I've Been Drinking About You

Bottoms up!

This week’s blog is about craft beers. You read that correctly. This vocal wine-drinking writer has jumped ship, so to speak, and discovered craft beers. Mind you, I still love pairing wine with food. The only time I considered pairing beer with food was when I had pizza. The two just go together. Always. However, craft beers have changed the entire food pairing game for me. The nuances between varieties and brands are singly extraordinary. May I also be so bold as to say that, once you try craft beers, you can never go back to "corporate beers" again? I guess I just did.

My college girl daughter and I have been trying different regional brews for a few months now. I guess you can call us late bloomers in the craft beer world. She just turned 21 in November 2017, so my partner in crime and I have an excuse for our tardiness. It has been nice having this mother and daughter hobby tasting thing going on between us.

According to Brewbound, there are over 7,000 breweries in America in 2018 and the number of permits for future breweries opening are climbing. Don’t call craft beers a hipster trend. They aren’t. It’s clearly an American trend. During our tasting trips, we've see a wide demographics partaking; Traditionals, Boomers, Gen X, and Millennials that also includes all genders. Just like wines, there are many different brews to appeal to all palette types. Within the Southern Tier of New York and Northern Tier of Pennsylvania, we have a few of these microbreweries and you will find brew masters just as passionate about their beer making as a winemaker is about their wines. They will go into detail with you about hops, grains, yeast, and water as well as IBU’s, SRM’s, and ABV’s as they discuss a brew. These brew masters want you to understand the scientific process of it so you have a better appreciation for what it takes to make a great beer. We have tasted IPA’s, Stouts, Ambers, Pilsners, Porters, and on and on. Some with finishes of chocolate, fruit, nuts, or coffee and on and on. So many great brews to try and each one layered and unique with variations between batches—just like wines. Lordy!

So here I am. Foodie. Wine AND craft beer drinker. Living in easy driving distance to a great farm-to-table region with outstanding wineries and breweries around the Finger Lakes. The culinary trifecta. The Holy Trinity for taste buds. A hat trick of epicurean goodness. We seriously have it all in our neck of the woods. Does it get any better?!? I suppose finding a healthy balance would be advised. Practice. Practice. Practice.

A cause we could get behind! 

Favorite Brews:

n From War Horse Brewing Company: (Three Brothers Wineries & Estates): Nitro Breakfast With Churchill, The Big Broadcast Double IPA, Eisenhower Spice Cake, Royal Kilt Inspector, Rolling Storm Oktoberfest, and The Comet Line. They have amazing hard ciders, too!  

n  From Diversion Brewing Company: Cereal Killer, Deck the Hall & Oats, East Coast Roast, Sierra’s Missed.

n  From Horseheads Brewing Company: Brickyard Red, Pumpkin Ale

n  From Upstate Brewing Company: Mole Stout, Honey Porter, and Common Sense.  

n  From Empire Brewing Company: White Afro

Three Brothers Wineries & Estates' War Horse Brewing Company

By far, our favorite brewery to visit is War Horse Brewing Company in Geneva, NY. Along with great craft beers, it is situated on an estate vineyard and uses historical figures or events as its theme. Lots to see and do for hours of tasting fun plus they have a café so you can really make a day of it—or at least have an extended lunch. The staff is incredible. All of them are friendly, knowledgeable, and there to make sure you have a wonderful visiting experience. They also offer award-winning wines from dry to sweet. I highly recommend sampling their delicious Zweigelt Cabernet Sauvignon blend. You won’t be sorry!

Until next time, BOAF readers, may your pint glasses never be empty! 

Long Time, No See!

Robin Janney – Author sent me a plea this past week: “Would you be willing to start posting on Broads again?” I reluctantly said I’d try. Perhaps this will be the start of us taking turns posting weekly blogs. Who knows? At any rate, here I am. I even told Robin I didn’t know what to blog about and she suggested I should start with my recent stint at detoxing from social media. Okay.

Can't we all just get along?
Photo from Google Images

Self-admittedly, I am a Facebook addict. As a stay-at-home-mom/writer(or non-writer)/photographer/volunteer, I have a lot of down time or, as reality set in, lazy time. This became vividly clear when I consulted the time monitoring tool Facebook has within your settings. During the week of January 6^th, I had averaged a little over six hours a day on Facebook. Six Hours! It was startling. With this revelation also came the realization that my time on social media wasn’t really enjoyable anymore. Don’t get me wrong. I loved keeping in touch with friends and relatives; seeing pics and having virtual visits. What I wasn’t enjoying was the arguing and ugliness that has come to a head since the 2016 political campaigns kicked into gear in 2015. Mind you, civility has been on a general decline since the inception of social media, but this past election cycle certainly made it hit a crescendo. Some of the most innocent posts could be made and someone on your friends list would snap and attack—off topic and relentless. Never mind the posts of those belonging to a polar opposite ideological nature. Some of the comments I read on friend's or relative’s posts were outright hostile—vile even. Civility is gone. No longer is polite debate used. “Your statement is dumb. You’re dumb. Everyone who thinks like you is dumb. I hope something miserable happens to you so you realize this.” Ugh. I see a person’s Facebook page as their own space for expressing themselves. It’s personal. If they post something you don’t like, scroll by. Or unfollow. Or unfriend. Hell, block them if you feel so strongly. Simple. Instead, some use this as an opportunity to attack. I was often left wondering why some of these people were even friends. Seriously. It boggles the mind. So it is simple, if you can’t be civil, be gone. Think of your Facebook wall as your personal living room, so to speak. Would you allow this same person to come into your home, sit in your living room, and speak to you in that same manner? I sincerely hope your answer is no. Likewise, I would hope you don’t make a practice of entering a friend’s or relative’s home and committing this same act. It’s uncivil. It’s nasty. It’s upsetting. Who needs the stress? Don’t get me started on public account posts like a news station or public figure. I found my blood pressure rising as I read comments. Again, FRIENDLY debate is one thing, attacking is another. I don’t need that in my life. 

