Those Jackson County Blues E-Book

Richard Mann

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 327

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Upon his return to the U.S. after a seven year stint in Germany and Taiwan, a young, native Floridian, a victim of unexpected vississitudes, finds himself teaching in a prison deep in the north Florida Panhandle. The economic crisis of the mid-seventies has led to a massive increase in the number of prisoners facing incarceration. Instead of beginning work on his Ph.D, as planned, the young man is suddenly confronted with the reality of recalcitrant inmates, an arch-conservative administration, plus a whole kaleidoscope of personalities ranging from KKK guards, born-again Christians, black Muslims and a colorful mixture of staff members. Living together with his older brother, who was working at the local Social Security office, he slowly begins to adjust to a completely different world than the one he had experienced abroad, forcing him to accept the stark reality of those social changes which were transforming US society. While struggling to gain a semblance of order in the classroom, he found himself constantly battling his "old south" supervisors, who are suspicious of this liberal newcomer, who, later, seemingly far too often, sides with the inmates. In short, one finds here a microcosm of the US in the mid-seventies, with the young teacher himself raising the unresolved question - quo vadis?

Leseprobe

In Memorium

Bob Allen Howard †1975

Steve Hollie † 1975

Thomas Evans † 1975

“Death is a distant rumor to the young.”

- Andrew A. Rooney

“Death never comes at the right time, despite what we mortals believe. Death comes like a thief.”

- Christopher Pike

- Some of the names in this book are completely fictional -

Contents

Prelude

Great Expectations

Strange New World

Spring Tide Rising

Class

War

:

W

ipeout

A

ll

R

esistance!

Krakatoa Reloaded

Foxtrot Corpen

Excelsior!

A Brief Respite

Nouvel Terrain

A Mystery Within An Enigma

An Unusual Hiatus

Back in the Saddle Again

Return to the

Burg

The Nub of the Matter

A Day in the Life

Dark December

Entirely New Perspectives

Short Timer

Epilogue

Prelude

Later in life he would spontaneously remember Groundhog Day since for weeks life seemed to followed a similar sequence. Already semi-conscious, in that foggy noman’s land between reality and the terrible nightmare he had just dreamed, he heard the faint, but discernable, metallic click, meaning his beige, Bakelite radio would spring to life with a series of country music songs punctuated by commercials for local businesses, interspersed with today’s weather forecast along with some quips regarding upcoming events in the area. Heaving himself out of bed he hurried to the bathroom with, as usual, no time to shower, just enough for a quick shave, after which he dressed and went into the sunlit kitchen, opening the cupboard to grab a small package of Instant Breakfast, which he quickly opened, dissolving it in a glass of milk, which he then chugged down while throwing a quick glance at the wall clock. 6:45 am, right on the old bazoo! He slipped out the front door, making sure to close it firmly behind him, but not too loudly so as not to wake his brother. Five minutes later he drove onto the empty parking lot at the Winn Dixie, satisfied that the others in the car pool hadn’t arrived yet. In face of the exploding gas prices, more and more drivers were being forced to re-think their daily modes of transportation, with many, even if grinding their teeth, having to admit that four to a car was far cheaper than one, thus leading to car pools – simple economics. Moreover, the distance to work and back added up to 40 miles a day, five times a week equaled 200 miles flat.

