My Father's Unfortunate Incarceration.

For many of my readers, it may be news that my father was indeed once incarcerated. Yes, it's true. My father, long before I was born, did time. To be fair, it was short time and it was not "the big house". A little story to start the weekend:

During the early years of their marriage, my mom’s mother, Grandma G., was dating Bill T, known locally as a drunkard. My Grandmother, G., was a divorcee, which labeled her as flighty and a bit wild for the time. Bill T. was not the kind of man any woman, especially one as suspiciously unstable as my Grandma G., should date.

According to the legend I heard from Mom, “Bill T. killed a young boy driving drunk, the state put him in prison, and when he got out, they told him he couldn’t ever have a driver’s license again.”

Apparently, not having a driver's license didn't stop him from a Although my recollections of Bill T. have faded, I still recall him as a daunting figure with a distinct scent of alcohol. Often struggling to hold down a job, Bill relied on various odd jobs to finance his next bottle of cheap whiskey.

One day in the early fifties, when Donna was still an infant, Bill came to visit my parents. According to my mother's storytelling, he was clearly under the influence of rotgut whiskey or moonshine that day.

There was a load of lumber for sale in Perham that Bill wanted Dad to check out with him. Bill was planning to resell the lumber to make money and asked Dad to ride along with him in his car.  My mother wisely chose to stay home with the baby, while my father foolishly decided to get in the car with Bill.

On the outskirts of Perham, Bill was pulled over by the local sheriff for weaving through stop signs. It was the early fifties in rural Minnesota, and everyone knew Bill by sight. The officer promptly arrested him for driving with a revoked license and for driving under the influence of alcohol. Bill was told he would have to spend the night in jail to sober up and that he could pay his fine in the morning.

My sober dad intended to drive Bill’s car home and planned to pick him up in the morning. However, the officer stopped him. “Hold it there,” the officer said. “You’re not going anywhere, Reuben. You’re going to jail, too.”

“On what charges?” my dad asked.

“For being stupid enough to ride in a car with Bill T.”

And so began my father’s unfortunate incarceration. As a child, I was sure both my father and Johnny Cash (both my heroes) had spent time in Folsom Prison. 

Dad rarely talked about his experience behind bars, but when pressed, he would say, “Pooch, you never want to go to jail. They serve you cold coffee and runny oatmeal, and that’s all you get.”

Meanwhile, as the day progressed into the evening, my mom was at home with a baby, wondering where her husband was or if he was even alive. The prisoners did get their obligatory phone call, but Dad didn’t know anyone with a phone. Grandma G. worked as a housekeeper for a nearby family, and Dad could have contacted her at her workplace. But Dad was too proud to call his mother-in-law for help.

Bill had no such compunctions about making his call, and he called to contact his girlfriend, my dad’s mother-in-law. He explained his predicament, letting her know both men were in jail for the night. Grandma was called on to rescue her boyfriend, a drunken fool who had already taken one life while driving drunk, and her son-in-law, who had a baby and a wife waiting at home. This prompted Grandma G. to spring into action.

Grandma G. borrowed a car to go into town. Upon arrival at the jail, she paid a fine, made some promises to the local jailor, and freed her boyfriend, Bill. Either she didn’t have the money for a second fine, or she didn’t care, but she left my dad to sit overnight in jail. Grandma G. didn’t bother to drive out to tell my mother that her husband was in jail. By my mother’s account, “rescuing that old drunk bastard was all she was worried about.” 

It was late afternoon the next day when the sheriff decided that Dad had learned his lesson for being stupid and released him. There was no actual legal hold on Dad; although it was a foolish act, getting in a car with Bill T. wasn't illegal. Dad was held to teach him a lesson on judgment. Mom said, “It worked too; he never rode anywhere with Bill T. again.”

Dad walked downtown to a local café, where he found a farmer enjoying midday pie and coffee. He asked for and received a ride home. Mom told me she “had been up all night, worried sick. I didn’t know what the hell happened to him or if he was ever coming back.”

Knowing my mother, I doubt their reunion was a movie-type scene of relief and joy, with a grateful mother holding their child and crying tears of happiness at seeing her husband return. Dad might have felt safer in jail.