​I lost my pencil in prison. Granted it was my first day – I was SO nervous.
I had never been to a prison before, I had never thought about going to prison, suffice it to say prison was not on my radar. Yet, there I was, in prison with no pencil.
Richard J Donovan State Prison.  A men’s high security correctional facility.
I was a new employee of Project Paint (a non-profit which brings art to prisoners).
After passing a background check, my first task was to attend four hours of paid prison training. On a sunny Saturday morning, instead of heading to the tennis courts in La Jolla, I drove south to the border then banged a hard left and drove to the middle of nowhere.  When I first spotted the facility, it looked like an oasis on the horizon, the mountains glowed in the background, it was pretty.
I am going to cut to the chase, prison training was a huge disappointment. Of the fifty people who slowly filtered into the room roughly 45 of them were men, most of whom were carrying bibles. I am going to be generous when I say that the training went for about an hour, an hour and a half if you include the welcomed donut break. What did I learn? What were the skills and knowledge I acquired?  Well, there was one lesson, one message repeated over and over again – and that was - do not have sex with the prisoners.
Every time this was repeated, I couldn’t help myself, my head would whip around scanning the room to see if this was some sort of inside prison joke and then looking to see if anyone else was as shocked as I was – no – no one reacted. Apparently, this is a problem. And then I started wondering which bible carrying person was having sex with a prisoner.
A few days later I was back to teach my first weekly drawing class. As I approached the area this time around there was no glowing aura or oasis. My working partner and I went through 3 check points, a large dark empty space of land, and huge gates until we arrived at the yard where we waited for guards who were to let us into the gym where the class was to be held. Throughout this rather unnerving journey of getting into the inside of a high security men’s prison, I kept looking around wondering where the bible carrying people were having sex.
Most prisons are numbered 1 to 4. 1 being the lowest level of security, 4 the highest. I was in a level 3. On my first night in the yard, a man in prison blues approached, introduced himself and tried to shake my hand – I froze and was unable to speak. My partner spoke up and said “No touching”. He backed away, pointed at me and casually said, “newbie”.  If being scared as hell in a desolate wasteland of wandering unknown men in blue meant that I was a newbie, then yes, he would be correct. He walked away and we walked to the gym.
The gym is a large dark, drafty, dreary and empty room with the exception of exposed urinals against the side wall. The guards unlocked the gym and the cabinet where the art supplies are kept and then they left. The prisoners, my students, came in and set up tables and chairs. Before I knew it, I was sitting ever so silently and small in front of 25 men wearing blue staring at me.
My partner went about her business of checking in the students, collecting id cards, and keeping track of everyone and everything. She bustled about with ease, chit chatting, and checking out the supplies - every pencil and ruler is numbered, every eraser is accounted for because heaven forbid someone instigates an escape with a one inch rubber eraser… I sat there. She checked out my supplies and handed me a numbered pencil and a piece of paper since I was actually supposed to teach the class and I was slated to give a drawing demonstration.
She gave me an incredibly enthusiastic introduction – what she failed to notice was that I was in a catatonic state. After an eternity, and I can say that time in prison is an eternity, I stood up and slowly started rambling and giving away way too much private information about myself – I was getting strange looks from quite honestly some scary looking dudes with impressive facial tattoos, so I picked up speed and was speed rambling, I told them about my mother’s dog Reggie and my love for Tom Brady and that I like box wine.  In an attempt to slow down this train wreck my partner stepped in and suggested I give the demo. Good idea. I had my paper but I couldn’t quite put my finger on my pencil. Surely it was in on me somewhere, in one of my pockets. I had four layers of black on, black pants, black shirt, black sweater, black jacket…In front of 25 prisoners I started feeling myself up and down and all over while still maintaining a constant flood of words. Now the prisoners were in shock. And then I saw it…right in front of me….one of the guys had his hand cupped on the table. I looked at him and softly chirped, “You have my pencil.” He might as well of flipped me off, instead he smirked and said, “I was holding it for you.”
So began my first class.
