David Dyson, who transformed a modest tag sale into a major event that in nine years has raised $112,000 for Tabor House, an AIDS residence program in Hartford, will be honored May 18 at a gala at the Elizabeth Park Pond House.

           He will be the first to receive a new award for outstanding service established by Tabor House, the beneficiary of his hard work and ingenuity in running what is now called the GIANT Tag Sale every July at the Sisters of St. Joseph convent in West Hartford.

           The name of the award - the Dyson Family Volunteer Award - recognizes the contributions not only of David, but of his mother, Loretta, a founding trustee, and more than a dozen other family members since Tabor House opened in 1990.

           The Tabor House Home-Sweet-Home Gala runs from 6 to 10 p.m. and includes a dinner, silent auction and dancing to the music of Simply Swing, a popular central Connecticut "little big band." Tickets are $75 for the full evening, $25 for dancing only, available by calling Tabor House Development Director Suzan Bibisi at 860-578-0733 or e-mailing her at suzybbc@gmail.com.

           Tabor House actually is two houses, a few blocks apart in the South End, that are home to 13 men who otherwise would be on the street or in shelters. Tabor House gets two-thirds of its operating funds from government grants, the rest from donations, fundraisers and tag-sale proceeds. Under Dyson's leadership, the tag sale has become the biggest single source of nongovernmental revenue. It raised about $18,800 last year, down a bit from a record $20,600 in 2010.

           Dyson, 52, a professional violinist and pianist who graduated from the Hartt School of the University of Hartford, became the director of the tag sale in 2003, taking over from Loretta, a retired high-school guidance counselor. She had been volunteering for Tabor House since before it opened, shortly after her son William died of AIDS in 1989.

She started the tag sale in 1994, but it was a lot of work for a small amount of money, she said.

"We got kind of discouraged one year and said maybe we can't keep up with it," Loretta recalled. "David said, 'We are keeping up with it,' and with that he plunged right in. That was really when we began to make a great deal more money. He's full of ideas."

           Not only did David make the tag sale bigger by getting more people involved, but he persuaded businesses to donate merchandise and gift certificates for a silent auction concurrent with the tag sale, and three years ago he added a wine-and-cheese reception on the eve of the sale, charging impatient shoppers $10 each for a head start. The auction and reception now account for as much as half the proceeds.

Loretta said David spends "countless hours" recruiting hundreds of volunteers from corporations, high schools, colleges and religious groups to collect, transport and display items for sale. He also lines up restaurants to donate meals for the volunteers.

Sister Ann Kane, executive director of Tabor House, said, "He's amazing. He doesn't mind going out and approaching anybody to give."

"He's a tireless worker for Tabor House," said Diane Bernier, a trustee and former president of the board.

Records show the first eight tag sales raised $33,600 in all, compared to $112,400 for the nine sales starting in 2003.

Loretta said the tag sale serves a second charitable cause by making household goods available at rock-bottom prices to residents from city neighborhoods near the convent.  "We keep our prices low because we want to help the poor people of the city of Hartford," she said.

Furthermore, she said, this tag sale doesn't end the way many others do, with a trip to the dump. "Nothing goes to waste," she said.

For example, leftover linens are donated to the Humane Society, she said. Unsold vases are bought in bulk by a Rocky Hill florist. Sacred Heart Church in Hartford converts much of what's left into inventory for its own tag sale.

David's contributions to Tabor House also include all the prize money - about $9,000 - he has received in connection with awards for his community service. In the last three years, these have included honors from Bank of America, Santa Rita winery, Lysol, the New Britain Rock Cats, Liberty Bank and the Hartford Business Journal. He and his mother shared the Humanitarian Service Award last year from the University of Hartford, from which they both hold degrees.

Loretta said David's drive to help Tabor House arose in part from the same source as hers: grief over the death of William at age 34.  "He was David's hero. They were six years apart, and they were very close," she said. 

Join us May 18, 2012, at 6 p.m.  at the beautiful Pond House, Elizabeth Park in West Hartford to help raise funds for Tabor House.

