I imagine everyone has some special favorite nostalgic spot, the one that always seems to prompt a flood of happy childhood memories. For me, that place has always been the miniature golf course outside the walls of the Iowa State Penitentiary in Fort Madison.
I guess it goes back to those lazy summer weekends in the 60s and 70s when Mom would load us in the back of the ol' blue Chevy pickup and drive us all down to Fort Madison to see Dad on during family visit days. I remember the delicious feeling of that humid Mississippi river wind blowing through our hair, and how Mom would yell when we dangled one of the littler kids over the back of the tailgate. What really set her off was when we lit up our Kools. "Those better not be from that carton I bought for your old man!" she would scream back through the window plastic, but then we'd all moon some unsuspecting Amish buggy and enjoy a good family laugh.
The anticipation in the back of the pickup continued to build as we worked southward along Highway 61 until we reached the crest of the bluff overlooking the prison, because we knew it meant we were about to see Dad's new tattoos and enjoy 18 holes of apres-prison mini golf.
All those rich childhood memories came rushing back this weekend as I traveled through Fort Madison with my own family. Sure, the old Burge family truck is now a modern '87 Toyota, and the Kools have been replaced by Merit Menthols. But happily, Penitentiary Putt-Putt is still there, providing fun for a new generation of Iowa prison families visiting loved ones in the can -- even that old whimsical giraffe on the 14th fairway that we so loved to spray paint.
It was great to see how they rebuilt the little Fort that was such a favorite arson target for my brother.
Even more than the minigolf, I think we relished a turn in the batting cages. Sometimes the screws would let Dad come up to the guard tower to yell coaching instructions. Maybe he wasn't there at every Little League game or school suspension hearing, but Dad made sure that we could all hit a curve ball -- and handle ourselves with a baseball bat inside a locked cage.
And after working up a sweat, there was a cold creamy treat waiting for us next door at Dairy Lockdown. I opted for my old favorite, the StrawbShake Redemption, while Tammi Jo and the kids had Shiv-ver Slushies.
The prison-side ice cream was still delicious, but somehow left me with a melancholy feeling. The stone walls of the joint in Fort Madison have been an involuntary home away from home for generations of Burges, but looking at my own kids -- now in their teens -- I came to realize they have grown up with few memories of this special place. They were just babies when I finished my stretch here.
Tammi Jo must have sensed my melancholy. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, "remember that special place -- our place?"I smiled and said, "let's go." A few miles away we were at back at our old conjugal rendezvous, the Doublewide of Love.
It, like Tammi Jo, is just as beautiful as the day we were last here, on the eve of my sentencing hearing. This is where our son was conceived. According to her anyway. Out back, our honeymoon Ranchero keeps quiet vigil; still bearing its beautiful velour-lined topper where I think we made the older one.
On the way back through town we stopped at Hel-Mart for free bubble gum.
That's when I spied something that brought back another rush of emotions -- the old family prison pickup, down by the river, right where the repo man towed it all those many years ago. We gave a go at hot wiring it, to no avail.
The drive back to Fort Madison was quiet. I stared through the windshield, lost in contemplation, as the August sun played off the the splattered bugs and windshield cracks. Would my kids remember my glory days as the cross-dressing star clown in the prison rodeo, or just a sentimental old fool with with a scrapbook full of parole certificates and monitor bracelets? Maybe this trip was a mistake. Maybe Thomas Wolfe was right, you can't go home again. Even if if you have an official okay from an Iowa state court.
My thoughts were interrupted when Hawkspawn rapped on the back window of the truck. I slid it open. "Hey Dad, can we stop at the Mini Golf again?"
I agreed, and we pulled back into the parking lot. He hopped out of the pickup bed and walked slowly and defiantly up to the guard tower.
"See you in six to ten, you filthy screws!"
I looked at Tammi Jo and smiled.
"Looks like I'm gonna get a lot of practice on my short game, baby."
