Rhetoric Schmetoric

Writing 666 The Devil's work shop. Why are you here? I want to learn how to write. Good, show me your Allusion, Alliteration, Amplification, Anacoluthon, Anadiplosis, and Analogy I do not want to be a magician, I want to write. OK, Show me some Anaphora, Antanagoge, Antimetabole, Antiphrasis, Antithesis, and Apophasis I do not like scrabble, I only want to write. Yes but I need to see something in Aporoia, Aposiopesis, Apostrophe, Appositive, Assonance, and Asendeton Trivia is a game for nerds, I am serious about writing. If you are serious at least demonstrate Catachresis, Chiasmus, Climax, Conduplicatio, Diacope, and Dirimens Copulatio I may be able to do something with Climax and Copulatio, they both sound familiar. Do not be crude, to write you need be able to Distinctio, Enthymeme, Enumeratio, Epanalepsis, Epistrophe, and Epithet But these, whatever they are, are not even in spell check Spell Check? If you want to write your readers must hear Epizeuxis, Eponym, Exemplum, Expletive, Hyperbaton, and Hyperbole I just want to write simple prose without foul language Yes, but to write Prose, even simply, you must Hypophora, Hypotaxis, Litotes, Metabasis, Metanioia,and Metaphor I know metaphor. I'll Metaphor That is to simple, good writing requires Metonymy, Onomatopoeia, Oxymoron, Parallelism, Parataxis, and Personification, Now were getting somewhere. I can Personify an Oxymoron Parallelism and California has taught me about Parataxis Do not be trite. In this class we require Paranthesis, Pleonasm, Polesyndeton, Procatalepsis, Rhetorical Question, and Scesis Onomation Now you are getting trite. You cannot be serious...Scesis Onomation? Your are, of course, joking. Do not get smart with me you little imp. If you want me to help you, come up with some Sententia, Simile, Simploce, Synecdoche, Understatement, and Zeugma I've got a great Understatement for you Good, let me hear it. You can take your class and your rhetoric and go straight back down to hell.

God Spoke to Me

On a quiet and peaceful morning the Desert Sun woke up over the blue horizon. It trumpeted it's arrival by painting an awesome picture of Oranges, Reds and Yellows on the wispy clouds. Clouds that were suspended in mid air. Clouds that were held there by the will of God. Clouds held there by the will of God creating a moment in time that will all to soon end. And yet this moment will never end. It will never end because it has been etched the mind, never to be forgotten. As I strolled across the desert floor I felt re-born in my soul. A peaceful surrender to nature and the world of the desert came over me. I felt I was alone with God. Not alone in a sad way but alone in my spirit to communicate with God. As I watched the Desert giving birth to God's creations, I felt the Sole of the Sky and the Sole of the Earth. When the Sun touched the Cacti, their sleeping flowers came alive and blossomed into a beautiful sea of Purples and Blues. Desert lizards came out to revitalize their bodies with the strength of the sun. Desert birds began to sing and I knew god had spoke to me. God spoke to me with His Birds God spoke to me with His Lizards God spoke to me with His Breeze and with His Clouds God spoke to me with His Colors God spoke to My Soul with His Soul God spoke to me

Ranting and Raving, in all Due Respect

Respectively Submitted By Connie Wolf March 24, 2009 What I respect in you, what is truly beautiful to me is the endless human variety, the unique spark of individuality that I have encountered in people over the span of my brief sixty five years of life. I like characters, the kind of people that defy cubbyholes and stereotypes. This is how I view you and how I wish to be viewed. I have no patience with those who presume to know me because I am a certain age, gender, race, size or nationality. Do not think you can label me a conservative or a liberal and tuck me away in a tidy corner. Don’t ever typecast me as a senior citizen, someone that represents passionless age, set aside to peek through kitchen curtains at passing neighbors. I admit, I do own a rocking chair but I do not pass my time in it, and I am not addicted to network news and the prognostications of the weather channel. I am not a stereotype; I am an individual as much now as I was 30 or 40 years ago. More of an individual actually, I’ve had more time, more experiences to mold and change me and I’m not through yet, I’m still changing, still growing. Don’t ever count me out. In fact, I have invented a word that encompasses this whole concept. The word is “Elderviginality”. The “Elder” portion refers to those qualities that we card carrying seniors have in common and the “viginality” part is how we differ. In the popular cultural belief of Western civilization it is assumed that if you have seen one old lady, you’ve seen us all. I beg to differ. Some of us have grown more peaceful and serene with the passing of time, growing in wisdom and acceptance. Others grew in bitterness and regret. We all have the tendency, as the years pass, to repeat ourselves but some repeat jokes and funny stories, others a list of woes. What I respect in you is that unique spark that makes you, you. That quirky sense of humor, your unique passion for whatever you are passionate about. I may not agree with you, I probably won’t join you in your zeal, but I certainly admire the fact that you care enough to be that ardent about it. I respect your passion until you cross the line, the line that insists that I must agree with you, that I must join you, that you hold the only spark of ultimate truth. Please, don’t even go there! You have neither the right nor the ability to dictate my beliefs, mold my desires or chose my obsessions. May we respectively agree to disagree, even in this contentious political climate? Even in this volatile world economy? Even in this age of world-wide violence and upheaval? Is that possible, can we accomplish that?