 To buy tickets ($75), sponsorships, ads in our program book, or to donate auction items, contact Suzan Bibisi at 860.578.0733.

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Home Sweet Home sponsors as of Feb. 5:
AT&T
Lila A. Lilly Foundation
Lisa Davenport

 Robert Butler was born in Stamford on Dec. 22, 1958, and almost immediately was sent to live with his grandmother. Being sent away would become a regular occurrence in Robert's life, especially after he discovered cocaine at age 19. Of the next 30 years, he would be locked up for 23. Robert's crime of choice was breaking into office buildings. His cocaine habit might have figured in his repeated arrests. Robert arrived at Tabor House in August 2009, still on parole from his last conviction. This is Robert's story:

I was dropped off, almost on Day One, on my grandmother. My parents later got divorced. My father, who was a cop, was only 19 when they got married; my mother was 22.

I grew up with my grandmother Frances and her brother Bill. Uncle Bill had cerebral palsy. My grandmother was 11 years younger, and she took care of him all her life. Then I was dropped into her life, too. And she did her best to be a good parent; it wasn't her fault I went astray.

I remember one day she was getting me dressed for school and, like little children sometimes do, I vomited without any warning, almost right on her. She got upset. "Oh for crying out loud," she said. "Why didn't you say you were feeling sick? Now I have to clean this mess up, and you're going to be late for school." I started crying. She seemed very upset. And then she took me in her arms and told me that it was all right, and she was sorry for yelling at me, and that I didn't do anything wrong and it's easy to clean up. That's when I knew she loved me.

I remember the first thing I ever stole, or I should say attempted to steal. She was in the corner store. I was 7. You remember the old soda cases full of ice and cold water? You had to reach down into them, and they had an opener on the side. That was right by the door. So as she was dealing with the store people, I slid my hand into the thing and pulled out a soda. I don't know why. I pulled it out real slow and started to push the door open behind me, but the big man behind the counter saw me and said, "What are you doing?" I dropped the soda, and it smashed all over the floor. I think she gave me a spanking when I got home. I remember her telling me, not then but later, after I'd done more stealing - I believe I had stolen clothes off somebody's line - that stealing a pencil is no different from robbing a bank. She tried to instill all the right stuff in me.

The neighborhood was a poor neighborhood. I was really young when I began wandering the streets with my buddies. We were just kids. That's who we were getting our advice from - each other, and we didn't know beans. But I thought otherwise. I had this attitude, believing I'm sane when I'm thinking these insane things to do. I thought I was slick. Going to New York, me and my buddy, we'd be in the bathroom on the train so nobody could ask for our tickets. We knew at 8 years old we had to change our voice every time the conductor came by to get a ticket; we would do a woman's voice, then we'd do a deep voice the next time. We'd get to midtown Manhattan, and we'd hang around the hot dog guy until he felt sorry for us, gave us a couple of dogs. Then we'd go exploring. The Bronx Zoo, the Central Park Zoo. Finally at 2 or 3 in the morning, the cops would see us walking, they'd pick us up and one of our parents would come down and get us.

When I was about 9, my father enrolled me in school on the other side of town, where he lived. One day I came home from school, and I saw a black car there with the state emblem on it. Getting out was a woman, a social worker, I had dealt with numerous times. She said, "You all set?" I said, "Set for what?" She said, "Your father didn't tell you?" I said, "Tell me what?" She marched to the house real quick. He came out, and she yelled at him. He handed me a suitcase and said I had to go with her. She took me to Boys Village in Milford.

I never liked my father because he beat me. He would come over to my grandmother's house and beat me for something I didn't even remember doing. At Christmas time there would be gifts from him there, but he wouldn't be there. And when he was there, he was always angry. Every time he came over, all three of us would be walking on eggshells because he was always demanding and complaining - and then he'd be gone. I remember when I was real little, asking my grandmother who he was. She said, "That's your father." I said, "I don't like him." Every time he came over everybody had to watch everything they said and did. So I was glad he didn't live there. As I got older, I heard from other cops that he had a drinking problem. I know he smoked reefer, too, because I saw his finger was brown. I'd ask him and he'd say it's from the cigarettes. But as I got older, I knew you didn't get that from cigarettes.

