Old Man Moesby had already been in Norfolk Prison thirty-five years by the time I got there. He had been in so long that there were only two other men in the entire system with lower con numbers than his.
    Moesby was an old black man doing second degree life for murder. No one really remembered the details of his case any more, but from what I heard, it had something to do with killing a rich white man back in the day when that usually guaranteed a black man the death penalty. Massachusetts still had a death penalty back then. The case wasn't that strong though, and so he got second degree life, which had made him eligible for parole about twenty years ago. If Moesby could have afforded a real lawyer, he probably would never have went to prison in the first place. But these things are hard to say, especially during the racial climate of America in the 1950's.
    Moesby had been living in the same block and the same cell for his entire sentence. He told me one day that, back when he got there, you pretty much had your pick of where you wanted to live.
    "Hell boy, back then they's was cells goin' beggin' for bodies. Now you's got mens livin' four an' five to a room. Ain't'=t life crazy?"
    Everyone liked Moesby, even the screws. He never bothered anyone, and always had a kind word and a hello for anyone walking by. His job was to sweep the steps and walk-way in front of his block, and you'd see him out there half the day, a cigar stub clutched between his gums, leaning on his broom, and talking to whoever decided to stop and talk, screw, con, and administrator alike.
    Moesby had a special talent. He could carve anything he wanted into anything he wanted. He started with soap. He'd take a thick bar of state soap and, using crude home-made tools, he could turn that bar of soap into the most beautiful an angel, or mallard, or dragon, or woman you ever saw. His soap carvings soon became popular ,with the cons, and he would give them away to whoever asked.
    "Don' believe in sellin' 'em," he'd say. "Ain't my hands but the Lord's that make these things so pretty. An' who'm I ta be sellin' the Lord's handiwork?"
    Soon even the screws wanted a Moesby carving, and, as with the cons, he was more then happy to give one to them.
    After his talent became common knowledge, the warden at that time allowed Moesby to purchase some real carving tools, and so he stopped carving soap and began working with wood instead.
    Some years later, during the more progressive atmosphere of the early 1970's, Norfolk initiated an avocation program whereby prisoners could have small arts and crafts businesses, like leather working and wood working, and such, and the new warden at that time allowed Moesby to purchase stone carving tools and he started sculpting statues out of soap stone.
    Although he could carve just about anything he wanted, Moesby's specialty was angels. His angels were extraordinary, with every detail enunciated, every wing feather a living object, every face filled with angelic beauty. Soon his angels were in great demand and Moesby spent all of his time carving them. Every warden that came and went over the years left with a Moesby angel.
    And so the years went by for Moesby as they do for us all, and he grew comfortable in his home. For prison was his home. One day, after I got to know him well enough to brooch the subject, I asked him why he had so many years in on a second degree. He worked the cigar stub around in his mouth for a few moments, a reflective look to his face, and answered in his slow draw.
    "Well, it's kinda like this. See, they done offered me a parole way back some ten years ago, I think it was, but I's turned 'em down."
    Why?" I asked somewhat incredulously.
    The idea of not wanting to get out of here was totally foreign to my way of thinking.
    "Well, see, it be like this boy .... where's I gonna go? Been in too long, got too many medical things wrong wid me, got no home, no famibly, no ones atall ta look after this ol' black man now. I's better off here ... this be my home. It ain't much, but I gets three squares a day, got me a clean bed, they's do my laundry, take care a me, got my little cell .... it ain't so bad."
    I thought about this for a long time. This was my third sentence to a state prison, plus who even knew how many county jail bids I'd done. I couldn't even remember myself anymore. And this one I was serving now was the longest yet. I came in at age twenty-eight, and would be lucky to be out by age thirty-eight. Since my eighteenth birthday, I'd spent over half my adult life in these places. When this one was through, considering that I lived through it, it would be closer to two-thirds of my adult life. Right now the hate in me was strong. I hung on to that hate because I was terrified to let it go. I thought that, if I did, I'd become like Moesby. "It ain't so bad," he had said. I never wanted to get to that point; never wanted to reach a point where I didn't hate every second I spent in these holes.
    So why did I keep returning? And why did I feel like I was coming home every time I walked through the doors of a new joint? And why did prison feel more real to me than the outside world did? All questions that I pushed into the back of my mind. Better not to dwell, I thought. Maybe I wouldn't like the answers.
    I drifted in and out of Norfolk over the next few years, getting shipped back to Walpole periodically, or moved here and there, but old Moesby still remained. I could always count on finding him out in front of his block, leaning on that broom, chomping his cigar stub, and talking to whoever stopped by.
    Things were changing in the Massachusetts prison system though, and, in fact, they were changing all over the country. A meaner mind set was taking over, a get tough attitude that sacrificed any ideas of rehabilitation to a disposition of pure punishment. This new sensibility was especially tough on old timers like Moesby, who had been here before most of these new administrators had even been born.
    It was somewhere around the summer of 1991 or '92, I can't really remember, and I was returned to Norfolk for a few months before getting shipped yet again. Things had changed. A new Governor was in the State House, who rode to office on the backs of prisoners with his get "tough philosophies", and one of his first official acts was to appoint a new Commissioner of Corrections to ride shot gun over the prison system.