Me, Myself and I

Me, Myself, and I

By Connie Wolf March 22, 2009, Writer’s Prompt: Write three separate paragraphs title Me, Myself and I: ME Look at Me! What do you see? Do you see an aging, overweight, ordinary woman? Is she unremarkable, unmemorable, and uninteresting? The “Me” I see in my bathroom mirror certainly conform to that description but there is another mirror, the one hidden in my heart. It is the mirror of spirit not substance. In that mirror I see a girl, not a woman, a girl who hides pain with humor, dreams with cynicism and hopes with low expectations. The girl I was, the girl I am, the girl I will always be is hiding in the pages of this journal. Come; see if you can find me. Myself As for myself, I have chosen the road less traveled. I don’t like parties, visiting or houseguests. I use to look forward to holidays, but not so much any more. I much prefer an ordinary day, a day without event or appointment. Rainy days are the best, when I sat in my kitchen window on this rainy morning, I felt insulated; no one walked by, not even a car passed. I love to drive my car by myself on a rainy day. I can listen to whatever I want; music, audio books, pod casts it is my choice, depending only on the mood and whimsy of my moment. Sitting in a deserted parking lot, the rain beating down on my windshield hiding me from the occasional passerby, I eat illicit comfort food and laugh out loud. I am enjoying myself. I I love birds, flowers and rain. I love watching clouds and a gentle light wind ruffling the trees. I love the smell and sound of bacon frying. I love my husband, my grandchildren, my daughter, my brother, my friends and today, I love everything about today. I hate the dentist, the Santa Ana winds, heat waves and meetings, any kind of meeting. And humorless people, I hate them most of all. I believe in God, the power of prayer and love when it grows and changes but always transcends. I am embarrassed, ashamed, guilty and dreadfully lazy. I am curious, joyful, sensitive and creative. I am unique.

to be found

Lost in the sea of blog Never to be found Shall I go under after three or do I quit at two

PLOWING THE FIELD

"You'll never plow a field by turning it over in your mind" My dad never said that, he lived it. In fact the saying is an old Irish proverb. When I was growing up my dad had a field. At least I called it a field. It wasn't a large field. In fact it was a very small field. I cannot remember the actual size of it but in my mind it was about 60 feet by 60 feet. I might be exaggerating a little because I've noticed that as I grow older everything I remember from my earlier life gets bigger. But it was our field or more to the point, my dad's field, his garden. Every year in the early spring right after the snow melted he would plow and plant his field. When I was 5 or 6 he had a hand plow. It was the kind of plow the farmers used horse to pull. My dad's plow wasn't as big as those but it cut a pretty healthy swipe through the soil as my dad pushed it. He would let me walk in front of him and hold the plow and make me feel like I was a big boy because I was helping my dad. As I grew older the plow turned into a gas powered rota tiller and I had to stay back so I wouldn't get hurt. I remember watching my dad wrestle that big thing and wishing he still had the old plow. Unfortunately, as I grew into my early teens it became my turn to wrestle the dammed thing. I hated it. I wasn't cut out to be a farmer. I didn't like vegetables. I wasn't going to eat any of them any way. It was his garden, not mine. But it had became my job and it had to get done or we would have no vegetables for that year. I don't care whether you eat any of or not. You need to get it done so we can plant. So the plowing got done, the garden got planted and I got tired. Often I think about that field and how it always got plowed and how we always had a garden. No, my dad wasn't great with words. He would have never come up with words like that proverb. But if he heard or read those words he would have nodded his head in agreement and smiled He taught me to live my life like that. Just keep pushing the plow and eventually you will get it done. No he did not say that either. He lived it.

