They say every face in a crowd has a story to tell, this is my story..

The news shows and newspapers all called it 'Road Rage'. To me that sounded like a disease, an affliction that can make you kill. A sorry excuse to take the claw end of a hammer and slam it repeatedly into the skull of a human being. In April of 1999 my little brother passed away. Doesn't passed away sound so gentle, even normal? David's death was neither. It was murder. He was found lying in a strangers driveway in a pool of blood. He had been punched, stomped and beaten over his entire body. I still have so many questions. I wrote this book at first for therapy and then for answers. I have found a few. I mainly realized l lost a brother tragically and senselessly. Like every other face in the crowd I have a story..and I want to share my story with you! PUBLICATION DATE TO BE ANNOUNCED LATE SUMMER/EARLY FALL :)

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Monday, August 19, 2013

The Quivering Pen: My First Time: Doreen McGettigan

The Quivering Pen: My First Time: Doreen McGettigan: My First Time is a regular feature in which writers talk about virgin experiences in their writing and publishing careers, ranging from ...

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

We Have Moved!

Please head over to my new Site over!

Monday, November 29, 2010

My first guest blogger and you will adore her!

Rebecca Rasmussen is the author of the novel The Bird Sisters, forthcoming from Crown Publishers on April 12th, 2011. She lives with her husband and daughter in St. Louis and teaches writing at Fontbonne University. Visit her at
Leaning Roses & Giving Thanks
By Rebecca Rasmussen
“Visualize yourself as a tree,” Dr. Gilman used to tell me. “Your grand old roots are reaching toward the center of the earth. They’re strong, and so are you.”
“But my branches are blowing in the wind,” I used to say back.
I would be sitting on Dr. Gilman’s couch, trying not to hear the wind chimes beyond her office window, a soothing sound to many people, but a chaotic sound to me. She would be leaning forward in her chair, trying to pull me back from the edge of panic, which she recognized in my glazed-over eyes, in my inability to do what she was asking of me. “That’s perfectly fine. You’re rooted. Let go. You’ll see.”
Was I?
I don’t often tell people about the first twenty-five years of my life that I spent trying to cope with anxiety attacks, first as a child by doing things like going to bed at six o’clock in the evening or putting my hands over my ears to block out the noise of the stereo or later staying home because I was afraid to go wherever my friends were going, afraid they’d see what I was so desperately trying to hide because it wasn’t normal and because I knew nobody could help me.
That, I have learned, is the fundamental trouble with fear. It keeps you roped off from everybody else who wants to understand, who wants to help you.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” my mother often asks.
The adult me knows that my mother would have tried to help me and the child me knew that, too, but I didn’t believe a life without these attacks was possible. I simply didn’t believe in anything but fear.
For years, I resolved myself to the fact that I would have to live my life a little bit differently than everyone else. I’d never hang wind chimes from my porch. I’d never swing at a playground. I’d never arrive at a track meet and not wonder if the bleachers rattling would frighten me. I’d never…I’d never.
In my experience, once you batten down the hatches against fear, you are stuck with it.
It wasn’t until I was pregnant with my daughter Ava, when my anxiety attacks grew fiercer than they ever had before, that I scheduled an appointment with Dr. Gilman, a lovely psychologist in Northampton, Massachusetts, because I felt I owed it to my unborn daughter. The first thing Dr. Gilman asked me that day was, “What’s so bad about fear?”
And I thought: I’m obviously in the wrong place. But I stayed anyway.
Over the course of my pregnancy, Dr. Gilman worked with me twice a week. She taught me how to breathe deeply, how to remain in the present moment, how to be kinder to myself, gentler. She also taught me to start sharing my panic, which I wasn’t eager to do. She was right though.
One day, I tried it out on my husband.
“I’m scared,” I said, and he turned off the music or whatever I believed was triggering my panic, came over to me, and did this magical head rub thing to bring me back from wherever I was heading…
“Stay here with me,” he said. “You’re safe here, honey.”
You’re safe.
Fast-forward four years.
My daughter is a lively little love bug, who goes to pre-school three days a week. My husband is in graduate school. And I have a novel coming out in April. It’s Thanksgiving. Pies are in the oven. Roasts are roasting.
This fall has been tough. We lost my Aunt Donna to cancer. Uncle John, too. One of my cousins, a thirty-two year old mother of two wonderful kids, is in the middle of chemotherapy treatments for stage-IV ovarian cancer. People are leaving us in what feels a little like a mass exodus this holiday season, and sometimes I feel that old fear bubbling up again—It’s so unfair. It’s too much. What would I do if it were me? What would Ava do without her mother? What would I do without my mother?—but I’m more connected to the moment now instead of being boarded up against it, which means the fear is free to come but it’s also free to go.
Aunt Donna had a hard life. She had a disease that took her leg when she was a girl. She survived cancer several times and this last time didn’t. She loved roses.
After her death, something a little bit miraculous happened.
In the bed of tiger lilies just beyond the front door of our apartment, a beautiful red rose bud appeared on the otherwise bare rogue rose bush that has grown up instead of outward. It’s late November in St. Louis. We’ve had a frost already. We’ve worn our coats. And this little flower just keeps leaning toward our front door, its stem over six feet tall, opening itself up more and more each day. We’re all marveling at it—our neighbors, my husband, my daughter, me.
So each time I come and go I stop to smell the rose even though I didn’t think I believed in literal signs. I didn’t used to believe in a lot of things.
That’s what I am thankful for this Thanksgiving. Belief in something other than fear. Belief in safety. Grace. Hope.
Dr. Gilman would be proud of me, I think. She’s one of those old-growth people you keep in your heart forever.
Am I still afraid? Yes. But I’m not so afraid of being afraid anymore.