    The new Commissioner wasn't new to the prison system, just to this one. He came out of the Federal system, and planned to incorporate many of the operating procedures from there to all of Massachusetts.
    Commissioner LaValley had been in corrections for about ten years, which was about thirty years less then Moesby had been in prison. One of his first official acts was to tour Norfolk. This act was accompanied by much pomp and ceremony. He toured the entire compound, escorted by the warden and over a dozen deputies, and deputies to the deputies, and Captains, Lieutenants, and assorted other correctional officials.
    Commissioner LaValley walked and looked, looked and walked, and totally ignored the prisoner population's existence. He studied the cell blocks, the school building, the gym, the canteen, and the factory buildings. He walked into ongoing classes in the school, interrupting teacher and student alike, only to look around and walk out without a question or comment. He walked around the buildings, studying the flower beds that the cons had planted, the bushes, and the old vines growing since Norfolk opened in 1932, and said not a word.
    When his tour was complete, his only assessment of Norfolk was that it was "dirty, needed cleaning, and discipline and security were far too lax."
    Not a word about the college program, the general education program, the Second Chances program, this program or that program. Only that there were changes on the horizon, and they didn't bode well for us convicts.
    Things started happening pretty fast. The entire population was surprised, and even shocked when, within the next few days, all the flowers, bushes, shrubs, and old vines were unceremoniously cut down. Where Norfolk had resembled more an old college before, as long as you didn't look at that twenty-foot wall surrounding it, it now looked institutional: dull gray and utilitarian.
    Next came the cleaning. Over two dozen cons were put to work scrubbing and painting and painting and scrubbing, washing bars and windows, mopping everything that could be mopped, until the prison looked even more like a prison, only cleaner.
    The Commissioner's next official action took no one by surprise. The old warden, Peter LaRusso, was summarily removed from his post. Warden LaRusso was an affable enough man, for a prison warden. The general assessment of him among the cons was that he was fair. Among the guards, he was considered way too sympathetic to the convicts, too lenient. This was the kiss of death in the atmosphere of punishment that dominated the 1990's.
    The question that dominated discussion in the weeks following Warden LaRusso's firing was who would be the new warden, and what would that mean for us? The prisoners had already lost many privileges in the past few weeks, by decree of the new commissioner, and most of these privileges had been hard earned. The late Sixties, and the early Seventies had been a time of riots, work strikes, hunger strikes and unification among the convicts, sparked in part by the great Attica uprising, and many progressive ideas and programs had been the result. Now, in less than a month, these hard earned concessions were being taken one after another.
    We didn't have long to wait for our fate to befall us. The new warden was appointed one month after the old one was fired.
    Norfolk's new warden was a man named Joseph Ponce. He was brought in from the Federal system by Commissioner LaValley. No one really knew anything about him, but a few cons in Norfolk who had done federal time said they always heard he was a real asshole; an arrogant authority freak who viewed convicts as property.
    Warden Ponce's first day on the job began with a tour of the compound, and, as with Commissioner LaValley, it became a corrections circus. The deputies and deputies to the deputies and Captains and Lieutenants and assorted other correctional persons all accompanied him as he walked and looked, looked and walked, and totally ignored the prisoner population.
    Ignored them, that is, until he came to Old Man Moesby's block. There stood Moesby, his ever present cigar stub between his gums, and in his hands the most exquisite stone angel in hand. It was a true work of art, standing perhaps six inches high, carved out of a piece of pure white soap stone. The wings were in full spread, every feather detailed to perfection, and the angel clutched an upraised sword in His angelic hands.
    Moesby stepped out in front of Warden Ponce and held the angel out towards him. Ponce stopped and stared, and all the deputies and deputies to the deputies and Captains and Lieutenants and assorted other correctional persons all stopped and stared also. Of course, most of these people had been in Norfolk for some time, and they all knew Moesby, but you would never know it from the way they stared at him now.
    "Hello Mr. Warden Suh," said Moesby in his drawl. "My name is Old Man Moesby, an' I's been here in dis prison for 'bout forty years now Suh. Righ' here in dis same block I's been Suh. I's a carva' Suh, and I's made you dis here angel, just like I's made for every warden befor' you."
    Moesby held the angel out to Ponce, who just stared at it like it was a bomb about to explode. It was quite a strange scene, Moesby with the angel reaching out to hand it to Ponce, who kept his hands to his side and stared at them both like they were aliens who had just materialized right out of the stone ground, and all the deputies and deputies to the deputies and Captains and Lieutenants and assorted other correctional persons all staring also. No one said a word. They all just kept staring at Moesby who kept reaching out towards Ponce, trying to get him to accept his gift.
    No birds chirped, no wind blew, the entire world stopped moving in its orbit. It was as if the universe held its breath. Finally Ponce allowed the world to turn again.
    "Who is this man?" he said, spitting out the last word like a foul tasting piece of rancid meat.
    One of the deputies who had been working in Norfolk for close to ten years also spoke.
    "That's Old Man Moesby, Sir," he said. "He's been here longer then any other convict in the prison. Close to forty years I believe."