The Fog

I was tired. It was 2 in the morning. I was somewhere between Sacramento and Susanville in Northern California on the west side of the Sierras. It was a winding, twisting road that ran along side of a river. It was foggy. So foggy that I could just barely see the yellow dividing line five feet in front of my car. I had been up since 6 the previous morning. I was going to Susanville for the funeral of the mother of one of my best friends from my first try at college. His name was Jack and his mother had treated me like a son. We were going to Los Altos Junior college and I was living away from home. Jack's mother probably fed me at least 3 times a week for a year. A nicer lady you will never find. She was my mom away from home. That was 5 years earlier. A lot had changed since then. I had spent 4 years in the Air Force and had entered another college, Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah. Jack and his parents had moved from Sunnyvale, California to Susanville. It was early January and I was between Semesters at college when I got the news that Jack's mom had past away. I decided to attend the funeral. I packed my 1956 white Chevrolet station wagon and left for California at 7 the next morning. Since I would be traveling alone I decided to borrow my brothers 22 automatic pistol just in case I might need it. I do not know why I thought I would need a gun on that trip. I had thumbed rides all over the western United States and had driven alone on more than one occasion and never thought I need a gun before. Maybe my brother offered and I accepted. I really cannot remember. Whatever the reason, I had the gun. My route took me north to Salt Lake City, Utah where I took highway 40 west towards Reno, Nevada. Leaving Salt Lake I saw a hitch hiker and decided to give him a lift. After all I had bummed my way more than once. He was in his 50's and seemed a little down on his luck. He never said or did anything that threatened me in any way but for some reason I was nervous about him. I stopped at the first gas station we came to and he went to the rest room. While he was gone I took the gun from my suitcase, loaded it and stuck it in the driver;s door pocket. He came back and we continued our trip. I was nervous the whole trip. He never caused a problem of any kind. If fact, he turned out to be OK. When we got to Reno, I told him I wasn't going any further. I dropped him off at a truck stop outside of town, said goodbye and never saw him again. It was about 5 when we parted ways. I went on into Reno and decided to stop at Harrah's and get dinner and maybe gamble a little. I gambled a lot. I did not leave Harrah's until after midnight. The fog started setting in after I left Sacramento. I wad the only one on the road and I was struggling trying to see the yellow line. I was going about 30 MPH when a car came out of the fog behind me. He followed me real close and had his high beam lights on. He was blinding me and making me mad. I slowed down to let him pass and he wouldn't pass. I finally slowed to about 5 MPH and he went by. By this time I was really mad. As he went by I could see that there were 3 or 4 people in the car. I decided to give them a little dose of their own medicine so as they went by I flicked on my high beams and took out after them. I knew I had the gun in the door and I knew that is was loaded, They sped up and I followed. Forty, fifty miles per hour through the fog. I stayed with him, about two car lengths behind. Much to close for safety. Then there were lights in my rear view mirror. Dam, I thought, cops and I was right. I knew I could be in big trouble. I was tail gating at 50 miles per hour in the fog with a loaded gun in my car. I slowed down and the lights got closer. Luckily I had left a magazine on the other front seat. Before the lights got to close I took the gun and put it under the magazine. Within seconds the flashing red lights came on, I pulled over and as soon as I stopped I got out of the car and walked back towards the police car. I did not want to be any where around the gun when they found it. They did the standard procedure at that time, license and registration and then questioned me about what I was doing there and where I was going. They asked permission to search the car and I agreed. The searched under the seats, in the glove box and in the back under the spare tire, I think they were looking for drugs. They did not find any and they also did not find the gun. They said they had stopped me for a non functioning tail light. They let me go with directions to get the light fixed. We got back in our cars and as I slid into the driver's seat I looked at the magazine and there was was the nose of the gun poking out about 2 inches. I had just had all the luck I didn't have back in Reno. That was the last time I carried a gun in my car.

ODE TO RON

STEEPLES The Bells Chime and the Children suffer The Bells Chime and the homeless suffer The Bells Chime and the Hungry suffer Build another Steeple and the people will rejoice Build another Steeple So the Homeless the Hungry the Children Can be without

Tortured Heart

hair soft and sweet blown by a wispy breeze stole my tortured heart

I changed my name - or did I?