Because there is always a heckler who will disagree.
Photo from Google Images

My detox began a week ago today. I researched how to save my photos and videos from my Facebook account because I really didn’t want to lose them. The social media company has a way to convert your property to an HTML file and can be uploaded to the device of your choice. The whole process, including saving to my laptop, took less than an hour. At that point, I opted to start with deactivating my Facebook account. Mind you, my Messenger app is still working. Deleting my account may come later. Right now, I don’t want to do anything permanent. As an independent author, I used social media to market my eBooks. In fact, social media SOLD my eBooks.  

With my newfound “free time”, I have been able to do many projects around the house that I have been putting off for fear of missing my social media time. I have many more projects to do. It’s amazing how much one can accomplish in a day when they aren’t wasting time scrolling. I also got back into a healthier lifestyle routine again after a three year break. I have almost gained back all of the weight I had lost from 2012 through 2015. (A lot of that from stress eating and inactivity that came after my youngest daughter’s brain lesion discovery and the numerous opinions, follow-up appointments, and general stress that comes with such a diagnosis. As of May 2018, the lesion is still stable and unchanged.) I’m counting calories, eating healthier, and resumed daily exercise through walking at a pace of 3mph. I walked 20.34 miles over six days. It is uncanny how quickly your general outlook changes just from leaving social media. My mood is more positive. I have more energy AND I’m getting shit done. I am starting to feel more optimistic about my writing projects and hope to return to a regular writing schedule. I think one more week, as the social media toxins leave my psyche, and my creative side should return.

I hope all of our Broads of a Feather readers have been well and are ready for Team Robin Janney – Author and C.P. Stringham – Author to blog with regularity once again!

Remember This Name: Brock Allen Turner – The Stanford Rapist

Photo courtesy of Change.Org

My plan was to do an upbeat blog post for my turn at Broads of a Feather. Lord knows I’ve written a few emotional ones over the past few months. This time around I wanted to talk about the NYC trip I took with my oldest daughter. I guess that will have to wait until next time.

Over the course of the week, news of the sentencing outcome for the Stanford Rapist, Brock Allen Turner, came to the forefront of the news and you’d have to be living under a rock to miss it. Stories like this open old wounds for so many people who are the survivors of sexual assault. As members of a club we never wanted to be a part of, we are compelled to speak out against the injustices the victims of sexual assault endure.
In the case of the Stanford Rapist, Brock Allen Turner’s victim has been victimized again by the very system that is entrusted to bring justice to those who commit these ghastly and unforgivable crimes. You see, Brock Allen Turner is part of the Good Ol’ Boys’ Society. Instead of focusing on the fact that this deviant moved around the crowd at a campus party, attempting to force his groping hands and unwelcomed kisses on other female attendees (including the victim’s sister), who each sent him on his way, he managed to stumble upon the one female in the group who was unable to push off his advances due to being under the influence of alcohol, the judge, The Honorable Aaron Persky, decided to factor in Brock Allen Turner’s swim times and the impact the outcome would have on his promising future when he sentenced him to only six months in prison. Six months. Six fucking months on a crime that normally comes with a minimum sentence of fifteen years. I was speechless after reading about it. How could something like this happen? It’s 2016, for God’s sake! Have we not evolved at all?
And this wasn’t a simple case of He Said/She Said. Two male graduate students came upon the rape scene (Turner dragged her off behind a dumpster to violate her while she was unconscious) and had to give chase when Brock Allen Turner tried to run away. These two witnesses who had to describe, in full detail, what they witnessed and, still, Judge Persky gave that abominable six month sentence for three felony counts!!! Outrageous. Utterly outrageous. And then I came across the victim’s victim impact statement and I shed tears for a person I’ve never laid eyes upon. She eloquently conveyed her thoughts and feelings over her horrific experience and how it is effecting, not only her, but her family members and friends as well. On the day of Brock Allen Turner’s sentencing, she stood up in court and read her 7,000+ word statement and addressed the judge and her rapist. This young lady is not only a survivor, she is a warrior. Because of her speaking out, it brings more attention to the rabid rape culture many in our society still refuse to admit exists.

The face of a rapist. Brock Allen Turner's
mug shot.Photo courtesy of Stanford Dept.
 of Public Safety.

What made this story worse—and who thought it could get any worse?—Brock Allen Turner’s father, Dan Turner, also wrote a letter to the judge, begging for sentencing leniency for his son because, “His life will never be the one he dreamed about or worked so hard to achieve. That is a steep price to pay for 20 minutes of action out of his 20 plus years of life.” Twenty minutes of action?! Did he really say that? Was this really read aloud in court? With stellar parenting like that, is it any wonder why Brock Allen Turner preys upon unconscious women to sexually assault them? Well done, Dan! You’ve raised a monster who shares the same vile ideals as you do! A female is nothing more than a living, breathing fuck hole for you to do what you want with! What did you call it? Oh, that’s right! Getting some “action” while mixing in a generous portion of victim blaming. By saying what you did, you condoned his behavior. You feel that he was entitled to take what he wanted from a woman unable to even stay conscious while he savagely raped her.