Saturday, November 27, 2010

My first Guest Post!

Thank you Rebecca for the opportunity to guest post on your blog.  To check out the post and to learn a bit about Rebecca (you will love her) go here:

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Happy Black Friday Fragments....

Tough working here :(

Just a mess..
Happy Friday Fragments were we can dump all the little bits floating around in our minds..the brainchild of Mrs. 4444 you can find her and join in on all the dumping

 I also like to join in over at the lovely Java's and her over 40 can join her

So FIOS is coming today!!  I am excited!!  This will be a very busy and crazy weekend..I work today, then pick up Morgan Layla and Avery Paige..I have Beta Reading to do..content writing for my brand new Author web site!   And I am having author photo's done (what do you think the difference is between a photo and an author photo)?
 My dad is very sick and will be having very scary surgery next week in Florida...I may go down... My favorite quote this week...."If you did not want me to write about it on my blog or in my book then you should not have said or done it" me...


My new office is almost done!

Mom-Mom and Peyton Elizabeth

Allyson; Julia and Morgan

Julia; Jillian and Avery Paige

Thanksgiving dinner

Our Chef and host..Big Dom

Miss Adriana (Hungry)

So sad no video games today..

Julia and brother Trey

Before Dinner

Avery Paige waiting for snow..

Morgan Layla and Daddy Kevin

Peyton Elizabeth and Adriana in the car seat together :)

Dancing to 'Kid Rock'

Hope you all had a great Thanksgiving!

