Bitter Herbs Before the Exodus: Skooter Changes Course for Lent
. . . I received some snail mail recently from Liz Feuerborn who frequently comments on my posts at These Stone Walls. At the very end of her letter was a scribbled P.S.: "You haven't mentioned Skooter in awhile. Is he okay?" Several other readers have also asked about Skooter in their recent comments, and it's odd that his name should come up right now. It's odd because on the day I received Liz's letter, I had just spent an hour outside in the freezing cold prison yard talking with Skooter. The short answer to Liz's question is “No," Skooter is not okay, but I'm pretty sure he will be. . . .
The Tale of a Prisoner Retold; Skooter at the Beginning of Wisdom
. . . Skooter walked out the door that day carrying two plastic trash bags containing the sum total of his possessions. The mountain he must climb still has some peaks yet to be conquered. Prison rules allow for no further contact, by mail or otherwise, with anyone Skooter knew here. He is on his own. When Skooter got to the door, he put his bags down, turned and waved. We'll remember Skooter's smile for a long, long time. And his resolve to claw his way back from the abyss life brought him to, is simply unforgettable. Skooter is gone now, gone from our sight, but not from our souls. Let's hope and pray the Lord has made for him a straighter, smoother path. . . .
Pre-Apocalyptic Prison Paranoia
. . . But not everyone was spared. Like many prisoners, a man in the next cell block already had some issues with paranoia. On New Year's Eve, 1999, he became convinced somehow that Y2K would destroy all computer records - including prison records - and chaos would ensue. Someone fed his paranoia with a tale that if all society and laws break down, and anarchy takes their place, the government has a plan to execute all the prisoners with poison gas. Many prisoners are convinced that every governor has just such a plan hidden in his desk drawer. So the prisoner spent the night with a needle and thread sewing his lips and eyelids shut to keep the expected poison gas from penetrating. No one could figure out how he managed to stitch that second eyelid closed, but he did. . . .
In the Year of the Priest, the Tale of a Prisoner
. . . It's hard to describe the brokenness of the person sitting a few feet away staring intently, lost in a mindless TV show. Most of you do not have a category in which to understand the aftermath of such a shattered life. Skooter, his head shaved, his right arm covered in prison tattoos, looks as menacing as a wounded person possibly can. Skooter said I am the first person he has ever told of his past. I believe him. He wasn't able to tell most of it even to me. Instead, he spent all night writing, and gave his story to me in the morning. He titled it, "The Life of Skooter." It's not an easy story to tell. . . .