A class soon after, I got into the gym without incident and was getting supplies when I notice a half-naked man in a cage.  A man in a cage. Obviously during my first class and my heightened state of extreme fear, I failed to notice the two telephone booth size cages which I learned were used for men who were not being good prison citizens. They were held in a cage until they were moved no doubt to another cage. The only other time I have seen a live person in a cage was in the 90’s in a trendy bar in Greenwich Village – there, two hot, bikini clad female go-go dancers were in cages hanging down from the ceiling over the bar and gyrating to Baby D’s Let Me Be Your Fantasy - it was sexy as hell. But there was no imaging sex in this cage in the gym. I whisper to my partner, “Hey, there is a scantily dressed man in a cage.” She shrugged and said, “Ya, that happens sometimes”. So I quickly weighed my options, stay in the gym with the naked caged man or stand-alone out in the dreaded yard and wait for the guards to come to remove the man - the yard was a known entity to me, the man in the cage, not so much, I chose the yard.  
For weeks and weeks, after each class, I drove home in tears. I would weep and weep. I was a mess.  Everyone asked - “hey how’s the job going?” and my standard answer was, “It’s daunting on all levels.”  The fact was that I couldn’t wrap my head around any of it. We were not allowed to trust a person with a pencil sharpener. I cried for how we treat human beings, I cried for the crimes they committed, I cried for the victims, I cried for everyone’s families, I cried for humanity.
My mom kept urging me to quit, just stop – but I kept showing up. As for their art, there was a wide discrepancy of ability – some students had never drawn before, and some were accomplished artists. I encouraged them to really personalize their work - this backfired a few times – one student drew disturbingly over sexualized drawings of nude women in war-zone settings and he was a little too eager to see my reactions to his creations. He creeped me out, but I kept my game face and would give him inane compositional suggestions. I never asked, but yes, many told me their stories – not surprisingly the major themes were youth, gangs, drugs and bad decisions.  One particular assignment I gave was to draw “the landscape of my life” – this was a heart breaker. A baby faced student divided his paper in two halves, on the right half he drew his childhood home, toys on the yard, his dog sitting on the front steps, and his four family looking out the windows – on the left-hand side he drew a very small tomb stone with only his name on it, sitting alone in a vacant space. When I asked about his drawing, he looked at me in a kind of pleadingly way and said, “I was just in the car; I didn’t pull trigger.”
I am now at a second prison, Centinela - a 2 hour drive straight down the 8 to scenic Imperial Valley. Shockingly, this prison is more intense than Donovan. Centinela is gang driven and gang controlled and these gansters are my new level 4 students
People ask me, “Do you feel safe?” – At Donovan yes, Centinela, hmmm, “sort of”. Some of these men I would invite over for dinner – ok maybe not dinner but I would sit down to a tea – in a very public space like a crowded Starbucks - and others – there are a few I never want to see leave an enclosed space.
Inevitably the students ask me to be their advocate, to help them try to get a new sentence or trial. I say no pretty fast but I do tell them that I am there to help them become the best artist they can be so that they can have their own voice and to be their own advocate.
I have now been teaching at men’s correctional facilities for over two years. I still weep for all involved and I still get flustered and lose pencils.

​To the Haters
My love for Tom Brady has no bounds.
I am not alone in loving this piece of perfection – “R Tommy” (our Tommy for you non-New Englanders), unites “my people”.  When I am east it warms my heart to see grown men wearing #12 shirts in the grocery store, and it is exhilarating to hear the screaming passion for this phenomenon on Boston talk radio – he brings us together. I am a New Englander through and through and I would seriously consider moving back to Boston to be with my fellow fans if it weren’t for snow, ice and freezing temperatures...but I am one with Tommy lovers everywhere.
I could go on and on and on about his skills, his RINGS, and how he is the poster child for devotion, passion, and commitment - but let’s cut to the chase, Tom is beautiful. Honestly, New Englanders could care less if he was hot or not – trust me, the irony is not lost that we have one of the most beautiful men on the planet as our QB - in southern Cal where I live, people care about that sort of thing, New England not so much…. but we got him and he is stunning and this is yet another reason I love him so…and love is joyous!
