Raindrops on Roses

Raindrops on Roses, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

My roses are finishing up now. But this is one of my favorite shots.

And Whiskers on Kitteh's

100_8056, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

Simba loves to follow me out into the garden and pounce on cat nip. He's such a shadow.

Sunset Reflection

june 027, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

The sun's reflection in the water is a golden ball that casts a glow on everything. Even the lily pads reflect it's long light. If you sit still for a moment your heart will slow with the rhythm of the peepers. Breathe in the strong scent of blossoms from the olive bushes on the shore. Watch the flash of silver and water as schools of fish leap and break the waters surface in unison.
peep peep
peep peep
peep peep

Big Fish Lake at Sunset

june 040, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

Yes, I have been kayaking out on the lake. It always refreshes the mind and soul. And this view is just one reason I love it.

Iris at Twilight

june 047, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

I think I'm into photo blogging right now.
I like the ethereal floaty feeling of the dark background.

How Do You Say "Dark Film" in French?

I picked this picture up from Pita. (Say that five times fast.) For some reason, I love it. The darkness, the tension. Click on it to make it bigger. What's that he's holding--or is it she? Is it a gun? Are they struggling? Something's missing. He's not wearing a hat.

"Of all the unlit alleys, in all the towns, in all the world, she had to walk into mine. With gams that went on forever and eyes that said danger."

Troubled Times, Troubled Minds

So I stopped by Dan's Garage Friday night and had a drink with Dan and Lisa; Karleen stopped by, and Greg. We were chatting and talking about different ideas of how to overcome this wretched economic mess everyone's in. The neighborhood is turning into a ghost town.

"Well Dan and I have an idea," Lisa said. "The old farmhouse across the road is empty..."

"Wait, which one?" asked Greg.

"You know, the one where he got the barn wood," I said.

"The grass is a foot tall," added Karleen.

"Oh yeah, that's a cool looking old house," said Greg.

"We thought we could turn it into a haunted house," said Lisa.

"Hey," I said, "That's not a bad idea. I bet people would come..."

"And an AFC home," added Dan. My jaw dropped.

"Adult Foster Care?" I said.

Lisa laughed, "Yeah, a combination haunted house slash AFC home."

"It's a perfect idea," said Dan. "You can just dress up the residents and send them for a walk around the grounds."

"Oh. My. God." I started laughing uncontrollably. "The living dead..."

Everyone warmed up to the idea. "Here, honey, you need this bandage..." said Lisa.

"Over your whole body," added Karleen.

"Now take a walk down this hallway," threw in Greg.

"Let me just put this sheet over you before you go outside," said Dan.

This is the most evil, yet brilliant plan I have ever heard. These people should not be allowed to congregate together.

Prom Night '09

may 060, originally uploaded by Missy McKerroll.

My Bill with his lovely friend.

He is such a white boy.

Dear Diary...

I feel very self conscious about this blog lately. All this soul baring. People I know in real life come here. I've always been a bit mercurial about it, deleting things and putting them back, re-editing posts that are years old.

I keep closing and reopening and I can't decide if I want to keep going on or if it's lived it's life or if it should just be private. For now I'll reopen it most nights when I'm around. I dunno.

Good news: Now that Steve is home for the summer I can confiscate his laptop.

Bad news: Financially things are going down hill fast and it looks like we will probably lose our home in 6 to 8 months. Unless I win the lottery. Or inherit big bucks. Or my husband finds a job.

The rumor from someone I know in the know is that GM is going to declare bankruptcy overnight. I'll see in the morning how good my sources really are. Of course, this would spell untold disaster for Michigan, especially Southeast Michigan which has always put it's eggs in the auto and manufacturing basket. The ripple effects are going to be horrendous. Just wait. 

Good news: I'm getting counseling. I think it will help. I had my first session today. I finally found someone who would pay for it.

Bad news/Good news: My parish won't pay for my study retreat this year, but I have found a "scholarship." I think the savvy will guess where my help is coming from.

My life is so embarrassing.

Catharsis

Oh, Missy, as I was writing this to you I received your email.  I feel sick – no matter how many of these stories I have heard in my years as VAC, I can never get used to it.  I am grieving for you.  It is unbelievable that he was doing this kind of stuff for so many years and never got called to task.  I can’t imagine how many lives were destroyed by this “man of God.”