Gradually the other drivers arrived with a curt greeting, parking their vehicles close to another, then meandering over to the designated “driver of the week” to file into his car. Being the youngest and the newest, he dutifully squeezed himself into the back seat beside Mr. Lawton, a teacher, while upfront sat Mr. Hall, office staff plus local preacher, and the driver, a Mr. Lowell, also staff and taught a course on Bible studies too. Just outside the city limits some one brought up the subject of Vietnam, where the North Vietnamese were starting what seemed to be a full-scale offense against the South Vietnamese army up in the northern highlands, with the latter just barely able to hold their positions. While the two men in the front seats were of the opinion that the U.S. should a least offer air support (probably in the back of their minds vaguely remembering the French defeat twenty years ago at Dien Bien Phu), Mr. Lawton renounced any help at all, stating that the U.S. Involvement in Southeast Asia was simply the wrong time, at the wrong place. Being some twenty, twenty-five years younger than those men up in the front seat, Lawton tended to see the war through different lenses than the older ones who distinctly remember WW II and the war in Korea. The other young man in the back seat, not wanting to get involved, kept his mouth shut, closing his eyes as if having drifted off to sleep. One cursory glance at him sufficed to exclude him from the ongoing conversation, which, in turn, swiftly concentrated on the results of the present economic recession and its direct effects on their own, immediate lives. Meanwhile, the young man had indeed fallen asleep in the back seat, his head now slumped over against the door, his body held in place by the seat belt. The car, now picking up speed on the short four-lane stretch around Grand Ridge, sped onward toward the Apalachicola River on that chilly January morning in the Florida panhandle.

Great Expectations

After all these years they were once more all together again. After a long drawn out hiatus of some six years, Cliff and Peggy Mann were finally able to corral all five sons together for Christmas at home; their third son’s extended sojourn in Berlin plus his fifteen months on Taiwan having finally led to a long-due reunion. Accompanying their Mom to midnight mass at St. Joseph’s, the boys came home to a sumptuous meal prepared by their father, which was later followed by a merry exchange of gifts, with Dick, the third son, stealing the show by bestowing each and every brother with a long scroll, on which a Chinese symbol had been carefully calligraphed. Just to add some excitement to the moment, Dick listed all twelve animals of the Chinese zodiac, challenging his brothers to choose the one that they thought was valid for them, promising the winner a six-pack of the beer of their choice. Although they tried their best, all efforts were in vain, because the facts were such – Dave was born in the year of the tiger, Jim was a snake, Doug a monkey and Dan a rat. Dick, himself a horse, made it clear that all the symbols had many positive and negative connotations, with the only real exception being the dragon. After much whiskey, with their Mom pounding out a wide selections of tunes from the Thirties and Forties, the whole family finally decided to hit the hay around 3:30 am. The next morning over brunch, Dick was asked by his parents as to just exactly what he intended to do, now that he was finally back in Florida. Anticipating this very question, he was Johnny-on-the-spot with a convincing answer. Basically his plan was to kill two birds with one stone ; first off he’d use the remaining nine months of his GI Bill to study for three quarters at Florida State, and attain a teaching scholarship while working for his Ph. D. To top things off, he’d then seek out a junior college in Florida and starting teaching there. Any further questions? Of course not, here was a rocket ready for re-launch. His Mom gave him a questioning look, hopeful, but by no means convinced that this would conclude with a happy ending. Dick finished up by adding that he and Jim would be driving up to Tally in two days to put the final touch on things.

However, once in Tallahassee a few days later his confidence quickly started to disintegrate because his visit to the Veteran’s Office turned out to be a disaster in that he was bluntly told that his final nine months of GI Bill benefits could only be used on academic work leading to a bachelor’s degree. Dick’s adamant reply that he had already obtained his BA ,and that his MA from the Free University of West Berlin had been a result of GI Bill benefits from the states failed to cut any ice with the VA office staff, with him being told there was absolutely no chance for him receiving financial aid when working toward a graduate degree. Later that day, he sat down in Jim’s house in Marianna, some seventy miles west of the state capital telling his brother his woes, expecting some commiseration, with Jim merely listening stolidly, his mind already seeking alternatives. Seeing that Dick was literally at a dead end, Jim suggested the following plan – until things somehow panned out with the VA, why not start work here in the vicinity so as to fill his empty coffers? Jim would offer him a rent free room if Dick would keep the kitchen clean, buy his own food and do any yard work needed. Reluctantly, with a sense of foreboding, Dick agreed, on the one hand thankful for the gracious offer, but on the other hand, distraught that his future plans which appeared so firm a week ago should now be merely so much spit in the wind.