This evening I was reading through Connie's and my blog posts and noticed that I had started the blog under a different name. I had forgotten that I did that. I thought "I wonder if any one cares about the story behind the name. Also, I realized that I have a story for this weeks journaling class. The assignment for this week is "what have you been carrying?" It occurred to me that I have been carrying the wrong name on the right person or the right name on the wrong person all of my life. I could name this article "Now, Here's the Rest of the Story" as a memorial to Paul Harvey, God rest his soul. I loved his program and his great voice. God how I pray that if I ever get to heaven I will be somewhere near Paul and get to listen to him tell stories. Now that would really be heaven. Last year I wrote an article for class about the book "Catch 22" and how it was originally supposed to be titled "Catch 18". The name was changed to "Catch 22" because of another book that had just been published with "18" as part of it's title. I found that to be interesting because it raised the issue in my mind of whether the book would have been the same with the title of "Catch 18". My guess is that the book would have been just as successful but the title "Catch 18" would have never become a household cliche like "Catch 22" has. I still cannot imagine anyone saying "that's a "Catch 18". 18 does not have the looping qualities that 22 does and after all what is a "Catch 22" but a never ending loop. Thinking about "Catch 22" started my thinking about my name. Am I really who I think I am or am I really someone else in disguise? Am I the last of the Battys or am I the first of the Beattys. You see, My father's name was Cecil B a t t y, an English name pronounced to rhyme with "bait". However, when he grew up the people in his local community pronounced it to rhyme with bat and they were called the"Batty" family (rhyming with BAT). Half of the family threw in the hat and called themselves the Batty family. The other half dug in their heels and insisted on Batty ( like bait) not Batty ( like bat). My father was part of the Batty (like bait) clan. Being called Batty (like bat) bothered him so much that when he named me and my siblings he put the name of B e a t t y (rhyming with bait) on our birth certificates. To further confuse the issue my father filled in my birth certificate and named me George Stanley Beatty. The name of George being in honor of my grandfather George I. Batty. Now I should have been called George but, due to his smoking and drinking, my mother did not like old George I. Batty so she refused call me George. Hence, instead of being George Stanley Batty, I became Stanley George Beatty. Now some of the things I write I sign GS Batty and others I sign SG Beatty just to see which one can write the best. I have to wonder if George Stanley Batty would have become the same person as Stanley George Beatty. I have to believe he would have, but probably not quite as loopy. GS Batty or SG Beatty (which ever you prefer)

