PrisonWarderJerry88
Newbie
- Jul 4, 2010
- 2
- 0
Hi there,
I've been a metal detector all my life, ever since my daddy accidentally stumbled across metal detecting in Vietnam, and decided on his return to replace mines with coins and gooks with good old times, as he put it, out in the pastures and valleys of the place I like to call home sweet home; or the United States of America. Now, if you are offended by what you have read so far, that probably means you are either a communist, liberal, european, tree hugging hippy, Obama banger, family breaking feminist or vanity fair subscriber â or any combination of said afflictions. But guess what? You donât have to read it! Thatâs the glorious thing about the USA â FREEDOM â always has been, always will be.
My daddy also brought back with him a lesson from Vietnam. Something he liked to call âfairs fairâ, and it was an idea he incorporated into his work as a prison warden and instilled into me as a small child. In fact, some of my fondest memories were when he used to take me to work with him (you could still show a child the real world back in those days) and watching the respect and awe that the prisoners used to treat him with. They would say their please and thank-yous; their no sirs, yes sirs, even when they didnât have to. Of course back then you could still call a spade a spade and a bad apple a bad apple, if you know what I mean, and mommy used to joke that if you pressed all those bad apples, we could have our own cider farm! This was also in the days before so called âhuman rightsâ had put a strangle hold on God given justice in our great country, and my daddyâs fairs fair policy was loud and clear to anyone that might need to know about it.
One time I remember I was riding up front with him, smelling the heady aroma from his cigar, when I saw all these people standing outside the gates waving signs. It sounds crazy now, but the first thing I remember was being amazed that some of the men had LONG HAIR! That was the first shock for me and believe me when I say there were many more to come. My daddy explained to me there and then that these people were communist hippies and had made the trip, probably from New York, to protest the ultimate redemption of one of the inmates that evening. My first words were âwhereâs New York?â That made my dad laugh so hard he nearly spat out his cigar and since then I used to say it all the time to make him laugh. Sometimes he would drive past them, wind down the window, grab the nearest available candle out of their hands and light his cigar, before driving through the gates. Many of these protests revolved around the so called innocence of the inmate(s) in question. But my daddy always used to say if that he could look into their eyes and just know that they had done it, and besides, if they were really 100% innocent they wouldnât be there in the first place.
That was nearly thirty five years ago now and when I look into the mirror I see a loyal reflection of my father, reminding myself that nothing has changed. If any of those people who I advised not to read this are still reading, they are probably screaming out âracistâ right now. But let me tell you something; I have no problem with anyone as long as they have America in their hearts and loyalty in their blood. I do not hate any of the prisoners under my supervision â that would be in direct conflict with the teachings of the good lord. I am simply a good shepherd looking after his flock of black sheep. I cannot tell you which correctional facility I work at, but I can tell you it is the same one that my daddy worked in all those years ago, give or take some reconstruction work. The high risk prisoners usually do not know whether it is day or night. They will never know the joy of getting a good signal, before falling to their knees to dig and praise god for another piece of treasure unearthed. It makes me sad, but they gave up that privilege when they decided to live the life they did. But why am I writing this now? Well, it just so happens that one of the inmates, letâs call him Daryl on death row, took an interest in my hobby after I read him some articles from the latest Treasure Hunter issue. Daryl showed a real liking to the sport, joking that if he had only known about metal detecting before he would never have got involved with gangs and selling drugs to make money. After his last meal and visit by the prison father, we escorted him on his final journey through the corridors, and before we parted he wished me luck for my treasure hunting that Sunday, as I had told him I was going with my own son, Clay for our first real metal detecting trip together. I thanked him and told him not to worry, that Jesus would be claiming him soon and that I would dedicate the first coin of the day to him. Well, I kept my promise, and that day my son and I unearthed six treasures, including a belt buckle from the civil war, a brass ring (as yet unidentified) and amazingly enough, a slave tag!
A great day and a wonderful bonding opportunity. That is why I love what I do. I love my job, I love my hobby, and I love this great country that allowed me to love both of these.
