When I got out of college, I worked a while for a small town newspaper. The county authorities wanted to build a new jail since ours had been built around the turn of the century.
I got the job of writing an article that would tilt taxpayers towards supporting a new jail.
So I visited the local hoosgow and found it a pretty bleak place. I noticed that someone had scrawled in the plaster of one wall, “Otis was here.” Otis was one of the policemen of our small town. I didn’t know if it was him or Otis of Andy of Mayberry.
If I didn’t have the conviction before, I knew for sure after that visit, that I only wanted to see that sad place and not be locked up there. I seemed to remember that our photographer took my picture staring out between the bars. I wish I still had it. My grandkids would be impressed.
My Time In Jail
You know what, though? I’ve been there in life; I’ve gotten so mad about some things that when I finally wised up and tried to escape my anger, I couldn’t do it.
I was in anger jail. Continue reading