[Congressional Record Volume 141, Number 156 (Tuesday, October 10, 1995)]
[Senate]
[Pages S14951-S14952]
From the Congressional Record Online through the Government Publishing Office [www.gpo.gov]




                   PRAISING SOUTH DAKOTA YOUNG PEOPLE

  Mr. PRESSLER. Mr. President, I rise today to praise Paul Glader, a 
young man from my home State of South Dakota. Although only 17, Paul 
has accomplished much. At his young age, he already is an experienced, 
successful journalist, having published several articles in local and 
regional newspapers. Paul is, indeed, a talented, articulate person.
  I always am pleased and impressed with the accomplishments of young 
South Dakotans. Paul and other talented, young South Dakotans represent 
the future of my State. I am proud of their successes. I encourage and 
support their efforts.
  Mr. President, Paul recently sent me three articles he published 
while working as a news editorial intern at the Indianapolis News. The 
articles demonstrate that Paul Glader has a promising, exciting future. 
I look forward to seeing more of Paul's work as he pursues his career. 
I am pleased to ask unanimous consent that three of his columns be 
printed in the Record at the end of my remarks. Again, my 
congratulations to Paul Glader. I wish him continued success.
  There being no objection, the material was ordered to be printed in 
the Record, as follows:

               [From the Indianapolis News, July 6, 1995]

                       Changing Prisoners' Paths

                            (By Paul Glader)

       An innovative prison industry program in Florida is proof 
     that prisons sometimes can develop good citizens rather than 
     hardened criminals.
       At a prison in Dade County, 85 inmates manufacture modular 
     homes for Prison Rehabilitative Industries & Diversified 
     Enterprises Inc., better known as PRIDE. While they work, 
     they learn marketable skills in carpentry, electrical 
     installation, plumbing and air conditioning.
       During fiscal 1993-94, more than 5,200 Florida inmates 
     worked for PRIDE. Today, some of the men grow crops and 
     livestock, while others learn upholstery, printing, 
     dentistry, optical work, tire retreading, computers, 
     merchandise or architecture.
       Since PRIDE was chartered by the Florida Legislature in 
     1981, the corporation has operated 57 industries at 22 state 
     correctional institutions across Florida.
       By now, you are wondering how much it costs Florida 
     taxpayers to pay PRIDE.
       Nothing.
       By non-profit, public/private corporation finished in the 
     black this year with gross sales of $78 million and net 
     earnings of $4 million. Out of that $4 million, it paid 
     nearly $1.2 million to the Department of Correction for 
     inmate incarceration, $635,000 for inmate services and 
     $261,000 for victim restitution, retaining a $1.9 million 
     surplus.
       Obviously, the program works well economically. But that is 
     not the only benefit and certainly not the most important.
       Through teaching skills, PRIDE reduces prison idleness, 
     provides incentive for good behavior and reduces the cost to 
     state government.
       PRIDE also is placing prisoners in jobs after they leave 
     prison. Many are becoming productive rather then destructive 
     citizens because of newfound skills and character.
       David Jackson, a former inmate and PRIDE worker, now works 
     at Premdor Inc. of Tampa and makes wood doors, Premdor 
     General Manager Frank Moore said that David started as a 
     laborer and worked his way up to lead man of the paint 
     department, supervising three other workers.
       Jackson recently was named employee of the month at 
     Premdor, ``I love my job,'' he said. Jackson also said he 
     learned a work ethic at PRIDE of staying with a project until 
     it was finished and doing the best possible quality of work.
       A tracking study of 3,876 PRIDE graduates from 1991 through 
     1994 showed 873 of them had jobs upon release from prison. Of 
     those 873, only 11 percent returned to prison. That is 
     significant compared to the national recidivism rate of 70 
     percent.
       PRIDE officials said that they help prisoners with housing, 
     transportation, clothing and support when they are released 
     so they can land on their feet and start working right away.
       Sometimes PRIDE employees have an extra motivation for hard 
     work. Female inmates in PRIDE's textile industry sew their 
     own garments. Briefs they sew are purchased by all female 
     correctional institutions in Florida. They may end up wearing 
     what they made.
       PRIDE workers also have made silk screen decals for St. 
     Petersburg police cars. These inmates, who may have ridden in 
     the cars as detainees before sprucing them up, impressed 
     Officer Pete Venero. ``They do fantastic work for real 
     competitive prices,'' he said.
       From a public policy standpoint, PRIDE is like a glass of 
     ice water to a parched throat.
       Both political parties sing the woeful ballads of prison 
     overcrowding, repeat offenders and prisons' cost to 
     taxpayers. Here is a remedy that works.
       There is a lesson here for Indiana, Mayor Stephen Goldsmith 
     has brought the idea of privatization and competition to city 
     government. The race for governor in 1996 ought to include 
     some PRIDE-like proposals for expanding Indiana's prison 
     industries.
                                                                    ____


