From Where I Sit

By Pat Spilseth, Columnist

This past week I was invited to be a guest on a YouTube channel, The 1950s FUN CHAT, hosted by Jackie and Janine Knop. Their website is  www.whilethewindmillwatched.com. They were interested in interviewing someone who had grown up in the jail in Glenwood, when Dad was the sheriff of Pope County. The delightful Knop sisters are interviewing folks around the Midwest who had some unique adventures during the 1950s.  

Their questions triggered old memories that come to mind every fall when several of our jail house friends would regularly get DWI sentences from Judge Selnes to spend several months in the jail. My Dad was sheriff during the fifties when the sheriff’s family had living quarters attached to his office as well as to a block of men’s cells. Upstairs were several women’s cells for unruly ladies. Usually the women’s cells were empty, which provided a playground for me and my friends.  

Just like November’s returning high winds and snowflakes, my family knew we could count on Blackie and Verdi, sometimes Paul, returning to the warm comforts of their jail cells and Mom’s delicious, warm meals. It wasn’t a bad life: free beds, meals, reading material and old acquaintances to shoot the bull with.

In late fall, the days are shorter and darker. November’s gray days of slush and snow seemed to bring more folks to the bars downtown, where they spent the day drinking beer on the swiveling bar stools and playing pool. At Dick’s Recreation in downtown Glenwood, colorful, lighted beer signs were mounted above the bar featuring playful bears grinning and cavorting on turning logs. Tunes swirled in the heads of the drinking patrons as they put another nickel in the Nickelodeon. Over and over the box of records played tunes of comfort or longing for love. Swirling a drink, folks could recapture pleasurable memories and commiserate with others about being out of work or being jilted by a lover. That was a good enough reason to call for another drink; it wasn’t very expensive to slap another bill on the bar.  

Eventually the bartender had to call the cops to pick up the men who had drunk themselves into a stupor or become belligerent. Some slept, heads resting on the bar. The local law enforcement would put cuffs on the drunk and escort him to the county jail. The offender would have to appear before either Judge Selnes or Judge Dietz in the formidable county courtroom the next day. A three month sentence for “drunk and disorderly” conduct was issued, and the men became residents in Dad’s jail. It wasn’t unusual for our family to include our jail guests around our family’s Christmas tree on Christmas Eve when Dad read the Christmas story from the book of Luke.

These men in jail were far from boring; several were entertainers, not the serious Norwegians I was used to being around. They mesmerized my little sister Barbie and me with colorful stories bragging about girlfriends and their adventures often outside the law. Blackie performed acrobatic flips, headstands and cartwheel tricks on mattresses he threw on the floor in the hallway around the cells. Paul had been an Arthur Murray dance teacher in the Cities; he redecorated Mom’s jail kitchen one winter and danced with me around the kitchen table. 

The only other contact we had with unique people like the jailed guys was when my folks took Barbie and me to a most unusual place on our annual trip to the Cities. Sure, we saw the holiday displays in Dayton’s windows and a magical Nicollet Avenue alight with strings of Christmas lights. But that treat happened only after we had visited the dark, seedy mission houses on Skid Row. That’s where we met the “down and out” people who hung out at the mission for warmth and a free meal.  

Dad thought that even though we didn’t have much money, “We didn’t realize how fortunate we are.” My parents had us pick out one Christmas present at the Salvation Army store. I chose a record album; Barb picked a one-eyed doll. That long-ago family Skid Row visit remains the most memorable Christmas of my life. 

Jail wasn’t a bad situation for some people. Who wouldn’t enjoy tasty meals every day at the county’s expense? And the company of characters never failed to entice a few folks to our jailhouse. You could say the cells provided a mini library trip: the reading material was limited mostly to Zane Gray paperbacks, but the guys seemed to enjoy the stories where the good guys wore white hats; the bad men wore black. The Gideons provided Bibles, but those pages were rarely turned.  

Mom would serve a hot breakfast of Cream of Wheat or oatmeal, juice and toast. Lunch would be homemade vegetable soup with a big soup bone adding delicious flavor, accompanied by homemade bread and a chocolate chip cookie. Dinner was a beef or pork roast with carrots and potatoes or pork chops with apple sauce and mashed potatoes. As jail matron, Mom felt obligated to always provide a delicious dessert. Her favorites were fat slices of angel food cake or her heavenly chocolate cake, so moist and dripping with frosting. Unfortunately, Mom was never paid a penny for all her work as jail matron. She was expected to provide meals as the wife of the sheriff. 

Our family enjoyed most of the men who stayed at the jail, and I know some of the men enjoyed their stay. We became family to several men who spent the fall and winter holidays in our jail. In following years, several sent Christmas greeting cards to our family. They didn’t seem to hold grudges against us.  

I bet jails like ours don’t exist today. Life in jail is no longer like Mayberry in the fifties!

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To contact Pat, email: pat.spilseth@gmail.com.