Wednesday, December 18, 2013

My Last Prison Christmas

This excerpt is from my new book, Prison Time:

“Standby for chow, Yard 1. You’re getting breakfast first.”
On a cold crisp Christmas morning, below a pink and blue sky, I join the prisoners drifting towards the chow hall, mostly depressed as if suffering a winter virus. A few swap gang handshakes.
“Merry Christmas, homey!”
“Happy Hanukkah, you sarcastic motherfucker.”
“Happy Kwanzaa, dawg!”
“Felice Navidad, ese.”

Breakfast is pancakes, scrambled eggs, cinnamon rolls, cereal and an apple. A guard with a clipboard checks off names and boasts how hung-over he is, antagonising the prisoners. The din is lower than usual, our expressions rueful. The rising sun floods the room with light, illuminating dust motes dancing over our food. After fifteen minutes, the guards order everyone out. The prisoners rise from tables strewn with spilt milk, cornflakes and apples stabbed to prevent hooch brewing.

We retire to our cells. While I reflect on being absent from my loved ones, a sad silence spreads across the yard. No basketball. No pull-ups or dips at the workout stations. No squabbling. No “motherfucker” this and “dawg” that. No announcements.
At least it’s my last Christmas here. I read to take my mind off the mistakes I made that cost almost six years of my life.

At Building B, a guard starts a security walk. “Put away your hypodermic needles! Don’t let me catch anyone drinking hooch!” 
By the time the swing shift arrives, the sun is shining through a sky mottled with clouds like the hide of a cow.
In a slow sarcastic voice an announcement comes: “We would like to take this opportunity to wish you all a very merry Christmas and to thank you for providing us with such a wonderful 2006!”
The yard animates:
“Merry fucking Christmas to you, too!”
“Shank you very much, motherfucker!”
“Come and say that to our faces, bastards!”
The guard continues: “And you’ll all be pleased to know that we fully intend to keep up the time-honoured Christmas tradition of shaking your houses down.”

Two guards – a female and a Mexican we call the “Fruit Nazi” for overzealously confiscating apples and oranges from inmates exiting the chow hall – raid cells, scattering property, confiscating food, thwarting hooch operations and doling out disciplinary tickets.

Late afternoon, we emerge for a surprise. The Gatekeepers – a young and high-spirited choir – sing carols from the other side of the fence. Briefly, I’m not a prisoner anymore. I’m someone’s son, brother. I’m human again.

At dinnertime, skimpy portions of roast beef, broccoli and watery mashed potato that reeks of bleach provoke outbursts that unsettle the guards. Tension remains high. 
After eating, I join a queue for phones that barely work. Written on the faces of the prisoners are the usual concerns. Will our loved ones be home? Will they accept the expensive call charges? Unable to get through, some prisoners hang up, cursing life.
Nearby, a demolition team of pigeons is pecking the clingfilm off chow trays abandoned by the guards. From a gust that deposits sand in my mouth, Chihuahuan ravens descend – a vortex of big black birds with a purple and blue iridescence – scattering the pigeons and ravaging the spoils.

A final announcement at 7:55pm: “Yard 1, rec is over. Take it in and lock down.”
The atmosphere is so heavy, I’m thankful that Christmas Day is nearly over.

by Shaun Attwood, the author of Party Time and Hard Time

Monday, December 16, 2013

Eastern Shore Christmas

My wife and I traveled down to Easton,Maryland last Friday to enjoy the town Christmas parade.
Before the scheduled kick-off we enjoyed a few pints and some oysters and a walk among the shops.
This old-school gun shop is  a rare breed these days. You walk in and smell canvas and waxed cotton and gun oil and tobacco. You can actually find 10 ga. shells for your goose guns. Filson is a featured brand.It is getting harder and harder to find a local gunsmith who knows the way around an old Browning or Beretta. I do suspect a small item or two from this store will find its way to my stocking on Christmas morning.

Helping Jack

My friend Jack has stage 4b cancer and is dying in prison. Since Jack wrote that the prison illegally stopped his pain medication rendering him in so much agony that he would rather just die, many people have contacted me, asking how they can help Jack. My friend Weird Al tracked down the contact information for Corizon Health, the company responsible for Jack's medical care. If you want to help Jack, you can call or email Corizon Health, stating that you are a concerned friend or pen pal of Jack's. Please include Jack's full name, address and prison number and feel free to copy me into your email at attwood.shaun@hotmail.co.uk Here's their contact info:

email:  InmateHealthInquiry@corizonhealth.com

phone number in the USA: 1-855-276-5416   

Here's the email I wrote to them:

Dear Corizon Health,

I am a friend and penpal of:

Jack Hudson 127743
ASPC - Lewis, Unit - Barchey Red
PO Box 3200
Buckeye, AZ
85326

He has stage 4b cancer. In his most recent letter to me he said that he is in so much daily agony since his pain medication was stopped, he just wishes he would die.

