News Trend Visiting Prison: Part Three|Actual

Until recently, I never dreamed that I would ever know anyone in prison, let alone make a regular habit out of visiting a prison.

But in the past year, a lot has changed in my life.

I now feel completely comfortable and quite at home during my time inside the walls, and in case you haven't had this experience for yourself, please let me share it with you.

Part One: From waking up to walking into the visiting room

Part Two: Happy times in the visiting room.

Part Three: On the other side of the wall.

Part Four: The women in the van

* * * * *

As I'm zooming across the state and processing my way into the visiting room at Washington State Penitentiary, my friend is going through his own preparation rituals for our visit. Based on my many questions and best recollections of his answers, this is what a visiting day is like for a man who lives inside the walls.

* * * * *

No need to wake up early; on a visiting day, my friend pops out of bed at his usual time, around 7 or 7:30 a,m.

Though there are quiet hours, there are no mandatory sleep times at Washington State Penitentiary. The men are free to sleep and wake on their own schedules.

A morning shower is a normal part of my friend's routine, though the time can vary depending on how the different groups within his unit are scheduled to share the showers. On visiting days, he gets to pull rank and grab an early shower, Around 9 a,m,, he uses the intercom to make his request. "Hey, I have a visit today. Can I get a shower now?"

"Sure," comes the response. In the unit's control room, someone hits a button, and the mechanized door to his room slides open. He is free to gather up his stuff and walk downstairs to the shower area.

^ Using the stubby pencils and scraps of paper provided in the visiting room, my friend and I draw maps, make lists, and keep score of our domino games. I bring them home and treasure the memories.

The cells in my friend's unit are not cells at all. They are proper rooms, with solid walls and metal doors with windows. Inside his room is a set of bunk beds with built-in storage areas, a wall-mounted desk with two attached seats, a shelf, a sink and a toilet. My friend and his roommate have space for several changes of clothes, a television and their tablets, hot pots and commissary-purchased groceries such as rice, fruit, and freeze-dried fish, an electronic keyboard, and stacks of books and magazines.

Forget every cliche you've ever heard about prison showers. This unit features individual shower stalls with doors that provide privacy from waist to knees.

Likewise, the orange jumpsuit is a thing of the past. Each man's capsule wardrobe is built around

grey crew neck sweatshirts

grey sweatpants

grey sweat shorts

khaki pants

and the classic white t-shirt,

Rather than send the t-shirts off to the laundry, where they are washed and dried in a mesh duffel with all of their other clothes and quickly turned a dull shade of grey, some men opt to hand-wash their shirts in their rooms so the shirts will stay bright white.

Around ten a.M., my friend is breakfasted, showered, shaved, and dressed in his sparkling t-shirt special-event khakis, ready for the call to the visiting room.

He waits.

By eleven o'clock, I have checked in. His name pops up on a computerized visit list in the unit control room, and the COs make arrangements to send him over. If it's a visiting day for the unit, a CO calls all the men with visits to the exit area and they all walk to the visiting room together.

But when I come by van, my friend is likely to be the only one in his unit with a visitor that day. And the CO simply opens the door and my friend steps out into the sunshine alone and walks by himself the several hundred yards to the visiting room.

My friend enters the visiting room by a double door airlock, just as we visitors do. He yanks his ID badge over his head and hands it to a CO who will hold it for the day, just as I relinquish my driver's license. Then he looks around for me, shoots me a grin as our eyes meet, and joins me at our table.

This must be an emotionally complex process for men who live behind the wall. Studies confirm the common sense notion that reconnecting with loved ones has a positive effect on a man's behavior and attitude. To know that you are loved and valued, to see familiar faces, to feel a hug or a handshake or a good ol' slap on the back - all of these things are humanizing and affirming and good.

But at the same time, this reattachment comes at a cost. It is fleeting, and after a few short hours, the men will be ripped out of this loving embrace and isolated once again. The process of visiting is a crazy roller coaster of emotions, but at this moment, the beginning of the visit, everyone is smiling.

We sit, we eat, we talk, we laugh.

The vending machine food is a far cry from the home cooking that every man craves but it goes a long way in adding to the celebratory mood of the visit. As I'm walking back and forth to get more treats for my friend, I notice the other men wolfing down heaping plates of convenience-store-quality food and I smile.

The hours flash by and before we know it, we are saying goodbye. As we outsiders exit the visiting room, the men quietly sit at the tables, sending us off with smiles and last waves.

