")
The first four days are just me and Stacy. I was hoping I could stick my head in a book and read some time away, but unfortunately I arrived on a Wednesday and library day was Tuesday. Stacy offers me her library books, Women Who Love Too Much, The Baby Trap, and two new aged versions of the Bible. No, thank you. The television is allowed to be on from 10:00 a.m. to 11:00 p.m., but this is really Stacy's room, I'm just a visitor, and she has her television schedule pretty well mapped out. It consists of a lot of reality television - Ripley's Believe It or Not, Cops, all the judge shows, America's Most Wanted - sprinkled with sitcoms like Who's The Boss?, The Nanny and Three's Company. With nothing to read and mind-numbing television I try to sleep. No luck there either. I am getting bruises on my hip bones from laying on my hard bed. I spend the first two nights on the top bunk. But the bunks are metal, and there are no rungs to help me up. I'm five foot, two inches and have no upper body strength, so getting up to the top is a bitch. After the first night, I have bruises on the inside of my thighs and all over my shins from pulling myself up over the metal bar at the top. On the third day, I give it up and pull my mat to the cement floor and sleep there. Aside from hand washing my t-shirt and socks everyday, and tending to a messy period armed with nothing other than generic brand maxi-pads, only the jail schedule interrupts the monotony.
7:00 a.m. Overhead lights are turned on.
7:05 a.m. Door is opened and cleaning bucket on wheels with cleaning supplies balanced on top is rolled in from outside and door is shut.
7:30 a.m. Beds must be made. You may lay under a sheet, but you must be on top of the wool blanket, between 7:30 a.m. and 7:00 p.m.
7:30 a.m. Breakfast is served through a slot in the door. More on jail food later.
8:00 a.m. Medications are served through a slot in the door.
11:30 a.m. Lunch is served through a slot in the door.
5:00 p.m. Dinner is served through a slot in the door.
11:00 pm. Overhead lights are turned out.
There are outings as well - AA and NA meetings, visitors and library once a week, recreation and church twice a week. I skip all offered outings for a few moments of private bathroom time. Stacy gets out of the cell as often as she can. She applies makeup for her outings. Since makeup is contraband, she's forced to be creative. Stacy scoffs at the amateurs who use Skittles candies (ordered via commissary) for makeup. Red Skittles for lipstick, purple for blush, green for eyeshadow, won't due for Stacy. She takes her golf pencil and rubs the lead furiously on the rough cement cell walls, and then rims her eyelids with the lead dust stuck to the pencil's point. She carefully smears a bit of toothpaste on a lipstick ad she's ripped from a magazine and transfers the color from the magazine lips to her own. She does the same with blush and eyeshadow advertisements. The results are surprisingly good, especially considering she's done it all in front of a streaked plastic mirror which reflects a yellow, wavy image. She has to be careful - if the guards catch her wearing makeup she can lose any Good Time she's earned, as well as her visiting privileges. Someone gets sent back to her cell every visiting day due to obvious Skittle face.
Stacy is a fount of jail information. In her Babwa Wawa accent she tells me how to make wine out of bread, orange rinds and sugar. How to smuggle in crank. How to empty the toilet water so you can talk to people above you through the pipes. Stacy informs me that Good Time is not one day off for every three served, like my attorney said, it is one day off for every ten days served. You have to be a Trusty (say: trust-tee) to get the 1:3 ration. Trustys wear white clothes and do the prison laundry and cleaning eight hours a day. They earn $2 a day as well as earning Good Time. I "kite out" (shove a note under the door for the guards) everyday asking to be a Trusty, but my kites are ignored.
I don't write letters home because you have to include your name and Jackson County Jail in the return address, and I don't want my mailman to know I'm in jail. A phone is brought to our cell once a day and we are allowed to make collect calls (phone cards won't work). When the person you're calling answers the phone, they are informed they are receiving a collect call from the county jail. I call my husband after I settle in. I know he is distressed over my situation, but I am not thinking about his hardships, I am feeling sorry for myself when I call. I tell him how awful it is and wait for his comforting words. "Good!" he says. "I'm glad you're miserable. Don't disappear in your head Christine. Experience this. Use this experience to deter you from doing wrong in the future. I love you Christine, but I don't feel sorry for you. I am pissed that you are not here. I'm stressed out, working full-time, as well as doing the parenting and housekeeping without help. I am also dealing with an emotionally raw, insecure child. Now, I'm going to put him on the phone, you're going to smile through your tears and reassure him." I call home every other day. The first few calls are more of the same. My husband is angry at the situation I've created. He can't vent at our son. He can't discuss it with his friends or family because they don't know I'm in jail. My friends and family know, but they are more concerned with my situation than with his. The tone of the calls softens after the first week. He still tells me I deserve to be where I am and need to learn from the experience, but mostly he tells me he loves me unconditionally, and that my little family can't wait to have me home where I belong.
On my fifth day in jail, Stacy goes to church and I am enjoying a private shower when the door opens. It is a large, hard-looking woman, suffering from the shakes. She is easily six feet tall and has used her few remaining teeth to gnaw her chipped red nails to the quick. She's been here before and knows the drill. When Stacy returns to the cell she immediately recognizes a fellow crank-head by the shaking.
"How long since you've slept?" asks Stacy.
"About nine days."
"Yeah, sometimes it's good to come to jail just so you can get some sleep."
"I just wish I knew where my kids are. My old man and I were busted together and I don't know whose got my kids."
The next morning I wake up and, after a moment, remember that it is my birthday. I am turning thirty-five in jail. How did I ever get here? This is not supposed to be where my life went. My depression lifts momentarily when I hear that the jail is overcrowded. I overhear the guards say my name and I'm hopeful I'll be let out early. The perfect birthday gift for every inmate - Early Release. My roommates tell me I'll never get out so early. They'll ship me to the jail in the next town. It's for people who have been sentenced and are serving less than a year's time. Most of the women I'm with now are drunks and druggies waiting for their court dates. A guard comes to our door and barks my name. "Roll it up! You're moving!" My heart sinks. I gather my stuff, say my goodbyes to Stacy and the new girl and go stand by the door. It opens with a loud buzz and I'm led down a long hall. I put my bedding down and turn over my razor, bedding, etc. I enter a room full of male inmates. There is one other female inmate in there as well. Her name is Theresa and she is flirting shamelessly with the male prisoners and guards. I am handcuffed and connected to the other inmates by a chain around my waist. I tell a guard that I have an extra bag in storage and ask if it will follow me. They'll send it if they can find it. We are herded onto a van. There is a fence in the van that separates the men from the women. I cry quietly. I have no idea where I'm going or what I'll find there. We drive for twenty minutes, Theresa happily chatting with the men in the back of the van the whole time, and end up at what's called the Work Center.
