The vow renewal ceremony unveiled on a rainy, fall evening in my friend’s backyard. Leaves, not rice nor confetti, littered the muddy ground. She wore the off-the-shoulder dress she had worn decades earlier on her actual wedding day. The weddding to which I had not been invited. Because I didn’t know her then. Not because of any personal failing on my part, though I have failed myself on a personal level more than some and less than others.
Attending a wedding at any stage feeds my soul. She and her husband seemed sincere. They reminded me that love is the answer to nearly every question. Unless that question is, “What’s for dinner?” Beause then, I lose my shit. I hate to cook.
My wedding gift was not the usual personal check in the amount of some multiple of 18. Rather, it was a big jug of vodka mostly concealed in a brown paper bag.
After the ceremony ended, we walked inside and celebrated with Mexican food and American beer. At one corner of the food table, I met Kelly, a mutual friend of the bride. I don’t remember how I came to know what she had once done for a living. I also don’t know how to cleverly segue from a wedding to a prison. So, I’ll just tell you that Kelly spent her career as a correctional officer.
The old reporter in me wanted to know more. Would she agree to an interview on my podcast? “Yes,” she replied.
So, tap above to access my interview with Kelly, the CO. She started her career at age 19. Seems like a young age to witness the inside of a prison. I bet you grow up fast in that environment, like a soldier going off to war at 18.
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