This afternoon I had to report to the Infirmary because the Physician's Assistant wanted to go over the results of a blood test I had recently taken...
But while I sat in the foyer of the Infirmary's entrance to await my turn to be called into her room, I found myself getting into a friendly conversation with the officer who was sitting at the entry desk which was directly in front of me. He's an old-timer who's been working at the prison for many years. I know, too, from speaking with him in the past, that he loves to hunt and fish on his days off.
In my mind I could picture him as a guy who chops his own firewood, then stacks it in big heaps in his back yard in preparation for the long New York winters. And I could also visualize him regularly stopping at the local tavern for beers with his buddies where they could spend hours exchanging hunting tales and fishing stories. And he'd of course boast of his battles with black bears, or the times he almost stepped on a rattlesnake while hopping over slippery rocks down by the creek.
For him, being a correction officer means a steady paycheck. It's a decent way to put food on the table, to pay the bills and to provide for his family. And I know he only has a couple of years left until he's eligible to retire. Where, for him, he'll be able to spend more time with his guns and his bow and arrows, or more time with his fishing pole doing what he loves best. As with most C.O.s, they dream of retirement the way a Christian dreams of heaven.
This officer is a good person. He does his shift leaves. He's not one to go out of his way to hassle inmates. He doesn't seem to take special pleasure in filing a misbehavior report on a prisoner for the slightest rule infraction. Actually a majority of the officers are this way. They didn't take the job to beat up people.
I know by talking with him that he's a family man who enjoys home and hearth, and fixing his own pick-up truck right in his driveway. But one of his biggest pleasures, however, is when he can sit for hours in a damp thicket of weeds deep in the woods to await an unlucky duck or deer to happen by. For him it's free meat to put on the kitchen table.
He once told me that he was born and raised in the Catskills.* He's a high school graduate and a lifelong resident of a little town nearby. He's also a Navy veteran, a volunteer fireman, a member of the Masonic Lodge (Oh, darn!), and he's a staunch Republican who doesn't care for the way his country is being run. He's a proud American who likes to watch football on his television set. Basically he's a nice guy who works in a prison because someone has to, and this is all.
D.B.
*The Catskills refers to the Catskill Mountain region which is in the south west portion of New York State where the prison is located.
In my mind I could picture him as a guy who chops his own firewood, then stacks it in big heaps in his back yard in preparation for the long New York winters. And I could also visualize him regularly stopping at the local tavern for beers with his buddies where they could spend hours exchanging hunting tales and fishing stories. And he'd of course boast of his battles with black bears, or the times he almost stepped on a rattlesnake while hopping over slippery rocks down by the creek.
For him, being a correction officer means a steady paycheck. It's a decent way to put food on the table, to pay the bills and to provide for his family. And I know he only has a couple of years left until he's eligible to retire. Where, for him, he'll be able to spend more time with his guns and his bow and arrows, or more time with his fishing pole doing what he loves best. As with most C.O.s, they dream of retirement the way a Christian dreams of heaven.
This officer is a good person. He does his shift leaves. He's not one to go out of his way to hassle inmates. He doesn't seem to take special pleasure in filing a misbehavior report on a prisoner for the slightest rule infraction. Actually a majority of the officers are this way. They didn't take the job to beat up people.
I know by talking with him that he's a family man who enjoys home and hearth, and fixing his own pick-up truck right in his driveway. But one of his biggest pleasures, however, is when he can sit for hours in a damp thicket of weeds deep in the woods to await an unlucky duck or deer to happen by. For him it's free meat to put on the kitchen table.
He once told me that he was born and raised in the Catskills.* He's a high school graduate and a lifelong resident of a little town nearby. He's also a Navy veteran, a volunteer fireman, a member of the Masonic Lodge (Oh, darn!), and he's a staunch Republican who doesn't care for the way his country is being run. He's a proud American who likes to watch football on his television set. Basically he's a nice guy who works in a prison because someone has to, and this is all.
D.B.
*The Catskills refers to the Catskill Mountain region which is in the south west portion of New York State where the prison is located.
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