I love our team; they have and will continue to serve us well. Even though this season didn’t go exactly according to plan, the love is still there. There is love for the many, many earnest young men who kicked the heck out of that ball, and for the buff-built-like-brick-house-heroes who sacrificed their bodies to give Tom an extra second in the pocket, and for the players who dove head first into a wall of men as they tried to bring that ball over the end zone. There is love for our grumpy coach who takes scissors to really expensive clothing and of course to our owner who loves love - hopefully legally.
So, haters – take your deflate gate conspiracy theories, take your cries of “cheaters”, take your jealously over his Hollywood hair, his supermodel wife, and stow it. As my wise little friend Lucy wrote, “Love is love”, nothing can dent that armor. 

​Drive-by-pick up
Next on the agenda was Orland, an island off the east coast of Sweden. This would be my third trip to Orland, the adventures there started thirty years ago when my great friends Lena and Joakim invited me to one of their family’s summer homes.  To get to Orland is easy, a scenic bus ride from any major point will drop you off at various points on the island. I was fully prepared to use public transportation but my other great friends, Anna and Matts, had other plans; they told me that they would pick me up and we would go together to Orland – they would do a drive-by. This was no ordinary drive-by, this was one for the ages, it was heroic. Anna, Matts and their son Jakob, began in Stockholm – they swung by Ystad 390 miles and seven hours later to pick me up from Catarina’s, then we drove 180 miles and arrived four hours later in Orland. They did this all in one day! We arrived in Orland and were welcomed to a beautiful evening with drinks and dinner outside. My traveling companions spent the night and then got back in the car to drive 270 miles, a mere five hours, back to Stockholm. Unreal. I stayed in Orland for a week, details to follow, and then I took a bus to Stockholm to hang with my favorite road trippers, details to follow, but I am still in awe of their efforts and their unending hospitality….well, that goes for every person on my epic summer adventure. I am still in awe.

How it came to be ~
I don’t walk into situations blind; I do my homework. I knew who the four panel members would be – liberal lawyers.
I sat at a table looking at these women and instantly thought “they could all be my friends”. There they were, set up to interview people who applied for grant money from the William Male Foundation. They were there to pay it forward – to enrich other people’s lives, and to honor a man who had devoted his life to the arts.
The first question asked was, “Tell us about teaching at Donovan” – I looked at them and thought I was going to cry, they cared.
For the first time in I don’t know how long, I felt valued. I felt heard. I felt special. They were looking at me with interest, and not a passing by interest, genuine interest. I didn’t feel like a failure for not having “enough”, for not being big enough, for all of those “enoughs”. My words were being heard. We talked about humanity, art, travel, the type of person Bill Male was and how he contributed to the arts. I walked out of the room knowing that no matter what the outcome from this meeting, there were people out there who cared. For that I will be forever grateful.
I applied for this grant money with the intention of taking a break, taking a time-out and refueling. I needed to be thrown a bone. I was beaten up, exhausted on every level, and losing a bit of myself. I was asking for money to go to Europe, to look at art, to do some art, and to party with my friends.
Shortly after this interview I was handed a check – trip on!!
Immediately I reached out to friends to see who would be around and more importantly who would like a guest. Ystad, Orland, Stockholm, London – all secured.  The plan was to stay with as many friends as possible and say yes to every invitation offered.
I booked a one-way ticket and landed in Copenhagen June 21st – just in time to cross the bridge/tunnel to Ystad, Sweden for the midsummer celebration with a bunch of impressive academics.  Party party party  - songs, drinks, food (thankfully not all pickled herring), laughter and light. The sun barely set which was perfect for jetlag, the answer was simply not to sleep. I spent a week biking and sketching around Wallander country; I toured the Viking ruins Ales Stenar, walked the fields and beaches, watched the women’s world cup soccer games, hung out with Catarina’s lively and wonderful family and friends, sat in the courtyard looking at the cherry tree and contemplated life.