Christmas at Heartbreak Hotel

In June of 1974, my husband packed a suitcase and left. I had no family living in the state, no job and with a broken foot encased in plaster up to my knee I had few prospects. On the asset side of the ledger I did have a seven year old daughter, a small house with two mortgages and a very old car that was so out of tune it actually shot flames out of its tail pipe when it back fired. By the time the winter holidays rolled around, we were no longer alone; I was the proprietor of heartbreak hotel. First my friend Millie asked if she could stay with me for a few weeks, she had left her husband of twenty years and had no where to go. Then, before she moved out, my brother flew in from New Mexico. He had all his worldly belongings in a borrowed suitcase, his wife had left him. I seemed to be the only woman in the 1970’s that got “left”; I was way behind the times. I had been working at Norwalk Transit for several months but was still an “on-call, part time employee” that meant no benefits and no guaranteed hours. It was feast or famine there. We had two dispatchers that made out the work schedule on alternate weeks. Gwen Jones liked me, in me she saw a younger version of herself and gave me as much work as I could handle but on the next week the schedule would be made by Virginia Calvert and I was given almost no hours at all, only the occasional last minute shift when someone called in sick. The rivalry and animosity between those two women was quite clear and I was at their mercy. At the end of month I only averaged about twenty hours per week and on the months when my child support check bounced, as it was known to do, I sank below the poverty level. The help of the residents of Heartbreak Hotel was sometimes all that kept my head above water. Helen Reddy was singing, “I am Woman Hear me Roar” but you could only hear a whimper out of me. Transit was a good place for me to work, the bus terminal was walking distance from my house and all of the drivers were hired and trained by CETA funds. CETA stood for California, Employment Training Act. It was state funding for the unemployed and under employed so we were all on a pretty even economic playing field, I met many other struggling parents and I no longer felt so alone. Still, as Christmas approached it was a grim time for many of us. That year money was so tight that I bought my daughter a used stereo for Christmas; I bought it from another driver whose husband had just lost his job. Add to that a few gaily wrapped packages of underwear and socks and that was pretty much, Erin’s Christmas. But really, we were fine, we had a small tree and stockings hung by the fire, we baked cookies, we listened to carols on the radio, it was Christmas and we were together and that was all that mattered, or so I kept telling myself. The truth is, I wasn’t feeling it; I dreaded Christmas Eve; on Christmas Eve Erin’s Dad would take her to his parent’s house, the place where I had spent my last ten Christmas Eves. This year they would go without me and I would be left home to wait with my brother. As for him, the holiday drew closer and my brother grew more and more despondent. He had four little girls in New Mexico that he missed like an aching hole in his heart. Every day he became a little more withdrawn, he went to work, he chain smoked and he slept. I tried to talk with him but he was pretty unresponsive and, truth be told, I was kind of wrapped up in my own pain. In the beginning of December a new group of trainees were hired at work and by the time Christmas rolled around, they were doing their on-the-job training. They drove our buses while we rode along evaluating and coaching them. We got to know them pretty well. There was one guy who just came out to California from Oklahoma with his wife and three kids in a beat up old car. They had run out of unemployment benefits and had just enough money to rent a house and not much more. This class was only going to get one paycheck before Christmas and the word in the break room was that he needed that for rent; there would be no Christmas at his house. That was just the thing we needed to hear, a kick in our collective yuletide pants. We passed the hat collecting over $200.00, pretty good for people only making $4.25 per hour and we didn’t stop there. We bought dime store toys and wrapped them in bright paper, we brought in boxes of homemade goodies and someone even donated a Christmas ham. Since I was the only one who didn’t have plans on Christmas Eve, I was elected to play Santa Claus. I loaded up my car and went home and told Tim that we were on a mission for the North Pole. I expected no response or maybe just a grunt but he surprised me with an offer of a twenty and we immediately starting talking about how we were going to pull this off. The one thing we did not want to do was to embarrass the family; the surprise had to be from Santa and Santa alone. We drove by the house several times finally finding the best place to park, across the street behind a large truck. We had all the gifts packed in a large trash bag tied up with a big red bow. We put the money in an envelope addressed to the family with greetings from Santa and taped it to the top of the bag. We waited for dark, their car was in the driveway, the lights in the living room were turned on I scooted down in the driver’s seat, peeking out the bottom of the windshield as my brother tip toed to the door, laid the sack down, rang the doorbell and ran like the wind. I hadn’t seen him move like that since he was a kid! Tim was back in the car hunched over in the front seat before the porch light even came on. My co-worker came out picked up the envelope, read it and then opened it, we could see his mouth fall open and hear him call to his wife. He looked up and down the street but I’m sure he didn’t see us. Finally dragging the bag they went back in the house closing the door. “Merry Christmas fellow” whispered by brother in a voice raspy with emotion. This little adventure was our personal Christmas miracle, our salvation; this and a bottle of wine were the only things that got us through that night.

The Picture

The project in my journaling class was to find a picture from my childhood and write about it. I found a picture of my buddies and me in a jail cell pretending to drink booze and look drunk. We were at a 4th of july celebration and part of the fun was to get arrested by the fake sheriff. We wee arrested for being teenagers. We had our picture taken and then paid $1.00 ea to get out. The two previous blogs, "I'm in the Jailhouse Now" and "Utah State Prison" are the stories I wrote because of the picture prompt. I will try to scan the picture and add it to the post.

