In 1968, every Wisconsin State Prison (WSP) employee, correctional officer or civilian staff member, had to wear hats, not caps, while in "the back," where inmates were housed. Females were not allowed in the back.
Anyone other than an officer was called a civilian. Civilians, other than shop foremen, maintenance workers, and cooks, had to wear dress shirts and ties while in the back. Probationary correctional officers were not allowed to don official uniforms until they served and passed their six month probationary period.
At the start of my employment, I was advised that a good portion of probationary employees were let go by the time probation's final day arrived. If one wanted to become a "permanent" employee, one had to do what those employees normally did, pay strict attention to the rules and abide by them, always.
In order to get into the back from the street entrance, everyone had to pass through eight locked gates, keyed opened, closed, and keyed locked until electronic gates were introduced and installed in 1969.
Each gate was supervised by turnkeys, all sergeants. The turnkey at the front gate, Sgt. Bill Lansbury, stopped me in the early morning and told me his joke of the day before he let me pass by. He was likeable and the friendliest of fellows. Most of his jokes were groaners.
Whenever employees were in the back and caught initial sight of any of the eight guard towers, we "high balled," or waved, at the tower officer. He, in turn, would leave the tower's innards, step out onto a steel-grated catwalk, and return his wave, summer, winter, rain, sleet, or snow.
The reason we performed this act was not to let each other know we were sociable. Instead, our high ball let the tower officer know we were not in imminent danger. The tower officer's return wave showed us he was on the job, alert, and in control of all he surveyed.
By being in control, each tower officer had at his disposal a fully loaded 12-gauge pump shotgun with double-ought buckshot and also a fully loaded and at the ready high-powered 30.06 military style rifle. Each tower officer had to pass with flying colors his annual firearms test at the gunnery range.
During my two-week training classes, I was advised by the Training Lieutenant that each tower officer at one hundred yards, "could shoot the left nut off of a squirrel, leaving the right one intact."
If either staff member or tower officer failed to wave, the one who did wave had—as his duty—to immediately contact either the Bubble Officer or the security office. Less than a minute later, a crew of burly officers, each the size of an NFL linebacker, arrived at the scene in order to determine if there was a problem.
If there was no actual problem, there was still, indeed, a problem—for the staff member who didn't wave. He was punished with verbal warnings, days off without pay, or fired on the spot. The only legitimate excuse for not high-balling, the training lieutenant advised me, was if the employee had no arms.
Everyone, including inmates, had to salute "white shirts," the term used to designate supervisory lieutenants and captains, Officers 5 and 6. Captains were at the right hand of God as far as they and everyone else in the prison were concerned.
Whenever a white shirt entered a cell hall, work, or program area, the officer in charge promptly stood at attention and shouted out the one word, "Atttention."
Program areas included the school, recreation, hospital, social services, clinical services, and the chapel. Everyone in the area stopped whatever he was doing, became silent, and stood. After everyone was wordlessly standing, the lieutenant or captain would nod. It was only then that we could return to our business, as usual.
White shirts wore supremely starched white uniform shirts with dark blue ties, blue uniform trousers, and black brogans. In addition, whenever they were outdoors in the back, their heads were covered with blue military-like hats with plastic brims.
Lieutenants attached one gold bar to each collar tip, captains, two gold bars.
Captain Johnson was the rotund but cordial First Shift Captain. When I began work at WSP, he was close to the retirement age of fifty five and talked about moving "up north." He had more stories to tell about any officer or inmate in the place and told his stories, accompanied with a robust laugh, which could be heard from far away. However, if he was called to an area due to a problem, he was as serious as a head-on car crash and resolved the problem, post haste.
Lt. William "Bill" Schlei was the first shift lieutenant. He had salt and pepper-colored hair. Bill was the very first supervisory officer to befriend me. After Captain Johnson retired and in fact moved “up north,” Bill became first shift captain. Everyone, including the nastiest of inmates, respected Bill, but if an inmate broke the rules, Captain Schlei was as prompt as his predecessor in applying forceful action in order to change bad or wrong behaviors.
Captain Frank Young, administrative captain, had a pronounced, nervous tic, uttering the non-word "Ummmmm" just about every third word. One never made fun of that tic—in front of Frank. He was a true gentleman.
Non-supervisory officers were called blue shirts. They wore blue uniform shirts with dark blue ties, blue trousers, black brogans, and when outdoors, they had to be "covered," wearing blue military hats with plastic brims.
Blue shirts were ranked as Correctional Officer 1, 2, or 3. Officer Three's, sergeants, were usually shown utmost respect by other blue shirts and most civilians. Two's wore two stripes. One's sleeves bore no stripes at all.
Correctional officers were not guards. If one even uttered the word guard, that act was viewed as very bad taste. If a new employee used that term a second time, he most likely did not pass probation.