At Boys Village, we went to a regular public school, but we lived at the boys' home. I hung with the bullies, the cool guys, the tough guys, you know; kids who smoked. I was smoking by the age of 10, inhaling. I did that for three years there. I didn't do any schoolwork that I recall. I was always getting in trouble at school for not doing the work, acting out, fighting, running away.

I remember stealing from Boys Village one time. I found out where they kept the cash, and we stole about $1,300. And of course we got caught. We were young, not realizing all the evidence we left behind. They caught us.

My mother came to visit me once or twice there. I had only seen her once before, when I was about 7. That was just for a day; she dropped me back off and that was it. But she came to see me at Boys Village. We went bowling together in Milford. So I decided to see how it worked living with her. I knew she lived in Marlborough, New Hampshire, so I ran away there and I found her. She enrolled me in school, but I fell into the same pattern - fighting, talking back to the teachers, getting kicked out.

She had a husband at the time, my two older sisters from other marriages and a little baby from this guy.

They were poor. They always had canned pork and boxed cheese that the government handed out. My poor sisters thought I had it so bad because I lived in a ghetto; I realized how bad they had it when I saw them living up there.

Finally after eight months, I ran away from there and back to my grandmother's.

I was wild now. Fourteen is a pivotal age for a boy. I discovered office buildings as good places to break into at night. At first I don't remember us taking anything. We just broke into a building and wandered around in there. We'd see a TV, we didn't steal it; we just turned it on and thought it was cool that we could watch it. And when we saw a coffee pot, we made coffee. We acted like it was our home. We just claimed it. And then we left it.

But then we started getting more inquisitive. Or we might have seen a cash register or something that started us thinking, "Oh, money." We weren't really thinking money before. I remember we were considerate, too. We would break the smaller window. Stuff like that. And we would try to do minimal damage. Then we started looking for items that people had requested. Someone would ask us, can you get me an adding machine? It was the old kind with a handle. And then when it went to digital, we were in heaven when we would see a number shining through the window, thinking, that's the new one, we can get $20 for that.

I started smoking reefer more. (I actually started in New Hampshire.) It wasn't long before I ended up in reform school, at Long Lane. I was there, in and out, for three years. There were no drug programs. There was school, but it was just school. There was nothing addressing the mental problems we had, as far as thinking we were all right when we were totally off the wall. I always thought it was somebody else's fault that I got into trouble. My father was to blame, society was to blame. I didn't think it was me. I know now, but I didn't really know that then.

From there, I went to Rippowam High School in Stamford, but I was only there for four months, if that. I used to go around breaking into lockers. I was 16, in ninth grade. I remember my father saying you might as well drop out, you keep messing up. And I was like, you don't mind if I drop out? Great, I'm going to drop out.

I was smoking weed. It wasn't an everyday thing. We would smoke it one night, and not smoke again for a week. But one contributed to the other as I continued the stealing. Then we started finding big amounts of money. One time we got $1,000 out of a bowling alley. We went to New York, bought a whole bunch of clothes, came back home, walked around the neighborhood with the new clothes on, thought we were cool. We used to like to go out to eat together. We'd go to this all-night diner, it would be 3 in the morning, and we'd order a whole chicken, and we'd just eat it. I remember one time he looked over at me, he said, hey man, I love you, man. And I said, I love you too, man. We ended up falling out a couple of years later. It was because of heroin; he started shooting heroin and he stole something from me. My grandmother had just given me a tape recorder. The fact that she gave it to me made me even more furious that he took it. I was going to kill him. I saw his cousin and said, when you see him, tell him I'm going to kill him. We stayed away from each other for a couple of years. I kept doing what he and I used to do. And I always ended up in jail.

Then I started shooting heroin the next year. I didn't think of what addiction was, I didn't know. I had the attitude most of my life: Maybe them, but not me. I had that attitude for years. Then when I touched cocaine at the age of 19, that's when I was in and out of jail for 23 years.