The Work Center
We are herded back off the bus and told to grab one of the garbage bags piled up on the wet ground. They are filled with our Property, which has followed us from County. I pick up one that smells of sour beer and stale cigarette smoke. There is one extra bag - which means both my bags made it over. Theresa and I are taken into a small cement room. As we get undressed I noticed Theresa's right breast has a tattoo of Daisy Duck on her knees giving Mickey Mouse a blow job. The guard processing us, Marge, is short and pudgy. Her ugly brown uniform, with its thick belt, bulging pockets, and flat black shoes wouldn't flatter anyone. I don't understand why some people choose to work in this sad, angry environment, but I'm telling you, no matter what the perks of being a jail guard are, they can't make up for the uniform. Marge has a short, tightly curled permanent. She wears no makeup but is drowning in fake Obsession perfume, the kind that comes in an aerosol can. I ask her questions while I'm getting undressed. Will I be working here at the Work Center? Will I go to the 3:1 ratio for Good Time off? No. The Work Center is only a portion of the jail - not my portion. Can I be a Trusty here? I can put my name on the list but with all the inmates here being long-timers it will be a couple of months before there's an opening. "Come on," Marge barks, "you can do better than that!" I have not pulled my butt cheeks apart far enough for her to get a good look. "Sorry." I say, bending over again as tears fall off the end of my nose and splash onto the cement floor. We are issued blue clothes (including a luxury item - an XL t-shirt to sleep in), a razor, bedding, etc. After putting on another pair of plastic sandals I am taken to my new home.
This place, called The Pod, is totally different from the last. It is a giant, cement, two-level room that houses twenty-one women. There are two toilets and two showers on each side of the room. They are underneath cement stairways, but still in plain view of everyone. The second story houses ten metal bunk beds and juts out halfway above the first. Each bottom bunk has two metal drawers underneath it for our personal items. There is a single bed on the main floor. There is a television mounted on the wall underneath the second story. There are six plastic tables scattered around the room and plastic chairs stacked to the sides. The two-story front wall is a two-way mirror. There are several cameras monitoring the room. It is not so bad being watched when you can't see the people watching you. I put my bedding on a top bunk. A Trusty comes over in her white uniform. Her name is Ellen and she's the "House Mouse". She earns her two dollars a day cleaning our toilets and mopping the floors. She's also the Pod Mediator. If I have a problem with any of the other girls, I'm to go to her before the deputies. She goes over the rules with me, but the most important thing Ellen tells me is that I can go to COG (a cognitive skills class) and get the 3:1 Good Time ratio. Sign me up!
The first thing I notice about the jail population is that, with the exception of one Mexican, everybody is white. There are only a dozen or so black people in the local community, but a lot of Mexicans live around here. I'm surprised my 1/4 Mexican ass is the second most ethnic in here. The second thing I notice is, a good third of these women are obese. I don't even know how this can be because JAIL FOOD IS INCREDIBLY BAD.
Here is the scoop (and a lot of it is served by the scoop) on jail food. First off, every meal is served on a tin cafeteria tray and eaten with a spork. The bowls, sporks, and cup I was issued upon arrival are all formed from the same 1970-something aqua colored thick melamine. Trays must be emptied before we give them back. When I roomed with Stacy, we dumped everything down the toilet. At the Work Center, there are large buckets made available in which to scrape our food. The male prison population prepares the food so even if the food was appetizing, I don't know that I would eat it. The male prisoners I've seen don't look clean. Breakfast at the Work Center is served at 5:30 a.m. The fake scrambled eggs are a neon yellow color. Grayish breakfast gravy is served once or twice a week. Lunch is always last night's dinner. The kitchen has added water and now it's called soup. On Fridays, fish night, they serve creamed fish with peas on top of gluey egg noodles. Saturday's lunch: a bowl of creamed-fish-with-peas-on-top-of-gluey-egg-noodles-and-hot-water soup. Salt and pepper are available through the commissary in tiny two-cent packets. Sometimes a sandwich comes with the soup. There is the occasional Unidentifiable Meat Mixture sandwich, but most often the sandwiches are peanut butter and jelly. Smack in the center, between one slice of white and one slice of wheat bread is a 2" x 2" glob of purple-gray goo. The goo is a mixture of peanut butter and "jelly". This "jelly" sometimes comes on the breakfast trays where it jiggles and shimmers with a kind of eerie glow. It doesn't come from fruit. It is (I'm sure a generic brand of) Kool-Aid with Sure-Jell. Kool-Aid comes with every meal. It's called juice when served with breakfast, but they're not fooling anyone. After you get your food tray, you hold your plastic cup under one of two labeled spouts. In the mornings the labels read "Milk" and "Juice". At lunch and dinner, the choices are "Purple" and "Blue". I stick to water. Sometimes, not one of the twenty women I live with can tell me what the food is even trying to be. Mostly, it is out-dated food from grocery stores. The dinner rolls have a moldy greenish fuzz. Fruit is served frequently, but it is way past its prime and edible only half the time. Big cookies are served every few days and they're good. I live on the cookies, any edible fruit, and the packets of stale soda crackers that come with the soup.
Life in The Pod
My first meal in The Pod was lunch. I took my tray and sat at an empty table. Ellen sits across from me. Then another woman comes and stands at my chair.
"It's okay, she didn't know." says Ellen.
"Am I in your place? I can move. I'm sorry." I sputter
After a few deep breaths the woman by my chair says, "No, I'll be okay. I'll pull another chair up. I'm Michelle." Ellen and Michelle each take one of my hands, bow their heads and start to pray over their food. From then on I get in the back of the line so I will be the last to sit down and won't make that faux pas again.
The florescent light three feet above my bunk is switched on at 5:30 a.m. sharp. A big galoot of a guard named Ray bangs his keys noisily as he opens the door. Ray sticks his head in the Pod and bellows, "Breakfast!" Half the girls get up to eat. The other half sleep, covering their faces with their scratchy wool blankets to escape the lights. I peek over the rail to see if they are serving fruit. If they are, I change from my nightshirt to my blues, don my plastic sandals, and get in line downstairs. I take my fruit and offer up the rest of my food to the others, before dumping it into the bucket by the door and stacking my tray. I pee in front of the eight to ten women eating their breakfasts and go back to bed. Most of the Trustys head out for a day of laundry and mending leaving Ellen the "House Mouse" to start mopping up downstairs. At 6:30 a.m. Ray comes back into the cell and barks, "Meds! Bring your water!" Fourteen of us gather downstairs. We all hold identical plastic cups. Some of the cups are decorated with Dole banana stickers to make them easier to identify. The jail doctor pushes his cart into the doorway and calls us up by name. He hands out tranquilizers, anti-depressants, birth control pills, and Anabuse. Jane gets methadone.