His best bet seemed to be the Dozier’s Boys School just outside of town, which he remembered from his youth, when young boys were, in cases of extremely bad behavior, warned of being “sent up to reform school” in Marianna, a spot so remote, so foreign to their daily lives, that it sent a chill up their backs. No one they ever knew had actually been sent there, but they had heard the scuttlebut that a friend of theirs knew a guy who in turn had heard of a kid, who had been sent up-state to the reform school, where the food was bad and the discipline harsh. Well, it seemed that Jim knew a guy working there, who was willing to find out if there was an opening for a teaching position at the school; and while Dick was not too enthused with the thought of teaching out at Dozier’s, at least it would provide him with a job, plus being relatively close to home. Since the application process would take time, Dick was forced to sit around the house, reading and watching TV programs in order to accustom himself to American life-style once again, having been absent some seven long years. Shortly after his arrival in December he had spent the second day watching a full morning of TV shows, both intrigued and appalled by a show entitled The Newlywed Game on ABC, where young freshly married couples were competing against one another for prizes. For example, the men were led off-stage, while their spouses were asked by the MC what their husband’s favorite vegetable was. Returning to the stage, the men were then asked to name their favorite vegetable. When the answers by the men failed to correspond to those of their wives some of the women were incesenced, screaming that “you always told me that you liked peas, not spinach!” As the man roared back, “I did not! You know I always said I actually prefer corn!” By now the audience is in stitches, with the MC stoking up the conflict instead of trying to contain it, causing the slanging between the couple to increase in volume, growing in intensity, as the other competing couples offer bemused looks, glad to see the competition self-destruct before an audience beside itself with delight. Dick couldn’t believe what he was viewing. Where was the compassion, the empathy needed to help this poor newly wedded couple start to tame their emotions? In fact, neither the MC nor the audience seemed the least bit interested in calming down the conflict, obviously finding a sort of malicious pleasure in watching young newlyweds take each other verbally apart on national television. Flicking off the TV set, Dick wondered if the staff provided any post-show counseling for bitterly disappointed couples, so sure of winning prizes only to be sabotaged by a witless partner.

The very next day Jim| told him the bad news; his friend had called him at work, telling him that Dozier’s was not interested at the present time, they were having certain “problems”, obviously not wanting to go into details; nevertheless, Dick should keep in touch in case of a future job opening. Not wanting to disappoint his brother completely, Jim added a hopeful note in stating that there was a possible job opening over at the state prison close to Chattahoochee and that he’d know by tomorrow if Dick had the necessary credentials for the job. Ugh, Chattahoochee. Why that was close to twenty-five miles away – fifty miles of driving every day. A reform school was bad enough, now a state prison! No, this was not what he had planned for in the past months. He should be at Florida State working on his Ph.D., not teaching at a Florida state prison! Nonetheless, beggars couldn’t be choosers, with him financially at the end of his rope, he saw no other immediate alternative than to bite into that sour apple, indeed if it were even offered to him in the first place. One thing was clear, he needed wheels were he to work anywhere, so being kind, Jim offered him a loan in order for Dick to buy a used car; thus he ended up purchasing a baby-blue, six-year old Karmann Ghia, his first automobile ever. Since his drivers license had long expired, he had to take the written test again, this time down at the Blountstown city hall, where he sat perched beside a row of young hayseeds, who came in offthe farms and markets, with them giving him the eye and he countering with a supercilious smile. He’d show these panhandle dudes how tests were aced. One hour later he was shocked to hear the the news that he had failed the driver’s test, while all four hayseeds had come through with flying colors! There he sat, beaten, chagrined, not able to muster the courage to look the other participants in the face, knowing they were whispering among themselves about what a comeuppance Mr. Smarty Pants had received, as they one by one flashed their new licenses. Grinning broadly, the state official told him he could return next week, and, with a hearty laugh, try his luck again. Struck to the core, Dick literally memorized the manual in the coming days, easily passing the test on his second try.