And while we are gathering up our car keys from tiny lockers, walking to our cars, and rencana where to stop for dinner, our men are undergoing a full body cavity strip search.

I understand that the COs are looking for drugs, and that trafficking drugs through visits is a real and persistent duduk perkara.

But

I hate the indignity of this process.

I hate that the joys of a visit are so quickly turned into a degradation.

I hate that my friend is treated like an animal.

I've asked him how he feels about this strip search.

He shrugs it off. "Whatever. You just get used to it."

But I still hate it.

And I hate leaving my friend behind the wall. Sometimes I worry that visiting only makes life worse for him, as he is perhaps more acutely aware of what he has lost when he sees me.

But I know that's not true.

In my best moments, I see our visits as a stairway. Each time we meet, we are lifted up and when we part, we are both in a new place that is higher and better than the place we were before. Through our visits, we are going somewhere together. And though I can't exactly say where we are headed, I know it is good.

* * * * *

I know that my friend will get dressed again and head back to his room, share some laughs with his roommate, and cook up something good to eat in his hot pot. He'll call his mom that evening, and stretch out to read before he sleeps. Maybe he will think a little bit about our conversations of the day.

And while I understand that my friend's life behind the wall is still full of challenges and hardships and trials, I also believe that he will be stronger - just a little bit stronger - because of our visit.

News Trend Hunting Dog|Actual

A secret smile slips across my face as I listen to my dog's footsteps fall on the soft ground under the trees.

I look back to see her nose down, lingering around the bases of the towering Douglas furs, scenting whatever has been there before her.

She's becoming a little hunter after all.

In the first few weeks after I adopted my girl, Gracie, she ignored the thirty feet of freedom offered to her every day on our long walks. Preferring to walk at my side, she didn't wander in the brush or even track scents on the sidewalk. Assuming that her life with her last owner didn't allow for much time in nature, I have been hoping and praying that her natural-born hunting instincts would eventually return.

I hear her gait shift gears as Gracie rushes to catch up to me. Expecting her to whoosh past me and take the lead, as she has also begun to do, I'm surprised that she slows as she approaches me..

I glance down just as reaches my right side and beams up at me, her eyes aglow.

With a decidedly dead squirrel in her mouth.

Two thought instantly and conversely pop into my head.

This is the deadest thing I have ever seen.

Flat as flat can be.

Drier than any autumn leaf.

Definitely in an advanced state of decay.

Though surprisingly intact and recognizable as a little furry animal.

I am grossed out beyond words.

But. At the same time:

The look of joy on my dog's face as she presents her treasure to me with the utmost love and devotion is sweet enough to make the angels sing.

My heart bursts with love for her.

Still, she holds this dead varmint in the mouth that occasionally rests against my pillow

and I'm not having that.

So I let loose a weird gurgling wordless cry of protest

and my dog drops her prize.

I praise her effusively

and we continue on our walk.

* * * * *

About a week later, she does it again.

After lagging behind to track among the trees, Gracie catches up with me and voluntarily heels in her proper place on my left, slowing her pace to perfectly match mine.

This is odd.

I glance down at her and there it is.

Her lips gently clench the same squirrel, even drier and deader than before.

Her eyes shine with pride and devotion.

Gracie clearly offers me her prize.

And this time I can't even fake it. I scream, "Drop it!"

Gracie does not know what that means.

So I take her by the back of the neck and shake her until she drops the carcass. I kick it to the curb

Then I pull myself together and praise my pup to the high heavens.

* * * *

A few days later, we encounter the squirrel again.

This time, I'm prepared. I scout the curb as we walk, and spy the flat flap of fur perhaps before Gracie does. But we both know it's there, and we stop to look at it.

I take a photo.

I praise my dog.

And we walk on to unknown adventures, my clever hunting dog and I.

News Trend Gracie's New Horse Farm|Actual

True confessions: Sometimes I feel really guilty about keeping a dog in the suburbs.

Maybe it's my dogs' wild enthusiasm for adventure.

Maybe it's a throwback to my country upbringing in a day when dogs could run free.

Maybe it's just my utopian fantasies.

But for all the dogs that I've raised here in suburban Seattle, I feel a certain regret for keeping them here in the land of leash laws, property lines, and busy streets.

And this anguish is all the stronger for my girl, Gracie, because Gracie grew up on a horse farm.

We walk every day, rain or shine, for about an hour.