And now an online fund raiser has been started for convicted rapist Brock Allen Turner to help his family with his legal fees. Are you fucking kidding me?! What is even more startling of a revelation? There will be assholes who contribute to this fund raiser.

Stanford law Professor Michele Landis Dauber has organized a campaign to recall The Honorable Judge Aaron Persky. If this story angers you, then add your name to the petition as well! Let’s remove this man from the bench so he can’t make any more abominable sentences that victimizes victims all over again. As of 3:13pm June 9th, 2016, the Change.Org campaign to recall Judge Persky has reached almost one million supporters. 
**Update 6:52pm June 9th** 
An online inmate record source has Brock Allen Turner entered into the system with a release date of September 2, 2016. Not only is his sentence cut in half, he never has to leave the local jail! How's that for entitlement most grand?    


Robin's Two Cents:

While I was at work tonight, Carol sent me a message telling me about her blogpost so that I could read it in draft and she gave me the opportunity to add my two cents to it. Or a nickel and a dime...

I'm angry.

The entire ordeal pisses me off.  Because, I too am a survivor of a sexual assault.

I can't believe I just typed that. I've never really even said those words out loud. In so many ways, my assault was minor and I've always felt that because it wasn't rape, that it didn't really count.  That my years of PTSD were over nothing. I didn't even really say as much when Carol did her When It Happened To Me post back in February.

But it wasn't nothing. It was something. And like the Stanford rape case, it was in the public. Even though it went unseen. I hope. Because if not, OMG! 

I had stopped at a local convenience store one afternoon when I was about 21, and as I was getting ready to pull away I spotted one of my uncles. So I stopped, I think I called out to him and he approached my car. It all happened so fast. I think he looked around the parking lot before reaching in my window, but I'm not sure.  All I know is that I thought my uncle, my father's brother, was reaching in to hug me...but no, he wasn't. He was groping my breasts.

"You know your Uncle Dickhead wouldn't do anything to hurt you, right?"

Those were his words to me when he was done.  I did the only thing I could think of at the time, full of shock, and that was to nod my head.  We parted ways after that.  I never saw him again as a matter of fact. This man who looked enough like my father that they could have been twins died about two months later. And I didn't even go to his funeral.

I can't even judge how long it took for the shock to wear off and the reality of it to hit me. I doubt the ladies at the library I visited minutes after this occurrence were able to tell that anything bad had happened to me. There was a part of my mind that was saying: 'No, you're in public. You can't break down now. You have to be normal. You don't want them to know what happened.'

When I got home, I told my mother what had happened. I was not discrete, everyone who was there at the time heard what had happened to me. The only thing I really remember about the conversation was a sister, who is a family-rape survivor, advised me that maybe there were some things we didn't need to talk about with the whole family. Why upset things? Or perhaps she was trying to save me from victim shaming. I don't really know.

But see, silence makes it easier for rape and assault and abuse to keep on happening. I later found out, that this uncle had a reputation for assaulting his nieces.  WTF???? Why wasn't this talked about? Why weren't we warned not to trust him????

Why was the only one who suggested that I call the police and press charges, someone who wasn't related to me? A nurse at the nursing home were I worked was the only one who suggested this, as I sobbed at the feet of an elderly woman I had been uncharacteristically cross with. I never did, and today - part of me regrets that. Part of me regrets letting that bastard die thinking that what he did to me was okay.

My heart goes out to the Stanford Rape Survivor. We all heal differently, at different speeds and different phases. I hope she isn't plagued for years with the fallout of her rape, even though I know better.

This is how I felt.. Shattered.
Only like I was bleeding internally.
Like I was bleeding everywhere.

Because of the silence, I internalized my anger and hatred and rage. Even though I was in counseling. I lost my job because it affected my work. I lost my next job because of the depression

I no longer felt safe. I always had to know where the doors were in restaurants, and I had to have my back against the wall...I needed to see what and who was coming at me and know where to bolt if I had to. I STILL do this, because part of me never feels like it needs to be on guard even if I 'feel' safe.

I could no longer be in a tight space, especially if there was a man also in that space with me - which  meant I could no longer serve in my church's communication center, because it was really just a cubby hole beneath the stairway

And once I started feeling claustrophobic and couldn't get myself out of the situation, that's when the anxiety would start. Not worry, sheer panic.

It's not as bad as it once was. But I still like to be in control of my situation. I like knowing what is going on in my work area, who is doing what.  Even though I don't feel threatened in any way by any of my coworkers, I still watch them from the corner of my eyes. Whenever someone walks through our area, my eye follows them.  I try not to panic when the carts full of product start getting too cluttered. I still lose my temper when I'm enclosed for too long and there's too many people

I hope the Stanford Rape Survivor's healing is different. I hope she shines in everything she does with her life. I hope she realizes that her life potential has not been diminished by what was done to her body.  I hope she realizes her value. I hope she has an amazing support group around her.

I hope her rapist rots. I hope her rapist's father rots. I hope her rapist's friend who also wrote a letter telling how 'respectful' of women he was - rots. Where they rot, I don't care. Just far away from The Survivor. I hope their friends turn on them. I hope work is uncomfortable. I hope the rapist can't even get a job and has to live at home with dad. I hope he chokes on steak and can never ever ever swim again.

I hope the men who stepped in and stopped the rapist are lauded forever as the heroes they are. I hope they are held up as examples of what men and women should do when they see a woman, a child, another man, in a situation where they are being harmed. Even if we forget their names like they want, may we never forget what they did. That they stood up for The Survivor when she couldn't stand for herself. That it didn't matter to them that she was drunk, that all they saw was a woman being harmed. May we also remember what they didn't do. There was no victim shaming. They didn't ask to take their turn at the "action".

