Visiting Uncle Bud

When I was a little girl, my Uncle Bud spent a lot of time in Huntsville prison for various drug related offenses (and one assault). Because his wife "never wanted to see his sorry ass again", my mom headed the visiting committee, driving first to pick up my grandmother, Mama Hall, and then three hours to the prison. I always went with her because,

A: Mom always packed a picnic lunch for the drive, and I love a picnic,

B: Going to prison seemed preferable to spending the day with my step-dad, without Mom's protection, and

C: Sometimes Uncle Bud's wife would let their daughter, Angela, come with us. Angela and I could spend six hours irritating Mama Hall, causing her to shriek at us, one of our favorite games.

We usually passed Six Flags Fiesta Texas after we ate lunch, and I would remember how much I hated the prison visiting room. I would ask if we could just go ride the roller coasters and Mom would yell no. Instead, we would drive past the armed gate guard and enter the high, barbed wire walls. After we parked in the visitor's lot, we were funneled into the visitor's entrance, where family members were patted down, sent through metal detectors, and purses were thoroughly searched for contraband. They never strip searched us, but I was always convinced that THIS would be the time they were gonna look at my butt. After determining that we were not smuggling firearms or heroin into the prison, we were sent to a waiting room/gift shop full of tooled leather goods made by the inmates. There, we would wait with the other visitors until our prisoner was taken to the family room.

The visiting room was loud, full of crying wives and snotty nosed children. It smelled like sweat and pork and beans and stale cigarette smoke. Uncle Bud would light one cigarette after another, and tell us stories about selling a cellmate his migraine medication. I would stare at the other prisoners and their families and pretend I was a dangerous criminal. When that lost its appeal, I would stare at the vending machine and decide what I wanted to eat. When the decision was made, I would beg Mom for the required change.

After we had used our visitation, there were tearful goodbyes to Uncle Bud, at which time I would be forced to hug him, and say that I couldn't wait until he was released. To be honest, I didn't care if he never got out, I just wanted to ride the parachute drop. The second we left the visiting room, Mom and Mama Hall would begin their debate on whether Bud would be able to stay on the straight and narrow. They didn't think the chances were good.

When Uncle Bud went to prison for a second term, he decided to use the time to better himself. He thought the best course of action was to acquire a G.E.D. After months of study, we received a graduation invitation.

"Your presence is requested at Huntsville State Prison for the graduation of Bud ______. After the ceremony, cake and punch will be served."

Cake was all the persuasion I needed to attend Uncle Bud's graduation. I love cake.

I regretted the decision five minutes after buckling my seatbelt. Mom decided this would be the perfect opportunity to drill me on "showing the proper level of enthusiasm", so Uncle Bud would know how proud we were. After that lecture, she followed with the importance of my education, her contention being that, if I "dropped out of school, (I'd) end up in prison like Uncle Bud" I was only in the 3^rd grade, so dropping out wasn't an option I'd ever considered, but Mom still seemed concerned.

The ceremony was held in a dimly lit gymnasium. Seeing the prisoners walk down the aisle in their orange jumpsuits and paper mortarboards embarrassed me, so I stared at the cake. After too many long speeches about rehabilitation, I got my piece of cake. It had that gross frosting that leaves a layer of lard on the roof of your mouth, but I ate it anyway. I rode six hours for that piece of cake, and I was by-gawd gonna eat it.