Before then, I had a few jobs. During the three-year period of shooting heroin I worked at different factories in entry-level positions; you know, shipping and receiving. In 1976 or '77, I had a job making mannequins out of human skeletons; they were used in medical schools. We were paid $2.50 an hour, and I saw the invoice on one of the completed models, and it was $80,000, and I remember thinking boy they should give us a little more than $2.50. That was in like 1976.

I tried to stop heroin a couple of times and I remember crying like a baby because of the aches in my knees and my joints. But after I shot cocaine the first time I had no problem dropping heroin and chasing the cocaine. It didn't last long, though, because I was in jail instantly.

I was stealing regularly. At work, I never made enough for the cocaine. I was averaging between $90 and $120 a week and that would be gone in a matter of hours shooting cocaine. So I started stealing again. And my preference was office buildings. To me that was safe. I waited until nighttime, when the windows went dark and I knew nobody was walking around in the dark. Then I went in. I did that for many years, but probably for a total of one year in which I stole because I was locked up the rest of the time.

I was busted for third-degree burglary in an office building and sentenced to one year. I was 19. Then I wasn't out for three months, and I went back again for two more years. This is roughly from 1979 to 1982. My father died of cancer in '79. I saw him before he died. He was skinny as a rail. He used to be a real stocky guy.

Prison took care of me, fed me, clothed me; I didn't like it there, but I adjusted. It's not a real world. It's definitely an insane, unnatural world.

I had tried to quit drugs. I couldn't figure out why I couldn't quit. I really wanted to stop, but I didn't know how. One night I went out and broke into an office because I was so mad at myself that I couldn't stop drugs and stuff, so I felt something is wrong with me, so I wanted to hurt myself, not kill myself, but do something, because I was hoping something would come along to make sense of this thing I couldn't make sense of. I must have set off a silent alarm. I found about $700 as I went up and down the building. I had so many small bills I was stuffing them into a big envelope. I came down to the third floor where I had climbed in by putting a fence post up to a window and shimmying up. I was sitting in an office, and I had the money on the table, and I see all the lights go on out there where all the secretaries' desks were. I panicked for a second, and then I said, you know what, I'm not even going to run. I probably could have shimmied back down the pole and gotten away. But I just sat there and watched the cop's shadow coming toward the door.

The court took into consideration my father's health situation and only gave me a year. He died three months later. I remember I was numb. It didn't really affect me. I thought I should have been in mourning. And we had started finally to get a little close, and I kind of felt cheated that just as I was getting to know him he would die like that.

I got out and I wasn't out three months, and I went back for two more years. I had a 2½-to-5. I had been in the county jail for the one year, but this time I went to Somers prison. I was there for 22 months. I stayed off hard drugs while I was in prison. I saw guards give guys needles. I saw guys shooting up. But I never shot up. I smoked reefer now and then, but that's all.

I went to school and got my GED there. I worked. I would get a little bit of sanity whenever I was locked up, away from drugs. I still had a lot of frustration; I still didn't know how to deal with problems other than run from them or destroy them. I couldn't do that in prison. You could fight the system, but there was a consequence to it. When I was a kid I didn't care about the consequences. Now that I had a good prison job, I had a good cellmate, I didn't want to lose that. Finally I started learning a little bit.

When I got out I didn't go back to prison for five years. That was the longest period of freedom in my life, other than from the age of 1 to 10. I got out in '82, and I didn't go back until '87. I worked here and there. I still smoked reefer, still shot drugs sometimes. That would cause me to lose work. But I did very little stealing. I was really afraid to go back to prison. It wasn't so much that I appreciated life on the outside; I just didn't want to go back there. So I was just afraid to steal. What would always override that fear eventually was the craving for drugs.

Cocaine. That was my downfall every time.

I had no guidance still. Nobody ever sat me down and said you're messing up, you're crazy.

I didn't know the choices I had, the power I had, the freedom I had to choose, I really didn't know that. I thought I was destined to live that life because that's what all the people I knew were doing.