I find this most upsetting and inhumane. Can you please resume the pain medication Jack needs so he is not suffering in this way?

All the best from England,

Shaun Attwood

Tuesday, December 10, 2013

Despite the Weather

 The dawn rose snowy and ugly this morning. However, I had a settlement conference in Wilkes Barre...a 2 plus hour drive on a good day. With the cold and snow...not so much.
 The drive to get on the highway was unpleasant. Mini-vans were skidding into guard rails and supposed "all wheel drive" vehicles were off the road and kissing trees. There was a flat bed 18 wheeler stuck on the on-ramp to 476 and the rookies and snow-incompetent drivers were stacked behind him.
 As a veteran of many a snowy drive to hunting camps and ski destinations and beer runs, I was prepared. I had my 2010 F-!50 in real 4 wheel drive and some 100 lbs bags of sand in the bed for added weight on the back wheels.
I had to make it to this Mediation session...it is how I earn the money to keep me in shotgun shells and camo Goretex and steeplechase wagers and whiskey. I made it in just under 3 hours. I settled the case...bid farewell to a very happy client ...and pointed the truck South. Heading South from Wilkes Barre takes one  by PA 22 at Allentown and a quick right takes you toward the Sportsman's Mecca. We needed some new blood in our heard of goose decoys at the club. The gear above ended up in the back of my truck for the ride home and will be deployed Thursday and Friday as the Delaware waterfowl season re-opens.  It is going to be in the single digits Thursday when we take to the duck blinds before dawn and only a little warmer when we set up for geese at about 8:30 A.M. when the ducks usually stop flying. So no posts until after the gun stops smoking!~

The Original American Spirit

 From Washington Post, a quote from Jim Murray, an English writer and one of the world's top whiskey critics.
“The best whiskey is coming not from Scotland any more, but from Kentucky,” he said, adding that Buffalo Trace, a bourbon distillery in Frankfort, Ky., is “arguably the best distillery in the world.”

Friday, December 6, 2013

Shot and a Beer

 After all the pre-Thanksgiving cooking was complete on Wednesday, I headed out to the best local tap-room on the Main Line: The Roache & O'Brien.
 This joint has been around forever...since the 30's. I had 9 oz drafts in here when I was 16.
The guys behind the bar know what you drink and know their job, always have a hearty hello and put the proper games on TV. Darts and a good Juke comprise the entertainment. Smoking is allowed and there are always a few guys you know from the neighborhood or from high school sipping a pint.

You have to appreciate a joint that is open from 7:00 A.M. on Thanksgiving day...and then closes at 2 P.M. so the staff can get their turkey on...and then re-opens at 7:30 until 2 A.M. so revelers can have a few drinks amongst friends after the bird is digested.These days, joints like these are few and far between in suburban America....this sportsman is damn glad one is in his jurisdiction.

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

More Eat What You Kill

 Saturday 7:15 A.M. The Boardwalk blind at H&H Waterfowl Club,Smyrna,DE.
 It was around 20 degrees at legal shooting time. Thank God for modern waterfowl gear...waders with 800 grams of Thinsulate, warm camo coat, camo fleece hat...all the rig to ward of the  frigid damp air of the marsh. As my Grandfather would say: "Colder than a grave digger's ass."
 A lone mallard hen sweeps by to take a peek at our decoy spread. She is whistlling by right to left. I shoulder the gun and shoot. Splash one mallard. Genna sees the bird drop, marks, and off she goes. The bird is in hand.
 I hung the bird overnight and cleaned it on Sunday. On Monday I prepared wild duck cassoulet.
 Sauteed onions and garlic. Add the cubes of duck breast and thigh meat( not much meat to garner from the legs of a wild bird.)Add carrots and stock from the Thanksgiving turkey. Fresh Thyme and lots of pepper come next. A dash of salt and chiffonade of Sage
 I always add the carcass to braise for a while and extract all that wild flavor of freshly harvested game.
 Next add some garlic sausage from DiBruno Brothers in South Philly. Then some white beans and chopped tomatoes join the melange in the Le Cruesette.
Simmer for a while. To serve, toast some Italian bread with a little Gruyere on top. Place the cheese crowned crouton in a bowl and ladle the cassoulete over top. A Pinot Noir or a Barolo pairs well. I am just a knock around kinda guy, not much on wine, so I like a icy cold Stella Artois or even a Yuengling Chesterfield Ale with my cassoulete. A meal like this is the gustatory ancillary benefit to all the fun and  work of waterfowling. You cannot get this in ANY restaurant....anywhere.