From there I trained it to Copenhagen with the intention of spending one night but was so enthralled I ended up staying for three days. My first stop was the Louisiana Museum, a 30 min train ride out of the city to this gem. Honestly, I was a tad bit sick, summer cold, and a bit tired from the party party party; I was lagging when I got there and started looking for a space on the grassy courtyard to collapse. As I willed myself to see some art before I napped, the gods smiled on me - the first exhibition was literally an installation piece which consisted of twenty beds, with lovely, soft pillows, in a dark room, and a video on the ceiling…not kidding, I had found my mecca! I crawled onto a bed and when I was not sleeping, gave my full attention to the video. I did go see all the other great art as well, but I kept returning to various beds as I got even more acquainted with the ceiling art, it was brilliant! 
After the museum, I trained it back to the city to find a hotel which proved a bit of a challenge since it was after 6pm, the tourist offices were closed, and I don’t speak Danish. The wifi in the country was suspect but on the trains it was awesome; I enlisted a teenager sitting across from me to help me find a hotel – actually more like a dorm room - which I could afford.  I was set. From there I walked the city and explored. One adventure was locating a graffiti art show at an old factory building in the “dodgy” part of town. I was directed by two self-confessed crackheads who eventually gave up trying to explain anything as they pantomimed that they were too cracked out to think straight; got to appreciate their effort. I did find the gallery, they were actually sitting next door to it, and it was the cleanest, most sterile photographs of graffiti I have ever seen - some of the pieces were framed. It didn’t seem real to me and this was the only art that bored me. I left quickly and kept an eye out for the gritty, more interesting people of Copenhagen, but they were nowhere to be seen.  
I headed back to Ystad. Next up - road trip to Orland.

​Epic Summer 2019
Part 1 - June
Get on the plane, get on the plane – my mantra. After a brutal spring semester of learning and teaching Prehistoric Art to Early Renaissance, two other lectures, and Poetry and Painting at Donovan State Prison, I was a complete mess. Add on an unexpected death of a soulmate and know that I was broken.
I got on the plane.
First stop Boston, MA where my mother was waiting for me as she recovered from her second major operation in six months. The plan was to get to Maine, to the island, to recuperate – however she wasn’t up for it. We sat in the cold and the rain in Boston and tried to be cheery. Not quite the epic start to my three-month adventure – but honestly breathing was an accomplishment for me at this time.
We finally made it north to open the house. The courts weren’t up and it was too cold to swim; the island was quiet. I slept a lot and tried to be still and to regain some sense sanity. We stayed a week. We played a lot of scrabble, talked about what we would do to the house, and then we both headed back to Boston.
Another day, another adventure, Michigan. I had a complete meltdown on the way to the airport and questioned if I should even go, I was too sad and didn’t want to be a downer. My mother told me to trust my friends – so I got on the plane. The fun began at Detroit National Airport where I landed for the annual T-5, now T-8, summit at Walloon Lake, Michigan. I had a two hour wait until a fellow TrinTrin pal landed and our hostess came to retrieve us – just enough time to slam down all the wine at the airport bar. I was a party unto myself and continued to hydrate with more wine at our stopover house where I vaguely remember a Bruins game, yes, I was a dream house guest. At 6am I forced myself up and crawled into a vehicle, which was larger than my studio, for our journey north. That effort exhausted me so I slept for the first hour. When I woke, I immediately began praying that I would not die from a hangover as I simultaneously willed myself not to throw-up for the next 3 hours. Jeanine and Donna wisely ignored me in the backseat.
Three diet Pepsi’s, a box of red vines and a bag of Ruffles later, we arrived at Walloon Lake – honestly, I am not sure where it is and I don’t think I could find it on a map, but it is a piece of paradise in northern Michigan. This was a reunion of eight great female college friends including a kickass hostess, two boats, a lake, nature, and a house the size of a Marriott Marquis, what was not to love! Jeanine dropped us off and went to retrieve the other 5 who dared the blue skies in a puddle jumper; I power napped and vowed never to drink again which lasted a good three hours until the mini greyhound SUV pulled into the driveway and the real party began.