Jane has been a heroin addict for years. Her boyfriend, Ed, is on the men's side of the jail. Jane has written "I (heart) Ed" and "Jane + Ed 4 Ever" on her white tennis shoes. (Commissary price $17.50. Velcro, no laces.) Jane looks forty-six, but with heroin users it's hard to tell, she could be twenty-four. She has wiry feathered brown hair that falls to her shoulders. Her face is sunken and her eyes look like they're set way back in the hollows of her skull. Jane is suffering from a miserable toothache and holds her jaw all day. She won't see the jail dentist because she would have to foot the bill. The jail deducts 50% of any funds put on your books until the bill is paid off. Jane only has a couple of weeks left here but is thinking ahead. "Fuck man, I don't want to have to pay off a dental bill next time I'm in here. I'll be back on welfare when I get out and can see a dentist for free. Shit, this ain't nothin'. I already got one tooth on my property. It came out the first month I was here. It's got screws in it and shit." One night Jane tells a story about the time she had just shot up and was giving Ed a blow job. The next thing she remembers, "I wake up with my head in some strange guy's lap. I got his fucking nasty balls in my mouth, and pube marks on my face from sleeping on his dick for so long." Good Lord. "Jane," I say, "That story should be used for anti-heroin public service announcements all over the country."
After the morning drugs are passed out I go back to bed. This time I lay on top of my blanket and under a sheet. At 7:00 a.m. a guard comes in, climbs the stairs and makes sure no one is still under their blanket. Someone somewhere cranks the upstairs heat. Soon the bunk area feels like Bakersfield in August. It is so hot my commissary Chapstick melts. My nostrils turn into a patchwork of painful scratches and scabs due to the arid environment. The women who sleep all day coat their nostrils with Neosporin to avoid serious damage. I'm usually forced downstairs by 7:30. I shower every morning and notice a lot of these women have tattoos on their boobs. You can tell who has top bunks by the bruises on their legs. If I have a saved cookie or piece of fruit I have it with water for breakfast. I try to drink water all day to fight the dry air. At home I only drink filtered water. In jail I have to stand next to a woman on the pot while I fill my plastic cup from the bathroom tap. After breakfast we all try to kill some time. The television is reserved for months in advance. During the day it's turned to soaps and court shows. At night it's reality shows. There's an ongoing card game at one table. A woman named Debi sits alone and draws amazingly detailed fantasy scenes, which she trades for four candy bars a piece. For six candy bars she'll draw elaborate hearts with your old man's name inside. Again, I've arrived just after library day, but there are some books scattered around. I pass on Chicken Soup for the Soul and AA for Inmates, and settle on a Danielle Steele book. When I finally do get to the jail library I choose some heartier fare: The Wives of Henry VIII, and works by P.C. James and Toni Morrison. I find it impossible to give these books the attention they require, while maintaining the heightened sense of awareness I need to feel safe here. So I go back to Danielle Steele, who turns out to be perfect for jail. I can escape into her well-written fluff and stay on high alert at the same time.
The COG classes are held weekday mornings. We line up and are escorted to the library for class. The instructor, Tammy, is a beleaguered, pear-shaped woman in her mid-twenties. She is friendly and personal with the inmates, and you can see the toll that has taken on her. Her eyes are tired and they look older than they are. The library has glass walls. When the men are paraded by on occasion, Tammy shouts in exasperation, "Do not look at the men! Keep your eyes on your work! Stop looking at the men! For God's sake ladies please! Jail is not the place to look for a boyfriend!" Each day we sit down at long tables and she asks how things are going. She commiserates a bit and then we do the day's activity. When Tammy is tired, class consists of a movie. "Pay attention to the importance of the female friendships." she says putting a copy of Steel Magnolias in the VCR. Sometimes she is excited about a new activity she picked up at some workshop. "I've written down a bunch of titles and am going to tape them to your backs. People will read your back and treat you accordingly. You try to guess what you are." Someone reads my back and asks me, "Can I take out a loan?" Gee, am I a banker? There is a rapist, drug dealer and murderer as well. After we've made our guesses we have a discussion about how people's perceptions of us affect our lives. There is much talk about the erroneous and hurtful perceptions of felons and convicts. Tammy says that everyone is a human being and should be respected as such. To emphasize this point she asks, "Who here knows a murderer?" I count eight raised hands. "Now, you know that murderers aren't scary people. They're just people. Sometimes things happen." I'm waiting for more, a caveat re: murderers, but that's the end of the conversation. Tammy seems satisfied with herself and moved on to assigning homework. Each of us is to fill a page on things we like about ourselves. The women groan, "That's impossible!", "Will we still get our time off if we can't do a whole page?", "I hope we can write big and skip lines.", "There's no way I can do a whole page." We are escorted back to the Pod in time for lunch.
I pretty much keep my head down and stay by myself, but one day after lunch Anna decides to befriend me. Anna is about my age, with dark hair, ruddy olive skin and a raspy voice. She's doing ten days on a PV for violating a no contact order with her husband after he got arrested. Anna is ON EDGE. She is going through heavy meth and nicotine withdrawal. She paces. She sits down at my table and begins to speak rapid fire...
"Fuck, I can't believe I'm in here. My poor dog man. She's the sweetest thing, she just loves me so much. I got her from some niggers for some crank a couple of years ago. She wears an eye patch and someone has to empty her bladder. It's not that hard. You just have to hold her up and push on her sides like this. Fuck! Who's gonna empty her bladder? How much time is my old man gonna get do you think? He'll get at least fifteen years don't you think? God, who's taking care of my dog? I can't believe my old man is gonna do so much time. He must be freaking out. How much time will he get do you think?"
"What did he do?" I ask.
"He was babysitting some kids and he tied them up with duct tape and put a mattress on top of them."
"I hope he gets at least fifteen years."
"God!" she exclaims with indignation, "Why is everyone judging him?" Anna takes a drink from my cup. My germ alarm goes off. What is she doing drinking from my cup!? Why is she touching my cup!? I don't say anything just spray it with disinfectant when she's left the table.
The long-timers here do not like Anna. I would never complain about this place to someone who has ten months left, but Anna never shuts up. She constantly bemoans the fact that she has to stay in this hell hole for ten days. Time is a very sensitive issue in jail. In The Pod, the majority of the women are there for six months to a year. They watch wave after wave of short-timers like me go home before they get to. They really don't want to hear your bitching. Everybody says it's best not to think about your time - it will drive you crazy. But everyday, alone or in groups, they pull out their handmade calendars. They figure in how many days they'll get off if they become Trustys by a certain date. They consider each possible factor and add and re-add the numbers. I do too. One way I work the numbers shows my release date on a Sunday. They don't release on the weekends, so would that put me out on a Friday? But, will they take my COG days away from the Sunday release date, or Friday's date? I sit down on my bunk and rework the numbers.