I had a good job. I started living with a girl when I was 24. We lived together for about 10 months. That fell apart because of the drugs on my part; she didn't do any. When we broke up, I was kind of devastated because that was my first real love affair. I had a good job at Pitney Bowes in Stamford. So I was feeling hurt and sorry for myself when I met a jerk on the job who did cocaine. In fact he freebased. I never did that; I didn't know what it was. We got together one night and I was late for work the next day. On the job I'd be in the bathroom shooting up when I should have been at my machine. I got fired. That devastated me. I went at it hard, with the cocaine.

From 1985 to '87 I went to New Hampshire. I called my mother, I said, "Mom, I'm killing myself with these drugs." She and her husband had a restaurant. I asked, "Can I come up there and work for you?" I worked for her for a little while. I got my own place. I found a little efficiency apartment. And I found another good job, and I worked 13 months. I wasn't doing drugs. I was learning how to live on my own. I was doing my own laundry, my own shopping. I was growing up, and it was hard. I even did volunteer work; I went to visit a senior in the senior center once a week. So I was trying to change. But I still didn't understand addiction, and the psychology of it - underlying motives, my real motives. I still wasn't grounded.

I met this girl whose children used to come into a store where I worked. One morning we met for breakfast. It started raining, and I had just bought a van, so I gave her a ride home. She said, "You smoke?" I knew she was talking about reefer. I said, "Yeah, you mean cigarettes?" I was torn. I liked her. I felt like a needed a woman now; it had been over a year. She said, "No, I'm talking about the other thing." When I said no, she looked like I'd embarrassed her. It caught her totally off-guard because she had just assumed I smoked reefer. And I felt so bad, I didn't want to embarrass her, so I said, "Yeah, I smoke. I was just kidding." I was lonely, I wanted her, and so I smoked a joint. The next thing I know I'm arguing with people on the job. She smoked reefer like cigarettes, and I started smoking like that. I moved out of my place and moved in with her. That lasted like three months. Now I was homeless, sleeping in my van. I still had a job, but I didn't have enough money to rent a new place.

I came back to Connecticut, just in time to be introduced to crack cocaine in 1987. Within three months I was back in prison for three years for doing burglaries. I had a nine-year sentence, suspended after seven, and ended up doing three years. I was at Cheshire and J.B. Gates in Niantic. When crack came on the scene, they had to open more prisons. They took sections of Gates, a women's prison, and turned it into men's. I was also at Carl Robinson in Enfield. I got out of there in 1990 and within three weeks I started doing drugs again. It began with another girl, all because she didn't show up for a date. I was on parole, and living in a house in Norwalk with two other parolees. There was a guard who came through three times a day, but otherwise there was no supervision. There were three beds, three foot lockers. The stove didn't work, the refrigerator didn't work. These guys were cooking beans on a Mr. Coffee pot. I was working, doing landscaping; I was taut, physically fit, clean, proud of myself, going to make a change. This old girlfriend from Stamford called me up, and said we got to meet. I had been out three weeks. I had my first paycheck, $500, so I got five $100 bills in my pocket. She told me she was going to come by that night, and we'd have dinner and go to a hotel. These two guys, the two roomies, were smoking crack. It was not even fazing me. I was not even tempted. And I was proud of myself. Nine o'clock comes, she ain't here. Ten o'clock, she ain't here. Eleven o'clock, she ain't here. When the clock hit midnight, I said, hey man, you got any more of that? Just like that. My $500 was gone before the sun came up. Now I couldn't do a urine test to stay on parole. I quit my job, giving no explanation. I knew I had to leave the city. I broke into a delicatessen somewhere between Stamford and Norwalk, got $3,500 cash, and caught a bus to Florida the next day. Two and a half months after I got there, I got a 20-year sentence for third-degree burglary in Fort Lauderdale. Actually, it was third-degree burglary until I picked up a gun. I found a gun there. That's what enhanced it to an armed burglary.