Photo courtesy of  Healing Heart - Life After Rape

I hope Judge Aaron Persky - who is an alumnus of the same university as the rapist - looses his position.  I hope the petition Carol shared above is successful. That he looses the election.  Recalled. Anything to stop him from making this same horrible decision ever again. Brock the Rapist wasn't caught skipping school, or stealing a candy bar...he was caught raping a woman.  I hope the judge's family is kept safe though, it's not their fault.

If you haven't signed the petition Carol mentioned earlier, please do so now. As of 12:15am Friday morning, we are 3,866 signatures shy of making the goal.

That's all I have to say really. More than I intended, but still so inadequate.

Stop the madness.

Please. 

I think I'm Slowly Going Mad By C.P. Stringham

The spot that started it all. 

I’m not myself. I haven’t been since March 2015. That was when an imaging scan revealed a lesion on my then fifteen year-old daughter’s brain. The scan was ordered to see why she was having increased headaches and vision abnormalities associated with migraines. (During this past week’s appointment at Golisano Children’s Hospital, I learned from the pediatric neuro-oncologist that such findings are called an “incidental diagnosis.”) For over a year, I have been walking a mental tightrope constructed of fear, sadness, and anxiety. Although her pediatric neurologist, whom she’s been under the care of for her epilepsy these past nine years, felt the lesion was going to turn out to be “something boring,” he still referred her to a pediatric neurosurgeon at a state and nationally ranked hospital for his official opinion. We left that appointment with the same prognosis as her pediatric neurologist had given us; addressing the brain anomaly as a lesion or scar tissue that she could have had since development and that it appeared to pose no threat. Due to her autism and the cognitive damage her grand mal seizure caused in 2014, the location of the lesion, near her thalamus, hypothalamus, and brain stem, was deemed too dangerous on both a cognitive and physiological level to risk a biopsy.

L to R: The morning after her grand mal seizure with broken capillaries evident on her face, neck, and chest
from increased blood pressure, straining, and lack of oxygen; four days later and her skin tone almost back to
normal. 

      Six months later, we returned to the larger hospital for a comparison contrast MRI. Due to the mild reaction she had to contrast dye at our local facility, the MRI had to be performed at Golisano because they are better equipped for an adverse reaction. The contrast dye plays such a pivotal role in imaging lesions, her doctors agreed it was worth the risk to get the better images. She was prescribed Prednisone, an antihistamine, and Ativan ahead of the scan. We left the hospital for her across town follow-up appointment with the pediatric neurosurgeon. During the appointment, his vocabulary evolved since our initial appointment from lesion and scar tissue to glioma and tumor. My husband and I felt like we suffered a direct blow to our hearts. A medical sucker punch. We had been naïve. Maybe looking through rose-colored glasses during the first round of appointments. At any rate, I chastised myself for not jumping on the computer and researching as much as I could about brain lesions. If I had, I would have asked a lot more questions during the first visit. I realize doctors don’t want to make a patient and their family panic, especially when they feel the prognosis is positive, but I went into it blind and uninformed. I know how much doctors hate when patients or their family members use computers for self-diagnosis, however, being prepared isn’t a bad thing.

Posing for photos last summer. I love that face! 

With the change in vocabulary, I researched the terms and recommendations. My husband, while he was just as worried, wasn’t freaking out like I was. He remained patient as I had my mom meltdowns fueled by “what ifs?” I consulted with a friend who is an ER physician’s assistant. In her department, she gets exposed to a little of everything. I asked her if getting a second opinion was too extreme. She actually encouraged it even if it was just for peace of mind. I arranged for a second opinion at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. Their pediatric neurology and oncology departments are ranked third in the nation. My daughter’s godmother’s mom let us spend the night at her house to make the five hour trip to Philly a little easier on all of us. Staying with her put us less than forty miles from the hospital. Their pediatric neuro-oncologist agreed with our daughter’s doctors not only on the status of the tumor, but reaffirmed that a biopsy would be detrimental to her. Mackenzie isn’t the same child since her grand mal and we can’t risk losing more of her.

In March, Mackenzie traveled to Rochester and had another six month comparison MRI. The neuro-radiologist and her pediatric neurosurgeon concurred that her tumor appears to be stable and unchanged. Upon getting her latest results, her pediatric neurosurgeon turned Mackenzie’s future follow-ups and comparison imaging over to a pediatric neuro-oncologist. Before meeting the new doctor, she had her routine six month epilepsy check-up with her pediatric neurologist. During the visit, we discussed her increased incidence of migraines with “Alice in Wonderland” syndrome tendencies, her weight gain caused by her anti-seizure medication (forty-eight pounds in two and a half years), and her memory issues (ßthank you, Grand Mal Seizure). On the way home, I read over her computer printout from her visit notes. Under "Problem List" it read: "Migraine with typical aura, Malignant neoplasm of the brain, Generalized convulsive epilepsy, Congenital anomaly of brain, Amnesia. “Malignant neoplasm of the brain?!” I was crushed. With everything we’d been told, no one had used the M-word. Not once. We were told, “low grade glioma of the thalamus, without midline crossing of the brain; clear edges with no vascular involvement; size unchanged and stable.” I called the doctor’s office en route to our home and asked the receptionist if a DX code had been entered incorrectly since there had been no mention of a malignancy. She assured me she would speak with the doctor since it needed to be fixed for insurance purposes. My husband waited until the next day to call and make sure it had been fixed. With everything going on, having an issue come up with our insurance would be horrible. That was when she told him the doctor wanted to talk with us. He called an hour later. It boils down to there being too much “uncertainty" with her lesion and DX code limitations. Since Kenzie is being referred to the pediatric neuro-oncologist for further follow-ups and monitoring, her pediatric neurologist wanted to make sure her paperwork was in order. The hospital’s computer doesn't allow for a "middle of the road" diagnosis. A glioma is either benign or malignant. There is no in between. While images showed no signs of growth changes or indicated vascular involvement, the only 100% way to know would be to biopsy and, as already stated, it isn’t an option.

