Every Sunday when I was a kid my grandmother would get up at 5:00 a.m. to make Sunday dinner. We would all go to church, and before we left, dinner would be fixed and on the stove. And, she always made cornbread. She could make it all sorts of ways – jalapeno, cheese, pork – and she would bake it in all types of pans.
From time to time, I’d play sick and be allowed to stay home with my uncle who never went to church. That’s when I’d make my way into the kitchen and into the pan of cornbread. I’d cut off a piece, then another and another. One time I ate all but one small slice.
My grandmother would get so mad at me when she would come home and get ready to eat. One time she brought the pastor home and the cornbread was gone. That was it for me. She told me I was the cornbread eatin’est little boy she ever saw.
It wasn’t long after that she woke me up around 6:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning and told me to wash up and help her in the kitchen. I found her at the kitchen table with all the ingredients laid out to make her cornbread. She also had two pans – hers and one small one for me. From that day forward, I would get up every Sunday morning and make that pan of bread.
One day a friend came over and called me ‘Cornbread’. That was in 1967, and the name stuck. It was with me until I came to prison. After I got here I heard some guys talking, and one of them called the other Cornbread. I dropped the ‘corn’ in my name that day. Now – I’m just called ‘The Bread’.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Alfred Hall lives in a prison in Texas and can be contacted at:
Alfred L. Hall #01840184
Ramsey 1 Unit
1100 FM 655
Rosharon, TX 77583
At this barber you are shaved, once again much like a sheep, and given a comb (which you won’t need for a few months). From there, you are escorted to a row (cells). After that, it’s a new experience every day. You are taken to medical where your needs are evaluated and you are given medication to keep you alive if deemed necessary.
We arrived after a ten hour bus ride. That’s when the fun began. That’s where dog eat dog starts. A good number of the inmates sent to French Robertson are, to sum it up in one word, predators. The guards were there for two reasons – to keep anyone from escaping and to keep the weaker inmates from being eaten. All the education in the world can’t help you. You either give up or you fight.
ABOUT THE WRITER. Travis Runnels, is a published author, and is currently working on his second novel. He lives on Death Row.
While watching Charlotte play with her web in search for Wilbur
My dad took me to the family doctor, and he tested my urine and called the children’s hospital in Columbus, Ohio, to get me admitted. Once there, my blood tested at 901 – I was on the edge of a coma. I was in the ICU for a week before they moved me to a regular room, where my diabetic training commenced.
However, if mom discovered my transgressions, she’d beat me silly, yell, scream and ground me for weeks on end. I didn’t get caught often, but when I did, there was hell to pay. When I turned sixteen, she took me to a church counselor to see, “What the @?!#!,” was wrong with me.
This is Ernest Parker, proud father and grandfather. His warmth runs deeper than the smile. His friends speak of him fondly, and I recently had the privilege of reading a letter he wrote, in which he described a fellow inmate. Of his friend, he said, “His smile is like a beacon of light shining in the valley of despair.” While speaking so highly of his friend, Ernest Parker also described his home as the ‘valley of despair’. His home of nearly three decades has been a federal prison.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR. Darrell has contributed several pieces to this site and continues to write. He wrote this piece not long ago, shortly after a friend of his lost his life inside his cell.
I sympathize with the people of Flint, Michigan. Their water was contaminated because nobody gave much thought to the problems that could be created by switching from a water source that was proven reliable to the Flint River, which was known for its mercury poisoned waters.