On Saturday, July 31, 2021, my brother Danny Norman and niece Tammy Norman
visited me for a few hours at Lake C. I. We had a great time reminiscencing
about family and times gone by.
I needed that.
It has been a tough couple of years for all of us, and with the Covid Delta
Variant resurging, it's not over yet. The deaths of my mother Lucille, Aunt
Patsy Crumpton, Uncle David Walker and others hit our family hard.
I've documented most of my personal health and legal travails, along with the
imposed stresses by the prison system's pending moves and transfers as they
prepare to demolish half the compound to build a hospital. I'm dealing with the
frequent, painful transport van day trips to RMC--Lake Butler prison hospital
to see specialist physicians about my various medical issues. Good news from
the recent colonoscopy--no cancer, but it's still a tossup concerning the small
adrenal gland tumor.
Legally, we're putting together a package seeking a new, fair parole hearing.
My parole date still remains frozen at July 14, 2017. Go figure. The lawsuit I
filed against the FDOC in 2020 has progressed to the District Court of Appeals
in Tallahassee.
Nature wise, a pair of sandhill cranes have settled by the fenced-in
sinkhole/pond we pass several times a day going to food service, medical, and
the rec field. Tall, gray majestic birds with crimson crests, they approach the
fence adjacent to the sidewalk panhandling cornbread from the kitchen tossed
over the ten-foot fence by prisoners. Much smaller white ibises, grackles and
sparrows dart in to peck for leftovers.
Yesterday the birds put on a show less than three feet from the long line of
prisoners waiting to be called to chow, flapping their large wings, jumping
several feet in the air, bobbing their heads and dancing for several minutes,
to our delight. Mating rituals.
They call the seven-foot alligator that rules the pond ''Wally,'' and when they
serve peanut butter sandwiches for lunch, he waits patiently on the east bank
for someone to toss him one over the fence. They call the prison PB sandwiches
''choke sandwiches.'' The state peanut butter is so dry and heavy, one must
carefully bite and chew to avoid choking. No problem for Wally Gator. He will
joyfully chew and swallow anything landing near his gaping mouth. He hungrily
eyes the ibises that venture near the bank, but they cautiously watch his
approach, staying a safe distance away.
Nine feral cats still inhabit the storm drain by my dorm, coming out at meal
times for handouts. There were ten cats, but a few weeks ago a young black cat
was bitten by a water moccasin and painfully died. Workers killed the large
snake. Strangely, the young cat made it almost to medical before collapsing
near the door, raising speculation that it knew where to go for help. Others
speculated that the cat failed to file the required sick call request for
treatment.
I am hanging in there. I will reach 72-years old soon, 43 years an American
slave. Never in my worst nightmare could I have imagined surviving such a hell
for so long. Only by the love and support of my wife Libby, family and friends,
incessant prayers and the blessings of God am I still among the living, against
all odds.
God bless you all.
Charles Patrick Norman