This past week, we met with her pediatric neuro-oncologist. He was a very nice man. Kenzie explained that she was missing school because her teachers ended their strike the day before and he went on to tell her how, when he was a student, he and his classmates went on strike to protest the quality of the food served in their cafeteria. He winked at her and told her that he was a student during the 60’s and protests like that happened all the time. At any rate, he made us feel comfortable and encouraged a lot of questions—from all of us. My college freshman daughter joined us for the appointment. We’re a tight-knit family. What affects one of us, affects all of us. While we chatted with the doctor, my thoughts focused on his occupation. I couldn’t imagine having his job. While I know there have been many breakthrough treatments, I still can’t imagine telling a family their child has terminal cancer. Right now, Mackenzie isn’t part of that group. He seemed very optimistic about her prognosis, but did acknowledge the difficulty “uncertainty” caused for all concerned.

Do they come in a chocolate truffle flavor?

This past year, even with some truly great events occurring, has been shadowed by Mackenzie’s diagnosis. I try not to dwell. God bless the creator of Xanax! Without it, I’d never be able to focus coherently again, especially when my mind goes around in what if circles. Uncertainty sucks. It rules your life. Several times Mackenzie has asked me, “Why do all the bad things happen to me?” The kid has autism, epilepsy, migraines, and cognitive issues. And now she has a brain tumor. Seems like a fair question for her to ask. Only I don’t know how to answer her. Honestly, I barely have time to turn away from her before she has a chance to see the tears welling in my eyes or the worry lines appear on my face. I’ve become a hermit. I've isolated myself from others more than ever before—I’m already an introvert. My poor husband takes the brunt of my turbulent emotions. I usually snap at him and my patience level is pretty much non-existent. I have great friends who keep telling me to remain optimistic and to focus on the positive. I wish I knew how. I wish I knew how to turn some worry switch off inside my brain to make such a feat possible. I lack this ability. Meanwhile, we go forward and wait for the next six month comparison MRI.

As for productive writing, it doesn’t come to me. I wanted to have my next book published in May. The book is only at the halfway point. I simply can’t focus on writing. I hope my readers will continue to be supportive and don’t forget about me.   

You’ve Got A Friend In Me – By C.P. Stringham

My dad's pride and joy 1946 Willy's Jeep and Mom's brand new
1979 Buick Regal in the background. I just remember the Jeep
didn't have any seatbelts. Have times changed! 

I’ve had a lot of time to be retrospective lately. I’m helping plan a 25^th wedding anniversary party for a high school friend who I had lost touch with until recently. The sad part of this admission is that, for the past twenty years, we have lived within seven to fifteen miles of each other at any given time and have only been “reunited” since I joined Facebook seven years ago. Alas, while we complain about the time we “waste” on social media, it has been a great tool for catching up with long lost friends. While Penny graduated a year behind me, we attended a very small school in rural Northeastern Pennsylvania where everyone knew everybody. Since we were from the same “neighborhood,” we rode the same school bus and her younger brother was best friends with my younger brother.

Fred's 1979 Camero - This car ate Ford Mustangs for breakfast! 

My kid brother's high school sidekick and Penny's kid brother, Brent.

In fact, while I was in college or home visiting from the Philly area, I felt like Brent was a part of the family. He and Fred were always working on some car project. Brent had a classic Chevy Nova with a 383 engine that he was able to miraculously keep dirt road dust off of like it was made out of Teflon or something. Fred’s first car was a ’79 Buick Regal. The car was ordered new by my parents, driven by our mom for years before being given to me until I bought my yuppie Honda Accord, and then was passed down to Fred. The stock 231 V-6 engine wasn’t enough for my brother—the vo-tech student who took after our motorhead father. He

 dropped a performance 350 in with a racing cam, installed a racing torque converter, and replaced the highway-friendly, gas-saving 308 rear for a lower 373 rear for weekday driving, and had a 411 rear for “weekend driving”—which meant faster take off for drag racing. You know, something EVERY high school boy needs in a car. Zero to sixty in what-the-hell seconds! I grew up in a house where knowing the higher the number of a rear, the lower it was geared for faster take off and the lower the number of a rear, the higher it was geared for higher top end long distance speed was all second nature. And then came his 1979 Chevy Camero. Again, its stock 305 V-8 wasn’t fast enough, so he upgraded to a small block Chevy 350. He bored out the cylinders and added a performance cam. It was fast. Really fast. I recall a test drive with him at the wheel, Eric Cressman in the copilot’s seat, and me in the rear seat, flying along the back stretch of County Route 427, heading back towards Wellsburg, at an easy 140mph. The engine had more to give, but we were running out of unpopulated roadway. I remember saying, “What’s that smell?” and Eric answering with a grin, “Brake shoes. It takes a lot of brake to slow down at this speed.” I made the sign of the cross and wondered if my brother had the foresight to install a parachute—just in case. Whatever car my brother had taken from tame and transformed into “Frankenwheels,” you could bet Penny’s little brother had spent some time under the hood as well. I guess that makes him Igor, the mad mechanic’s assistant!