Running against all expectations, Jim greeted him that evening in early January with a bomb – the administration over at the prison turned out to be desperately seeking a teacher to replace one who was leaving for further studies at a university. Having seen copies of Dick’s two degrees, they were anxious to interview him as soon as possible as time was running short, with the teacher planning to leave within the next week. With a somewhat skeptical glance, Jim asked him if he thought he was up to it, teaching in a prison. Not wanting to flinch in front of this brother, Dick attempted to be blasé about the challenge facing him, putting his best foot forward in touting his experience in teaching English at a language school on Taiwan, with his brother quickly interjecting that now he’d be teaching in a state prison. Trying his best to remain calm, despite the tremors racing through his mind, he told his brother that he thought he was up to the task, also looking forward to finally earning some cash. Later that night, lying in bed, he began to ruminate on just how his life had suddenly lost its course, one which he had banked upon when returning to the states. His dream of being a teaching assistant at Florida State had been abruptly been replaced by a job teaching inmates at a much different state institution on the banks of the Chattahoochee River. So much for his knowledge of German and Chinese, his left-wing political ideas, his optimistic, forward-looking, feeling of excelsior! Then, with a deep sigh, he finally was able to drift off to sleep.

Strange New World

Early that Friday morning saw him speeding along the short, fourlane stretch of highway around Grand Ridge, staring into the glare of the rising sun due east. In his mind he rapidly reviewed his knowledge of general science, particularly chemistry and biology, wanting to be prepared for any questions aimed at him in this area. His original confidence found itself increasingly undermined by the sheer opacity of the process surrounding his hiring, with many steps being simply overleaped by the obvious need for an immediate replacement on the teaching staff. Slowing down a bit, he drove through the sleepy little town of Sneads, having been told that the prison was just a few miles further on the left side of the road. Sure enough, minutes later he spotted the sign – Apalachee Correctional Center, with him swinging his Karmann Ghia into the parking lot, already chock full of cars and pickup trucks.

Much to his surprise, the large administration building reminded him somewhat of his old high school in Winter Haven with its slow-slung, modern glass and brick, almost campus style look. Greeted effusively by the educational supervisor, Mr. Sexton, a man in his early fifties, he was then quickly ushered into a nearby room to begin the orientation program. So there they sat, the some fifteen persons beginning various jobs at the institution, ranging from maintenance and construction to food service and security, with all candidates seemingly from the local area. Standing out like a sore thumb, Dick tried his best to keep a low profile, swiftly realizing how different he appeared from the others. In his presentation, Mr. Sexton was very low-key, stressing the fact that he too was also from the Panhandle, and also fully aware of the necessity of getting everyone on the same page right from the start. While, on the one hand, he clearly saw all of the departments as equal, Mr. Sexton added that, of course, one area was nevertheless paramount, namely security. This remark received a round of well-meaning laughter since they all knew that security was the key department at the institution, or as the supervisor said, “this isn’t a Boy Scout camp.” Perchance Dick noticed out of the corner of his eye a bright something on the big, beefy hand next to him. Carefully turning his head, not wanting to appear too curious, too invasive, he realized that the object was a ring. Trying his best not to gain the attention of the man beside him, he strained his eyes to his left, now able to decipher the initials surrounding a ruby-red stone atop the ring, Ku Klux Klan. Shocked to the core, Dick leaned back in his chair, stunned that this was still possible in the mid-seventies after the civil rights legislation passed by the US Congress in the sixties. During his youth he had heard about the Klan, but considered it moribund, a specter of the past, not at all contiguous with the modern South he had envisaged as a student in those turbulent years when Martin Luther King had seized the moral leadership to awaken the US in his struggle against segregation in the south. And now here was Dick sitting beside a member of that organization which was 180° out from his own political convictions. A few minutes later Mr. Saxon had finished his talk, now busy dividing up the group according to their future work places, telling Dick to sit tight, he’d be back in a jiffy to shown him the education tract.

