"While I have now lived in the United States longer than I have lived anywhere else, a few cultural differences still bewilder me.

When I ordered my first restaurant meal in the U.S., I was appalled to discover tea that means a cold, pale, tasteless drink unrelated to a good strong (hot) cuppa, and that every drink came with ice.

No, that's not accurate. Every meal came with a glass full of ice that had a teaspoonful of liquid poured over it. When I ordered, I struggled with waitresses to bring me an ice-free drink; I was paying for drink. I didn't want it watered down or volumed up with ice. I didn't want it cold.

I now understand that the average American would rather be handcuffed to their mother-in-law than drink a warm drink, which is why wherever you go, huge signs state, 'Ice Available,' 'Ice Sold Here,' 'Free Ice' as if there were a frozen water shortage.

I am of the warm-beer, hot-tea, a tray of ice cubes lasts a family of four a week, part of the universe. I don't want my drinks deep-frozen; I certainly don't need many of them frosty. And if I did, the glass or the drink is chilled in the refrigerator.

That the ice need runs deep in American culture is clearly evidenced by prison. An inmate can be so naughty they live in a paper gown with no possessions at all, but they will be offered ice. Visitation will be canceled, the phones cut off, the mail won't run, but we will have ice. On the weekends we are fed two meals a day, but we get ice four times.

When I arrived at the barely opened Fluvanna Correctional Center, there was no TV, no books, no shower curtains. The plumbing and electricity were under construction, but we had ice. When we were on strict water rationing during the drought, we had ice.

I'm a pretty laid back, easygoing person--I get along with many types of people--but my first summer at FCCW I feared for my life after an ice incident. These days, every so often, a person will grumble about my lack of community spirit because I will not volunteer to fetch the ice. My aversion to ice fetching stems from the 1998 ice catastrophe.

Fetching the ice involves collecting coolers from each of the four wings of the building and stacking them on a cart. The ice fetcher pushes the cart across the courtyard to the building where the ice machine is housed. The fetcher scoops the ice into each cooler until it is full and then the laden cart is returned to the building and the brimming coolers brought to each wing where anxious inmates wait with warm sodas, warm water, warm mouths.

Usually, when the cooler arrives, the fetcher is greeted with shouts of glee and joy. 'Ice!' 'Ice!' goes out the cry and everyone is happy. Of course it didn't quite work out that way for me in the great ice-capade of 1998. Instead, as I was pushing my ice mountain back across the courtyard, I lost control of the cart. Perhaps if I had sprinted after it or better yet, thrown myself in its path, things wouldn't have turned so ugly. As it was, I assaulted the inalienable right to ice by giggling, 'It's only ice' when one--only one--of the coolers dumped itself onto the grass.

It was then witnessed (those windows aren't nearly narrow enough!) that I shared some of the ice from the three remaining coolers with the empty fourth one. I would have done better to scoop the ice off the grass back into the emptied cooler. For when I arrived at the wings, fully expecting the accolades and plaudits due the ice fetcher, I was met instead by a very, very angry mob. There was talk of locking the building down until everyone calmed down. Chilled out so to speak. Because of me that day everyone only got one scoop of ice. You won't catch me fooling with the ice ever again.

So my friends and I have developed an impasse at the beverage stand. I reach for hot water and tea; they for an ice cube. We shake our heads at each other's eccentricities and when they poke fun at me too hard, I remind them having me around means more ice for them. They laugh and remind me that's why they keep me around!" (Elizabeth Haysom, Fluvanna Review, January 5, 2006).

Elizabeth Haysom is presently incarcerated at the Fluvanna Correctional Center for Women in Troy, Virginia. This column is one of a series, published under the general heading 'Glimpses from Inside.'