Our founding Liberal Ladies members!! L-to-R: Jan, Michelle,
Penny, Me, and my oldest. We are now 23 members strong!

Penny is one of the founding members of our Liberal Ladies’ Luncheon League. Living in a predominately conservative area makes for lonely political conversations to those who are like-minded. We have to stick together. And we do. While I tend to keep my social media posts tame, she isn’t afraid to ruffle feathers. As an author, who counts on social media to help sell books, I have to exercise restraint. That doesn’t mean I won’t like the hell out of someone’s progressive post!

Penny and I are also 

Meeting up at ArtsFest! Me with Penny and her boys!

moms of children on the Autism Spectrum. Both of her boys have the higher functioning Asperger’s Syndrome, while my youngest was classified with Pervasive Development Disorder – Not Otherwise Specified. We’ve learned to lean on each other over the past few years because, even though our families and other friends mean well, they truly don’t understand what moms of special needs children go through. If it isn’t a medical or a behavioral issue we are trying to work through, it’s a school-related issue. Our kids have Individual Education 

Me with Robin Janney- Author and Penny. Unplanned purple wardrobe.

Plans or IEP’s. We have to continually advocate for our kids to make sure they are receiving the necessary educational services to make them successful students. For my daughter, things have gone smoothly at our local school. For Penny’s boys, not so much. They are almost finished with their first year of homeschooling and it has been highly satisfying for momma and sons.

Penny and her family; L-to-R: Dillon, Helene, Ashton, and Kevin.

This year is Penny’s 25^th wedding anniversary; a huge accomplishment in this day and age of high rate divorce. She and Kevin have made it through years of infertility issues, employment setbacks, Penny’s autoimmune disease, and, currently, they are both dealing with spine-related injuries. Penny is in need of a second cervical spine fusion and Kevin just had his first cervical disc surgery—because, when it rains, it pours. With all the stress of keeping up with their financial responsibilities, they need to take time to celebrate the milestone their marriage has hit. With everyone’s hectic schedules, it is too hard to attempt a surprise party, so family and friends alike are helping to organize the event. Penny asked if I would help out and I jumped in and our fellow Liberal Lady, Jan, and her husband, Doug, have offered their services as well. Since my family is dealing with its own set of medical issues with both of my daughters, I needed the distraction party planning would bring about. I’ve been crafting for two weeks. Guest table centerpieces, dessert table decorations, bridal table decorations, etc. I’ve been doing what I can to make it special for my friend. My mom even lent a hand last weekend. She loves any crafting task that allows her to whip out her hot glue gun! She’s also making the cupcakes and ceremonial cake for the cupcake tower. My neighbor, Betty, is even donating her incredible bar cookies, my mom’s making pecan tassies, and Penny’s aunt is making snickerdoodles with more varieties to come. What’s better at a party than a fully equipped dessert table?!?

At any rate, that’s what I’ve been up to, so no writing is really going on. A little here. A little there. It’s all good. I’ll be sure to post party pics in an upcoming blog post.  

The invitations! 

When It Happened To Me By: C.P. Stringham

Internet search meme from Justice for Jane Doe in
Steubenville with link. 

According to statistics compiled by the Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network, known as RAINN, one out of every six women in the United States will be the victim of sexual assault in their lifetime. Let that sink in for a moment. Even if you are male, consider the likelihood that your grandmother, mother, aunt, sister, cousin, daughter, or granddaughter, one of them has been or will be the victim of sexual assault in their lifetime. If this statistic doesn’t make you angry, it should. If you aren’t angry, it also means YOU are part of the problem. This so-called “rape culture” you keep hearing about is real. The same research by RAINN also states that one in thirty-three men have been the victim of sexual assault. You see, sexual assault isn’t gender bias. As for the perpetrators, some are serial offenders who prey upon strangers when opportunity avails itself. They get off on the violence and control of the act. Others are authority figures; church leaders, coaches, counselors, neighbors, and family members who take advantage of those with whom they are entrusted with. And then there is the final group; those who seem to have a lack of understanding over what constitutes as sexual consent, so here's a video that pretty much dumbs it down for even the most obtuse person:

The tide is slowly turning for victims of sexual assault. They are stepping forward and sharing their stories in the hopes of helping other victims know they are not alone. Our society is being called upon to change this antiquated mindset of victim blaming. It is also time to hold the assailants responsible for their own behaviors. There are no acceptable excuses for their actions. None. "He had too much to drink." "He wasn't raised better." "He was a victim himself." Bullshit. Lady Gaga movingly performed Till It Happens To You during the 2016 Oscar’s last night. She, herself, the victim of sexual assault, had the courage to co-write and perform this song as her proclamation to the world. The lyrics are so true: Till it happens to you, you don’t know how it feels.  