The tract itself was a large, square concrete plaza surrounded by classrooms, all constructed within the last few years. He saw two or three concrete benches on the plaza, otherwise bare of any foliage excepting two small concrete containers housing a few palmettos. Halting before one of the classrooms, Mr. Sexton spoke to Dick quietly, telling him that the science teacher, a certain Mr. Nielson, had received his acceptance at a medical school in New Orleans and would be leaving immediately, with just enough time for Dick to learn the ropes before taking over the reigns on the coming Monday. Then, as an afterthought, the supervisor, almost leaning his head on Dick’s shoulder, told him in a firm, distinct tone that he should have his hair cut the next day, seeing as the grooming rules were very strict at ACI – no hair should be touching his ears and, in the back, the hair should be above his collar. Now was that clear? Without the slightest of pauses Dick nodded his head affirmatively.

Although the institution found itself west of the Apalachicola River, clearly in the Central Standard time zone, the prison had decided to use Eastern Standard time since many of the staff came from east of the river, some even making the fifty mile drive all the way from Tallahassee. This meant that in order to arrive on time at 8:00 am at ACI meant leaving Mariana around 6:10 am to be at the institution shortly before 7:00 am, which was, of course, 8:00 am EST. Nonetheless, this had the advantage of being able to leave at 4:00 pm, thus being able to return home shortly before 5:00 pm.

After sharing lunch together, the teacher, Don Nielson, brought Dick over to the empty class room for a jump-start introduction to the teaching program Don had developed in the past months, a system that was as simple as ingenious. He had created a workbook covering all areas of general science from geology to chemistry, from the human body to meteorology, with each chapter being followed by a long, multiple choice test. Thus the students could learn at their own pace, giving the teacher time to aid those students having problems. Amazed at the innate simplicity and efficiency of the program, Dick was quick to praise Don’s system which would help him immensely in this transition into a completely new job. As Don busied himself with some last-minute administrative details, Dick began to carefully inspect the room in which he’d be teaching in the coming months.

The long rectangular room had a row of windows facing the plaza, five rows of long, narrow back-topped desks with stools, a large experiment table with water nozzles which also served as a desk, a long, green, chalk-board, a series of big flip charts concerning bone and muscle structures of the human body plus a plastic torso with removable organs. Along with a toilet room, there were two small supply rooms just to the right and left of the green board. Heating and air-conditioning was provided by a long duct running along the ceiling of the right side of the room. For gloomy days there was adequate neon lighting. One had to admit that the teaching conditions were almost optimal, with Dick already alight with ideas of bringing his new students abreast of the important role science played in their everyday lives, and how greater knowledge could lead to further social progress. He could already see the delighted expressions on their faces when they discovered sources of knowledge completely unknown beforehand. Consequently, the motto was now excelsior! For his older brother Dave never tired of saying that the most expensive thing you could ever own was your own ignorance!

Next Monday morning saw Dick striding across the plaza, his ring of keys jangling from his new key chain up, On entering the classroom some fifteen minutes ahead of the inmates, he quickly ran over the plans for the day, first offtrying to deal with the fact that his job consisted of actually teaching two different groups each week, with the first group coming on Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, the second on Thursday and Friday. Then, the next week, the schedule was reversed with first group coming the first two days, the second group the following three. Since he’d be altogether teaching five classes a day, with a one hour break in the afternoon, this meant he’d been teaching a total of ten classes. Glancing down at his class lists he counted an average of some 20-25 persons per class, thus he’d be dealing with roughly some 200 plus inmates per week. Now how in the hell could ever remember all those names?! Especially when the classes changed in the middle of the week! Had he truly bitten offmore than he could chew? How could he instill a modicum of discipline if he couldn’t get the names straight to begin with? Jesus, his first day on the job and he could feel the first pangs of light panic setting in. The five classes were based on the inmates’ educational level from 5 (low) to 1 (high), with those in the latter preparing themselves for the GED (high school equivalency test). Mornings would see him teaching three classes (one for two hours) with a long lunch break, followed by two more classes with a one hour pause between them, Dick’s “free time”, so to speak.

