deanna hershiser

…part two…

From downtown I drove west, up First Ave. toward River Road. This route always takes me past the street with the house where my dad was born. It’s the home we all, in a sense, came from — Dad, his many siblings, my brothers and me, Daniel.

I still didn’t know if I could return to the jail to visit my cousin. My stamina is never abundant, and the warm day had grown long.

My emotions told me I needed to go see Daniel. Of course. Several reasons came to mind, but one was most compelling. I knew I should go for the sake of Mary. She was a woman Daniel had asked me to find, the day last weekend when I accepted his phone call. Mary’s address was possibly this or that, Daniel said, but he knew it was on a certain main road, and he described her house and its location. “She’s a lady who’s always been kind to me,” Daniel had said. “I’d appreciate it if you can tell her I’m all right and ask her to keep praying.”

It was one of those rare times I felt nudged to try something ridiculous. I didn’t ponder how foolish I might look knocking on doors until I discovered Mary had moved or what have you. I drove along the road Daniel had suggested, following his remembered directions, and there, first try, I found Mary. A few years older than I, with more life tragedies behind her, she invited me, a stranger who could have been anyone, into her home. She’s been burned somewhat, as I have, by Daniel’s broken lifestyle, but she still cares for him, as do I.

Mary gave me her address to pass to Daniel and her phone number, so I could call if he and I made further contact. Mary had lost a son, years ago, to drugs and prison. She needed me to do my best.

At my house, I ate a carrot. I changed into cooler clothes. I told my family I would try, and if I succeeded, I’d pick up milkshakes on the way back here. They wished me well.

Returning downtown, I chose the street that runs behind the Amtrak station. I’ve always called this way the Grandma Edna shortcut. She directed me along it many times, years before the city updates arrived with delicate trees on little islands. Grandma Edna, my dad’s mother, raised Daniel, or tried to, when his parents weren’t able. Her story overall was a series of bizarre adventures, or maybe she was just quirky.

The one problem with Grandma Edna’s shortcut came home to me in force as I heard a train whistle. On this route, you avoid traffic but can get stuck at crossings. I checked right. Sure enough, red lights flashed and bells clanged. I might be thwarted by a long wait, missing the 6:10 check-in by the sheriffs, missing Daniel. Oh, well. I had to keep going.

A locomotive with only three railcars passed, and I kept rolling.

My musings regarding my grandma’s heritage blended with a mellow, almost mourning sensation, as I drove past shops and cafes a few blocks from the jail. In slanting sunlight people were gathered around umbrella-shaded tables, golden, frothy liquid in their glasses. They smiled and sat forward on their chairs in conversation over plates of food.

I parked in the last empty space in front of the jailhouse. No loiterers this time, thankfully. I went inside.

to be continued…

The day had turned hot. Inside, a sign directed visitors up steep brick stairs. I took a breath and proceeded, my fingers skimming the handrail. People came into view on the floor above. They milled about or sat on a wide window ledge opposite the sheriff’s desk.

I looked for a gap in the Plexiglass, but of course there wasn’t one, so I said loudly to the nearest badged man, “Do you have a prisoner here named Daniel?” He checked for my cousin’s full name. “He’s here,” he said.

An excited flicker rose in my chest. I would be able to see Daniel, after all.

“You can’t bring your purse in with you.” Another sheriff standing nearby pointed at my shoulder bag. “You’ll have to leave it in your car or rent a locker downstairs.”

I doubted the process of locker-renting would give me time to return before the visitors went in. Daniel had told me to be here at 5:00, so I could visit him at 5:30. It would be the one visiting hour this week available for him, should it turn out he remained in this jail today and hadn’t yet been taken back to prison.

Quickly I went back downstairs, out into the heat. Great, I thought, remembering several riff-raffy-looking characters lounging in and around a beat up car parked behind mine. I had parallel parked so carefully, recognizing this would be a very bad time to give a nudge with my rear bumper. Then I’d fed the meter an hour’s worth of change, my last quarters. Originally, I had tried to pay a parking lot machine, but its screen, hard to read in the glare, finally registered the message that its bag was full and I must park elsewhere.