Have a great day, I know I will.
Regards,
Jerry.
I've been a metal detector all my life, ever since my daddy accidentally stumbled across metal detecting in Vietnam, and decided on his return to replace mines with coins and gooks with good old times, as he put it, out in the pastures and valleys of the place I like to call home sweet home; or the United States of America. Now, if you are offended by what you have read so far, that probably means you are either a communist, liberal, european, tree hugging hippy, Obama banger, family breaking feminist or vanity fair subscriber â or any combination of said afflictions. But guess what? You donât have to read it! Thatâs the glorious thing about the USA â FREEDOM â always has been, always will be.
My daddy also brought back with him a lesson from Vietnam. Something he liked to call âfairs fairâ, and it was an idea he incorporated into his work as a prison warden and instilled into me as a small child. In fact, some of my fondest memories were when he used to take me to work with him (you could still show a child the real world back in those days) and watching the respect and awe that the prisoners used to treat him with. They would say their please and thank-yous; their no sirs, yes sirs, even when they didnât have to. Of course back then you could still call a spade a spade and a bad apple a bad apple, if you know what I mean, and mommy used to joke that if you pressed all those bad apples, we could have our own cider farm! This was also in the days before so called âhuman rightsâ had put a strangle hold on God given justice in our great country, and my daddyâs fairs fair policy was loud and clear to anyone that might need to know about it.
One time I remember I was riding up front with him, smelling the heady aroma from his cigar, when I saw all these people standing outside the gates waving signs. It sounds crazy now, but the first thing I remember was being amazed that some of the men had LONG HAIR! That was the first shock for me and believe me when I say there were many more to come. My daddy explained to me there and then that these people were communist hippies and had made the trip, probably from New York, to protest the ultimate redemption of one of the inmates that evening. My first words were âwhereâs New York?â That made my dad laugh so hard he nearly spat out his cigar and since then I used to say it all the time to make him laugh. Sometimes he would drive past them, wind down the window, grab the nearest available candle out of their hands and light his cigar, before driving through the gates. Many of these protests revolved around the so called innocence of the inmate(s) in question. But my daddy always used to say if that he could look into their eyes and just know that they had done it, and besides, if they were really 100% innocent they wouldnât be there in the first place.
That was nearly thirty five years ago now and when I look into the mirror I see a loyal reflection of my father, reminding myself that nothing has changed. If any of those people who I advised not to read this are still reading, they are probably screaming out âracistâ right now. But let me tell you something; I have no problem with anyone as long as they have America in their hearts and loyalty in their blood. I do not hate any of the prisoners under my supervision â that would be in direct conflict with the teachings of the good lord. I am simply a good shepherd looking after his flock of black sheep. I cannot tell you which correctional facility I work at, but I can tell you it is the same one that my daddy worked in all those years ago, give or take some reconstruction work. The high risk prisoners usually do not know whether it is day or night. They will never know the joy of getting a good signal, before falling to their knees to dig and praise god for another piece of treasure unearthed. It makes me sad, but they gave up that privilege when they decided to live the life they did. But why am I writing this now? Well, it just so happens that one of the inmates, letâs call him Daryl on death row, took an interest in my hobby after I read him some articles from the latest Treasure Hunter issue. Daryl showed a real liking to the sport, joking that if he had only known about metal detecting before he would never have got involved with gangs and selling drugs to make money. After his last meal and visit by the prison father, we escorted him on his final journey through the corridors, and before we parted he wished me luck for my treasure hunting that Sunday, as I had told him I was going with my own son, Clay for our first real metal detecting trip together. I thanked him and told him not to worry, that Jesus would be claiming him soon and that I would dedicate the first coin of the day to him. Well, I kept my promise, and that day my son and I unearthed six treasures, including a belt buckle from the civil war, a brass ring (as yet unidentified) and amazingly enough, a slave tag!
A great day and a wonderful bonding opportunity. That is why I love what I do. I love my job, I love my hobby, and I love this great country that allowed me to love both of these.
Have a great day, I know I will.
Regards,
Jerry.
