Fan Friday—Brock the Rapist


Oh, yes, I’m going there. Along with everyone else.

But here’s my question:

What about his mother? We haven’t heard a peep. Dad, yes; what an ass. But where’s Mom in all this? I think I might know something about that. Read on:

Dear Carleen—

I know this is your baby boy. And I know it’s hard. I’ve been there, in a way.

Welcome to reality.

As parents, we all like to think our kids are special or outstanding, and many of them are, in the eyes of the world as well as in our own. But our kids aren’t extensions of us, they are their own individuals. They will do what they’ve been taught, or sometimes they’ll do the opposite.

In your case, however, having read your husband’s statement, it sounds an awful like Brock was taught how to be a douche.

I didn’t teach my kid to be the way he is—you see, my son is a felon too. He was in trouble a lot, some of it legal trouble, before that felony was committed. And he always got off with a slap on the wrist. When he was finally taken down to juvie, I told the judge, when asked, that I couldn’t make the decision for my son to stay or to come home.

This was my boy, but he was violent and unpredictable and it was frightening. I didn’t know how else to answer the question, I just wanted my boy back, the real one, the one who was funny and sarcastic and had a lot of plans for his life.

So the judge sentenced him to three weeks. I doubt he has ever forgiven me for that. He was in and out of a few county jails before the “big one,” always just a slap on the wrist for misdemeanors, and then finally, it happened.

Felony charges and prison time. He was sentenced to four years for breaking a glass door at closed service station. Four years. He was out in a few months, forever changed and unable to do many things a non-convicted person is allowed to do.

Am I happy about that? Of course not! But this was something HE did, not me. If I could change it, I would, but this was the result of HIS choices. No one wants her son to be a felon.

I’ve never been the kind of mother who thinks her child is always innocent, and I know my kids are better adults because of that. If my kids were/are wronged, I’ll be the first one raising hell; but first, I’ll check the facts. I’m good at that.

I feel horrible about my son. I wish it wasn’t like this. I’m sure you feel the same.

But there’s a big difference between feeling and action. Your husband—I can barely manage to get the words out, but his letter was just SO MUCH BULLSHIT. And you, you haven’t refuted a thing, you haven’t commented on that at all. Or, for that matter, on any of this.

I just can’t help but think maybe, just maybe, you’re seeing your husband for the ass that he is and that you’re making plans to dump him. Because really, Carleen, what self-respecting person would allow another to speak for her in such a way? No, this isn’t because you’re a woman—I get all that “stand by your man” stuff, but this is just plain wrong.

Your son was wrong. You can still love him. You can still support him and try to help him, even knowing what he did. But to allow someone else, husband, father, whoever, to say that your poor boy has no appetite for snacks is just complete lunacy. To allow the phrase “20 minutes of action” to describe a violent and brutal rape, spoken or written by your partner, without comment, is simply sick.

Maybe you’re undergoing treatment and went away somewhere. I don’t know. No one seems to know. But I think I can speak for nearly everyone and say that unless you step up and speak up and distance yourself from this ass you’re married to, you’ll be forever painted with the same brush:

An absolutely terrible human being with no thought for that poor girl at all—a selfish person, with only a thought for the perpetrator of the crime, your son.

Sincerely,

A Mom

 

 

Prep Monday—Rain, Rain, Go Away!


For what seems like 40 days and 40 nights, it’s been raining. Actually, I think, it was more like a week or so. Every. Single. Day. And most nights.

The charm of listening to rain on a metal roof was quickly quashed.

Woke up this morning to silence (except the constant meow from the cat who thinks that 5:30 a.m. is an acceptable breakfast time).
I jumped up—okay, staggered; had a wee bit last night, because even preppers and homesteaders have to kick loose now and again—and looked outside.

Blue sky. Not a single cloud.

I was sure I was suffering morning-after delusions, but nope—the weather persisted. Add a NW wind and a temp just below 80, it was perfect!

And supposed to stay that way for the whole week . . . we’ll see.

So after a rather late breakfast at the local café, I started to play catch-up on all the outdoor chores. Now, don’t get me wrong, I don’t have a problem with rain itself, but prefer to take shelter during thunderstorms like any other sane individual.

Stop laughing!

And some things just can’t be done when it’s that wet, like the garden. However, now, weeds are much easier to pull and, thanks to the breeze, I’ll be able to till again tomorrow. Pretty much a weekly event until I mix up my weedkiller: Dawn, water, and vinegar. Can’t spray the plants you want to keep, though—they’ll be dead by the time you hit the end of the row if you miss the weeds.

Tomatoes had to be tied up and I have a few rows of complete or near-complete crop failure, so those have to be re-seeded. On the other hand, I’ve tripled my blueberry crop from last year, if all goes well, and I will have FIFTEEN whole blueberries in another week!

Laundry, too, needed to be done. Since I use the sun to dry things, it’s really helpful for it NOT to be raining. Yes, I have a dryer. No, it’s not yet hooked up. And I prefer it that way. We’ll cross that off the neverending list in November.

My husband picked today to start the bathtub removal—and I’m happy to report that it has indeed been removed and relocated to its new home across the road, with only the loss of the hot water pipe, which in turn commenced in a very clean bathroom floor—so he’s been tied up with this for about six hours. That means the chainsaw hasn’t been run, and the pasture hasn’t been mowed.

But that’s okay—what isn’t done today will be done the next, during the beautifully sunny but 90-degree day coming up.

I’m sweating just thinking about it . . .