Three o'clock in the afternoon is recreation time. A door opens right off the cell into a caged 20' x 30' concrete slab. There is a bent basketball hoop with no net, some flat balls, and a sagging ping-pong table. There is a rack of different sized tennis shoes with a can of disinfectant spray nearby. Women hang on the fence and look out at the highway. Some walk around the perimeter of the slab. Some shoot hoops with the flat balls. Some just sit in the fresh air. Half an hour of natural light and we're shuttled back inside to wait for dinner.
When Taco Night arrives, my diet of cookies and rotten fruit has left me craving protein and I am determined to eat dinner. I get my tray. A loose scoop of ground meat floats in a pool of orange grease. The lettuce is dry and crunchy on top, and baked to the tray on the bottom. White cheese has melted and taken on the shape section of the tray. I want to cry. I pull the sweaty trapezoid of cheese out of its mold and take a nibble. I can't attempt the meat, but there are lots of takers and someone trades me for their corn.
After dinner we draw our chairs into a circle for the nightly Pod meeting. Ellen, the mediator, begins. She holds a piece of paper with two columns of emotions. "I'm Ellen, and I feel," pause to scan the list of words, "sad and lonely." She passes the paper. "I'm Susan, and I feel... angry." "I'm Joanne and I miss my children." Aside from these meetings, children aren't talked about much here. Most of these women are mothers who have lost custody of their children. There is only one inmate, aside from me, whose child will still be there when she gets home. After everyone in the circle has expressed her feelings with a word or two from the list, the mediator goes back to touch bases with the obviously distressed. The angry women are encouraged to talk to defuse the situation before it boils over and Pod privileges are lost. There are complaints about the noise level while they're on the phone or trying to sleep. And there are missing commissary items. Who would have guessed there would be thieves in jail? Sometimes things get heated and I always look at Penny when they do. Penny just turned eighteen and looks like Pippi Longstocking, all elbows and freckles and bright orange hair. She is doing a year for planning a botched robbery at an espresso stand two years ago. Penny is such a little girl, she checks out "Chose Your Own Adventure" books at the library. When the words start flying, Penny's eyes get wide as saucers and her mouth forms a perfect circle. Her hand goes over her mouth in disbelief and soon she's laughing uncontrollably. These childless mothers have taken Penny under their collective wing and their fondness for her prompts them to laugh too. There is genuine concern and empathy for each other at these meetings. Women hug each other and offer encouragement. Some make promises to help each other stay clean and sober when they get out. It kind of reminds me of my Women's Studies discussion groups in college.
After everyone's emotional wounds have been tended to, it's time to get down to Pod business. First the House Mouse speaks. Among the highlights (lowlights), "Wrap up your pads and tampons before you throw them away." "Don't leave skid marks on the toilet seats." "Don't blow your nose in the shower, there are boogers all over the walls." Then the Laundry Trusty stands to speak. "Someone has a nasty yeast infection. See the doctor while it's free. In the meantime wear a fucking pad, I don't want to touch that nasty green shit." Meeting adjourned. The women spend the rest of the evening playing cards, watching television, writing letters, talking on the phone and drinking commissary instant coffee.
Lights are out at 11:00 p.m. There are three or four women who suffer from intestinal problems. Farts have waked me up in the night. During the day the stench will clear a whole floor. Some of the women carry on like third grade boys. There are giggles and laughs and running around shouting about the smell. Just when the place settles down someone makes a loud farting sound starting the mayhem all over again. It seems to never get old. The farting I can ignore - I sleep with my t-shirt pulled up over my nose. It's the night talking that gets me. There are whimpers and moans throughout the night. I hear, "No Daddy, don't make me," and other things that make me pull my knees to my chest and hold myself tight. The woman in the bunk below me tosses and turns. Every night she pleads with someone named Paul to let her go. Every night I jump down from my bunk and shake her gently until she wakes up, happy and relieved to be safe in jail.
The days drag on, each longer than the last, and after two weeks they all seem to run together. I read at least one Danielle Steele novel a day, glad the woman was so prolific. I take comfort from being in the homestretch. Then, unexpectedly, while on a fifteen minute break from COG, I hear Ray shout my name. "Roll it up!" he yells. I'm being kicked early do to overcrowding. I give away my playing cards, deodorant, shampoo and wireless bra. In a small cement room I turn in my cup, razor and rule book. I change into my street clothes and hurl my plastic sandals into a vat of disinfectant. I'm issued a check for $3.29 and congratulate myself on my estimating skills. I have no cash and I am 297 miles away from home. I'm issued a bus token and sent on my way. I call my husband from the lobby. I walk to the highway and wait for the bus. By the time I've made it back to the county courthouse and completed my exit paperwork, my husband is there waiting for me, arms open wide. I climb into the truck, put my head on his lap, and he pets my hair the whole way home.
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How does grace flow to hurting people? For me, it often flows through the earplugs connected to my iPod. Music, God's music, is a powerful tonic.
There is one album of music that seems to connect with my soul more than any other, at least it has over the past year. It's Lifesong by Casting Crowns. It's simply about the reality of life — the pain — and also the blessing — the gift of God in Christ.
One song hit me especially strongly tonight, "Love Them Like Jesus." It speaks first of the pain of a broken marriage then of the pain of a couple losing a child. I've never walked that first path, but I have walked the second. It was 22 years ago, but it's still there, part of my life today.
The writer of the lyric, Mark Hall, offers a chorus that speaks to all of us who would speak to others who are hurting.
"Just love them like Jesus, carry them to Him / His yoke is easy, His burden is light / You don't need the answers to all of life's questions / just know that He loves them and stay by their side / love them like Jesus."
Such good words. As we think of sharing the hope of Christ with all in Texas, I think these are good words to direct us.
(Originally published by me on the We Are Texas Baptists blog on this date.)

subset: commoncrawl


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Magnetic door lock Maglock Slimline UnmonitoredSize (mm): 250 (l) x 42 (w) x 26 (d)Cost effective maglock for low security & internal doorsThis is an un-monitored maglockAn unmonitored maglock locks / unlocks with no other output.Do I need extra brackets for my installation?Please see image above for details.1. Standard installation - no extra bracket required2. Inward opening / swinging door - Z & L Bracket required3. Narrow door frame - L Bracket required4. Glass door leaf - U bracket required
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Rene Auberjonois
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Don't Send America's Natural Gas to Ukraine
Russia's invasion of Ukraine has given a boost to those calling for the United States to expedite natural gas exports to help allies overseas. In this thinking, American gas exports — in the form of liquefied natural gas, or LNG — are not only a boon to the domestic economy but also a potent geopolitical tool to be wielded against the Kremlin.
