Wyoming State Penitentiary

I've always really loved prisons. I'm totally enthralled with the concept. You live where? With who??

My interest in prisons just always was. I don't remember ever not joyfully recoiling when prison shows came on TV. I'm totally entranced watching folks have their heads shaved and adjusting to their new cell. I think it's a freedom thing. Freedom is my favorite of the luxuries. Hence my aversion to long-term commitments.

In high school I would race home on Monday nights, flying through the neighborhood to get home before Prison Break started. I picked up penitentiary slang and felt I was a seasoned con.
"What happened to T-bag?" Mom would ask, rushing towards the living room when she heard the theme song.
"They put him in a four piece and sent him back to gen-pop." I would reply matter of factly.

I still find myself watching shows about foreign prisons and life on Death Row. There is a prison in the middle of the Russian tundra where the sun doesn't shine and it snows almost year round. It takes three days, 2 trains, 3 buses, 2 caravans, and a snow plow to get these guys out to the prison. Or something like that. I can't imagine they get many family visits.

So whilst passing through Wyoming, Mom got the bright idea to visit an prison in a town called Rawlins. She's always supported my interests.

Back in the day the Wyoming State Penitentiary housed an abundance of ne'er-do-wells who's crimes ranged from murder to mislabeling their cattle. The prison was originally built in 1872 and the two of us gals happily bounded up the old stone steps in our cutesy outfits and sandals. Some tough looking women welcomed us and let us wander through a collection of shanks while we waited for the tour to begin.

It was very interesting reading about the resourceful and mischievous minds of the prisoners who found ways to break out, make poisons, intimidate guards, and kill other inmates but also make paintings, write poetry, play baseball (they had one of the best teams in the state) and earn money making brooms, license plates and wool blankets that were bought for infantry soldiers by the military.

Though it was warm outside, the inside of the prison was very cold and extremely dark in some places. Our tour guide was a very knowledgable girl who would slam cell doors and lock locks with a loud clunck. They were very distinctly prison noises. We saw the tiny cells of A-block, the slightly wider, brightly colored cells of B-block, and the standing cell for poorly behaved inmates. This cell was just big enough to stand in and prisoners would be left in there for about a week. It was pitch black in there and sometimes guards would forget to feed them. Many victims of the standing cell wound up in psychiatric hospitals shortly after.

They had a small yard for their hour of outdoor time each day, a big shower room sans hot water, and a library where they could read about rights and laws. The prison got so cold in the winter that sometimes prisoners would freeze to death. We learned a bit about how prisons are organized or not organized in some cases and how the correctional officers handled all of the different situations the cons created for them.
The highlight was learning how to use the giant wooden apparatus they used to hang Death Row inmates. Years later, when hanging was deemed inhumane and before the place closed in the 80's, the prison acquired a gas chamber that sat at the end of the hall on Death Row.

It was an eerie place, cold and quiet, and I was totally fascinated by everything I learned. The way they lived! My heart was broken for all the fellas who had to stay here after forging a check or stealing a relatively inconsequential piece of farm equipment. Also, their paintings made me sad. They were never angry, murdurous pictures of revenge or darkness. They painted deer bounding through forests or buffalo on a wide open plain.

Prison would really be awful. What a luxury to leave that building, climb into the car, and set back out into the wild and free. 

I used to feel the same way when I would leave school for the day.

Oh! I forgot to mention that Mom drew the short straw and flew out to Salt Lake to meet me for the long drive home.
Such a sweet lady she is.

A Farewell to Portland

Just two short days before leaving Portland I stumbled upon the most beautiful rose garden. I'm put out about this because had I known such glory was but 2 miles from me all summer, I would have spent oodles of time there.

I'll miss Portland. I'll miss the good food and scenery and the sweet sweet friends I made there. I just may have to come back for a visit. Or two. So Tah Tah Portland. Until we meet again.