It was magic. The moment we all came together, the second we were all in one space, the stars aligned and the universe lit up.  For six days we laughed, we sang and danced, we walked, ran, boated and floated, we ate, we drank. Those whose drink choice was LaCroix sparking waters were our “historians” in charge of remembering events; they were also in charge of driving the minibus when the weather didn’t allow us to motorboat to the club for dinner. Our days and nights were filled with music. DJJ had the perfect playlist and we were the envy of all the other boats on the lake – no doubt they thought we were the Go-Go’s reunited or at the very least Bruce Springsteen’s backup singers. We rocked it.
My heart was shattered going into this week. My friends gave me the gifts of laughter and love and my heart grew and I will forever be grateful. Next stop Europe!
 

​Double Whammy
Tough Monday – I was the victim of a burglary –the prison guards informed me that it was not a robbery because a gun was not involved. It happened at my studio - a quick trip to the bathroom, door unlocked, and some dickhead comes in and steals a bunch of stuff. Fortunately our paths didn’t cross. The dickhead wasted no time and within 10 minutes was using my credit cards at Ralph's, CVS and Home Depot. Ugh. I waited all day for the police to arrive but apparently they were having a tough Monday as well and my burglary was not top priority.
With a stiff upper lip I forged onto teaching the night class at the prison.
The deal at the prison is usually the guards are not so warm and fuzzy – I get the impression that they are not thrilled with our program of bringing the arts into prison – they are polite but never chatty.  Monday was a different deal.  At every check point I informed each guard that I was robbed! Rather burgled!  And now I was in prison! The irony of it all! I had their full attention. They were sympathetic, supportive, eager to offer advice and engaged.  For this I was thankful, because apparently for this job I signed a “non-negotiable” clause – I will sign anything, but damn, I would like to be negotiated for. Now at least the guards now know who I am and hopefully will keep an extra eye out for me.
When the class arrived and I told the students, the prisoners – who are robbers, murders, rapists - that I was the victim of a burglary. I told them how lucky I was not to have bumped into the dickhead because who knows what could have happened! They too were sympathetic, supportive, and eager to offer advice – go figure.
I then attempted to teach 3 point perspective, a tricky concept on the best of days, I was a bit distracted.
At the end of the cluster f@)*# of the dreaded 3 point perspective lesson, everyone was checking back in their pencils, erasers and rulers, when I noticed a pencil sharpener was missing. My ace supervisor Stephanie and I searched high and low and it was nowhere to be found. The guys searched – honestly – class is held in a barren gym - there are not a lot of places it would have gone. The guys were getting visibly upset and asking if we were going to report this and did we understand the consequences to them if we did report it – searches and lock down – a big deal. At this point the guards started to gather, first two and then word got out and there were 4.
I took center stage, “How could this be? Two burglaries in one day? Why am I still in prison?” The guards started sharing their stories while the students were trying not to have nervous breakdowns. Several guys came up to me with inside info as to who they suspected took the pencil sharpener. It was all out of my hands and I was too busy chatting.
Then, in the final minute, just before Lock Down was to be imposed, two students came busting back into the gym and slammed down the pencil sharpener. Before anyone could say anything they kept repeating, “We got it, we won’t snitch!”
My ace supervisor Stephanie looked wildly relieved; the paper work would have been in her court. Two guards inspected the   pencil sharpener to make sure the blade was still intact, case closed.
Finally I was out of prison.
As I was getting in my car the police finally called regarding my burglary. I told them I was driving home from prison – don’t know if they got the humor. I wish someone would show up at my door with my stolen goods - I wouldn’t snitch on them.

Last week I participated in the San Diego Art Fair. Normally I wouldn’t give this event the time of day mainly for the fact that it was drilled into me at Pratt not to “pay to play”; however, a booth was thrown our way for free and I was lucky to be in the company of five other fab women who had also been SD Art Prize recipients. At a pre-event happy hour the PR people made big promises while they worked hard to get artists to sign up for $3,000 to $7,000 booths, “You will be surrounded by quality people who want to purchase art. We only curate the best of the best to enter this show.” The snake oil sales pitch was not wildly impressive and they blatantly ignored my question about what specific galleries were participating but they did serve wine.
The weekend came and off we went to the Del Mar Fair Grounds for 4 days of art fun - 5 artists, one booth with hopes of selling some art.