Shortly after 8:00 am he heard a low, muffled roar. Darting to the window he saw a blue wave of inmates streaming across the plaza heading for the classrooms and, sure enough, seconds later the door to the room burst open to a flood of bodies all dressed in their light-blue uniforms, jostling one another, prattling loudly, with merely a cursory glance at their new teacher. Waiting for things to calm down, Dick played for time by studying the list of names lying on his desk, before beginning the daunting process of trying to match each name to a particular person. So, biting into the sour apple, he started to go down the list alphabetically, receiving different responses, some slightly hostile in tone, others more friendly, some decidedly neutral, with Dick having trouble memorizing names and faces, hardly able to remember a quarter of his class after the first rôle call. But what now, how best to introduce himself to this phalanx of blue sitting impatiently in front of him? Sensing that the time had come for a clear reaction on his part, Dick strolled over to the row of windows and, leaning back, turned to the inmates, nervously beginning what he hoped would be a convincing talk concerning his future expectations of how he would be teaching the class.

“First off, let me say that I’m pleased to be following Mr. Nielson, who has done such a great job in creating a system whereby each student can work at his own pace, thus providing me with time to check your work, offer tips and correct the tests taken at the end of each chapter. As far as I’m concerned, each of you has a clean slate, I’ll do my best to treat you as fairly as possible. After looking through the texts you’ll be reading, I think all of you, if you work hard, can end up taking the GED test, thus receiving a high school diploma.” It was here that he heard the first snickers of disbelief.

“Now I know that some of you may not think you’re capable of this...but I am convinced that you can. Think of each class as an escalator, constantly moving upward toward a goal, the GED. If we work together as team, we can achieve this goal.”

In the background there were snorts of laughter.

“Some you may not yet possess the knowledge necessary. Not yet. However, in the coming months we’ll tackle all the problems you have with the course contents, with some of you being surprised at your own abilities. Why, once you’ve advanced from the lower levels up to the 4th and 5th, I intend to have you doing experiments right in our own classroom.”

Looking at the incredulous faces in front of him, plastered with grins of doubt, Dick impetuously decided to up the ante.

“I can see that some of you think this is impossible, right? Well, I’ve got news for you – it’s not! Sure it’s a long row to hoe, but if you put your mind to the task, your shoulder to the wheel, why we could, in the future, be learning at a junior college level!”

The spontaneous outburst of laughter was loud and long, with Dick finally just starting to grasp the true reality of his situation, as he trod back to his desk up front, passing out the workbooks to the inmates, now abashed that he had even dared mention the words junior college. Where was his mind, what was he thinking of?! Quickly scanning the unrest in the classroom, it became crystal clear to him that he’d had enough of a problem with classroom discipline. Well, maybe these were difficulties of a beginner, surely things would improve as time went on and the class would soon come to realize the truth, the fact that they had a teacher who was convinced that they were victims of the capitalist system (rich vs. poor), not to mention the racism, particularly prevalent in the Deep South. Time and patience would suffice; through his own attitude and hard work he would make it abundantly clear that he was here to help them if they’d just give him a proper chance.

By the time lunch rolled around he was starving - just that one glass of Instant Breakfast to tide him over until 12:30! Actually the cafeteria was a complete novum to him, where inmates brought each staffmember a meal to the table. Not only that, much of the food was raised right on the prison grounds! Finicky in his youth regarding food, Dick now found himself scarfing down vegetables he wouldn’t have touched as a teenager. Squash, okra, collard greens went right down the hatch, as he kept a low profile at the table, surrounded by staff members engrossed in their own world, with him all ears, just trying to grasp the names, decode the many abstruse statements flying by. After lunch he retired to his classroom, resting his head on the desk, closing his eyes, trying his best to catch forty winks before the next class arrived.