    And what is that in his hands?" asked the warden.
    "It looks like a statue of an angel, Sir." said the same deputy. "Moesby has a carving avo and he makes angels for the men here, Sir."
    "A carving what?" asked the warden.
    "Avo, Sir," said the deputy. "It's short for avocation. Some of the men here have little businesses where they make things and sell them in a store out in the front. It's been a tradition here for about twenty years ... Sir," he hastily added.
    "Traditions change," said the warden. "Take this weapon away from this man, now.
   One of the assorted correctional persons stepped up and took the stone angel away from a bewildered Moesby.
    "I want this prisoner placed in lock up," said the warden. "I want his cell searched and all weapons confiscated. That goes for all these other so-called 'avos' too."
    The word fairly reeked of contempt.
    And then the warden turned and walked away, and all the deputies and deputies to the deputies and Captains and Lieutenants and assorted other correctional persons turned and walked away also, leaving Moesby looking totally dazed as two guards stepped up to him with their handcuffs out. To their credit, the guards looked as dazed as Moesby, and a little disgusted also.
    "Were real sorry about this Moesby," said one of the guards, who had known Moesby for many years. "But we gotta do our job. You know how it is."
    Moesby just stared at him, uncomprehending. A crowd of convicts had gathered, most of whom had witnessed the entire scene, and much grumbling was heard as the guards put the cuffs on Moesby. The second guard, who had only been at Norfolk a few months, tried to stare us down. His tone was defiant as be ordered us all to "disperse, or face the consequences."
    Moesby's cigar stub had fallen on the ground, and his eyes were blank as they led him away towards the central receiving building that housed the hole, or the R.B., as it was known in Norfolk.
    Over the course of the next week, Moesby remained in the hole as all avocations were dismantled and all tools and the like were confiscated. No more would the prisoners be allowed to carve or paint or work leather or wood. No more would they be allowed to sell or own, or even give away, as Moesby had done. How could property own property was the conventional wisdom applied to the action.
    One by one the programs were dismantled and the privileges were taken away. One by one the prisoners who dared speak out were taken away also. Yard talk whispered of riots and work strikes, but the unified atmosphere of the Seventies had long since been replaced by the "get mine" attitude of the Nineties, and whispers remained only whispers. Violence among the cons, something once fairly rare at Norfolk, was increasing along a steady line climbing ever upwards.
    Three weeks had gone by and I was heading out to the yard one morning when I saw Old Man Moesby shuffling down the steps of the property building, a battered cardboard box in hand holding his few meager possessions. I went over and carried the box for him, asking him where he was going.
    "They's got me in the mods now," he said.
    The mods was short for the modular unit, a double trailer full of open bunks in rows where little or no property was allowed and the noise level was always enough to drive you half insane. It was mostly full of new men waiting for a block assignment, and young men, loud and aggressive, dominated the mix.
    As we walked along the dirt track leading to the mods, Moesby, his cigar butt back between his gums, reflected on what had happened to him.
    "Forty-years in tha' same cell," he said. "An' theys' taken it all aways' from me wid no reason. Why theys' wanna do dis to an ol' man?"
    "I can't answer that Moe," I said. "It's a new world in here now."
    We shuffled along in silence for a few minutes, Moesby moving at his slow measured pace.
    "Ways' I sees it," he said, "must be the Lord be testin' me. Ain't no other ways or wherefors fors' it. Maybe he be gettin' ready to call dis ol' convict home. Don' think I's be mindin' that now. Done been here too long as it is."
    He turned and looked directly into my eyes. His voice took a serious tone like I had never heard from him before.
    "Now you listen up boy ... you been good to ol' Moesby, an' he be liken you. But you gots the hate in you somethin' fierce. You gotta let it go, 'cause the onlyest person you be killin' be's yourself I's been here a long time, longer den you been on dis world. I's don' be knowin' much, true, but I's be knowin' that. Gets you ass outta here an' don' be comin' back. It ain't fit for a dog now adays anyways. Get yous a famibly an' be doin, tha right thing. You unnerstand what I's tellin' ya boy?"
    I looked him in the eyes, this old black man who had seen so much, and so little at the same time. Prison had given him a peace and a wisdom he may never have found anywhere else, yet it had taken every other thing he may have ever had the chance to have. His was a voice worth the effort to understand.
    "Yeah, I hear ya Moe."
    About one week later, I was in the R. B. myself, waiting for transportation back to Walpole for another dirty heroin wine. I never made it back to Norfolk, and in fact went home only a few years later, and so I never saw Moesby again. I did hear that he had died about two months before I went home though. The chaplain at Bridgewater told me he had been buried in Potter's Field, out behind the prison. No one had been left to claim his body at the end of his days. Old Man Moesby was out there keeping the Frenchman company, I thought. Another old timer who had been inside so long that there was nothing left for him either.
    I didn't cry for Moesby, but I did feel the loss. I also thought about what amounted to his final words to me that day at the door to the mods: " Don' be comin' back. Get yous a famibly an' be doin, tha right thing."
    Nice words. Words to think on, words to learn on, perhaps, just maybe, words to live by.

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