I'm in the Jail House Now

No, the picture isn't real. At least not real in the sense of actually being in jail. We were at a 4th of July picnic and had been jailed by the make believe sheriff. We were arrested for being teenagers and the fine was $1.00 each. With the fine you got to have your picture taken and as you can see we were having a great time. However, looking at that picture reminded me of a later event in which the real police were involved. It was Halloween 1956. My friends and I were going out to celebrate. There were five of us, Paul Jacobsen, Ray Edwards, Kay Littlefield, Dwayne Rowley and myself. We were in Kay's car, a 1949 black ford 2-door coup, lowered in the back so that it barely missed the ground. We were all only 17 but had talked someone into buying us three cases of beer. We headed for Provo to cruise Center street. We drove up and down Center street for a while and drank some beer. We were really feeling good. After a few trips up and down Center we decided to go over to Mary Ann McFaddens to see if we could get some girls. On the way to Mary Ann's we were stopped by a Provo Patrol car. He had spotted one of us throwing a beer can out the window. We all tried to hide our beer but he already knew what we were doing. He ask us to get out of the car and bring our beer with us. He made us pour all the remaining beer in the gutter. He called another patrol car and they told Kay to lock his car and they took us to the Provo Police Station. When we arrived they asked us our names and told us that we were in big trouble. They held us at the station and threatened keep us there all night. After they thought they had scared us enough they said if we could get a way home that they would let us go with a warning. However, we were not to drive. We told them that we would walk to Mary Ann's house and that someone would pick us up there. We walked out of the station giggling and laughing and happy that they had not filed any charges against us. On the way to Mary Ann's we decided that since it was Halloween we should play a few Halloween tricks. We tipped over flower pots, rang door bells and ran away. We were having a great time but unfortunately someone ( I swear it wasn't me) decided to snap the antennae off of an automobile and there was a Provo Police officer right across the street watching us. He pulled over in front of us and said "get in boys" Back to the station we went. When we walked into the station, the desk Sargent said, "are you guys back already? This may be some kind of record." This time we had to call our parents to pick us up and make arrangements to pay for the damage we caused. Needless to say we were in a lot of trouble at home, but the worst thing was that our parents called our football coach and he made sure that we got in enough running to really teach us a good lesson. His announcement to the rest of the team was very simple. "We have a few boys that need to run off the new beer belly's they have acquired. For the next two weeks we ran 10 extra laps after practice. S Beatty Feb 2009

UTAH STATE PRISON

The feeling is really very hard to describe. It was a feeling of despair, fear, utter loneliness and a coldness that was colder than the snow storm we had driven through to get there. My stomach felt empty and I thought I was going to throw up. My stomach churned and rolled. My head swam and spun . I wanted to run. I was sure I was going to throw up. I thanked God that I would not have to stay in there The doors opened into an office looking area. There was a tall chest high desk on the right with several prison officials doing various jobs on the other side. The officer that let us in directed us towards the rear of the room where there was a large steel gate with two officers on the other side. Jest before the gate there was a small waist high desk where one officer checked us in We were searched and photographed and had to sign some paper work before we could go beyond the steel gate. Once we were checked in the guard opened the steel gate and let us in. The gate slammed with great clang that announced "no one leaves". A chill ran down my spine. I wanted to leave right then but I couldn't. We were ushered down a long corridor by one of the guards. We came up to another door, solid steel, with a small barred window in the upper center. The guard on the other side of the door asked for our passes and our guard handed them to him. He checked the passes one by one and we were allowed into another room. Once again the big steel door slammed behind us and it seemed even louder and more sinister than the last one. The new guard led us down a long hall that led to an exercise yard. Once again there was a steel door but this one was even thicker and there was not a window in the door. The guard pushed a buzzer and a voice came over the inner com, "yes who have we got here'? It's the basketball team. Everything in order? Yes, I have twelve men here with passes. OK, just a minute. The large door opened up into a large empty courtyard. We were escorted across the yard by two more guards to an indoor social area and the gymnasium. Again there was a steel door that had to be opened and we had to once again be checked. Passes against faces. Once inside we were among the prisoners. Most of them were setting at tables playing cards with match sticks. We were escorted by two guards at all times. The prisoners were friendly. Most of them waved and smiled. The ones we came close to smiled and said hello to us. We even new a couple of them. Jerry Anderson who was four years older than me ( I was 17). He was doing five years for writing bad checks. The other one I knew was my neighbors dad. I had met him a couple times when he was home between being convicted of robbery or burglary. He was now a lifer and he told me that night that he was institutionalized and did not want to get out. He asked me to tell his son, Greg that he was happier there. Greg hated him and would not talk to him or read his letters. Years later, I thought about him when I saw "Shawshank Redemption" and Brooks Hatlin, an institutionalized prisoner played by James Whitmore, hanged himself after being paroled. We were escorted into the gymnasium where we were to play the prison basketball team. This was my first year going to the prison to play a game. The other guys on the team had been there before. We were there on a program that rewarded the prisoners for good behavior. We were treated very well by both the prisoners and the guards. In fact they made us feel special because we would come in there to play ball. We had to wear our uniforms under our clothes and we were not allowed to changed or shower. That was fine with me because I was happy to get out of there as fast as I could. I went again the following year when I was eighteen. I do not remember whether we won or lost the games that I played there but I do remember the big steel doors and the feelings I had when they slammed shut behind me. It was an experience that burned one message into my brain. Do not ever commit a crime that puts you into a place like that. One final note. The next year after my last trip, they had a prison riot and the basketball team that was there was held hostage. In the end nobody on the team got hurt, but that canceled the program forever.