We took turns manning the booth and tried to overlap with each other so that we had company. I brought my B+ game, along with a needed bottle of wine for me and Anna because the free wine tasting booth cut us off after two shots of rose, and I managed to hang there for my slotted times. I was much better at pushing my friends art, my sales pitch was spot on for them.  I was also excellent at leading people into the awesome Oslo Sardine Bar, although I did have a bit of PTS with flashbacks of childhood sardine sandwiches but I worked through that. The real problem was watching people walk on by, not a nod, not a comment.  I certainly walked by other peoples booths, a quick glance and a snap judgment and I was past it. Yet I couldn’t fathom people walking past ours - all the art we had in there - paintings, prints, sculptures, mobile art, cutouts  and an offering of peppermint patties and yet not a reaction from many – being ignore threw me.
Sure there were a handful of sales and many compliments, but it got me thinking about what I walk by.
Then I realized that I walk past people. I walk past people who live on the streets. I may nod, or not, but I walk past their worlds. I felt invisible in a booth; I have no concept of how these people feel on the street.  
I will do better.
Art Fair – great lessons learned – a great success!!

I vividly recall watching the Anita Hill hearings. I was glued to the TV.  I knew she was telling the truth. I remember looking at the committee and listening to their questions and it was obvious to me that they also knew she was telling the truth. My heart and a bit of me broke when they ignored her and put that disgrace of a man on the Supreme Court. I felt sucker punched and a seed of disgust towards those who are indifferent towards women was planted in my soul.
Kavanaugh, another predator who wouldn’t know the truth if it bit him in the butt, won his bid for the Supreme Court. His anger was rewarded.  Again, I felt broken.
Michelle encourages us to “go high when they go low” – but when hope is in the gutter that is no easy task.
Tough times, heavy on the heart.
A life-raft was thrown my way when a friend wisely stated, “Art is the answer.”
Back to work.

​RE-entry shock
The end of summer.  It happens every year, but this year has been a particular pisser.
How does one adjust from lollygagging on an island in Maine to walking into a high security men’s state prison?  For me? Not well.
No sense describing idyllic island life in detail other than to say my days consisted of tennis, scrabble, beach and cocktails - all accompanied by endless chat – repeated like Ground Hog Day for the better part of 3 months.  I would have stayed until the water got turned off but this job gig required my attention, “Poetry and Painting”….in prison.
It was not a good sign that it took two days to get back west. Thankful little Lucy shared her room so I didn’t have to sleep on an airport floor. (Note to self, book morning flights).Once I was physically west I tried, actually it was a pathetically weak attempt at pretending to try, to wrap my head around going back to prison. It was no use; I was in a self-induced coma. Shortly after landing I went through the motions and put on my required all back outfit, no colors that could be associated with any gangs, and headed east. I reluctantly drove into the apocalyptic abyss - cement surrounded by a lot of barbwire. Ugh. I passed the security check, met my co-worker, and headed through more security checks and into the yard. If aliens had come down and taken me to planet Zorba I would have been less shell-shocked than walking into the yard. Again, this was not my first excursion there but every time I walk into the place I know that I am walking into an alternate universe.
So, there we stood in the yard, waiting for the students to get out of the dinner hall, get checked out of their cells, and come to the gym for class. Normally we would have waited in the gym however it was at least 1,000 degrees in there - and more disturbingly the gym was housing a man in a cage - yes, a half dressed man in a cage – a bit more than I could handle at that point so we waited outside.
Over an hour later the gym was clear and the 25 students filtered in;  I put on my game face and gave the game plan about visually interpreting the poetry of Robert Frost.  What do I know about Robert Frost? Not much but am working on it. The students seemed interested and happy about this project so I felt a bit better as the class progressed.
I drove home and stayed in my self-induced coma for several days. I didn’t want to accept the fact that summer ended and I had responsibilities other than being on time for tennis. I am slowly coming out of it and accepting my new norm. In another week I am sure I will embrace my new norm. I am very grateful for my jobs and the opportunities they present that allow me to contribute to society - and to escape for 3 months. At least that is what I keep telling myself. 