As the car headed west along highway 90 into a setting winter sun, Dick sat scrunched up in the rear seat lost in his own thoughts, barely able to follow the flow of conversation around him. He had managed to eak out a victory of sorts with the two classes taught after lunch, not having met with enthusiasm, but no outright hostility. He kept reviewing some of the pertinent facts learned on the job. First off, he found out that he was working on the so-called “high side” i.e., with those inmates thought capable, over time, of acquiring enough information as to successfully pass the GED test ; the “low side” being made for those young men who were categorized as being “slow learners” or “academic stragglers”, most merely possessing basic primary school skills, having major problems in reading, writing and doing math. On the average Dick had estimated that his white students made up some 40% of his classes, while some 45% were black, the other 5% hispanic. However, the 1st level was around 65% black, while the 5th consisted of approximately 70% whites. It seemed to him that the majority of the whites more or less accepted him in good stead as their teacher, the blacks, on the other hand, appeared more reluctant in their support, probably more cautious in general as to if this newly-minted young white teacher from afar could really push his agenda through, with some tough inmates seemingly ready and willing to test his mettle.

That same evening over supper, he described in detail the events of the day to his curious brother who displayed real sympathy, telling Dick he’d keep his fingers crossed for him in the coming weeks, adding that he was throwing his yearly “pig roast” in about two weeks, with a whole passle of friends coming over to the house on a Saturday afternoon. Now that sufficed to brighten Dick’s visage accordingly. Afterward he cleaned up the dishes, then headed into his room to finish giving it the final touch, making it his room. A long, wooden door supported by four concrete blocks on each end served as spacious desk. On the wall to his right was a black and white photo of Salvadore Allende over which stood a smaller orange and white poster from the Jungsozialisten in the SPD. Down below, the Bali Kino in Berlin announced it was showing the the film Kuhle Wampe from the early 1930’s. Over to his left there was a caricature drawn by Daumier. Astride the desk stood his faithful Grundig Satellite radio next to a pile of papers and an old, battered Chinese-German dictionary, all moot tribute to two worlds light-years away from where he was now, out in the middle of the Florida panhandle with Tallahassee to east, Panama City on the Gulf coast and Dothan, Alabama up to the northwest. Hot damn, was he ever down south now!

Much too occupied the first week with trying to get a handle on his classes, particularly in his failing attempt to associate names with faces, by the second week he was also gradually becoming aware of the other teachers and their influence on the inmates. The math teacher, a big, sturdy woman named Mrs. Ball reminded him of his 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Arrington, only bigger, tougher. When meeting her for the first time, she kept her distance from him, not unfriendly, but rather cool. Dick could tell which teacher the inmates had had as soon as they arrived in his classroom. When they came from math class they were mostly quiet, almost as if they had been to a certain degree emasculated in the last hour. However, when they came from next door, Mr. Hargreave’s room, they were loose and a bit yancy, since their English teacher was not a stickler for discipline, thus meaning that Dick too, would have to deal with the after-effects of this liberal climate for the following hour. Mrs. Allen, a pleasant young woman in her early thirties the next room down, taught health, seemed to have discovered some secret method of instilling respect in her students, for when Dick happened to visit her one door down, her class was quiet and worklike. Around the corner, catty-corner from Dick’s own room, Mr. Spikes, the social studies teacher appeared to be locked in combat with the inmates, with Dick sensing a rather intense dislike of one for the other on both sides. Spikes was a local, actually a farmer who sort of taught on the side to make ends meet, as the teacher’s salaries were anything but high paying. Dick’s own starting salary as a Classroom II teacher amounted to a paltry $11,000 a year. Why fifteen years ago that kind of money almost made you upper middle-class. Back in Winter Haven in 1960 ,Mr. Sonderlundt with a Ph.D in chemistry was earning $250 a week out at the Bird’s Eye plant. If Dick were married with two kids and a wife at home they’d be a poverty case, having to sign up for food stamps! As he saw it, the fifties and sixties were history; now one had to have a high salary or have the wife working too in order to support a nuclear family of four – what massive socio-economic changes had taken place in such a short period of time.