This blog post has been a long time in the making for me. I’ve started writing it in my head many times over and, each time, I lose my nerve. Allow me some levity as I do what I feel compelled to do. In my Ellis Springs Series, the subject of rape is an ever-present theme in each volume, from the date rape of teen Kori Marshall to the marital rape of adult Grace Werner, readers follow along with how these victims cope in the aftermath of sexual assault. Grace’s affects her in such a way that she pursues a career as a county victim/witness advocate to help others find, not only the satisfaction of seeing their assailant pay for their crime, but to also assist the victim in finding the psychological help they need to work through their assault. Moving forward, I know authors are supposed to take the high road when it comes to negative reviews about their books. And I have. I truly look at each and every one of my reviews, good and bad, and use them to grow as an author. I appreciate when readers tell me what they liked and what they didn’t like. With that said, here I go with addressing one of my reviewers for my eBook A Moment’s Rest.  The female reviewer said, and I quote, “The author clearly has a political agenda to pursue, which I found distasteful and overbearing…Rape was covered in the first book, don't think we needed to do that so graphically again.” Well, she’s absolutely right. I do have a political agenda. However, did I overstep with the subject matter? No. No. And no. Let’s look at that statistic from RAINN again. One in six women will be the victim of a sexual assault in their lifetime. ONE IN SIX!!! I’m using my blog to tell our Broads of a Feather readers that I am one of those females who was the victim of sexual assault.

Internet search from Psychology Today with link to article.

So, you see, I have personal experience with this particular subject matter. I have carried the emotional baggage of shame, guilt, and fear for most of my life. Now, the chorus of our misguided rape culture will read this and comments like “you must have been asking for it” or “you had to be dressed promiscuously” will be said. For the record, I was a child victim of sexual assault. Just eleven years old. My assailant was an adult male over thirty years old and the uncle of a boy I rode the school bus with every day. I’m forty-five years old now. Thirty-five years have passed and I can still close my eyes and recall, in vivid detail, what he was wearing (right down to the Italian horn pendant he wore on a thick gold chain around his neck), I can hear the words he said to me to gain my trust, and even how his clothing smelled of fried foods and perspiration. My sexual assault, while not nearly as bad as what others have endured, is ingrained in my sensory memory as if it happened yesterday. I suffered in silence. I have never told my parents. I’ve never told a single family member because I thought what happened to me was my fault. I felt dirty and ashamed because I let it happen.  

Internet search from Unsafe at Home with link.

The first person I ever confided in was my husband and that didn’t come about until we were well into our first year of living together. I was twenty-one years old. Even now, thirty-five years later and I have only shared my story with a select few. While working in retail management over the course of eighteen years, the majority of my part-time employees were high school and college students. To some of them, I became the adult they could talk to about everything. Even their most horrid personal experiences. One teen told me how their grandfather had recently molested them. This high school girl’s family didn’t believe her. Not only did she endure being sexually assaulted by a trusted and loved family member, she was betrayed by the rest of her family and called a liar. Another told me about the savage rape they’d experienced at the hands of a complete stranger. This same employee wrote poetry and asked me to read the poem she wrote about her experience—a poem in which she compared rape to death and how it had robbed her of who she used to be. I remember driving home that night and crying for her. Crying for myself. So much she had written hit home with my own feelings. The entire time these young people came to trust me with their secrets, I questioned my own inability to talk about my experience. I was no longer the scared little girl. Enough time had passed and I wasn’t in any danger of meeting my assailant again. As the years passed and I encountered others who had similar experiences to mine, I finally talked about what I went through. But, still, it was only to a handful of people. For some reason, I couldn’t openly talk about it. It’s only been since the whole Jerry Sandusky thing that I have addressed it and again, to a select few. The Penn State cover-up angered me when I had friends defending the actions of the university’s administration. I grew tired hearing how the victims came from broken homes and their parents should have known and how they didn’t protect their children. Even some blamed the victims because they kept quiet for so long. They accused the victims of coming forward solely based on monetary reasons with the opportunity of upcoming lawsuits that were bound to happen. I didn’t come from a broken home. My parents did care, they never knew, and they did protect me. I grew up when the world was different and naive. Sexual assault simply wasn’t talked about. People were trusted because no one realized how prolific it was. I told my oldest daughter about my experience three years ago. I felt it my duty to let her know that I was a victim. She was dating age and I wanted her to be able to see a face with the national statistic. I think it is prudent of victims of sexual assault to make others see faces with the statistic. This epidemic needs to have a face, a familiar face, in order for members of our society to feel a personal stake in it. Only then can the stigma attached to victims go away and our rampant rape culture be dealt with.

April is Sexual Assault Awareness Month

Due to what happened to me at eleven years old, it shaped me into the parent I am today. Some may call it paranoia, but I prefer to think of myself as a vigilant parent. It takes a lot of time before I trust anyone with my children. I have to know that family members aren’t going to be lax while my children are in their care. I have to know the people who my children may come into contact with while they are in their company. I’m always on guard when we are out in public. There is a difference between a male admiring your cute teen daughter from afar and another who seems to be lurking and fixated. I’ve learned to trust my gut. If someone seems a little off, then it is with good reason to avoid that person at all costs because it only takes a second for something to happen. 
**As an Addendum to my original post, I wanted to mention the outpouring of support, encouragement, and love I have received since going public with my story. Not only have readers posted comments to this blog post, my personal Facebook page, and my author Facebook page, I have also received private messages from other victims/survivors--some who have already publicly shared the burden of their experience and some who have not yet reached the point of being able to really talk about it all. I wanted to post one of the comments on the actual blog portion for others to more easily see. 

  Jill Marie: Thank you for your bravery. The darkness of abuse cannot flourish in the light of brave and compassionate people. There is much work that needs to be done to improve outcomes and support for victims, but few are willing to do it. Awareness is key. I would encourage parents of young children to teach body safety. I didn't do this nearly early enough. If anyone discloses abuse to you, don't ask 'are you sure?'. It may be the last time they utter a word of it and there may then be countless other victims. Do not trust that the legal system will fix this problem. We need many, many, concerned, educated, and passionate society members so that we can have a safe, healthy, and productive society. There is no one to blame for any type of abuse on another person than the perpetrator, those who hide the truth, or those that attack the victim. C.P. Stringham, thank you for sharing. 