Never mind that the United States won't have its first LNG export terminal in operation until late 2015 at the very earliest; that all of its approved gas exports are already committed to long-term contracts; and that Ukraine does not even have a single terminal for receiving LNG.
Story Continued Below
Even without the newly concocted geopolitical rationale for exports, though, Washington seems favorably disposed to permitting much of America's surplus gas to migrate overseas. Since the beginning of the shale gas revolution, which kicked off in 2005 , the U.S. Department of Energy has approved six LNG export terminals with a combined export capacity of 8.5 billion cubic feet a day, and more projects are in the works.
But before we put more of our gas in the service of our foreign policy, be it saving Europe from Russia's claws or Asia from its toxic air, we should ask ourselves one question: Why aren't we using more gas in our cars and trucks?
Most of America's newly cheap gas finds its way to the electricity sector, where it displaces coal as a fuel source. Coal's share of total electricity generation declined from 51 percent 10 years ago to 40 percent today; that percentage will continue to drop as the Obama administration persists in its effective ban on new coal-fired power plants. The shift from coal to gas has brought a 10 percent decline in U.S. greenhouse gas emissions from power plants since 2010, according to the Environmental Protection Agency, negating the political pressure for costly carbon cap-and-trade schemes. The shale gas industry also has created more than 600,000 jobs, stimulated economic growth and reduced consumer costs of products derived from natural gas, such as plastics, household chemicals and the fertilizers that make our food. But all these benefits pale in comparison to what could be achieved if the gas replaced oil instead of coal.
First, a little math. The best way to compare energy sources is to look at their cost per unit of heat, measured in British thermal units. The spot price of 1 million BTUs, expressed as mmbtu, derived from natural gas is about $4.30. The price of U.S. coal is more or less the same. At current oil prices, the price of 1 mmbtu derived from oil is roughly $17. That means that from a pure economic standpoint, the upside of replacing coal with natural gas is zero, while that of replacing oil with natural gas is $12.7 per mmbtu. Put differently, at current prices, the 3.5 trillion cubic feet of gas that the Energy Information Administration assumes the United States will be exporting annually starting next decade is valued at $15 billion. If this amount of gas stayed in the United States and were used to power cars and trucks, it would have displaced, depending on the technology, 3 million to 4 million barrels of oil a day, eliminating oil imports at the cost of $100 billion to $150 billion a year. Instead, the United States will be exporting this $15 billion worth of energy only to import an equivalent amount of energy at up to 10 times the cost. Does that make any sense?
The reason for this economic malpractice is that our transportation sector is wedded to oil. Natural gas landed in the power sector not necessarily because electricity is the most economic use of the commodity but because our grid and electric appliances are indifferent about the source of energy that goes into making the electrons they use. For a light bulb or coffee machine, electrons made from coal, gas, nuclear or solar are all the same.
Cars are a different story. They do care what source of energy goes into their tank because for the most part they are warrantied to run on nothing but petroleum fuels. This means that no matter how cheap and plentiful natural gas becomes, its pathway to our vehicles is blocked.
Although there are some efforts to increase the use of natural gas as an automotive fuel, they are limited to heavy-duty trucks and buses, and therefore will not get us close to capturing the full economic opportunity offered by the shale gas revolution. Consider this: On our current trajectory, according to the Energy Information Administration, the increased use of compressed natural gas and liquefied natural gas in vehicles will offset only 3 percent of petroleum consumption in the transportation sector in 2040. This is a profoundly disappointing figure. If the natural gas bonanza is to benefit every American, it must penetrate the light-duty sector, where 60 percent of our transportation fuel is used.
One way of doing so is to reduce the cost of converting a light-duty gasoline car to CNG. Right now, that process comes out to roughly $10,000 per light-duty vehicle, more than three times the average price tag in other parts of the world. By streamlining the onerous regulatory requirements consumers are currently facing, the EPA could make this option widely available.
Another option is to turn the gas into gasoline and diesel in a process called gas-to-liquids. But for a GTL plant to make money, a barrel of oil has to cost about 16 times more than natural gas. That ratio is too high to expect over the long run, which is why Royal Dutch Shell recently abandoned its $20 billion GTL project in Louisiana.
A more fiscally prudent way of using natural gas in transportation is to open light-duty vehicles to run on a liquid fuel called methanol. This high-octane alcohol can be blended into gasoline, much in the way ethanol is blended. Properly adjusted "flexible fuel" vehicles, which cost automakers a $100 or so more to manufacture than gasoline-only cars, allow drivers to choose whether to run on methanol, gasoline or some combination of the fuels. If Congress provided automakers with the right incentives, within five years, a substantial part of America's fleet would be capable of running on natural-gas-derived methanol — at no additional cost to taxpayers.
To be sure, in the coming years there will be times when natural gas prices inch up while oil prices decline, but it is highly unlikely that oil will ever become cheaper than natural gas per unit of energy. The arbitrage opportunity in shifting from oil to gas in the transportation sector is too appealing to let go. But as long as our cars are locked to gasoline, America's natural gas will go to fuel power plants in Asia and Europe instead of cars at home. And while the sellers of the gas may be indifferent as to where it ends up, for Americans as a whole, this amounts to a scandalous waste of an opportunity.


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06.27.13 – Day 4 – After having an incredible breakfast at the Bistro and Cava restaurant in the Hotel Coral, we were whisked away to the L.A. Cetto Winery, which happens to be the largest wine-producer in the country. That being said, everything at this winery (the fermentation tanks, the barrels, etc) is huge to accommodate for mass-production. I am immediately impressed by the size of the winery and all of its components- this alone makes the winery a "must-see".
**SideNote: 90% of Mexico's wine comes from the Guadalupe Valley, which is in Baja, Mexico.
Our tour guide, Iker Mikel Turcott Unzueta, tells us how L.A. Cetto is "One hundred percent Mexican wine and a one hundred percent family business". At L.A. Cetto, all of the fruit is hand-harvested and they use absolutely no machinery for this part of the process. Considering the size of the winery, this is very impressive. What is even more remarkable? The fact that they don't add any additional flavors to their wines- at L.A. Cetto the grapes, and the grapes alone, determine the wines' flavors.
**SideNote: There are over 8000 types of grapes in the world.
**SideNote: Red wine can only be made with red grapes but white wine can be made with both red and white grapes!
After touring the colossal winery and getting a first-hand look at how everything is made, we begin our L.A. Cetto wine tasting. We begin with Champbrulé, which is the sparkling wine of the house. Being the champagne-lover that I am, I instantly fall in love with this bottle and buy one to take home with me!
**SideNote: What is the difference between sparkling wine and champagne? Where it is made! Champagne is sparkling wine made in Champagne, France; if it is made anywhere else in the world it cannot be called "champagne" and is simply sparkling wine.