I got 20 years and I did 12. I was in three different prisons. I started in Glades, went to Charlotte, and did my last 6½ years in Tomoka, which is in Daytona Beach. I worked in a prison workshop doing school bus and heavy vehicle renovation at Tomoka. At the other two, you walked around with cans, picked up butts off the ground. That was what 60 percent of the inmate population did. That was their job, because there were no jobs. There was the kitchen, the laundry room, the barber shop and that's it. So you picked up butts.

They had basic schooling; if you didn't have a GED, they required that you go to school. They had just introduced Thinking Straight programs, making you look at the choices you've made, in the '90s. I was forced to go to one of the classes - I was in my 30s now, sitting with my arms folded across my chest. I'm steaming. I didn't like being told to do anything. The teacher handed me a worksheet. It didn't even get in my hands before I crumpled it up. I was so defiant. I just didn't like being forced to do things, and I guess I was content playing poker, smoking cigarettes, listening to music, plotting escapes and stuff. I made many, many attempts to escape, not that they were noticed; they would have fallen through. There weren't many days that I didn't think about escape. That's been true all my life. Every time I get arrested I'm looking for a way out. I just wanted my way. It was all about me. That's not reality, but I wasted so many years with that attitude and missed out on a lot.

In 2002, I had been out for 10 months, and they picked me up for illegally leaving Connecticut back in 1990. So I had to do the time I had left when I violated my parole, which was 13 months. Florida had asked if Connecticut wanted to pick me up. They said nah; they knew I was going to come home. They know the patterns. Sure enough, once I got back, things started happening. I had a job and lost it. I started stealing and doing drugs again. They knew my M.O., the office buildings. They knew I would break in without causing much damage, and they knew the things I would take. When I stole I was sober, so I was hungry. (When I was on drugs I never had an appetite.) So if there was food in the refrigerators, people's lunches for the next day, I was eating them. They recognized it. They caught me in between burglaries, but they used my M.O. to get me. They probably never would have executed that warrant for violating parole had I stayed out of trouble.

I went to New Haven when I got out in '04; I lived in a shelter for seven months. And I started again. I got frustrated, couldn't find work, got back on the crack. And pretty soon I got a six-year sentence. I did four of the six. I got out in May of '09, and completed two years of parole and now I'm in the first year of my five years of probation. I was released to a sober house in East Hartford, and they were true to their word: They said if you don't find work in 30 days we're going to kick you out. On the 31^st day, they kicked me out. I ended up in a shelter. My parole officer told me I could not live in a shelter. I either needed to live with someone or be in program, and if I didn't find that within two weeks, she might have to put me back in prison until they could find something for me.

I almost ran. I was afraid. I didn't want to go back to prison. I didn't feel I'd done anything wrong. I almost got back on the Greyhound and started that crazy life all over again. But something inside me said, don't run, even if it's an injustice and I go back to prison. I know it's only going to be a matter of time before I'm out. So I fought the urge to run, and I discovered Tabor House through a drop-in center called Connections. And Julie. She's not there any longer. She knew about Sister Ann and Tabor House and she set up an appointment. This was in June or July 2009. I was diagnosed HIV-positive in 1992, so I was eligible to live here, although I didn't show any symptoms of the infection. I didn't start taking HIV medications until October 2011.

I went to AA or NA meetings for the first year here, then I slacked off. I started doing therapy. I will be going back to meetings. I do intend to get a sponsor. I'm torn between AA and NA. I feel in NA I can relate more. I just hate all that hugging. It's ridiculous. It's always got to be a hug, a hug, a hug. Just shake hands, and let's talk. I can relate better to the drug addicts than to the alcoholics, but those hugs drive me up a wall. You can't sit down and relax without somebody going to hug you. Maybe I should wear a sign around my neck, "I'm not ready to hug" or "I got a cold."