My name is C.P. Stringham. I am a wife, a mother, an author, and the victim survivor of sexual assault. To our blog readers who suffer in silence,  please know that you are not alone.  

   Resources for Statistics & Help:

90% of cases are never reported

Which means the majority of sexual offenders are walking the streets free and unknown to society.

Why? It often takes a long time for the child to tell someone, and even though they may disclose to a friend, therapist, or family member - it's not being reported. The child & family may not want to face the difficulty of having to go through the investigation & possibly a trial. The person may not believe the child. And often, since it takes so long for children to finally tell - many are often adults by the time they disclose their abuse. - From The Mama Bear Effect Website.

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www.rainn.org with link 

Women:

1 out of every 6 American women has been the victim of an attempted or completed rape in her lifetime (14.8% completed rape; 2.8% attempted rape).¹

17.7 million American women have been victims of attempted or completed rape.¹

9 of every 10 rape victims were female in 2003.²

                                       ^Men:

                                                              About 3% of American men — or 1 in 33 — have                                                       experienced an attempted or completed rape in their lifetime.¹

• From 1995-2010, 9% of rape and sexual assault victims were male.¹⁰
• 2.78 million men in the U.S. have been victims of sexual assault or rape.¹

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www.nomore.org with link

Listen without judgement

If someone you know discloses that they are experiencing abuse now or have in the past, remember this could be the first time they’re telling someone. Listening without judgment or blame and letting the person know they’re not alone can make a huge difference. If the victim/survivor you care about or you are in need of support, ask them if they’d like to talk to a professional counselor, and offer to sit with them while they call the 24-hour national hotlines. While you may have a strong reaction to what happened, it’s important to focus and fully listen to the survivor’s words. 

Tip (via the Joyful Heart Foundation’s 6 Steps to Supporting a Survivor) → Sometimes you don’t even need words (or at least, many words), to be there for someone. Many people share that just being able to tell their story to someone else lessens the weight of isolation, secrecy and self-blame. Remember, listening alone can make a huge difference in someone’s life.

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1. Listen. 

Sometimes you don’t even need words (or at least, a lot of words), to be there for someone. Many people share that just being able to tell their story to someone else lessens the weight of isolation, secrecy and self-blame. Remember, listening in and of itself is an act of love. 

2. Validate. 

Think about a time when you felt vulnerable or faced a crisis, and think of what helped you the most. Chances are that it was not a specific conversation that you had, but it was the knowledge and comfort the person or people you told were there for you, believed in you, were on your side and were committed to supporting you through a hard time. 

“I’m so sorry this happened to you.” 

“I believe you.”

“This is not your fault.” 

“You’re not alone. I’m here for you and I’m glad you told me.”

Often times, a survivor may feel like what happened to them is their fault. We are bombarded with victim-blaming myths and attitudes in our society, and they can sink in…deeply. But no action excuses a person hurting someone else. Violence and abuse is never the victim’s fault. That responsibility and shame lies with the perpetrator. It can be helpful to communicate that gently and repeatedly.

“Nothing you did or could’ve done differently makes this your fault.”

“The responsibility is on the person who hurt you.”

“No one ever has the right to hurt you.”

“I promise, you didn’t ask for this.”

“I know that it can feel like you did something wrong, but you didn’t.”

“It doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t _______. No one asks to be hurt in this way.”

3. Ask what more you can do to help. 

Violence and abuse is about power and control. It is vital for survivors to regain their sense of personal power and agency. Instead of pushing someone into taking actions for which they are not ready, ask how you can support them. 

4. Know where to point someone to for more help. 

You can best help the survivor by offering options and leaving space for them to decide where to go from there. Here are some national resources—services that can point someone to local resources in your area. 

Rape, Abuse & Incest National Network Sexual Assault Helpline

1.800.656.4673 | www.rainn.org

National Child Abuse Hotline

1.800.422.4453 | www.childhelp.org

National Domestic Violence Hotline

1.800.799.7233 | www.ndvh.org

National Teen Dating Abuse Helpline

1.866.331.9474 | www.loveisrespect.org

5. Keep an open heart. 

Remind them that you are available should they like to talk about their experiences further. The healing journey can be a long one, full of many challenging—but sometimes joyful and liberating—conversations. Knowing that you are there to support along the way can make a big difference for someone. 

“If we are able to communicate only one thing about your role in a survivor’s journey, it is this: never ever underestimate your power to affect its course.”  

- Maile Zambuto, Joyful Heart CEO

 6. Finally, care for yourself. 

There is a limit to what we are able to take in and process. The stories of someone else’s hardships related to a traumatic event can impact or become a part of us. This experience of second-hand trauma—often called vicarious trauma—is a human response to coming face-to-face with the reality of trauma and the difficulties of the human experience. 

It’s important to care for yourself as you support another person. You cannot be your best self in your supportive role if you find yourself too tired to listen with care and compassion, or overfilled with your own emotions in response to another’s trauma. These feelings are totally valid. Take some time after a conversation to enjoy the outdoors, or do a healthy activity that makes you feel good as a way of re-centering yourself. We have more ideas on how to mitigate vicarious trauma here.

Remember, you can be your best self for someone else when you give yourself the space to honor your own needs.

- See more at: http://www.joyfulheartfoundation.org/blog/6-steps-supporting-survivor#sthash.N7xDVihW.dpuf