Next, we try Chenin Blanc, which is L.A. Cetto's white "table" wine. The flavor is clean and not overbearing- perfect for accompanying food. Even better news: all of L.A. Cetto's wines are "moderately priced" so you can take home most of your favorites for less than $20 a bottle!
**SideNote: Always hold your wine glass by the stem- this is the formal or "proper" way to hold it because it prevents your hand from heating up the wine.
After that we try the flowery and aromatic Don Luis, followed L.A. Cetto's buttery and oaky Chardonnay.
**SideNote: The first aromas you smell in a glass of wine come from the fruit but after you swirl the wine around in your glass, those next aromas you smell come from the fermentation and aging of the wine.
**SideNote: Over time, red wine loses color but white wine gains actually pigment as it ages!
As we move on to the red wines I ask Iker what he recommends pairing the wines with. His response: "My suggestion is that our white wines should go with a nice, sexy blonde and our red wines with a firey brunette." Comical. One of the red wines, the Don Luis "Concordia" was particularly outstanding in flavor. This "Reserved Selection" wine happens to be Iker's personal favorite and he describes the robust wine as "so good that I feel like I am cheating on my girl- so I call this wine "my mistress"….and she has amazing legs!"
**SideNote: When you swirl wine around in a glass, the liquid that sticks to the sides of the glass are referred to as the "legs" of the wine- the longer they take to come down, the older the wine is, and the more alcoholic content there is!
After a very entertaining wine tasting we head over to the town of Tecate for a gourmet Mexican lunch at the Asao Hotel. Upon entering the emasculate dining room I immediately taken by the classic fine dining ambiance. High ceilings with chandeliers, white tablecloths, authentic Mexican artwork, a complete view of the kitchen, and a fully windowed wall revealing the rolling hills of the valley all compose the dining area- impeccable.
We begin our meal with an instant "table-favorite": shrimp quesadillas with smoked marlin; the intense flavors of this 'starter' made it unforgettable. Next, we have what is called a "pre-Hispanic salad", which was a rich vegetable dish made with grilled tomatoes, lemon purée and fresh local cheese. The third course is rabbit cooked in sweet red wine with stewed vegetables, which was followed by the most phenomenal dish of the entire Mexican-adventure thus far: a tender rib-eye with a chili crust, coffee sauce, and chipotle salsa. This is a "classic Asao dish" and has been served to guests since the restaurant first opened! This doesn't surprise me at all because it would be no exaggeration to call this plate "perfection". It literally tastes like steak and spicy coffee- I've never had anything like this before and the flavor combinations have me weak. Who would have ever thought to combine coffee and red meat? I've never had anything so sultry and satisfying. Incredible. If you are going to only visit one restaurant for one dish, this is the restaurant and this is the dish. We finish the outstanding meal with a sweet black bean dessert accompanied by crispy buñuelos.
After the mind-blowing lunch in Tecate we visit the Cuauhtémoc Moctezuma Brewery, which produces Tecate Beer (named after the town, of course!).
Here we got to tour the entire plant and learn about how the different beers are made.
**SideNote: In 2010 Heineken bought Cuauhtémoc Moctezuma and now the company produces twelve different brands of beer, including Tecate, Heineken, and Coors Light!
This tour was particularly interesting because it is not everyday that one gets to see how beer is made or experience a beer tasting. After visiting so many wineries, it was really nice to learn about what I would I think is an equally popular beverage. The Cuauhtémoc Moctezuma Brewery uses some of the most innovative technology in all of Latin America and produces 100,000 to 600,000 cans of beer per minute! The factory has over 250 employees and is well known for its community outreach and contributions to its hometown of Tecate.
Our tour guide taught us about the fermentation process for beer and how it is made with five basic ingredients: water, adjuncts, malt, yeast, and hops. I even got to try hops, which I do NOT recommend to anyone, by the way.
**SideNote: Darker pigment in a beer indicates a longer resting period during the beer's making!
After leaving the brewery we set off to see another one of Tecate's major highlights: The Tecate Community Museum. This museum is an educational experience where visitors can learn all about the original people Tecate and local indigenous groups. The museum features three hands-on exhibit areas that are all multilingual and accommodate to children and students. The site also includes ethnobotanical gardens, a gift shop, and a traditional Kumiai house.
The Tecate Community Museum is "dedicated to fostering greater understanding of the cultural, historical, and natural heritage of Tecate, Baja California, Mexico" and as I walk through the various attention-grabbing exhibits, I realize how true that statement is. All of the displays are interactive and hands-on; this museum isn't your typical exhibit designed just for looking- it's for experiencing. The Tecate Community Museum serves as a great history lesson, but is more fun than any museum I have ever been to- if you're visiting Tecate, you cannot leave before making a stop here!
After we depart from the museum we head over to the El Mezquite Restaurant at the El Estancia Inn for what I expected to be a casual dinner…to my pleasant surprise, the dinner was far from casual. We were astonished with two large platters of shrimp, beef, sausage, chicken and vegetables- all grilled in a delicious, authentic Mexican style. Again, if you are in Tecate, you cannot leave the town without making a stop at El Mezquite Restaurant for an unmatched dining experience. Here, we all had a wonderful time in the comfortable and family-friendly dining hall as we built our own personalized tortillas with the irresistible grilled ingredients.
Tonight is my last night in Baja, Mexico and the idea of leaving is breaking my heart. I have only been here for four days and my home in LA is just three hours away but I feel like I've escaped my entire life, forever ago. The world I once knew feels so far behind me and the past few days in beautiful Baja are all I seem to know. It is unbelievable how wild and extraordinary my adventures here have been. I am so thankful that I get one more day here- I fall asleep tonight contently, knowing that I will wake up in this heaven once more.
Here are links to ALL FIVE DAYS of my wonderful trip to Baja California:
Adventures in Baja California – Day 1 of Our Journey Through Mexico
Adventures in Baja California – Day 2 of Our Journey Through Mexico
Adventures in Baja California – Day 3 of Our Journey Through Mexico
Adventures in Baja California – Day 4 of Our Journey Through Mexico
Adventures in Baja California – Day 5 [Last Day] of Our Journey Through Mexico
Photographs by Lawrence Davis


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Edward Ruscha
(United States of America 16 Dec 1937 – )
- Location
- Not on display
- Further information
The buildings and shop-fronts of West Hollywood's Sunset Strip have been faithfully documented by the American artist Edward Ruscha every two or three years since 1966. These images are the scratched and marked reworkings of images from his 1966 photo-book, 'Every building on the Sunset Strip'. The book followed on the success of his earlier pioneering photo-books, 'Twentysix gasoline stations' 1963, 'Various small fires' 1964 and 'Some Los Angeles apartments' 1965. The photographic panorama of the Strip, which was itself published in strip form as an 8.2m long foldout, had a particular impact on the architect Robert Venturi. Venturi recreated a version of Ruscha's work in his book, 'Learning from Las Vegas' 1972, which introduced a postmodern perspective by critically assessing consumer culture through the built environment of Las Vegas.