I left in the early afternoon and drove my carcass to the eastern border of Oregon. I spent the night in a terrifying hotel just a mile or two off of the highway. While I sugar-coated things for my folks at the time, I can now tell you that there's a good chance multiple people have been shot in this place. I had a handicapped room on the first floor and my door opened to the parking lot. For four hours a biker gang lounged on their bikes outside of my window. I could hear them talking and laughing while I sat in an upright ball on my king sized bed from the 70's, my small can of mace ready on the bedside table. 

My room was big and dark and because it was a handicapped room, all of the chairs were too short to wedge up under the doorknob. While on the topic of handicappedness, my room made me think like, say, a wheelchair bound person. What's so handy about it? Light switches were at hip level and all surfaces required a bend of my knees. I got angry when I realized that I couldn't reach the hairdryer from my invisible chair. "So inconsiderate." I thought as I rounded the corner to the bathroom. Then I saw IT. The deal breaker. The one item that suddenly made this tarnished, outdated room seem even more sticky. My room felt tainted now and I found myself flicking light-switches with the back side of my pinky and pulling back the shower curtain with the tips of my thumb and index finger. IT sat there. Silently festering.

It was a plastic white shower chair. An asymmetrical, spindly piece of furniture. I was not offended by it's purpose but all I could see was a hefty naked man sitting there. His clammy pale skin clinging to the seat and sudsy water running down fleshy bulges and oozing in-between his body ripples and the warm plastic. 

Look at this chair, delicately placed among such discreet modern plumbing fixtures. 

It changes your whole outlook.

I felt really bad about being put off by "the chair." But I know what happens on the chair. I couldn't get past it.
"The chair" aside, I made it through the night sans murders or even scares. I slept quite soundly actually. The next day I drove to Boise and spent the night with Georgia and Bill. I spent some time soaking in the lovely view from the patio and I also had a heavenly nap. They introduced me to the never-ending laughs provided by Molly B's Polka Party and fed me fun treats before bed. I didn't linger too long the next morning but they drove me back down their mountain and sent me off towards Salt Lake City.

That's Enough, Funny Girl

Down the hall lives the sweetest couple from Oklahoma. The word genuine comes to mind when I think of these people who are so quick to laugh and somehow exude care- if that's something that can ooze off of people. Nick is a crafty fella. He built most of their furniture himself and even took all of the artsy photos on their walls. Jenny is a super bubbly elementary school teacher who is unapologetically human and always fidgeting with her clothes. I really love these two. I spent a last night with them, sprawled across their sofa sipping wine and rolling around on the floor with their two dogs. Other neighbors came in and out during this time and I entertained the group with tales of the South and the time I accidentally burnt a rectangular mustache onto my face for two weeks.
Between the three dogs that were present, there was a total of three number ones, two number twos, and one slapping over a wine glass with our tail. It's really a shame they have white carpet.

I sat next to a beautiful, model-esque girl with long legs and shiny hair. I felt a bit troll-like sitting next to her and the more I prattled on about my constant battle with my own unibrow I suddenly realized that I get validation from making people laugh. That's interesting right? It makes my presence seem worthwhile. Like thats how I sing for my supper. Here I thought I found personal contentment by helping others and by seeming calm during those real panics. I'm not actually calm but my inability to show emotion leads people to believe that I am and people like calm people.

But you know what? I really hate when people don't laugh at my stories.
"What's your problem, man? That's funny stuff!" I remember once shouting to stoic Surf Bar patron.
(Don't worry. We go on to become good friends.)

"I love your stories." the beautiful girl told me, readjusting to lean on the arm of the sofa. Then I got embarrassed. My realization made me feel like a desperate ham. Like a laughter whore. I stopped talking and sunk down into the sofa, allowing everyone to focus their attention on the dog doing a job in the corner.

Now I don't know what to do. It feels wrong. Do I tell stories anyways?
Like a greedy addict raking in piles of laughter to spoil myself with when I'm alone at night.