Just think of it. Two hundred and thirty-some-odd acres of freedom, with perimeter fences designed not so much as to keep the dogs in as to keep unwelcome invaders out.

I've seen photos of Baby Gracie romping through meadows, wading into ponds, and racing alongside her gorgeous Irish sister. There is no leash at her neck. She is free.

Now she lives with me. There is good in that, because Gracie loves her humans and she needed more attention that her horse farm life could provide. But every day, as I tether my dog to a long leash and guide her through the somewhat dangerous and decidedly dog-unfriendly streets of my community, I suffer pangs of remorse.

I wish I could give Gracie a happy life on a horse farm.

Well, you can't, I tell myself.

But still I struggle with the life I am giving to my dog. But eternal optimist that I am, I try to find the sweet spots, the hidden joys, of my dog's life in suburbia.

She's becoming a good little tracker, and works the scents left behind

by the dozens of other dogs who patrol this street every day.

Let's not even pretend to call it a leash I walk my girl, as I walked Casey and Ranger before her, on a thirty-foot rope. This allows my active pup to race ahead, scout out the most intriguing scents, and scruffle around in the brush a bit while I carry on at a steady pace. Eventually, she loses interest and gallops up to take the lead again

This arrangement not only allows my dog and me to walk at our preferred paces, but the rope is quite the conversation starter. Oh, if I only had a dollar for every person who says, "Wow, that's a long leash!" and to whom I typically reply, "Yes. Yes, it is," then I could probably buy a lifetime supply of rope.

As much as we enjoy this merry form of romping down the sidewalk, there are tines when we must heed a more civilized approach. When crossing the busy streets or passing by pedestrians of the canine or human variety, I coil up the rope to a more conventional length, and Gracie obediently heels at my left side. It's good discipline for her, and she gathers many admiring looks and comments as she walks like a proper lady.

Squirrel country.

About fifteen minutes into our walk, we veer off the sidewalk and turn onto a lane that winds along the sports fields behind the high school. As I give Gracie permission to run out the full length of the rope, she delightedly bounds up a bank to get full view of the soccer field. A bundle of eager and attentive energy, she is often rewarded by the sight of players kicking around a ball. Quivering with excitement, Gracie loves to stand and watch for a bit, just as she does anyone on a skateboard, bike or scooter. Fluid motion seems to fascinate her.

Next we traipse along the outfield fences of the baseball field. During the late summer and early fall, the marching band lays dibs on this as a practice space, and we usually encounter a subset of the group, such as the drill team or the brass section, if not the full-blow show band.

Not gonna lie. Gracie attracts a lot of attention.

"I love your dog!"

"What's her name?"

"What kind of dog is that?"

"Your dog is soooo cute."

"That's the longest leash I've ever seen."

Adults run here and there among the fields. Last week a man about my age took one look at my dog, shook his head in apparent amazement, and beamed at me. "Boy, that's a good-looking dog!"

Sometimes we stop for a petting session, but usually I happily answer questions while Gracie marches on, head held high, tail a'wagging.

She knows we're all talking about her. But she's got things to do.

Lately, Gracie has been trying to convince me that the best way to stalk the squirrels would be to crawl commando-style under that turquoise bench. I am not having it. Yet.

We leave the busy world of the sports fields behind. We cross a walkway through the woods and come out into a serene little clearing in the woods. An administrative building nestles among the trees, and we walk the full perimeter, enjoying this little wild space.

Lately, Gracie has become obsessed with the squirrels back here. As soon as we step off the wooden bridge, her posture changes - head down in a hunting position, gait slow and stealthy. She is a bundled coil of energy. I play my part in this game by staying quiet and keeping out of the way. I gather up the extra length of rope so it doesn't noisily drag stray leaves across the pavement, and tiptoe behind my furry red hunter..

The squirrels happily prance in the lawn, scamper across the paved lane, romp around the garbage dumpsters, and frolic in the trees. Gracie freezes in mid-step when she sees them, waits, and watches. Occasionally, she will break free and race after one, but usually she simply stands until she is sated, and then we happily march on.

Now, on the far side of the school, we pass through a busy pick-up and drop-off area for the gymnasiums and swimming pool. We say hi to more students, who ask more questions and offer more compliments. Often there's a line of cars where parents wait to pick up their kids. I'm sorry to say that Gracie has been known to jump up on a car door, lay her huge furry paws on the open window, and stick her head inside in order to properly greet the occupants.