               [From the Indianapolis News, May 24, 1995]

                      Saying Bye to Backyard Nukes

                            (By Paul Glader)

       I lived with the Cold War in may backyard.
       Ranchers around my area in remote South Dakota sold 1.5-
     acre sections of their land to serve as nuclear missile 
     launch pads for the U.S. Air Force nearly 30 years ago. More 
     than 13,500 acres in South Dakota were used for this purpose.
       The government purposefully put the missiles in states such 
     as South Dakota, North Dakota and Wyoming because of their 
     low populations.
       Razor wire surrounded the spots, and missile silos tunneled 
     60 feet below the surface. A Minuteman II missile rested 
     inside each silo. Small bases were built to house the 
     soldiers who monitored the groups of missile sites.
       Occasionally, the soldiers would allow schoolchildren to 
     tour the bases, where they would explain how the missiles 
     program worked. In general, however, people in the area 
     understood little about the international significance of the 
     projectiles in their pastures.
       To think that this prairie--their homes and cattle 
     industry--could be in the sights of the Soviet Union's 
     military was a sick contrast to the quiet, peaceful ranch 
     country.
       Cows grazed around the sites. The high-tech mesh of metal 
     and wires contrasted with the dry rolling plains.
       My sister and I would use the missile stations as 
     checkpoints when we rode our bikes up the long gravel roads.
       Armored vehicles periodically zoomed up and down the roads 
     to check on disturbances at the missile sites. Often, the 
     culprits were only birds flying past the radar.
       Nearly two years ago, the Air Force vehicles stopped 
     zooming past.
       Camouflaged personnel disappeared.
       Monstrous Air Force semi-trucks came and hauled away the 
     unearthed missiles.
       For a time, the silos lay empty.
       Then the government contracted with blasting firms to come 
     and implode the silos with dynamite. This measure was 
     required under the START I treaty.
       While home this winter, I covered the blast project for 
     several newspapers in my area. The Air Force officials let 
     the rancher push the button to detonate the implosion on his 
     land. Rather than watching catastrophic destruction, I 
     witnessed a small BOOM and a mushroom puff of dirt.
       It is the end of an era for the U.S. military.
       The Cold War seemed like a gigantic game of chicken that 
     never developed. We can be thankful, however, that the 
     weapon-holders didn't act prematurely.
       Sometimes when you hear about highly complex international 
     disarmament pacts such as the Nuclear Non-Proliferation 
     Treaty and START I and II treaties, it is easy to be 
     confused. It is easy to wonder, ``Are they actually 
     disarming?''
       But you can be assured by South Dakota's common people that 
     START treaties are followed on this side of the ocean.
       The missile wing in ranch country brought down utility 
     bills, and the Air Force paid for maintenance of the gravel 
     roads. On one hand, many of us were disappointed to see the 
     money leave our vast, poor land.
       On the other hand, people there may find joy in the fact 
     that we finally may be off the Russian surveillance system.
       But in the perspective of most, the missiles and personnel 
     just came and went.
       Life hasn't changed too much for us. We still have to fight 
     our own Cold War every winter when we put on our coveralls 
     and go feed the cows.
                                                                    ____


