Turkey's Don't Moo.
This morning I got up early to move the calves and the cows and the calves to their next pasture. So I could go to prison. The turkeys are gobbling back in the woods at 6:15 in the morning. The wild turkey population, like the coyote population, has been recently booming in the county of Knox. What I noticed this morning is that gobbling turkeys make a noise remarkably like the word gobble. Cows do not moo. They make a noise that sounds exactly like a phone on vibrate that at the end tilts sharply up in pitch. Try spelling that.
Prison is far away. Almost two hours. Plus any additional time you may spend sitting behind the school busses. I had to go today because while two weeks ago I was sure I would have a whole bunch of excess hay and that therefore I could get away with growing only hay his next year and not any corn, the weather conspired against me with a fistful of 32 degree nights artfully placed to reach maximum lack of grass growth, and that made me use up all my excess hay and suddenly it was back to the place where I would need to grow the corn and the hay to be able to survive the next winter but I had only found this out the day before… *breathe in* and I needed to talk this over with my dad. Who is in prison.
Corn is far more complicated than hay. But I think I might grow to like it better if all my machines don’t break down on the same day. Prison is strange. Prisoners, felons especially, are given no consideration for anything. Even your normal gov’t bureaucracy slows down to the most plodding of paces. Because, naturally, who gives a fuck about a convicted felon? Having been found guilty of whatever the charge, they deserve no rights. Before having a dad in prison, this made sense.
Thing about it is, you know, he’s not guilty. Those of you who knew me and saw me when this thing first went down might have heard me confess that I didn’t know if he had flown out of control and done something against the law. I didn’t know, and it was certainly within his power. I did claim that if his side of the story was true, he would be absolved. Turns out, and it came out during the trial, he was telling the truth. I could believe it after I saw it played out. The flaw with my thinking was that a jury of peers and shit would settle things then and there.
But the verdict came back wrong. And now my dad is friends with some strange men. Embezzlers. Rapists. Drug Dealers. Murderers. Sex Offenders. Lots of Sex Offenders. We go and chat and liven up his day a bit. He tells me what all I’ve been doing wrong on the farm. What all I need to do in the near future to fix all that. He tells us little stories about what goes on, on the inside. Funny vignettes with funny little characters. I try to picture these stories taking place and pretend while I’m there that I can. Then I walk outside and see the real prisoners taking a smoke break and it crashes down. I don’t know. I can’t know.
Prison is far away. Almost two hours. Plus any additional time you may spend sitting behind the school busses. I had to go today because while two weeks ago I was sure I would have a whole bunch of excess hay and that therefore I could get away with growing only hay his next year and not any corn, the weather conspired against me with a fistful of 32 degree nights artfully placed to reach maximum lack of grass growth, and that made me use up all my excess hay and suddenly it was back to the place where I would need to grow the corn and the hay to be able to survive the next winter but I had only found this out the day before… *breathe in* and I needed to talk this over with my dad. Who is in prison.
Corn is far more complicated than hay. But I think I might grow to like it better if all my machines don’t break down on the same day. Prison is strange. Prisoners, felons especially, are given no consideration for anything. Even your normal gov’t bureaucracy slows down to the most plodding of paces. Because, naturally, who gives a fuck about a convicted felon? Having been found guilty of whatever the charge, they deserve no rights. Before having a dad in prison, this made sense.
Thing about it is, you know, he’s not guilty. Those of you who knew me and saw me when this thing first went down might have heard me confess that I didn’t know if he had flown out of control and done something against the law. I didn’t know, and it was certainly within his power. I did claim that if his side of the story was true, he would be absolved. Turns out, and it came out during the trial, he was telling the truth. I could believe it after I saw it played out. The flaw with my thinking was that a jury of peers and shit would settle things then and there.
But the verdict came back wrong. And now my dad is friends with some strange men. Embezzlers. Rapists. Drug Dealers. Murderers. Sex Offenders. Lots of Sex Offenders. We go and chat and liven up his day a bit. He tells me what all I’ve been doing wrong on the farm. What all I need to do in the near future to fix all that. He tells us little stories about what goes on, on the inside. Funny vignettes with funny little characters. I try to picture these stories taking place and pretend while I’m there that I can. Then I walk outside and see the real prisoners taking a smoke break and it crashes down. I don’t know. I can’t know.
posted by Lord of the Barnyard at 5:58 PM
8 Comments:
I'm first. Searched "india/indian store" and columbus, ohio. There are several in cols. If you find one....there is a possibility that you could buy it from a practicing hindu with money earned from the blood of cows.I smell an adventure
think it's something like this:
mmmrrrrmmmmrrrroriee
I don't know what the deal is with your dad's situation, but I spent some time as a volunteer at a men's maximum security here in New York, and going inside is quite a trip. There's the long protracted process of getting in in the first place (super-strong metal detector that beeps if you're wearing underwire) when you get a shakedown for a Bic pen or some gum. And then there's the matter of treating human beings like animals. As if doing so will simultaneously punish and rehabilitate them. With something like 80% recidivism in NYS, it's working out great.
The whole experience definitely shakes whatever trust you had in the criminal justice system.
I'm greatly enjoying your blog. I grew up near my grandparents' sheep farm in New Hampshire, so a lot of what you're writing about resonates...
Can you send your dad stuff besides letters? Like cakes or smokes? Is there a "morgan freeman type" character from Shawshank that can get you anything you want?
I'll help you plant corn.
rather...something like this:
mmmrrrrmmmmmrrrrrrooiaahhhhh
Having more uncles in prison, or on the run, than out, this certainly struck a familiar chord.
But then, they aren't exactly innocent. I must have missed this story. And I would love to know more.
you had me till "...oriee"
the shakedown at my dad's prison is real lax. you have far more worries trying to board a flight to chicago. while it is maximum security, it's the special old man version. if they're feeling extra safe on a particular day they'll let me bring my wallet in with me.
we can send three "care packages" a year. the size and options for contents are severely limited. anything you bake yourself is out so no cake. and they can buy their smokes at the commissary. mostly we send candy.
i think your god is imagainary.
the story in an abrev nutshell is that my dad hit a man. an eager and newly elected prosecuter, a judge who despised my dad, and an incompotent defense lawyer came together for a beautiful display of small town injustice.
so drew...are you doing hay AND corn, then? what did your dad say???
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