Class 1 down, 19 to go.
Goodbye summer.

​Family Members Off Leash
My father is an impulsive man. He is never one to think things through. He makes passionate and impractical decisions all the time. To this day, at 86, he is a handsome man, a Paul Newman type, with a twinkle in his eye.  My mother says, “He is the best looking person in the family” and there is no dispute as my brother and sister and I nod our heads in agreement.  His charm and looks have served him well throughout life.
My dad was a high school English teacher outside of Boston. It was the perfect job for a man who loves to talk and entertain. In his classroom he had set and captive audiences who no doubt looked at him in awe while waiting and wondering what was going to come out his mouth next.  A class scheduled about Romeo and Juliet could be sidelined by an hour dissertation about his tennis game.
Having lost his only brother to a sniper bullet late in WWII, my dad was vehemently opposed to any war. During the Vietnam War error he went on a mission to keep young men away from war. He promoted the educational deferment to his student’s and he would proclaim to his classes, “Everyone is going to college.” He literally kept stacks of Bunker Hill Community College applications in his desk drawer. These were for the students who were not necessarily college bound – my dad would write the application - track down the student and have them sign it, then my dad would mail it in for them.
Life is a performance piece for my dad.  He sees himself as always being on stage. When he steps off an airplane or into a room he starts to dance thinking “this is my entrance.” The man lives for an audience.
Growing up with a one man show was forever entertaining as well as exhausting. Our dinners were insane with my dad acting out his day, reciting poetry and singing songs. No one could get a word in, it was all about him. I did look at him with awe because he made life so alive, but there was no space for anyone else. As a kid I often hibernated in my room with dozen of stuffed animals just to get some peace and quiet and to be in my own world where no one spoke.
As an adult, I needed not to be Bob Horne’s daughter so I moved across country. This was over 20 years ago and I still feel guilty for abandoning my parents, it is all my guilt -  but more often I am happy that I can breathe.
At 55 years old my dad retired. He claimed that he would pick up other jobs. But his Attention Deficit Disorder always led him to run wild, look for new audiences and adventures. His escape vehicle was his bike. He started out on loose group trips – the main one RAGBRAI –an annual bike ride across the state of Iowa – talk about a marketing coo – this ride is a combination Burning Man, Woodstock, and outward bound – in Iowa. My dad would drive the 1,200 miles out there, bike 500 miles, then drive 1,200 miles home. It was a mecca for him – Boston Bob was a fixture at RAGBRAI for many years.
When there wasn’t a group trip he would go solo. His trips are legendary and impressive in there insanity. One August my brother drove from Boston to Arizona for school, my dad gamely went along, with his bike. In the middle of nowhere in Texas he said, “pull over, this looks good.” He got out, got on his bike and started peddling east towards Boston. My brother continued driving west while looking in his rearview mirror watching him get smaller and smaller. On this trip he bragged that he slept in cemeteries because they were safe and quiet – he would say, “no one is going to bother you in a cemetery”. Over 1,000 miles later, 1,000 miles, the man ended up in Chicago before he got tired and hopped a flight home.
On impulse he would bring home new/used cars, random gadgets, and periodically dogs. Our dogs were treasured members of the family and lived long and happy lives – mainly because we were all home to look after the dog.
My dad found the family’s new dog at the pound.
He claims that he simply stopped to say hello to the dogs…. Then, without hesitation, without consulting his wife, without thinking of any consequences, the man with the attention span of a gnat picked up the fluffy one, Cocoa, and brought him home.
Like my dad, Cocoa was beautiful. He stopped traffic. This was in the 90’s, pre- designer animals; by today’s standards he would have a $3000 price tag and be called a purebred Golden-doodle. He had the fluff, the sashay, the complete rock star attitude….he was also a loose cannon. With my dad and Cocoa the planets had aligned for these two kindred, unleashed, characters to come together – no one knew who was leading who around or who was more out of control.
When the snow melted and the roads cleared my dad was off again – Newfoundland was calling so he decided to bike there, 967 miles. My mom was in charge but she worked full time. Cocoa was often home alone - there was no fence, no borders, no boundaries – no supervision.  And in harmony with my father’s life, no one ever said no to Cocoa, he went where he wanted to go and do whatever he wanted to do. It was a miracle that he came home at night.
