Again and again throughout his book Samuelson brought us back to this maximum security prison and "the guys," and each time he did, I squirmed with increasing discomfort. Why? It had been eight years since I'd retired from the prison. For thirty-five years I'd gone into the prison every day to work as a caseworker, and I'd had a good career, but I never thought of the prisoners as "the guys." Since retiring, I'd moved past my experience as a caseworker at the prison, at least I thought I had.

At times in the prison, it had been difficult. Apparently, the experience had left some scars that were unknown to me, and Samuelson's frequent visits to the meeting room in the prison seemed to be opening them up. I seemed to have some unfinished stresses left over from my time at the prison, and they were stresses I had no desire to revisit. As the weeks passed, I resisted entertaining them; however, my book-group friends were happy to have the topic of incarceration brought up, and they were anxious to hear my reactions to Samuelson's comments about prisons and prisoners, but that wasn't what I needed, and I found myself struggling.

It had been eight years since I'd left the prison, and eight years since the nightmares had disappeared. Eight years since the dark thoughts stopped intruding into my days, but during those weeks of reading Samuleson's book, the dreams began to return. For many years, my night's rest had been disturbed by fight-for-your-life nightmares. When I retired, these dreams gradually stopped, but now, they were starting again. These were prison dreams, so they weren't nightmares yet, but I feared the familiar nightmares were coming, and the dark thoughts would soon follow. That's when I had the dream that launched this book.

The dream started out well. It briefly turned into a nightmare, and it finished with a puzzle for me to ponder. Here's the dream.

I found myself at home in my living room in the early morning. I was up and hurrying around the house getting ready to go to work. I was going to spend my day in the prison surrounded by criminals. I was anxious about going to the prison, but I was also anxious because I feared I would be punished by the prison managers for arriving late to work. Outside, everything was dark. A faint glow on the eastern horizon signaled the approaching dawn of a typical summer day.

For thirty-five years, this had been my morning routine. First shift at the prison began at six in the morning before most people had even awakened for their day, but in my dream, this was not just another day. This was my last day. When I left the prison today, it would be for the last time. Today, I would retire, so it would be a special day for me, and after lunch, there would be a gathering where I was to be recognized for my long service.

The afternoon gathering would be an informal retirement party with cake and kind comments, but to my horror, I suddenly realized that part of the celebration would also include an assembly of the prison staff which I was expected to address. They were expecting me to give a speech. ME!! Good grief! What was I going to say? Fear of public speaking ranks high on the scale of most feared experiences, so briefly, this dream became a nightmare. It disturbed my sleep and lingered in my mind, nagging at me. What was I going to say? I was going to make a fool of myself! What a way to retire!

The scene in my dream abruptly shifted to a gymnasium at the prison. Dozens of corrections staff had assembled in bleachers along one wall: friends, co-workers, supervisors, administrators. Everyone had gathered because of my retirement, and they were waiting for me to give a speech! I looked at the group. Some people I'd known for years, living with them through all the triumphs and tragedies that life offers. Others were young and fresh. They were new to the prison and eager to take their places in our joint effort. I had been young once. Memories of those early years warmed me as I waited for the assembly to begin, but as the moment of my introduction approached, I felt a growing panic. I still didn't know what I would say. I was going to be a laughing stock. I was going to stand up there and say nothing at all. Then, suddenly, the solution came to me, and I was relieved. I would tell them stories about the prisoners we had all known.

I've always enjoyed telling stories, and now I would remind them of the people and experiences we'd shared together over those many long years. I'd witnessed some surprising events, and I'd gotten to know people I would never have met outside the prison. These were memorable encounters with interesting people, and many of them involved these colleagues seated in front of me. They had been there with me. Standing at the podium, I realized this would be my opportunity to entertain them with memories of what we'd been through together. People were going to look back and laugh, shudder, and recall the struggles we'd gone through inside these walls, and the young employees listening would have a better idea of the future that lay ahead for them and the challenges they would face.

I stepped to the lectern. I was ready to begin. I'd just taken in a breath to speak my first words. I knew the first story that I was going to tell them about Joe, and I looked forward to their reactions which I would soon enjoy, but at that moment, I woke from the dream. The dark ceiling of my bedroom replaced the familiar faces arrayed on the bleachers in front of me, and in the darkness, my mind swirled with thirty-five years of memories of the people I'd known, events I'd witnessed, and experiences I'd had at the prison. It was a jumble. It was a jungle, and it got me thinking.

Was this dream an answer to a question I hadn't wanted to address brought to my attention by reading Samuleson's book? Was it a summons for me to act? Could the distress Samuelson's book was causing me by repeatedly taking me into the prison week after week be relieved by writing my own book? Was this a call to me to write a collection of prison stories for others to read?

I could sense that the task of writing a book was within my grasp, but a question lingered: was this the meaning of the distress I'd been feeling and of the dream? Was it a summons to speak the truth of these experiences? Was I to offer readers a testimony of the people I'd known and the events I'd witnessed at the prison? Were there ghosts from the past who yearned to be seen through my eyes and to be heard through my voice? Faces flashed through my mind, one after another. Larry, Dan, Michael, alive briefly once again, and I was alive with the potential of the task that lay before me.