I've been in drug treatment programs, in prison and outside. I was required to go to the ones outside, except for one I went to voluntarily because I was so desperate. It was just before I went back to prison, probably in 1986. I was in downtown Stamford in broad daylight, and it had rained earlier, and I took muddy water and I tried to make like a disguise on my face so I could rob a bank. I decided I was go to go the bank and stick 'em up. I didn't even have a gun. I was going to go in there and act like I had a gun. This guy I knew saw me putting muddy water on my face. He said what are you doing? I told him. And he said look, man, in that building there's a program called Viewpoint. If you go there right now, and you talk to the director, they might take you in. You need help, man. He said it's a good place. So I did, and they took me right that day. I stayed there about seven months.

At this point, I've learned a few things in life. I still really don't know who I am. I think deep down I mean well, whether it comes out right or not. I don't really have malicious intentions, and maybe never did. I realize now I have to work to stay clean. I just wasn't ready before. I'm still very immature in a lot of areas, but I'm mature enough to see that I have to start somewhere, and Tabor House provides the best foundation yet. I still have a lot of growing to do, but there's nothing that tells me I can't grow here. Moving out will be difficult, though. I would like to move out, but I don't think I can because it's really hard finding employment. It's really hard finding work for anybody, but add a prison record, especially one as long as mine, and it's almost impossible.

I don't care what I'm paid. If I'm busy and I feel I did a decent day's work, I wouldn't care how dirty I got, I would feel like I have a purpose in life.

Now I'm feeling like I'm not living up to expectations. I should be working. I'm capable of working. It's just so frustrating. It's getting monotonous, living here, being given everything practically. I've got too much time on my hands. Sometimes I actually think about going back to prison. It's easier not having anything expected of you. Out here everybody thinks you should be working, you should be ahead of where you are by now. Inside, the only expectation was to stay out of trouble. I'm halfway up but I can't get any higher. It's a very uncomfortable place. There's so much uncertainty.

But I'm over my life of crime. I couldn't steal a pencil now. I just couldn't do it, my conscience is so aware of how wrong it is. My conscience would beat me to death.

My grandmother passed away in 2006. But I had thought she passed in 2001 while I was in prison in Florida, because that's when the letters stopped coming. When I got out of prison in 2002, I asked my mother and sisters about her but they didn't know anything. (She was my father's mother.) I told Sister Ann about this one day last year, and she went on the Internet and we found out she had passed in 2006. I was heartbroken, because I could have seen her again if I had only known.

Robert, like all Tabor House residents, is eager to work. He has experience as a driver, a dishwasher, food preparer and factory worker. He said he doesn't mind assembly line work that others may find boring. And he is learning to sew on a machine.

 Copy and paste this link into your address field to see the flyer, learn the key dates and a list of what is, and what is not, wanted in the way of contributions. The tag sale is Tabor House's main fundraiser every year. Last year it took in $17,284.

https://docs.google.com/open?id=0B0BPJUdnKjNSOTQ0OTYwMjctNjIyYi00MjRhLWE4OTEtMzUwNzgzZDFjNDlm

The Hartford Courant gave the tag sale some early publicity on Saturday, Feb. 18. Here's the link to the web version.

http://courantblogs.com/java/tabor-house-tag-sale-dates-set/

The Birdies are back!!

No, not those virtual Angry Birds squawking at you from your iPod. And not those menacing black birds that haunted you long after you saw Hitchcock's 1963 thriller. These birdies are actually golf balls. And Tabor House is asking you to predict how many golf balls the pros at the Travelers Championship will sink in the hole using one less stroke than the par for that hole. For example, if a golfer sinks the ball with two strokes on a par-3 hole, that's a Birdie. (So, not only is a Birdie a good score for a golfer, it's a good score for Tabor House.)

Last year at the Travelers Championship, PGA Tour pros made 1,839 Birdies. Tabor House is asking you to pledge a certain amount per Birdie for the total Birdies the pros will make from June 18 to June 24, when the Travelers Championship hosts the PGA Tour at the TPC River Highlands in Cromwell. Your per-Birdie pledge will be multiplied by the total number of Birdies the pros make, and your pledge will be calculated into a donation to Tabor House.

For example, if a you pledge $.01 for every birdie made, and the pros make 1,800 birdies during the tournament, your tax-deductible donation to Tabor House is $18.