              [From the Indianapolis News, July 20, 1995]

                       Leaving the Frontier Land

                            (By Paul Glader)

       Leaving a place called Opal to move to the other side of 
     South Dakota with my family last month was the most difficult 
     departure I've ever made.
       Actually, Opal is not a town; it is a ranching community. 
     It has a post office (run by a ranchwife in her basement); a 
     K-8 school (two rooms located seven miles east of the post 
     office); a fire department (a rancher's garage storing two 
     watertanks on gooseneck trailers ready to hitch to a pickup); 
     and a small community church.
       During the first week after our family moved to the small, 
     double-wide trailer-

[[Page S 14952]]
     house at Opal, we found out some of the fringe benefits of my father's 
     position as country preacher to this ranching community: Mail 
     comes three times a week; everybody burns his own trash; you 
     don't have to respect the 55 mph signs that dot the vast 
     system of gravel roads; and rattlesnakes will keep you 
     company when you are lonely.
       Some visitors to Opal likened the place to a desert with 
     its dry, yellow grasslands. But those who live around Opal 
     feel it's a haven, partly because some of them own 10,000 or 
     more acres of ranchland there. Their ranches are their 
     castles and their sources of income.
       My family did not own cattle or land. We were outsiders 
     coming in. We adapted to the area and loved the people but 
     still felt separate. You have to be born into a ranch family 
     to be a cowboy. I knew I would never become one.
       But now that we have moved from Opal, I see the profound 
     impact Opal and its people had on my life, even though I 
     remained a city-slicker while I was there.
       A natural development for young boys was to seek work as a 
     junior ranch hand. I worked for many ranchers, mostly hoeing 
     tree patches, cleaning sheep barns, occasionally driving 
     tractors and helping with sheep shearings.
       One rancher, Clair Weiss, often had me hoe his eight-row 
     tree patch. (Each row, by the way, was about 200 yards long.) 
     I remember baking in the sun while chopping the 3-foot high 
     weeds down from around the small cedar trees.
       Some boys who grow up on the plains love the adventuresome, 
     back-breaking cowboy life and grow up to own ranches. As I 
     hoed my way past long rows of trees, I knew I couldn't spend 
     my life in this place. But I realized that somehow, this 
     exhausting labor in the hot sun would be to my benefit in the 
     long run.
       I knew I had to finish the job, and do it well, or Weiss 
     wouldn't be pleased with me. Today, I cherish that early 
     lesson complete with blisters and sunburn because the work 
     ethic has stayed with me in jobs since them.
       When I was 14, I met a hermit. He lived three miles from me 
     as a crow flies. Through the years, he has become one of my 
     best friends. He left art, academia and business to find 
     truth and serenity away from the fast-paced world. He only 
     gets to town about twice a year for supplies.
       This modern-day hermit counseled me to continue learning 
     rather than spend my time on pleasure, as did many of my 
     peers.
       He always told me of his new experiments with animals, such 
     as training his dog, geese, turkeys and pheasants to get 
     along. He also trained his geese to fly alongside his pickup 
     truck.
       He started teaching me photography, and took my senior 
     pictures for no charge. He had dinner with my family and made 
     dinner for our family many times.
       We talked on the phone at least three times a week. Our 
     conversations ranged from the adverse effects of Keynesian 
     economics to gardening techniques.
       He understood my desires for culture, knowledge and success 
     because he once had them.
       He calls me his grandson. I call him ``grampaw.'' Now that 
     I am gone, our relationship will have to be maintained 
     through phone calls and letters instead of regular get-
     togethers.
       I miss my ascetic grampaw. I miss the boots, wranglers, 
     belt buckles and cowboy hats.
       Sometimes we don't realize the good things until we have 
     left them. Now that I have moved, I see there is no place on 
     earth like Opal.

                          ____________________