It just don't seem right.

Cannon Beach

During a rare 3-day window of Omar being in town, we drove out to the coast. There are so many beaches around here, the closest being a little over an hour away, and we couldn't decide which one to visit. We settled on Cannon Beach as it is well known and fairly close by. We hopped in the car and rode through a long, tall forest that squirted us out just a block from the shore.

I thought the little beach town was adorable. There were dogs and flower pots and it smelled like home. We stopped in a bakery for a morning cupcake and then made our way to the beach.
It was super windy and cold. There were just a few freaks in the water but mostly it was tourists like us, wrapped in jackets and scarves, looking up at the mountains that fade into the sea. Omar was put off by the crowds and the "cutesy" town and decided we should go to another beach just up the road.

It was horrible. It was Myrtle Beach! Cars and traffic and sluggish people inching across the long, tacky main drag.
"Oh No!" Omar hiccuped out as we sat at a red light. We lasted 10 minutes before he barreled away from the awful road and drove aimlessly until he found the ocean. We parked way down the strip where only locals go and we walked onto the chilly beach, stuck our toes in the freezing water, and then left it all to go have lunch.

Both beaches were very pretty. They were both so big and who doesn't love waves crashing into mountains? It didn't feel beachy though. It felt like wintertime when you go to the beach and stare longingly at the miles of barren sand, dreaming up the potential summertime activity.
I think it's that we're used to stifling hot, shadeless beaches dotted with mounds of sunburnt flesh and beer cans.

Oregon beaches feel sophisticated. We didn't belong.

Meet Scott

Actually I don't know what his name is but Omar agrees with me. He looks like a Scott.

Scott lives across the alley from the back of the apartment. Scott says inside for most of the day. I think he's an older fella as I never see him moving quickly nor have I ever seen him open his mouth. He doesn't even pant! Scott stands here on his porch for about 15 minutes before heading back inside. He stands right there, on that top step and peers out and up; up towards me on my balcony. He shifts his weight from paw to paw and occasionally watches the birds go by. 

I pretend that Scott stays inside all day because he's hard at work on his Start-Up. Sometimes I won't see him for a few days and I assume it's because he's busy coding and answering conference calls. The other day I overheard a heated discussion with his investors -two yappy dogs that live next door.

Am I weird?

I'm in love with this fella.

I Think It's Time

I've learned a lot on my summer's venture. Mostly they are useless and demotivating kinds of lessons but lessons none the less. I reckon it's about time to head home. I'm tired, frustrated, and broke -which is what happens when a cowboy's yearnin's get ahead of his earnin's.

I'll wait here until someone can drive me home. Talk amongst yourselves. Come get me!

See I planned on my WorkAways but I'm just too afraid of getting too hot. I've been trying to hang around, waiting for the temperature drop but it's just not going anywhere and in the meantime I'm being unproductive and missing out on Sunday dinners. I reckon it's time for me to go home and make something of myself. What a drag.

It is nothing new to tell you that people paint pictures to be more grandiose than reality. Idealism, they call it. For me, the appeal of traveling isn't necessarily seeing the sights and trying the food. It's building another reality. It's imagining what my life would be like in this place. Maybe I'd make pastries here or be a sailor there. In this place I'd cook hot feasts all winter until the snow melted away or here, I could grow apple trees and have half a dozen dogs and a husband I picked out of a J. Crew catalogue.

I'm addicted to this life building and it affects my one real life. I like living in such a fashion that I can make anything happen at anytime but that can't last much longer and I'm very opposed to giving it up. Right now, I could move anywhere- for a job, for a person. I could choose to drop off the map, start a business, or go on vacation in Spain. I like and am comforted by this very free reality.

