I drove to Yuma, AZ. It rained on me the entire way from Phoenix. At times the sky really opened up and let loose with pounding rain and lightning. It’s funny what you don’t take into consideration. I didn’t think about the possibility of rain. Not here in Arizona. And it’s a little chilly so I’m wearing all the layers that I brought. I listened to country and western music the whole ride. Songs I can remember: Crosby Stills and Nash, “Teach Your Children”, some Sons of the Pioneers, the Grateful Dead singing “Casey Jones”. My mind wanders around frequently pausing to think about Wim Wenders “Paris, Texas” which I watched last night and which moved me more than any film has in a long time.

The journey in the car is as much about creating a little space and distance for myself as it is about anything else. In Phoenix I get so caught up in the domestic sphere that is my little family. Part of this trip is just giving myself a different vantage point.

The desert is beautiful and verdant. More green than I can remember seeing it in a long time.

I made my way, a bit soaked, to the Yuma Territorial Prison. There is a museum on the grounds, it is small and rinky-dink — the kind of small town museum that I like. There is a video playing in an alcove. There are church basement chairs set up in front of it and a fan that it seems someone has neglected to put away. I know this park is on the state’s chopping block. But honestly I look around and it looks like they haven’t put more than $10 dollars into the place in the last 15 years. How much can they possibly be saving by closing this place down?

In the museum’s main room, behind a wooden and glass case there is a display that says “Mormon Prisoners”. There are pictures of two men. One of them is my great-great-great- grandfather William J. Flake. He is seated with his hands resting on his knees. In his left hand he is holding on to the brim of a wide straw hat. He is wearing black and white striped prison issued clothing. A long sleeved shirt, pants with wide horizontal stripes of black and white. He wears worn boots. There is not a lot of hair on the top of his head, but he has a beard of black hair and a peaceable look on his face. There is no mention about why or when the picture was taken. Could this be a mugshot? It does appear to have been taken within the prison walls.

It’s cold walking the prison grounds and the rain has flooded many of the walkways so that I am prancing and jumping in my red cowboy boots across the courtyard from dry gravelly bit to dry gravelly bit. Sometimes stepping straight into a puddle anyway. The chilly temperature makes the cells seem so cold. The steel cages offer nothing in the way of warmth.

“It’s prison alright”, I find myself thinking. Feel like you are in a rut? Check out this prison menu.