Once she tried to board a school bus waiting for the football team. She cleared the stairs inside the bus before I caught up and hauled her out.

Younger children come and go from swimming lessons at this pool, so I often wrap up the leash and keep Gracie on a heel here. The other day, Gracie and I were engulfed by a class of still-damp young swimmers, probably eight to ten years old, who wanted to pet her. As the kids' eager hands reached out to pet my calm dog, I offered that her name is Gracie. The girl closest to me, missing several teeth, beamed up at me with joy and said, "My name is Gracie too!"

That's the bone my dog found in a bush. Not under the bush. IN it.

We come out of the high school grounds and head toward home, passing cars on the streets full of friendly if unknown faces who often wave or smile at us. Many of these strangers grieved with me when my Ranger passed away, and now their faces light up at the sight of Gracie. Last week, one woman whom I don't know rolled down her window as her car approached us Wordlessly, she pointed with an outstretched arm at Gracie, and then, with an ear-to-ear grin, gave me a huge thumbs up.

We see human walkers who say hello. Some people are visibly afraid of my big dog, so I heel her over to the side of the walkway to let them pass. Others smile and say hello. Sometimes we see neighbors and friends, and stop to chat. Occasionally we encounter my husband walking home from the bus stop.

And we see other dogs with their humans. Gracie has a deep appreciation for other dogs. She stares at them. In fact, she gets so caught up in lasering her eyes onto them that she'll walk right into me if I'm not careful. So I've learned my lesson. When Gracie is goggling at another dog, usually on the other side of the street, we just stop in our steps. I tell my dog to sit, and then together we just stare at the object of her affection as if this were the most normal thing in the world to do.

The owners usually notice. If the social awkwardness meter pegs, I simply say, "Sorry. My dog is obsessed with your dog." And that has made us several new friends.

On we walk. Gracie is learning how to weave in an out the shrubs planted along the sidewalk without tying her long rope into a cat's cradle.

And she's teaching me a few tricks too. The other day, she shoved her head all the way up to her shoulders into a yew tree, a solid thing of soft, thick, green needles. And when she came back out, she carried in her mouth a bone.

The bone must have been resting in the branches of that yew. It was the strangest thing and I could barely believe what had happened. But I took a photo for proof.

* * * * *

I wish with all my heart that I could give Gracie a horse farm. I wish I could throw away that long yellow rope and let her run wild and free in a safe, natural place.

But it occurs to me, as we turn the last corner into our neighborhood and cross the street toward home, that Gracie doesn't seem to mind the rope. She might just like that sense of connection to me, and the reassuring tugs and commands that I sprinkle throughout our walk.

And though my mind boils over with the many restrictions and limitations that suburban life puts on my dog, it also occurs to me that Gracie doesn't understand those things. For all I know, maybe she sees our surroundings as her new horse farm: a big, friendly, rollicking place filled with humans and animals that bring interest and variety into her life every day.

That is what I hope she thinks.

But horse farm or not,  what I know for sure is that when Gracie gets home from her walk, she is content.

News Trend Essentially Clean|Actual

Sometimes when you're cleaning the bathroom at 1 a.M., you find yourself suddenly annoyed at the little bottles of essential oils scattered here and there across the counter.

And you realize these little gems need a proper home.

Your mind flashes to the wooden set of shelves you bought at the thrift store last spring but never found a good use for.

Is it still out in the garage, waiting to be re-donated?

Quick. Run down and check.

Yes.

But will the bottles fit?

Maybe.

This is too close to eyeball, so quick - gallop up the stairs with the shelves in hand, choose a bottle and c a r e f u l l y slide it into place.

Yes.

By the width of an eyelash, the bottles fit perfectly.

All that remains is to paint the set of shelves white, attach it to the wall with Command strips, and load in the bottles.

Alphabetically, of course.

And now, the bathroom looks truly and properly clean.

News Trend Live A Little |Actual

Do not calculate the calories per bowl. Just eat it and smile.

I'll be honest. As the dog days of summer sprawl out into a glorious feast of August sunshine, my interest in cooking always dwindles.

By Labor Day, we are typically surviving on big salads, quick sandwiches, and whatever can be thrown on the grill in a hot minute.

But once the crisp days of autumn kick in, when the sun's angle slants toward the horizon and the first fallen leaves chatter across the patio, I'm ready to cook.

This year was no exception. I've been experimenting with new recipes. The heartier, the better. I'm a fool for rich soups and hearty stews and creamy sauces draped over pasta.