My mental painting of life out west involved lots of time at secret beaches with knowledgeable locals who just so happened to need a kayak instructor at their local scuba shop. Now, I could make this happen, but I realized you can't just pop into a place. In reality, it takes time to build a life, particularly the life you want and you have to commit to using your time to build friendships and making a place that feels like home. One of my realizations, and this really surprised me, is that I'm not willing to commit to anything that keeps me out of reach from my real home. I realized that I've been making up excuses to not apply for jobs I've found out here.

Now don't get me wrong. I don't get homesick. I'm not itching to move back in to my parent's house and truthfully, I don't really want to go back to Charleston. There's nothing for me to do there (AND all my friends are gone). But I want to be closer by. Home is where your people are. My people line the East Coast from Florida to Massachusetts and as much as I'd like to build one of my painting lives and think back fondly about my childhood in the South, I think I'd rather just be with my people. Fond memories are lovely but they're rotten company.

Farm For A Day

Whilst in Canada I found a farm in a place called Boring, Oregon. The Boring farm raises chickens and grows produce and flowers, and was hiring workers to Pick n' Weed - my specialties. And to make things better, they only needed the pickers n' weeders for August and September. "I'm perfect for this gig!" I shouted to no one and I sent along my limited farming resume. Promptly the next morning an email invited me to the farm for a day of weeding.

The drive to the Boring farm was lovely- rolling hills and tall tall trees. It was 7:00 in the morning and the yellow sun shone low through the branches like a kaleidoscope of light on a long dirt road. It felt like Boone Hall and I loved that very much.
I was the first on the scene. I met the farm owner and the farm manager and they showed me all around the grounds and the barns. The owner had a gorgeous, rambling house on the property that he very casually invited me into if I should need something. "Help yourself to snacks and there's bug spray on the kitchen table."

I was very nervous about playing in the sun for a day. It was about 85˚ and it's been so long since my last day of Sun Labor that I just don't know my tolerance. I clutched a bottle of water and smiled confidently and was promptly sent to a patch of tomatillo plants. The weeds came up to my knees.

More and more folks showed up throughout the morning. Random people. Like, not farm-worker people. People like me. There were a couple college guys and an older man dressed for a rock concert. There was one other girl and a young, goofy freelance photographer who was so desperate for cash that he was considering taking a job as a child photographer in a mall. "But I don't want to be that guy!" he shrieked.
I really liked all of these random folks (except for the older guy. He was a horn-tooter). They were silly and excited about "farming" as it was new to all of them except for the other girl. She and I were proud to be more proficient weeders than our male co-workers and the patch we worked together outshone all other weeded patches.

We took our lunch break early and crowded around under a small square of shade in the field. It was here, after my polite "what are you random, poorly dressed for farming, people doing here" kind of questions that I was informed that this was a one day gig. Pardon?

They don't know what ad I saw but they had all responded to a call for willing weeders for a day or two. Just to pick up some cash and help this random farm with their weeding. "You mean y'all aren't here for jobs?" I asked, slightly embarrassed.
Nope. Just a day's work and a day's pay. Apparently the ad I saw was run by someone who didn't know that the farm manager already had someone for the job.

So I embraced my one day of farm work and I happily weeded alongside other city folks who were suddenly struck by what a great thing farms are. It was fun to watch.
Also, the heat didn't bother me too much and I was thrilled by this. "I'm back, baby!" I shouted, accompanied with a high-kick as I walked to my car. I gave the other girl weeder a ride back into Portland and we were great friends by the time I dumped her out at her place.

Now for an update.

Much has changed since this day of farming. I am still in Portland as I've had a few revelations and am, in many ways, stranded until I overcome some of my more detrimental personality flaws or find someone to drive me home. I'll explain later.

Since my day of farming, I had a heat blackout in a convenience store. It was a concert actually... in a convince store. Omar made some musical friends while I was away and though they are actually well known around town and play in many fancy venues, I guess they thought it would be fun and ironic to play in a run down hut that sells Hostess snacks and stale popcorn. (Portland freaks.)

