"I'm sure they're in the Death House, right where they're supposed to be."

Given this town, that might not be an unusual conversation to overhear, except the speaker was a small, young woman in a Santa Claus hat, speaking to her young daughter.

I'm pretty sure they were talking about trash can liners, but I'm not positive.

No, we're not talking about some weird custom of celebrating Hallowe'en in December. When she says "Death House", she means Death House. As in, the building where men were put to death. And where they waited for that death in their cells.

It was time for the Christmas in the Big House holiday bazaar again. And the wife had volunteered herself to help with the lunchtime concessions. Serving meals to holiday shoppers just meters away from where she used to keep accounts for inmates. After the lunch rush, I drove into town to see what's what.

For once, I remembered to put a rock in my pocket.

So, this was my wife's first place of employment in our state:

'Course they didn't have the big wreath on front back in those days. And there were men walking around carrying big guns. And other men not wandering around in blue chambray shirts and jeans.

Exactly what I was wearing today.

It's a coincidence that I happen to like the old inmate clothes.

Really.

Costs you 50 cents to get in (or more, if you'd like to donate to the historic site's building fund), and Tina, the young gal in the Santa hat, stamps your hand. As you head for A Block, you pass the visitation room, which seems to be occupied all the time during the holidays:

You will notice, in our country, Santa wears cowboy boots, like everyone else.

They say the toes of these boots are pointed so that when you kick a cowpie, the debris will fly to the sides, rather than straight up into your face.

I guess it's the same with reindeer droppings.

Now, as I've mentioned before, the inmates always wanted a cell on the south side. Yes, hotter in the summer, but also warmer and sunnier in the winter. And preferably on the second or third tier, so you could look over the wall and see the real world outside.

The vendors have no choice. They all have to be on the ground floor. But the south side is still the preferred side, for the same reasons:

Our local poet had his usual spot under the stairs, handing out a few of his works, and selling the compilations.

The north side was noticeably cooler, as soon as you went through the opened guard door. And dimmer. The more experienced vendors bring their own overhead lamps. But the aisle was still more crowded than last year, and most folks come earlier than I did.

While dimmer, the north side also had a few more holiday surprises, like this tree hidden on one of the upper tiers:

And Gary was there. Selling his gorgeous rock and ceramic jewelry. But that wasn't why I was hoping to see him. His family has been in the jade business for generations. In this part of the planet, their family name is the jade business. You find a boulder of the rare stuff, and it would be their family that you sold it to.

And I been asking him about jade for over a decade. And he keeps telling me to bring a piece in, and he'll look it over.

It's in my back pocket.

And it's jade.

Not good enough for carnelion work, but certainly carveable. Looking at it through his display light, he tells me it's got good color. He even told me roughly where it came from.

He was right.

Wife's first words when I told her?

"So, go dig it up!"

Craaap.

Of course, her first words before that were "You! Get over here!"

Seems they had run out of cheese for the nachos, and had no can opener for the new can. One of the volunteers was in back trying to stab the poor can to death with a key.

And the wife knows I pack a P-38 on my keyring.

Always nice to be needed.

Then she bought us lunch, chili and spicy nachos, which we ate in the Trustee's cafeteria. The walls lined with displays of all the old license plates produced by inmates at this facility. Back to the early 1900s. And also the many different types of plates they produced.

I have one favorite:

Although I am sure our outfit never, ever had enough vehicles to need four digits. Highest number I've ever seen was in the high 300s. And that includes all the snowmachine trailers, boat trailers, camp trailers, ATV trailers, hatchery trucks and horse trailers in addition to the pickups and SUVs.

Took another quick loop through the cells with the wife, buying a ceramic frog and a plate of fudge highly recommended by two of the auctioneer's spotters (they're kin), and then left her back at the cantina.

Stopping for a few last holiday photos through the bars as I left.

And wondering what the men who lived, worked and died here would think about how we treat this place now.

Would they have ever imagined little girls in Santa hats selling knitted Christmas ornaments from their cell door? Or a man handing out poetry? In this place they must have considered Hell on Earth?

Would it have made the time easier if they had known?