I've been in prison for 48 years, charged with the kidnapping and murder of the woman I loved.

The hardest part hasn't been sitting behind bars all this time. It's been the constant gut-wrenching memory of seeing the look on my beloved girlfriend's face

as she was stolen from my arms, taken away by the beast of the woods, and disappeared forever.

My name is Robin. My sister's name is Sparrow.

Our mother and father were hippies.

I was born in the late 1950s.

My father was an art professor and my mother, a graduate student, and we moved our family

to a farm owned by one of their friends who had inherited a property of over 500 acres.

Twenty other families lived on the property with us, housed in campers and tents and buses and the farm's outbuildings.

We survived on what was grown on the land, little else.

We didn't eat meat or use materials from animals such as leather or hides.

We produced a variety of items from hemp, which we cultivated on the farm,

along with several other plants not native to the state.

I can remember the police visiting us several times a week for many years.

They would be looking for a runaway or had heard complaints that we were smoking pot.

They found just about any reason they could to walk around the property and look in the buildings and campers.

They never found anything and life went on as usual once they left.

One September morning when I was 11 years old, the police arrived with a bus and took all the

children to school. That was difficult for us, as you can imagine, being a hippie, going to class with a bunch of

red-blooded Americans who all seemed to have loved all the fighting in Vietnam.

They would make fun of our clothes and our hair and even what we ate for lunch, which consisted of

only fruit and vegetables.

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