Reporting to work on time was absolutely essential. The first time a probationary employee reported even two seconds late—repeat, two seconds—the employee was stiffly warned. The second time saw him seeking employment in other areas of endeavor, not having a thing to do with Wisconsin corrections.
Regular, or "permanent" employees, were first given a verbal warning. The second time, it was time off without pay. The third time late, he became a former staff member.
Except for "program officers," correctional officer eight-hour shifts were 6 a.m-2 p.m.; 2 p.m-10 p.m.; and 10 p.m.-6 a.m. Civilian staff hours were 7 a.m-4 p.m., with an hour off for lunch. Program officers worked the same shift as civilians.
During my two-week training period with no weekends off, I had to daily observe duties of four separate correctional officer posts. Each officer handed to me a copy of his written post orders and then gave me more than enough time to read them.
"Do you have any questions?" each asked after I completed reading. If I had none, each officer spent the next two hours, tending to his job, letting me observe how he carried out those post orders, and at the same time, each would drill me, asking me where I was from and why I wanted to work in a prison school instead of a regular school. Each officer was genuinely helpful and friendly although each knew I was a civilian, an English teacher to inmates. Although my annual pay was at least twice a sergeant's yearly salary, all officers treated me respectfully.
Since my wife and daughters were to remain in Wisconsin Rapids until after I passed my six-month probationary period, I had to eat my meals out because the room I rented above Steve's Bar had no kitchen privileges.
Personnel Director Glen Weeks, whose double-breasted suits and paisley ties I'm certain had to be purchased during the 1930's, advised me I could eat prison fare in the ODR, officers' dining room. "You'll eat what the inmates are fed, but the meals are good."
He was correct. Each meal cost thirty-five cents. First, I had to buy a book of meal tickets at the prison's business office. I bought enough tickets for eating a couple of weeks' worth of meals. For the most part, I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the joint each weekday except Friday, when I ate only breakfast and lunch.
One dollar and five cents a day for three meals was just one perk of the job.
On Sunday, when I returned to Waupun after spending the better portion of a weekend in Wisconsin Rapids, remodeling the house we bought, I ate my evening meal at the prison.
Breakfast was my favorite meal because the inmate chef fried the called-out number of eggs to each staff member's preference. In addition, breakfast included pancakes, a thinly cut pork steak or a stack of fried bacon in addition to fried potatoes, orange juice, shit on the shingle (creamed beef on toast), plenty of hot coffee, milk, toast, butter, jam, peanut butter, pie, breakfast roll, or doughnut.
I could easily understand why many program officers and civilian staff members chose to eat breakfast in the ODR.
Anyone other than an officer was called a civilian. Civilians, other than shop foremen, maintenance workers, and cooks, had to wear dress shirts and ties while in the back. Probationary correctional officers were not allowed to don official uniforms until they served and passed their six month probationary period.
At the start of my employment, I was advised that a good portion of probationary employees were let go by the time probation's final day arrived. If one wanted to become a "permanent" employee, one had to do what those employees normally did, pay strict attention to the rules and abide by them, always.
In order to get into the back from the street entrance, everyone had to pass through eight locked gates, keyed opened, closed, and keyed locked until electronic gates were introduced and installed in 1969.
Each gate was supervised by turnkeys, all sergeants. The turnkey at the front gate, Sgt. Bill Lansbury, stopped me in the early morning and told me his joke of the day before he let me pass by. He was likeable and the friendliest of fellows. Most of his jokes were groaners.
Whenever employees were in the back and caught initial sight of any of the eight guard towers, we "high balled," or waved, at the tower officer. He, in turn, would leave the tower's innards, step out onto a steel-grated catwalk, and return his wave, summer, winter, rain, sleet, or snow.
The reason we performed this act was not to let each other know we were sociable. Instead, our high ball let the tower officer know we were not in imminent danger. The tower officer's return wave showed us he was on the job, alert, and in control of all he surveyed.
By being in control, each tower officer had at his disposal a fully loaded 12-gauge pump shotgun with double-ought buckshot and also a fully loaded and at the ready high-powered 30.06 military style rifle. Each tower officer had to pass with flying colors his annual firearms test at the gunnery range.
During my two-week training classes, I was advised by the Training Lieutenant that each tower officer at one hundred yards, "could shoot the left nut off of a squirrel, leaving the right one intact."
If either staff member or tower officer failed to wave, the one who did wave had—as his duty—to immediately contact either the Bubble Officer or the security office. Less than a minute later, a crew of burly officers, each the size of an NFL linebacker, arrived at the scene in order to determine if there was a problem.
If there was no actual problem, there was still, indeed, a problem—for the staff member who didn't wave. He was punished with verbal warnings, days off without pay, or fired on the spot. The only legitimate excuse for not high-balling, the training lieutenant advised me, was if the employee had no arms.
Everyone, including inmates, had to salute "white shirts," the term used to designate supervisory lieutenants and captains, Officers 5 and 6. Captains were at the right hand of God as far as they and everyone else in the prison were concerned.