Pledgers also have a chance to win prizes: a $1,000 cash gift card, 2 tickets to the Ryder Cup, and more stuff. We hope you will take a few minutes to participate in Birdies for Charity and pledge to Tabor House. Your donations will help us continue offering a healthy, safe, nurturing and productive place to live for homeless men living with HIV/AIDS. For 2012, our goal is to raise $2,000. For $2,000, we can buy 57 monthly bus passes to help residents get to work, school, volunteer opportunities, medical appointments, support groups and other activities to prepare them for eventually liviing on their own.

The Birdies pledge program is easy and fun - almost as good as being out there on the green! Pledge early and often!! Simply visit the Birdies pledge website. Fill out the pledge form and choose Tabor House from the drop down menu. Thank you for your continued support!

Click on this link to read the latest Tabor House Newsletter.

https://docs.google.com/open?id=0B0BPJUdnKjNScXpMSFhxN0xTQlczVkRMUTVSN3B3UQ

David Dyson, the tireless organizer of the annual GIANT Tag Sale to benefit Tabor House, has won the "Make a Statement in Your Community" Award from Liberty Bank. This is the first such award by the Middletown-based bank, which has 42 branches in central and southeastern Connecticut. It comes with a $2,500 prize, which David is contributing to Tabor House.

He was presented with the award Nov. 1 during an appearance on WHCN-FM, "The River" 105.9. Sister Ann Kane, middle,  executive director of Tabor House also was a guest on the show, hosted by Renee, as was Chandler J. Howard, left,  president and CEO of Liberty Bank.

She remembers all their names and their birthdays. And they will never forget her and the dignity she bestows on them.

Sister Rita McNally, a Sister of St. Joseph, won residents' hearts and became the stuff of legend after she addressed each man by first name when she met them at the Tabor House anniversary concert last year.

Throughout the year, residents, some of whom never celebrated a birthday before living at Tabor House, anticipate Sister Rita's presents, wrapped in he trademark gift bag.

After the concert, residents showed their appreciation for Sister Rita by presenting her with a corsage, a poem written by a resident just for her, a cake, and a gift bag similar to the one she gives them.

While residents say they are grateful for the contents of her brightly decorated bags, they treasure her true gift: love and kindness.

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The Paths to Tabor House

One in a series of residents' accounts of their lives and how Tabor House has helped them.

 Luis Is Ready for Independence Day

 Luis has been a tough guy all his life.

In his teens, he was sent by court order from his Hartford home to live in a juvenile detention center in Middletown. He ran away several times, then escaped for good, joining a notorious street gang.

He got hooked on drugs. He committed crimes to feed his habit. He spent his adult life more in jail than out. Along the way, he contracted HIV.

Today there is barely a hint of that tough guy.

Luis is polite, reserved and respectful. And he is not one for self pity. Although living with the virus can be painful and physically debilitating, and carries a stigma, he waves off any words of sympathy.

He is not proud of his past, does not make excuses and does not dwell on mistakes or misfortune.

"The things I did back then, I thought were normal," Luis said. "That's the way I had been all my life."

Today, Luis is clean and sober, takes care of his health, saves money in  a piggy bank and is looking forward to domesticity. He is about to move into the first apartment he's ever had. And as he packs the belongings in his room at Tabor House, Luis, who had no place for fear in his former life, is showing some sweat.

"Yeah, I'm a little scared," Luis said. "But being scared will keep me from going backward."

He credits his 2½ years at Tabor House for preparing him for this momentous step. The staff and administration treated him with dignity and gave him room to grow, he said.

"At Tabor House, they let me change in my own time. They taught me to be a better person. They taught me responsibility. I don't want to leave. But I want the experience of living on my own and not depending on a program."

Home Sweet Home

 If you want to help Luis set up housekeeping, here is what he needs:

• Flatware
• Curtains
• Bedframe for a full-size mattress
• End tables
• Coffee table

To arrange to donate, e-mail taborhousect@yahoo.com.