Born and raised in the mid-west, and trained at the Choinard Art Institute in Los Angeles, Ruscha has been an influential post-war artist of uniquely American sensibility. His work, which includes painting, prints and graphic works as well as photo-books, trades in the vernacular language of American popular culture. Signage, logos, trademarks – the bedrock of corporate branding – all feature in his works, as seen in the distinctive typeface emblazoned on Schwab's drugstore. Ruscha has been aligned with pop art since he exhibited in the 1962 survey 'New painting of common objects' alongside pop exemplars Andy Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. However, his work eschews the parodic nature of pop in favour of a deadpan irony which is just as subversive and perhaps more enduring. Ruscha's continued documentation of Sunset Strip suggest he is as interested in the passage of time as in the idiosyncrasies of the present. 'Time', he notes laconically, 'as a property, seems to be important to me.'1
1. Engberg, S. 1999 'An interview with Ed Ruscha', 'Art on paper', vol 4, no 2 Nov- Dec, p 67
© Art Gallery of New South Wales Photography Collection Handbook, 2007
- Year
- 1966-1995
- Media
- Photograph
- Medium
- gelatin silver photograph
- Dimensions
- 50.6 x 75.2 cm image / sheet; 54.8 x 79.4 x 4.6 cm frame
- Signature & date
Signed and dated centre verso, "... Ed Ruscha 1966-1995".
- Credit
- Purchased 1998
- Accession number
- 70.1998.5
- Copyright
- © Ed Ruscha


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Swipe Navigation [Root] is free Tools app developed by Suphi. Swipe Navigation is a light root app that replaces your on screen navigation buttons with swipe gestures. The latest version of this tools, navigation, start, home application is 4.50. It works like most of the tools applications and has 569 downloads so far.
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- Pittsburgh
- 412-297-4857
- vCard
- Pennsylvania
- U.S. District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania
- J.D., University of Pittsburgh School of Law, 1985
- B.A., Washington and Jefferson College, 1982
Eric concentrates his practice on estate planning, probate law, family business planning and taxation related to estates and gifts. He is a Director of the Firm and a member of the Business Services, Estates & Trusts, and Tax Practice Groups.
Honors and Achievements
Eric has been selected by his peers for inclusion in The Best Lawyers in America for Trusts and Estates Law.
He frequently lectures at seminars and has written numerous articles for the Cohen & Grigsby Review. His seminar presentations have included "General Principles of International Taxation" for the Sterling Education Services; "Closely Held Corporations: Tax Issues and Planning Considerations in Pennsylvania" for the Lorman Education Services; and "The Use of a Revocable Trust in Estate Planning" for the Pittsburgh Institute of Certified Financial Planners.


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MADISON, Ind. – Deborah Frances Scott Spry, 59, of Madison died Saturday, Oct. 11, 2008, at King's Daughters' Hospital, Madison.
Funeral services are 3 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 16, at the Morgan and Nay Funeral Centre, 325 Demaree Drive in Madison, with Kathy Flint Goins, Ken Schumaker and Carla Sindone Bruner officiating. Burial will be in the Grandview Memorial Gardens near Madison.
Mrs. Spry was born Dec. 23, 1948, to the late James Marion and Gladys Ruth Luckett Scott in Madison.
WARSAW, Ky. – Mary Gladys Wood, 102, died Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2008, at Gallatin Health Care in Warsaw.
Visitation for the family is 4-5 p.m. today, Wednesday, Oct. 15, and 5-8 p.m. for visitors at Graham-Dunn Funeral Home, 213 Fifth St., Carrollton.
Services are 1 p.m. tomorrow, Thursday, Oct. 16, at the funeral home, with the Rev. Bob Brocious officiating. Burial will be in the I.O.O.F. Cemetery in Carrollton.
Mrs. Wood was born Sept. 27, 1906, to the late Harry W. and Inez (Webb) Searcy in Campbellsburg, Ky.
MILTON, Ky. – Carolyn Jean Robbins, 58, of Milton died Friday, Oct. 10, 2008, at University of Cincinnati Hospital in Cincinnati, Ohio.
Visitation is 9-11 a.m. Friday, Oct. 17 at Tandy-Eckler-Riley Funeral Home, 809 Highland Ave., Carrollton. A memorial service will follow immediately, with the Rev. Carroll "Bimp" McAlister officiating. Burial will be in the Hunters Bottom Cemetery, Milton.
Mrs. Robbins was born Jan. 28, 1950, to the late Hubert and Hazel (Green) Duvall in Jonesville, Ky.
She was a member of the Hopewell Baptist Church.
CARROLLTON, Ky. – Rosemary C. Ramsey, 71 of Carrollton died Tuesday, Oct. 14, 2008 in Carrollton.
Visitation will be 5-8 p.m. Thursday, Oct. 16, at Tandy-Eckler-Riley Funeral Home, 809 Highland Ave., Carrollton. Mass of Christian burial will be noon, Friday, Oct. 17, at St. John the Evangelist Catholic Church, 507 Fifth St., Carrollton with the Rev. Kavungal Davy officiating. Burial will be in the I.O.O.F. Cemetery in Carrollton.
Mrs. Ramsey was born May 8, 1937, to the late Thomas Leroy and Cora (England) Cope in Greenfield, Highland County, Ohio.
Vera Cutshaw Brown, 83, Louisville, died Sunday, Oct. 5, 2008 at Signature Healthcare East.
A native of Bedford, she was a Methodist by faith. She was a retiree from Celanese Coatings.
Survivors include a son, Chan (Mary Ann) Hall; daughter, Nancy (Jerry) Cutsinger; grandchildren, Robert Hall, Seth Cutsinger and Adam Cutsinger.
Her husband, Dow Brown, preceded her in death.
Services were Oct. 11, 2008 at Arch L. Heady Resthaven Chapel on Bardstown Road in Louisville. Private burial was in Resthaven Memorial Park.
Hurcle D. Harmon, 92, Milton, formerly of Bedford, died Friday, Oct. 10, 2008 at Green Valley Health and Rehabilitation Center in Carrollton.
Born May 26, 1916 in Carroll County, he was the son of Clarence and Grace Humphrey Harmon.
He was a United States Navy veteran having served during World War II. He was a member of the Bedford Masonic Lodge #158. He enjoyed fishing, traveling, hunting and going to shoots. He was a former resident of Kokomo, Ind. until moving to Trimble County in 1978
BEDFORD, Ky. – Leslie Keith Ball, 70, of Bedford died Sunday, Sept. 28, 2008, at his residence.
