The Warden

F O R B E A R A N C E

Fifty men, all dressed in ill-fitting but matching black and white striped pants and shirts, walked into the mess hall and lined up for the cafeteria style dinner service. They were noisy and rowdy and tired of the food they had been served for the last month. A group of trusties were just finishing their dinner without complaints.

Nonetheless, each inmate took a metal tray and walked the serving line for their share of sustenance. As they took their trays to their respective tables, they groused with expletives to one another. Phrases like “putrid”, “ain’t gonna take this no more,” and “hunger strike” echoed from the pea green painted walls. Most of the food on their plates matched the walls and the gray linoleum floor.

Within minutes, the agitation escalated into chants of “strike, strike, strike,” with some prisoners overturning their plates onto the floor. Guards appeared out of nowhere to demonstrate control, but the prisoners were making it known in their various ways that the food was so bad they were going on a hunger strike and they all left the mess hall and lined up outside their bunkhouse refusing to comply with the commands of the guards until they spoke to the warden.

Meanwhile, back in Knoxville, the round table was dressed with a red and white checked tablecloth with three places set with salad and dinner forks, knives, spoons, and linen napkins. You could see the steam rising from a bowl of buttery hot mashed potatoes. Green beans lodged beside them. And a huge roast beef awaited carving. Frank Jr. rustled around a drawer looking for a particular strainer. Margaret called Frank Sr. to the table.

Frank Sr. was sitting in a large, overstuffed chair reading the daily newspaper while waiting for dinner. It was a typical evening until the phone rang.

“Ignore it,” yelled Margaret from the kitchen knowing full well something must be up.

Frank Sr. answered the phone anyway.

“What? Okay, I am on my way.”

Frank Sr. grabbed his hat and told the family to go ahead and eat but leave him a plate for later.

“Where are you going?” asked Margaret.

“Loudon Prison Camp,” yelling as he walked out the door and climbed into his black 1953 Chevy 210 Handyman station wagon. The engine cranked perfectly and roared to life.

Twenty minutes later Frank Sr. pulled up to the Camp gate and was admitted by the guard with a warning, “they’re at it again Warden!”

Once through the gate, Frank navigated the other security measures improvised for the camp and walked up to the bunkhouse where the prisoners were lined up.

The jeering started immediately.

Coolly, Frank walked up to old Lambert because he knew Lambert was the social leader but probably not the instigator.

“We have had enough of that slop you guys call food. We demand better food, and we are not eating until this situation is remedied,” said Lambert. “The food is just not properly prepared!”

Frank looked around at the men and quickly sorted out those who were engaged from those who were going along – he could tell by their eyes. Then, he said sincerely, “I am willing to help you if you help yourselves,” while looking at the men and then directly to Lambert.

“What do you mean?” asked Lambert.

Frank replied, “come with me.”

And with that, the prisoners and the guards followed Frank into the mess hall and walked through the serving line, taking a plate of hominy, sauerkraut, sausages, cornbread, peach and rice pudding, a bowl of chili and a cup of coffee. He then sat down and started eating.

The Warden said, “Tastes pretty good to me!”

And then the Warden explained that “the trusties, the regular prisoners, and all prison employees, including the superintendent all eat the same food.”

And when his plate was finished, Lambert took a plate and sat down beside Frank who was now smoking a Lucky Strike. One by one, the prisoners took their plates and places and settled down.

Frank continued a casual conversation with Lambert about life in the camp. Lambert seemed settled and told Frank the boys would behave.

Frank left after that brief visit with Lambert and drove back home where his original dinner sat on the stove top. But the Warden knew he could sleep knowing that crisis was settled without concessions, penalties or violence.

Days later, the Warden had the prison camp closed saying that “it was not fit for hogs!”