I addressed the question to the dark ceiling above me, and I waited for an answer, but as the silence deepened, I resolved to settle for a sign, a signal that could settle the question. Silence and darkness were the only reply the bedroom ceiling offered. Finally, I rolled over and tried to go back to sleep. I was agitated and perplexed about my dream which was now quietly slipping into my memory along with the familiar faces I'd been so pleased to recognize. What did it all mean? Was it a summons? Were they calling to me? It was a puzzle.

By the next morning, I decided to act, and I began to write. A Christmas morning with an inmate named Joe many years earlier was first in the queue. It was easily the best experience I had ever had at the prison. Next came the story of two young men falling in love right in front of us. It was a pleasant memory, too. A few others followed. They flowed easily out of me and onto the page, but I noticed a fantastic pattern emerge.

When I decided to write a new story, it seemed like a door would open, and when I actually began to write, it was like walking through the door. Amazing levels of detail would open up to me. I could clearly see and hear the people, the setting, and the events, and I could look around and notice details that surprised me as if someone was showing me around. When people spoke, the words lingered long enough for me to transcribe them exactly as they had been spoken.

I also found myself feeling the same emotions I had felt when the events were actually happening. I was reliving the experiences again and again, and that was mostly terrible. Many of these experiences had been troubling, and now, I was troubled once again. It was exactly what I did not need. There were times at the prison when I was afraid, and now I was afraid again. The more I wrote, the worse it got. I became so agitated that I began to tremble. I had trouble eating. I had trouble sitting still and found myself pacing around the house. I began losing weight. Finally, I sought out help from my doctor, and he prescribed medication to help calm me, and once I found the right dosage, I calmed down and resumed writing.

After a few weeks, I began to think I might stop writing. After a day of writing, as I lay in bed preparing for a restful night, I would declare to the ceiling that my mind was empty. I had no more memories, and I would write no more stories. I would go to sleep believing my task was complete. But very often, I would wake abruptly at 2 AM with two new stories dominating my mind.

At first, I resolved to remember the stories when I got up the next morning, but I knew that was wrong. I knew I'd forget them, so it became my pattern to get up at 2 o'clock every morning, take up pen and paper, and write down the skeleton outline of two new stories that had revealed themselves to me in the middle of the night. They were stories which would not let me sleep until they were recorded. It was as though ghosts from the past were lined up waiting for their opportunity to command my attention. To be seen at last through my eyes, and to be heard once again through my voice. Spirits whose hunger would not be denied.

The next morning, I would open the door to these memories and relive these experiences over and over again until I got the entire story safely recorded on paper. It was as though I was putting flesh on the skeletons I'd recorded in the darkness of the previous night, and I wrote until the spirit was satisfied. Night after night, and day after day, the pattern repeated. I was plumbing obscure memories, visiting long forgotten people, and reliving experiences that surprised me in the richness of their details. The spirits seemed to be lined up and eager to have their turn. Thankfully, because of the medication I was taking, I could linger in these memories and record them without disturbing my mental state.

This was a long and painful process, which finally came to an end after dozens of stories had found their way into my collection, and the nightly visitations ended. The result now lies in your hands, and it will unfold for you in the pages that follow. The people whose stories you will read are real, but I have disguised them to protect their privacy. No one will recognize the true identity of the people who appear in this book, and anyone who imagines that I am describing him or her will be wrong. There are a few exceptions. Bob Houston, Al Hansen, and Bill Foster were part of the administration when I began my employment. Bill Gay really was a retired minister who was my friend and delivered a miracle to an unsuspecting and ungrateful young inmate. John and Jose really committed the crimes I described, and they really are on Death Row as I write this.

Although the people's identity is disguised, all the stories I tell really happened, just as I described them. The emotions people experienced were real, and with a few exceptions, the dialogue I write records what people actually said. The injuries and deaths I described happened to real people. The fear and grief and anxiety I described was experienced by me and by people I knew whom you will get to know in these pages.

If you have ever passed by a prison and wondered who lives there, this book is for you. If you have ever wondered what happens to the prisoners and what happens to the staff who work there, this book is for you. If you know prisoners and wonder if you can trust what they say about the prison, this book is for you. If you have a family member or friend who works in a prison and wonder what their life is like, this book is for you. Finally, if you wonder if you could find fulfillment working in a prison, this book is for you, too.

It is time. You are invited to come with me now, and we will pass through the heavy sliding steel and glass doors at the prison entrance. Let loose your imagination, and we will fly over the curling, twisting Concertina razor wire gleaming in the sunlight that rests atop the chain link fences marking the perimeter of the grounds. Come with me, and we will go into a maximum security prison in Lincoln, Nebraska.

Here we go.

Discussion

1. The author felt called to remember and retell his experiences in the prison. Have you ever felt called for a purpose? What was it?

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