Friday afternoon found him crossing the Apalachicola River, driving through Chattahoochee heading for Tallahassee for the weekend. His brother Doug and wife Karen lived there in a medium-sized bungalow style house with a roomy garden in the back. Doug, after graduating from FSU, found employment at the state retirement department, with an adequate salary, a rather large office and secretary. All in all he should have been satisfied, but suffered under a growing feeling of being somewhat underemployed, his duties being mostly of a mundane nature, his boss telling the staff that the most important goal was for them not to make waves, thus any changes which might provoke the slightest political unrest remained in abeyance, only spoken about privatly, never brought to print or suggested at meetings. One of Dick’s co-workers at ACI, a certain young man his age, Mr. Lawton, had warned him early on to be careful of what he said around other staff members. Lawton’s motto: “Don’t spill the beans.”

Just outside of Tally the Blaupunkt radio blurted out the surprising news that one of the original Three Stooges, Larry Fine, had died that very day in Los Angeles at the age of 74. Oh, no, not Larry. He had always been a favorite of Dick’s, who considered Moe to be too brutal, Shemp a bit dense, with Larry being somewhere in between, one could say, perhaps more sympathetic. At any rate he was saddened by the news, remembering all those Saturday afternoons at the Grand Theater in his home town, where the kids went to see cowboy movies, serials, a cartoon… and, of course, the Three Stooges. Moreover, this sudden jolt forced upon him the unpleasant thought that he’d turn 33 this coming summer; 33 with no wife (not even a girlfriend), no kids and no inkling as to where life was taking him, his optimistic plans of the past years now lying in shreds, with him not being able to come up with a viable alternative to his present life, feeling himself increasingly being more and more a passive observer of events around him, moved by forces beyond his control.

Doug and his wife Karen, who taught marriage counseling over at Florida A&M, had other plans for the evening, so after a tasty meal they dropped Dick off at the FSU campus where he was set to meet with his youngest brother Dan and his fiancée, who possessed tickets for a talk by Dan Rather, an up and coming correspondent of CBS news. This occurred quite often on US college campuses, with a wide spectrum of speakers invited during the semester to give talks to the students on a variety of subject. Remembering well the brief meeting in the spring of 1966 with Henry Kissinger, then a professor at Harvard, Dick looked forward to an entertaining evening in the student auditorium. Dan and Betty had arrived in advance, reserving him a seat, greeting him cordially, asking him if his work over at ACI was on the road to success, with Dick replying, hoping to avoid any in-depth discussion, that, to be truthful, it was simply too early to tell. Luckily for Dick, the lights dimmed a bit as a member of the student government read a short CV of Dan Rather’s life before the man himself entered the stage to friendly applause.

From the start one could definitely see that Dan was used to such a public environment, at ease in front of the audience, armed with a bevy of humorous quips delivered in a lightly self-depreciating manner, well-suited to the youthful visitors, who seemed to take an instant liking to this trim, tanned young man, with a slight, but noticeable, southern accent. Without further ado, Dan asked the audience if they were aware of what important event was taking place right now in Washington, the nation’s capital? As the silence grew, he answered the question himself, stating that the presidential campaign for the Fall elections in 1976 had already started! Wow, now that really caught everybody off guard. Quickly he followed this up by stating that while campaign contributions were limited in Congressional elections, at the present there were no limitations on contributions to presidential candidates, and thus possible future candidates were already out on the hustings, hoping to begin filling up their rather meager war-chests by wealthy supporters. During the one hour talk, filled with pertinent facts and critical arguments, while never demanding new legislation limiting such contributions, he made it perfectly clear that the students should wake up and become aware of what was transpiring beyond the borders of their own campus. They should be concerned over those powerful, economic forces working behind the scenes