My world is so unfair.
The trip was beautiful and uneventful and we made it to Camp Alamosa just in time for lunch. We have decided to rename the corrections center "Camp Alamosa" in an effort to help Noah understand where my dad is living. Since it doesn't look like a typical jail and because he is able to walk around and sleep in a bunk bed, "camp" seems like the more appropriate word.
And besides, telling your fellow first-graders that your grandpa is at camp is much cooler than saying he is in the clink.
Dad looks great. He was wearing jeans and sweater and was so happy to see us. He also introduced us to one of his new friends, who was gracious enough to find us some chairs to sit on. They call him "Bama" since he is from Alabama and he looked like any nice, normal guy that you would see in your neighborhood: blond, curly hair, jeans, flannel shirt, nice smile. I think dad said he had a couple of children back home. I will write more about my dad's new friends soon. There is just so much to tell about them.
Dad had gotten permission to leave camp for three hours, which reinforced my absolute confusion over our correctional system. HOW IN THE WORLD can they let my dad go to Walmart (or any other place for that matter) and yet they won't let him come home? It boggles the mind, folks. Boggles.
Regardless, it was great to walk around with him and shop for ink pens and laundry soap. It almost felt like he was going away to college. Afterward, we went out for Mexican food and ordered tacos. Obviously. I also read him many of your blog comments and emails. He was overwhelmed by the support. Your words matter, my friends, so keep them coming.
Before we knew it, the three hours were up. My dad was patted down, blew in a breathalyzer and waved good-bye. And we promised we would be back next weekend. But next time, hopefully without the tacos.