Now I was greatly reluctant to open my trunk and toss in my purse inches from the four or five men. Though they didn’t seem to pay me any heed, I imagined someone might notice. I chose to slip in behind the wheel and nonchalantly tuck purse and wallet in separate spaces beneath the front seat. Locking the door and scooting back to the jail, I hoped that this location, by definition, might be a deterrent to smash-and-grab crimes. But it wasn’t like the sheriffs had their gazes trained on the street far below them.

At least I’d had time to deposit the check I had picked up after work, before heading over here. What would be nice, right now, would be spending my few extra dollars on a milkshake somewhere.

I sighed. I was committed to this visit. From the moment last weekend I saw “Inmate” on our caller i.d., I had known I’d be obligated to something if I answered and accepted the charges. Over the years, Daniel has phoned whenever he’s been able, almost always while residing in a California cell. He has sent many letters, too. They have thanked me for being there for him.

Today was the first time in at least 12 years that I would see him in Eugene. He had come up here to visit his mother. Only, as I knew he’d done in years past, Daniel hadn’t finished his parole before leaving California. Authorities frown upon such moves. I didn’t know how he’d been arrested this time, but I could guess there were drugs involved. In the system most of his life, Daniel has made many promises to himself and others that he will do better, that he will give his life fully to God, that he will change, next time he gets out. And yet last summer, when he called from a halfway house, he sounded a rare genuine note to me. “It’s so hard to go it alone,” he’d admitted. “I want to do it so badly, Deanna. I just don’t know if I can.”

Back up on the visitor floor I got in line behind the other people at the security machine. We moved forward slowly, as the clock hand moved toward 5:30. One lady set off the sensor every pass through, no matter what jewelry or hairclips she set aside. Laughing, she said, “I won’t take off my underwire bra!”

I shifted uncomfortably, hoping lingerie wasn’t a real problem.

At last a sheriff suggested she step through sideways. That worked.

Following the lead of others, at my turn I proclaimed Daniel’s name again as my intended inmate.

“Who?” the sheriff who had helped me earlier asked. “Oh, wait, he told you the wrong time. Inmates with last names from A to M see visitors now, the N to Zs start at 6:20.”

I opened and shut my mouth.

“Be back no later than 6:10,” the sheriff said. “And by the way, Daniel has listed you and two other people. Do you know if they’re coming?”

“No,” I said. I guessed they would be here now, too, if Daniel had actually talked to them. My energy had already drained down the brick stairs. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to come back.”

It was 5:18. I climbed into my hot car. Could I possibly make it all the way home, grab dinner, explain things to my family, and be back by 6:10? I didn’t know. I wished more than ever for a milkshake.

to be continued…

Summer has been waxing, and now begins to wane. Strange how that happens — right at the peak of fullness, all desire come to blossom, endings begin.

It was always a blow, during childhood, when they started playing back to school commercials.

When I used to try and lose weight, I would long for the dropped pounds, but then after they left me, stress began. I went from offense to defensive mode. In the same way, a positive happening leaves me vulnerable.

An article I recently read tells of a retired doctor who received letters from grateful patients of many years — a boxful. He couldn’t bring himself to read them. I can almost relate to such fear.

And yet, amid the risk of having made it, to summer, to laughter, to freedom, I won’t stand on the threshold waiting. I will choose the dream’s fulfillment, the embrace of the once lost now found, or the final clasp of release.

I will choose the danger. Seasons ever turn, bringing the undesired, the change, the loss, before they usher in new springs. I wish to follow.

My son has given a grape plant a home in our back yard. Can you guess what it’s latching onto?

My left knee has been feeling its age, I suppose, and complaining to me about it. Our chiropractor examined it thoroughly (“Here, let me push the kneecap over and check beneath.” “Uh, fine; you won’t forget to replace it..?”). No swelling. Only the report that some degeneration of the fluidy stuff in there must be taking place.

Degeneration. Yeah. Suppose that’s the thing to expect more and more. I might escape this season of wearing out, if I only were Dr. Who, with his numerous regenerations. (How many does he have left, now?)

But there’s okayness here, still growing up on the inside, still squeezing muscles as Dr. Blair orders (as opposed to The Doctor, because he’s off in his tardis, and fairly fictional, as it were).

So, anyway, I’ll send you grapes (maybe wine in a few years), if you guess what’s out back becoming our arbor, or, especially, if you know good knee-pain remedies.