Whenever a white shirt entered a cell hall, work, or program area, the officer in charge promptly stood at attention and shouted out the one word, "Atttention."
Program areas included the school, recreation, hospital, social services, clinical services, and the chapel. Everyone in the area stopped whatever he was doing, became silent, and stood. After everyone was wordlessly standing, the lieutenant or captain would nod. It was only then that we could return to our business, as usual.
White shirts wore supremely starched white uniform shirts with dark blue ties, blue uniform trousers, and black brogans. In addition, whenever they were outdoors in the back, their heads were covered with blue military-like hats with plastic brims.
Lieutenants attached one gold bar to each collar tip, captains, two gold bars.
Captain Johnson was the rotund but cordial First Shift Captain. When I began work at WSP, he was close to the retirement age of fifty five and talked about moving "up north." He had more stories to tell about any officer or inmate in the place and told his stories, accompanied with a robust laugh, which could be heard from far away. However, if he was called to an area due to a problem, he was as serious as a head-on car crash and resolved the problem, post haste.
Lt. William "Bill" Schlei was the first shift lieutenant. He had salt and pepper-colored hair. Bill was the very first supervisory officer to befriend me. After Captain Johnson retired and in fact moved “up north,” Bill became first shift captain. Everyone, including the nastiest of inmates, respected Bill, but if an inmate broke the rules, Captain Schlei was as prompt as his predecessor in applying forceful action in order to change bad or wrong behaviors.
Captain Frank Young, administrative captain, had a pronounced, nervous tic, uttering the non-word "Ummmmm" just about every third word. One never made fun of that tic—in front of Frank. He was a true gentleman.
Non-supervisory officers were called blue shirts. They wore blue uniform shirts with dark blue ties, blue trousers, black brogans, and when outdoors, they had to be "covered," wearing blue military hats with plastic brims.
Blue shirts were ranked as Correctional Officer 1, 2, or 3. Officer Three's, sergeants, were usually shown utmost respect by other blue shirts and most civilians. Two's wore two stripes. One's sleeves bore no stripes at all.
Correctional officers were not guards. If one even uttered the word guard, that act was viewed as very bad taste. If a new employee used that term a second time, he most likely did not pass probation.
Reporting to work on time was absolutely essential. The first time a probationary employee reported even two seconds late—repeat, two seconds—the employee was stiffly warned. The second time saw him seeking employment in other areas of endeavor, not having a thing to do with Wisconsin corrections.
Regular, or "permanent" employees, were first given a verbal warning. The second time, it was time off without pay. The third time late, he became a former staff member.
Except for "program officers," correctional officer eight-hour shifts were 6 a.m-2 p.m.; 2 p.m-10 p.m.; and 10 p.m.-6 a.m. Civilian staff hours were 7 a.m-4 p.m., with an hour off for lunch. Program officers worked the same shift as civilians.
During my two-week training period with no weekends off, I had to daily observe duties of four separate correctional officer posts. Each officer handed to me a copy of his written post orders and then gave me more than enough time to read them.
"Do you have any questions?" each asked after I completed reading. If I had none, each officer spent the next two hours, tending to his job, letting me observe how he carried out those post orders, and at the same time, each would drill me, asking me where I was from and why I wanted to work in a prison school instead of a regular school. Each officer was genuinely helpful and friendly although each knew I was a civilian, an English teacher to inmates. Although my annual pay was at least twice a sergeant's yearly salary, all officers treated me respectfully.
Since my wife and daughters were to remain in Wisconsin Rapids until after I passed my six-month probationary period, I had to eat my meals out because the room I rented above Steve's Bar had no kitchen privileges.
Personnel Director Glen Weeks, whose double-breasted suits and paisley ties I'm certain had to be purchased during the 1930's, advised me I could eat prison fare in the ODR, officers' dining room. "You'll eat what the inmates are fed, but the meals are good."
He was correct. Each meal cost thirty-five cents. First, I had to buy a book of meal tickets at the prison's business office. I bought enough tickets for eating a couple of weeks' worth of meals. For the most part, I ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at the joint each weekday except Friday, when I ate only breakfast and lunch.
One dollar and five cents a day for three meals was just one perk of the job.
On Sunday, when I returned to Waupun after spending the better portion of a weekend in Wisconsin Rapids, remodeling the house we bought, I ate my evening meal at the prison.
Breakfast was my favorite meal because the inmate chef fried the called-out number of eggs to each staff member's preference. In addition, breakfast included pancakes, a thinly cut pork steak or a stack of fried bacon in addition to fried potatoes, orange juice, shit on the shingle (creamed beef on toast), plenty of hot coffee, milk, toast, butter, jam, peanut butter, pie, breakfast roll, or doughnut.
I could easily understand why many program officers and civilian staff members chose to eat breakfast in the ODR.