The place was filled with so many people with grotesque body odor and piercings. It was SO hot in there and after about 20 minutes I got lightheaded. I ran to get water but I started seeing spots and I really didn't want to faint in front this crowd. "Dude, she must be wasted." they would sneer. "Way to go man!" they would tell Omar. All the while I'm entirely sober and unconscious on the sticky laminate floor of the Belmont Bodega. All of this shot through my mind as I ran to "the bar" and instead I clawed into Omar's arm, told him I was going to faint, and then I scampered off past the restricted area and the employee kitchen, and I finally came to, sitting on a broken chair next to the dumpster outside.
So I guess I'm not better.

Also, I'll tell you that I've kept in contact with my great weeding friend. We've texted and laughed and finally picked a place to meet and got all excited about it and when we got together, the awkward silence could be heard for miles. We had nothing to say to each other. I cringed for myself. I felt like I was watching a terrible first date except that I WAS the date. "How could this happen?" I thought throughout the duration of our blinking contest. Things had started off so well.

I'm feeling a bit hostile lately.

Back To Boise

The two day ride back to Idaho in the midget car was full of exciting events. The collective body aches from upright car seats and lacking leg room had become too much to bear. Mom created a nest of paper towel rolls over on her side of the car; back support, neck rest, and any other uses Bounty had never intended.

We did meet a little dog named Willy when we stopped for gas and bathrooms. From then on, we met Willy and his family at every rest-stop along the way. Willy's Mom was a nonstop talker and Willy was a super friendly jumper. She talked and talked and we would awkwardly inch away. At one stop I caught Georgia holding little Willy while his Mom used the bathroom- we were all old friends by now. We even saw Willy and his family drive past us when we stopped for a nice lunch in a random Idaho town.

Alone in my desperate need for a bathroom, Georgie pulled over and sent me into the woods with a paper towel. I walked miles it seemed, before I found a shrub tall enough to hide behind. I crouched in the wilderness, wondering if a family of bears was watching my scene. Plants brushed my arms and legs. I feared I was dragging my behind through poison ivy or some kind of foreign herb that would force me to soon have my fanny surgically removed. "Are there snakes in Canada?" I wondered, shaking nature away from my ankles.

When I shamefully emerged from the woods, aware that every passing car knew what I had just done, I noticed Georgia had taken my seat in the back of the car. The three gals decided they were all too sleepy to drive so I climbed behind the wheel, sent that seat back two feet, and stretched my long achy legs out to the gas pedal. I felt a stinging pain in my ankle. Was it a snake bite?
I drove us across the border and into northern Idaho where I was promptly pulled over for speeding. Now don't you worry. No ticket for me. Seems you're let off the hook when driving around a gaggle of "elderly women." I continued my drive, silently panicking about my ankle. I knew I'd brushed past something deadly. I wondered how much time I had before my whole leg would fall off.

We eventually made it back to Boise just in time to watch the sun go down and rest for a few hours before getting up at 3am to get to airport on time. We took one final long ride down the driveway and off into the night, saying our goodbyes at the airport and then all splitting off, heading different directions.

Lake Louise

I’ve got so many photos of this lovely day that I think I’ll just leave ‘em, sans time log observations. It was sunny and delightful and I finally got some use out of my camera. We first hiked up to Moraine Lake to stare at the sensational view.

We then drove over to Lake Louise. We visited a different Fairmont hotel where we had high tea and buttery scones. We wandered the gorgeous grounds, found the “Man of the Day”, I befriended a little chipmunk, and we watched what should have been a picture perfect wedding but was ruined by nosey onlookers like ourselves.

Also, this happened.

We left shortly after the wedding and Mom and Gig's photoshoot. We grabbed two more frozen pizza's and spent a final evening in our living room, giggling and snacking. While I scoured the internet for farm work, the gals created their next feature film.

“Bradley Cooper plays orphaned Canadian hotel clerk in his foster parents grand hotel…”