Services were 1 p.m. today, Wednesday, Oct. 1, at Ransdell Funeral Home in Bedford, with the Revs. Thomas Wilkes and Aaron Snelling officiating. Burial will be in Bedford I.O.O.F. Cemetery.
Visitation will be from 9 a.m. until the time of the service at the funeral home.
CARROLLTON, Ky. – Dennie Alice Bennett, 57, died Saturday, Sept. 27, 2008, at Norton Audubon Hospital in Louisville, Ky.
Funeral services were Tuesday, Sept. 30, at the United Pentecostal Church of Carrollton, with the Rev. Keith Mendenhall officiating. Burial was in Worthville Cemetery, Worthville, Ky.
Tandy-Eckler-Riley Funeral Home, 809 Highland Ave., Carrollton, was in charge of arrangements.
Mrs. Bennett was born Nov. 21, 1950, in Madison, Ind., to Luetta M. Leep of Carrollton and the late Charles Barnes.
MILTON, Ky. – Madalyn Wood, 93, Milton, died Tuesday, Sept. 23, 2008 at St. Luke's Hospital in Florence.
Born Nov. 17, 1914, in Trimble County, she was the daughter of Ernest and Dolly Welty Lehue. She was postmaster of Milton Post Office for 24 years, head of the Milton Elementary School cafeteria in the 1950s, coached Little League baseball and was an avid sports fan.
She taught Sunday school at Mt. Carmel United Methodist Church and was a member of the Milton United Methodist Church.
Ronald Eugene Bailey, 64, Milton, died Monday Sept. 29, 2008 at Baptist Hospital Northeast Hospice Unit in LaGrange.
Born May 15, 1944 in Tenn., he was the son of Arthur and Ruby Corley Bailey.
He was a truck driver for United Parcel Service and a U.S. Army Vietnam veteran. He was a member of Corn Creek Baptist Church.
Survivors include his wife, Peggy Coghill Bailey, one son, Tracy Bailey, Indianapolis, Ind., and three grandchildren.
His parents and one son, Randy Bailey, preceded him in death.
Copyright © 2019
The Trimble Banner is your source for local news, sports, events, and information in Trimble County, KY and the surrounding area.


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3pm Bachata Variations
April 27 @ 3:00 pm - 4:00 pm
|Recurring Event (See all)
An event every week that begins at 3:00 pm on Saturday, repeating until December 31, 2019
You've wanted it, now we've got it! As good as the Course Classes are, many of you want more! We're here to serve!
Supplement your learning and make your dancing more interesting with these creative variations!
Make sure you know your basics, but if you do, be prepared to have some great fun in these intermediate & up classes!
Only $10 for members, $15 for non-members, and no partner required!


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Make this event a success by joining or supporting the team. To register or sponsor go to www.bcsikhs.com/walkformemories
The date is January 27th. Check-in is at 12pm and the walk begins at 1pm. The location is the Promenade in White Rock.For further information they can contact Kulpreet Singh at 778-319-1699.


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|Modern Vintage Designs
Catch your guy's attention by wearing this "Flirty Girl" apron. Cooking in the kitchen has never been so fun!
This is a vintage inspired full apron with a square neckline, a dart-fitted top (to curve with your curves) and a figure flattering A-line skirt that measures 20" (51cm) from waist to hem. It features 2 1/2" (6cm) thick waist ties that are approximately 112" (284cm) from end to end and can either be tied in a back bow, a front knot, or a front bow. The neckties are 1 1/2" (4cm) wide and approximately 20" (51cm) long. They are fully-adjustable so the apron will fit the way you want it to.
This apron is functional as well as cute. It has a rounded patch pocket (perfect for a recipe card, your MP3 player, or your cell phone). The towel loop at the waistline keeps your towel handy so you can dry your hands on your towel and not make a mess of your cute new apron.
As a bounus, this ePattern also includes:
*Additional instructions for making an a-line half apron...it's almost like getting two patterns for the price of one!
*Both customary unit (yards, inches, etc.) and metric unit (centimeters) measurements
This apron design was tested on a variety of shapes and sizes and would be categorized as a Small/Medium (approximate off the rack dress sizes 2 to 12).
It was made to fit the following measurements:
Bust - Between 30" and 38" (76cm and 97cm)
Waist - Between 22" and 32" (56cm and 81cm)
Hips - Between 30" and 38" (76cm and 97cm)
*Note: These are downloadable instructions for making an apron. Since it is a download, a window will open to download and when you are signed into your user account at the time of purchase, it will also be located in the "My Library" section of your user account immediately after purchase.
I LOVE this apron! It is absolutely beautiful! Made 4 of these as teacher gifts and the teachers loved them.
Gorgeous and easy to make! Love this pattern.
This turned out perfect! The instructions are easy to follow.
I love this apron! I think it's best to add a little width on the chest part, though.
It is absolutely beautiful and perfect. It is very easy to make and you can make various styles with remnants from other projects.
1 Yard [92 cm] Fabric (for skirt and bib)
1 Yard [92 cm] Contrast Fabric (for bib lining, waistband, waist ties, pocket and neckties)
Thread to match
**Half apron needs 3/4 yard [69 cm] of Fabric (for skirt) and 5/8 yard [57 cm] of fabric for waistband, pocket and waist ties.
Other Supplies:
A Good Pair of Scissors and Sewing Pins
A Sewing Machine (not a serger)
A Ruler (a sewing ruler is nice, but any ruler that's at least 12" [30 cm] in length will work fine)
A Fabric Marking Pen or Pencil (can use a regular graphite pencil in a pinch)
A "Dull Pointed" Object (anything like a crochet hook, a chopstick, a very dull pencil, etc. - This will be used to make nice points at the ends of your waist ties)
A Straight Long Skinny Object - a ½" to 3/4" [1.5 to 2 cm] wooden dowel works best, but if you don't have a dowel you can use a long spoon handle, a thick crochet hook, or a clean broom handle for turning your ties.
This pattern is protected by copyright and is intended for use by the purchaser only. Please do not sell, copy, share or distribute in any way by electronic or any other means.
However, You MAY sell any handmade items you create using this pattern, but I ask that you give design credit to Modern Vintage Designs in your listing descriptions and on item hang tags.
Note: www.YouCanMakeThis.com provides this copyright & terms of use policy review as a courtesy to our site users and eBook authors. The copyright policy applies to the associated eBook and is specified and owned by the individual eBook author.
Note: www.YouCanMakeThis.com provides this copyright & terms of use policy review as a courtesy to our site users and eBook authors. The copyright policy applies to the associated eBook and is specified and owned by the individual eBook author.