Memory is a funny thing. The closest analogy I can think of is a movie. You know how you can watch a film when you are very young and see it one way, then watch it again years later and notice things you missed the first time, and then watch it again still later and realize there are jokes you didn't get before or references you didn't have the knowledge or background to really understand? My memories of Fr. Monroe are like that. I pulled those memories out in 6th grade, and then again when I was a sophomore in high school, and then again after my mother died.

I don't doubt the boy's story who reported being molested by Fr. Monroe. I think many people have misconceptions about pedophiles and think they are homosexuals or bisexuals or even heterosexuals. But to use terms like that is to grant them the dignity of someone who is attracted to adults who are capable of consent and equality in a relationship. Pedophiles are pedophiles--they may be attracted to a certain age or body type or even have a preference for girls or boys, blondes or brunettes--but it is a relationship based on manipulation and control. Pedophiles are seducers in search of power and control.

I know no one stopped Fr. Monroe after the big incident at our house. He stayed on for another four or five years at St. Mary's. I believe he moved on to "Jane" after me. I have no proof of that, but I recall a conversation Jane and I had back in 6th grade...

She was number 8 of 9 kids and I met her in first grade. Her father was also a teacher at Loretto. See, the thing is, that conversation wasn't about sex. It was about the way we felt. I mean, I don't think either one of us "got" at the time what had really happened. This might sound weird; we were talking about the way Fr. Monroe made us feel--like I was his special girl--she said the same thing. She was the special one, he would give her attention, she would sit on his lap. And then suddenly it was over. Once when I was in first grade and walking in a line with my class I saw him talking to Sister and I said "Hi," but I didn't just say hi, I was like, jumping up and down waving and saying over and over "Hi Fr. Monroe, hey Fr. Monroe, Hi, Hi!" He just ignored me until finally Sister kind of elbowed him and he nodded at me. I told Jane that must be what it feels like to get dumped by a guy. Then we had a laugh over Fr. Monroe and his "little girlfriends." I remember one line in particular though; Jane said "No one could tickle like Fr. Monroe." So I've always thought something happened to her, too. Jane also told me her family would go to Fr. Monroe's cabin and that he had a pool there and he liked to play in the water with the kids. I never went to his cabin or played in his pool, so I have no personal knowledge of this. If Jane hadn't told me I would not have known, but Sister confirmed in a conversation we had that he did. It reminds me of what my dad said about Soldier Lake back in the 30s.

If I had my way he would be defrocked posthumously--I mean anything to acknowledge the pain he caused and the crisis of faith he brought to my mother. It was all just so wrong. And my dad--he didn't want to believe it, acted like it never happened. But he was in pain over this also. Fr. Monroe was his favorite. My dad and I did have a conversation about this before he died--I had to know, I had to have it acknowledged by another human being that this really happened. And yes, he remembered. He wept.

When I was in 10th grade I had my first boyfriend. We would "make out," what I consider to be an age appropriate sexual experience. It was deep kissing, hands on the outside of our clothing. At one point the boy took my hand and placed against his thigh so I could feel his penis. Suddenly I had a flashback to Fr. Monroe that was so vivid I startled--I pulled my hand back as if I had been burned. I opened the car door and jumped out. Needless to say my boyfriend was confused, embarrassed, chagrined. So was I. I couldn't explain it to him--how could I tell him he reminded me of an old priest? Ick, ick, ick.

It was a warm sunny day. I was playing in my wading pool in the backyard, my dad was cooking on the grill. I had to pee, so I jumped out of the pool and ran into the house. My mom was in the kitchen preparing dinner as I ran through that room, through the dining room, through the living room where Fr. Monroe was sitting on the sofa.

"Come here," he said smiling and reaching for me--I made a beeline past him saying "I have to pee!" I ran up the stairs to the bathroom. Coming back down the stairs, slower this time, I stopped to visit with Fr. Monroe for a moment. I didn't want to stay inside--everyone else was out back enjoying the weather including my brothers and some kids from the neighborhood. But I liked him. He put his arm around me and took both of my hands and put them on his thigh so I could feel his penis through his clothes.

"What do you think that is?" he said. His eyes were smiling. He was smiling, playing a guessing game with me.

"I don't know," I said.

"Come on," he said. "You can take a guess, can't you?"

"A banana?" I asked.

He laughed, "No, not a banana." He held both of my little hands to his thigh. "Feel it," he said. "Take another guess." I grasped him more firmly with both of my hands.

"It's a pickle," I said.

"No it's not," he laughed.

"Yes it is!" I squealed as I let go and turned and ran away. "Fr. Monroe has a pickle in his pocket!" I sang as I ran through the house back outside to my wading pool. My mom looked at me funny, a question on her face.