Because after a lifetime of low fat, vegetarian, carb-free penance, I'm done with food rules. I eat healthy, balanced meals and sensible portions. And I'm surprised how well that works out.

Take this soup for instance.

Shrimp

Bacon

Red potatoes

Heavy cream.

So decadent. My previous self would not have touched it with a ten-foot spoon.

But what I have learned is that one bowl of this deliciousness plus some pear slices and - if I'm feeling really crazy - a chunk of sourdough on the side, makes for a shockingly satisfying meal.

A small portion goes a long way when I eat the food that my body craves.

So that's my fall food philosophy. I'm ready to live a little

* * * * *

Shrimp 'n Bacon Chowder

Adapted from Delish

Ingredients:

8 slices bacon, chopped

1 onion, diced

2 T flour

3 C chicken stock

3 red potatoes

salt and pepper

1 lb large shrimp, peeled, deveined and cut in half

2 C half and half

3 green onions, chopped

Directions:

1. In a large pot over medium-high heat, brown the bacon until crisp. Transfer to a plate and reserve some of the fat in pan.

2. Add onions to pan and cook until soft, about six minutes. Add flour and stir about one minute.

3. Whisk in chicken stock, then add potatoes, salt and pepper. Simmer on medium-low until potatoes are tender, about ten minutes.

4. Stir in the cooked bacon. Add shrimp and simmer until pink, about three minutes.

5. Just before serving, reduce heat to low and add the half and half. Stir until just warmed through, about three minutes.

6. Serve with green onions as garnish. Eat it up.

PS Two days later, just to keep things interesting, I served the leftover soup over rice for dinner. So good.

News Trend A Cupboard That I Can't Explain|Actual

In my living room stands a black walnut cupboard.

Someone in my husband's family built it generations ago.

I love it.

Years ago, I filled it up with coconut bowls from Vietnam and a collection of driftwood from Kalaloch Beach.

I know. The bowls are fine but the driftwood's a little weird.

What can I say. I'm crazy for these bits and bobs of once-towering trees, broken and tossed and polished smooth by the most powerful ocean on the planet, then tossed up on my beloved beach..

I love them.

So far, so good.

Still, this presentation has been lacking a little something. A plant was the obvious answer; a splash of green to ignite the natural tones of brown.

I searched for a long time for my dream pot and the perfect plant.

Then I got bored with searching and just forgot about it for awhile.

Sometimes that is the best way to find a solution. Stop looking and let the solution find you.

Last weekend at Molbaks, this white-footed planter found me.

I dig the hand-thrown vibes, the wobbly lines, the groovy pedestal. It reads very 1970 to me and I love the tension it creates with the straight, somber style of the antique cupboard.

And the ivy was a Christmas gift from my fourth-born. She gave me the plant last winter, and said that we could pick out a perfect pot later on. Truer words were never spoken.

What can I say. I know that this whole configuration is a little wonky. Why I stuffed a family heirloom full of beach debris and coconut art, I can't explain. And why I feel so satisfied with this out of tune planter mystifies me.

But I don't care.

I love everything just the way it is.

And Gracie apparently loves it too.

News Trend What An Angel|Actual

Christmas Tree-Hunting Blues

2015 - Tree Hunting

She roams the wet wilderness as her humans seek the perfect Christmas tree, wagging as she walks  and occasionally stopping to stare at a fellow canine assigned to the same task.

Quite the regal lady, she walks with aristocratic bearing and just a hint of street swagger, her nose to the ground, ever in pursuit of delicious scents. Now and then, she accidentally wraps her leash about a stubby little fir, but cleverly follows her human's prompts for corrective action. She stops, as her family does, to evaluate this tree and that, and while her mind may wander during these sessions, her little red rump stays firmly seated on the ground.

"Alright, folks, that tree is properly loaded. Now someone please

open up the back door and let me get out of this mud."

She's come a long way, my lassie has, in proper holiday field etiquette, and though she still behaves like an ape at times, today at the Christmas tree farm, Gracie was simply an angel.

* * * * *

Not every trip to the Christmas tree farm is quite so lovely.

Get all the gory details in my reports of our annual adventures:

2018 | Christmas Absurdities

2017 | Red-Headed Soul Mates

2016 | Christmas Tree-Hunting Blues

2015 - Tree Hunting

2014 | Hunting the Perfect Christmas Tree

2013 | A Vegan Murder

2012 | The Christmas Tree Farm Revisited