Prison Pete

Friday, June 10, 2005
  Funkville here.
I just got done typing the first page and when I hit the ESC to close the file the typewriter simply beeped at me. The reason was that I never put it in word processor mode. I had managed to type the entire first page without saving it to a file!

I am really in a funk and that did not help. I will now retype page one, and then maybe go on to page two.

I actually cleaned up my locker today, sorted a weeks worth of clippings, and consolidated my miscellaneous "to do" stuff into one place.

It is 5:30 here and I am going to type out the letter I wrote back on January 11, 2005. I have reread it and I think it is possible to go ahead and post it on the blog. If you do not find it blog worthy, then maybe you can email it to Summer?

I have been meaning to send you a direct response to your comment posted on December 22, 2004. Unfortunately it got into the round to it pile and there it sat. [the letter was actually written back on January 11, 2005 and is finally being transcribed on June 2, 2005]

Holidays are always strange times in prison. You find yourself surrounded with men whom you would not be anywhere close to in the free world. A lot of my prison holidays were spent reflecting on holidays from years past with the hope of being free one day to celebrate them on the other side of the barbed wire.

I do not know if I made it clear in my posts, but I have never been formally diagnosed with ADD. During my grade school years, 1961-1967, I do not believe the diagnosis was even available. My report cards from those years are full of comments from my teachers that "Pete could do much better in _____ if he would only put in some effort."

I was not much of a rowdy or disruptive student. I was probably bored and/or lazy (my parents would certainly use the latter to describe my lack of optimum school performance) at various times depending on the subject.

You asked about handwriting and fine motor skills. Even at my deliberate best, my handwriting was never all that neat, and as my trusty editor and those poor volunteers that helped type some of my handwritten letters can attest, the quality goes down with the length of the writing. I was always the one in class who would color outside the lines.

After spending most of my sixth grade doing very little class work, which is another whole story, I was accepted into a private school where I would spend the next six years of my academic career.
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