Unfortunately, for my father and Cocoa good looks and charm can’t cover bad behavior.
Cocoa’s life crashed first.
Cocoa was off leash. He tangled with a neighbor walking her dog on leash. She got knocked down, smacked her face. A trip to the hospital was needed, the police were called.
Cocoa’s world crumbled, he was now wanted by the law.
Cocoa was in serious, serious trouble. Cocoa was sent to the vet until things got sorted out.
Things got messy fast. The injured neighbor refused any apology and directed all communication to their lawyer. The neighbor wanted immediate action. They petitioned around the neighborhood for Cocoa to be put down - not one neighbor signed. The injured party was not deterred, she wanted the death penalty for Cocoa and she went back to the police and the vet in further attempts to get Cocoa put down - no one budged.
As a family it was decided Cocoa needed to get out of dodge. My dad broke Cocoa free and headed north to Maine - we all knew that Cocoa needed to go far away or he would try to come find us –the hope was that a friend or friend of a friend, or honestly anyone in the state of Maine would take Cocoa. As charming as my dad is, and he is incredibly charming, it was beyond even his capabilities to give away a dog with a pending law suit. Back he came with Cocoa.
Both my parents were defeated, emotionally exhausted, and nervous as tics.  As the youngest I am the fixer in the family and I wanted to give them a break. My brother and I were living 3,000 miles away in California. I called them and said, “Robert and I can take Cocoa for a while.” An hour later Cocoa was booked on American Airline flight # 186 landing in San Diego at 2:10 the next day.
Robert and I lived in an apartment. We had no yard and no idea if dogs were allowed. But we were game. We became a dog tag team and took turns running miles with him around Crown Point, taking him to doggie beach, bringing him with us everywhere, Cocoa had a lovely break and adapted very well to life southern Cal. 
Six months later the coast was cleared after Cocoa’s lawsuit was settled for $80,000. My parent’s made assurances to their dismayed homeowner’s insurance agent that Cocoa would be secured in the yard with an electric fence. Cocoa finally had set boundaries. The reality was that the boundaries calmed him down, he had structure, and along with age, Cocoa mellowed.  
My dad was late in getting any boundaries. At age 65 and after 42 years of marriage, he left my mom and Cocoa and dismantled our family – his goodbye letter written on a napkin left on the kitchen counter stated, “moving north”. He found a new audience in a younger woman. When he left it broke us all. I took a time-out and didn’t speak to him for three years. I traveled to faraway places and found happiness with my own adventures. My silence to my dad was my power, it was the only thing I could control with him and it was also my punishment to him.
As in life, time helped, time healed. My anger and hurt shrunk and love and forgiveness prevailed.
My dad’s relationship with his girlfriend didn’t last but he was happy with other new audiences and new freedoms. He didn’t have a care in the world. He reveled in the fact that he had no responsibilities; not even to himself. He refused to take any medication. His high spirits and energies and passions also brought high blood pressure, after six mini strokes his brain was altered.
My dad now lives in an assisted living dementia unit.
Even in his current state he talks to anyone within reach and he entertains the other residents by playing the piano and singing songs. He cheats at Bingo so the he can give the prizes to the ladies.
He still believes he is on stage. Just the other day he called and said, “I am going to sing you a song and I want you to record it” – I played along and gave him the go ahead to start singing. He then proceeded to sing Danny Boy. I wish I did know how to record it because he really is a beautiful singer. When he was done he gave me permission to post it on youtube and generously told me to keep whatever money it earned.
I am happy to hear his voice whenever he calls. He tells me that when the snow melts he is getting out of there, breaking free. He plans to put his Vespa and his bike back on the road and he will be mobile again. But his boundaries are set; his days of roaming are done. Cocoa lived until 16, we still talk in awe about his adventures and his wild spirit. My dad, secured and confined in his new home, still sings, talks, writes stories and dreams about leaving convention and responsibility behind to go on new adventures – in his world he is forever unleashed.