Sandra
Jean Norman passed away peacefully on Sunday, December 27, 2015, at 8:06 p.m.,
bringing to an end several years of health struggles. Though her death was not
unexpected, it was nonetheless a hard blow for the entire family. Sandy, 61 years old, was
the wife of my brother, Danny, for 44 years, and her family was at her side
when she passed.
I
first met Sandy and her sister, Naomi “Joan,” when she was barely sixteen, a
skinny little thing who looked even younger. I was in college at the University of South Florida, and was home at my
parents’ house for Sunday dinner. During that after high school period, the
“big kids” of whom I was one, would often gather at the old school playground
on fall Sunday afternoons to relive our younger associations in a very rough
football scrimmage. The “little kids,”
our younger brothers and sisters, would line up on the sidelines and watch
their big brothers run around like fools tackling each other and laughing until
exhaustion set in and the game ended. That was fun?
It’s gone now, but the “old school,”
an ancient two-story brick building that served as Thonotosassa Elementary
School for generations, had closed several years before, in favor of the new
school, a modern facility built a mile or so away. On Main Street, in the middle of what there
is in Thonotosassa, the open playground became a town park where the locals
gathered to play, visit, and relive their youth. That was where I first met Sandy.
Sweaty and dirty, I was drinking a
soda when my younger brother, Danny, approached me, accompanied by two very shy
girls, Sandy and Joan. “Charles, this is
my girlfriend, Sandy. We’re gonna get married.”
I was surprised, to say the least.
Danny was a skinny sixteen-year old himself, in high school. He and Sandy
seemed like an unlikely pair for marriage. I said something to Sandy — I can’t remember what — in the vein
of “nice to meet you,” but she raised
her downcast face, looked me in the eyes, and flashed a big smile. In that
instant, I glimpsed what must have initially drawn my brother to her. She was
beautiful. She was also a wonderful, loving selfless person, as I learned many
times over the next 45 years that Danny and Sandy were together. My mother once
said, on another occasion of Sandy’s previous
health travails, “Sandy
is the best of us,” and I must agree.
After
the funeral, which, of course, I could not attend, I spoke with my grieving mother,
Lucille Norman, about Sandy.
She said, “Sandy
was the daughter I never had. Anytime any of us needed something done, like
hanging a picture, we called Sandy.
She could do everything no one else had the sense to do.”
When Danny and Sandy got married in Harney Baptist
Church, I was proud to
take their wedding photos. She was a beautiful bride. I remember well when Sandy, as a newly-married
woman with an infant son, invited me for supper. Did this lovely young, girl
know how to cook? I had no idea. They lived next door to my parents’ house, so
I parked my car in my parents’ big yard and walked to Danny’s and Sandy’s .
When she opened the door, delectable cooking smells enveloped me. I told her it
smelled great — what were we having?
Sandy lit up at the praise. “Fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy,
green beans and biscuits,” she said, smiling.
The
food tasted even better than it smelled. I told her she was a great cook. It
was true. Looking back on that time, that was the beginning of our closeness. Sandy was a genuinely
good person, and everyone who knew her loved her.
Danny
and Sandy raised two children, Timmy and Tammy, who became the substitute
children I never had. Before I came to prison, I delighted in spending time
with my nephew and niece. Their earliest recollection of “Uncle Charlie” was
when I took them to see the original “Star
Wars” movie. When I went to prison, Danny and Sandy brought Tammy and Timmy
to visit me at Union C.I., Raiford, also known as “The Rock.”
The
Rock had a large visiting park with two covered pavilions, picnic tables, and
the “patio canteen restaurant,” that sold full meals of fried chicken dinners,
hamburgers and French fries, and much more.
My
nephew, Timmy, stared at the biker gang members whose arms were
heavily-tattooed with dark ink. He’d never seen sights like that in
Thonotosassa. “Charles, why do those men
have cartoons on their arms?” he asked me.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Do they wash off?”
“No. They are there forever,” I said.
Timmy
thought about that for a moment. “If I
did that, my mom would kill me.”
Sandy smiled. “You’re right, young man.”
I
haven’t seen my nephew, Timmy, in a number of years. He’s been busy leading his
own life and raising children, but I’ve heard that he sports a large, colorful,
intricate tattoo now. Looking back, I wonder whether his initial visit to
prison influenced his later decisions.
On
one of their visits to see me, I pointed out another prisoner, a despicable man
called “Frenchy,” who operated a separate candy counter with a chocolate
milkshake machine at the patio canteen. Some weeks before that visit, Frenchy
had been locked up after a mother complained that she’d walked up to the
counter and caught Frenchy fondling her mentally-handicapped twelve-year old
daughter while he fed her candy. Amazingly, a week later he was back on his job
in the visiting park, around dozens of unsuspecting children every week. He was
a favorite of certain influential prison guards, who got the charges dropped.
Tammy
and Timmy wanted milkshakes. I went with them. When we got to the counter where
Frenchy worked, I told them, “Kids, this
is a very bad man. He is a child molester. Do you know what that is?” They
nodded their heads, staring intently at Frenchy. “When you come to this counter never come by yourselves. Always go with
me or your mom. If this man ever speaks to you, or tries to touch you, you tell
me immediately. Understand?” They nodded their heads.
“Norman, I swear, I’d never do anything to
hurt those children.”
“For your sake, you’d better not,” I
said, dead serious.
The
children got their milkshakes and raced back to our table. Little Tammy went
straight to Sandy. “Mama, you see that man over there?” she
said, pointing at Frenchy.
Sandy nodded.
“That man is a child molester. If you go over
there, be sure and take me with you!” Tammy said.
“I will!” Sandy said.
We
erupted in laughter.
I
could tell you many more stories about Sandy and our family, sadly, too many of
them shared secondhand, from a distance, with me serving life in prison. On
Christmas Eve, Thursday, Sandy,
in the hospital, seemed to rally, conscious and talking, realizing that she was
in the hospital at that special time. In our family, everyone gathers at my
mother’s house on Christmas Eve and opens presents under the Christmas tree. Sandy insisted that Danny
help her get dressed so she could join the family at Mama’s, but that was
impossible. She was too sick. Even at the end of her life, Sandy’s only thoughts were to be with her
family.
The
day after Christmas, Sandy
had a massive stroke. Her family was at her side the entire time, and are
deeply grieving her passing, as I do, from prison. My brother heroically tended
to his ever increasingly-sicker wife for years, shouldering a heavy burden,
then being saddled with more hard decisions and travails after Sandy’s death. It is to my eternal regret
that I could not be out there with our grieving family and share those burdens,
or to have been with them in the hospital when Sandy died.
One
of the unmentioned punishments of prison is the exile from one’s family and
loved ones. Surviving decades of imprisonment means that one must experience
many losses of loved ones over the years, with the inability to be present to
support and grieve with those left behind.
I
thank God for the great gift He gave our family when He brought Sandra Jean
Norman into our lives. May she rest in peace.
Charlie