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

More from "Bristol Stomp"....the sentencing

Driving to the courthouse that day was surreal.  I could not believe it was March 17, 2000.  It was Saint Patrick’s Day.  Hopefully that meant the day would be lucky.  I guess that is not the right thought.  What I wanted had nothing to do with luck and everything to do with justice.
 David died in April.  It was nearly a year.  I had trouble comprehending it had almost been a year.  Little Michael will be turning two at the end of this month.  I thought about Michael’s first birthday.  That was the last time our entire family was together, happy.  I remembered Dave’s smile that day as he proudly held his son.  The tears started. 
I had to pull over.  I had to pull myself together.  I wanted to do an effective job reading my impact statement.  The prosecutor told us this was our day in court.  We did not have to cry quietly.  We were not going to be told where we could look and where we couldn’t.  Our day in court, yes this was important.  I had to get myself together.
I pulled down my visor mirror and did my best to repair my running makeup.  Shortly I would witness once again the two scumbags being led off to prison in shackles.  This time they would be going off to prison for at least twenty five years.  That thought gave me peace.  Not happiness, just peace.  And of course there was satisfaction in the sight.  I could not help that feeling.  The thought of the two of them being thrown into little cells with little windows, alone, God forgive me but that was satisfying.  I felt better, stronger so I pulled back onto the road.
As I saw the huge round building, I thought about how out of place it looked in this old town.  It was too modern.  I wondered who designed the ugly building.  Maybe ugly isn’t fair, it didn’t fit the landscape of historic Doylestown.  Supposedly the courthouse was built here because Doylestown was the center of Bucks County.  I wondered what it looked like from the air. It probably looked like a big round ugly dot right there in the center of Bucks County.
I loved the quaint little town.  The shops, the old Victorian homes, galleries, the restaurants and of course the bars and churches that reminded me of Bristol.  The people that lived in this town, a lot of them were stuck up.  They thought their town was so much better than Bristol. They thought they were better, people.   But, they did not have the Delaware River and I doubted this town could even come close to the real small town feel of Bristol.

I parked, and started my long walk around the ugly round building.  It was windy and as usual I was freezing.  I wished bad karma on the idiot that closed the doors closest to the parking lot and the cheap morons that did not install security at both entrances.  Things would have moved so much quicker and smoother.  The security lines were always too long. 
If I was in charge- what a thought that was.  There would of course be two entrances.  I would also provide some kind of safe haven area for victims and their families.  The way it is now, throwing everyone together like cattle was ridiculous.  It was also very dangerous.
There was talk of tearing this courthouse down and building a new one.  I hoped whoever designed the new building would be a little more compassionate towards victims.
            Once again, there were many sheriffs in the hallway leading to the courtroom.  I was surprised again by the large crowd.  I scanned around looking for my family. I did not feel safe with so many people gathered in such a small area.  I saw my friend Sam the policeman who was now a county sheriff.  I would have to remember to wish him a happy Saint Pat’s Day. I knew it was one of his favorites.  I missed seeing him in his patrol car in Bristol.  He had been there for so long.
I had barely arrived when I was bombarded by my family with the news that Galione and Reeves also had the right to have people speak on their behalf.  I was livid.  We should have known.  It would have changed the way we prepared.  We would have had more letters written, we would have asked more friends and relatives to be here for us.  I tried so hard not to cry.  Damn, I did not want to have to fix my make-up again.  I wanted to appear confident and in control.
            I was truly shocked to see that Nicole Rivera, Jerry Reeves, girlfriend brought their baby to court.  This poor baby had been born with no arms or legs.  I felt they were using the baby for sympathy.  From what I had heard Jerry had never been there for Nicole or the baby.  I did feel sorry for Nicole and hoped she would have the common sense to move on with her life and find some happiness.  I hoped her family would be there to support her.  For Galione’s girlfriend, Janine, I wished misery for her.  She washed David’s blood off Galione’s clothes and lied under oath.  I knew she would not stick around and wait for her man.  She was too selfish.
            I was not prepared for the friends and family of the defendant’s to be given the opportunity to speak.  It was sheer torture sitting there listening to how wonderful these two young men were.  They were murderers.  It was ridiculous.  Galione presented the judge with seventy letters of support.  Galione’s parents enlisted their friends to speak on their son’s behalf saying, “he has always been so polite”.  I was going to be sick again.  The judge even commented, as to how disturbing it was to that so many of the letters claimed Galione was innocent.  The parade of aunts, uncles, brothers, sisters and teachers seemed to go on forever.
            When it was finally my turn to speak I walked to the front of the courtroom and faced the judge.  I got through my letter.  Tears stung in my eyes but I fought them off.  I did the best I could.  When I finished, Mel Kardos asked permission to question me.  That had not happened to anybody else all day.  I looked at Matt and he shook his head yes.  The judge granted the permission.  I was shaking.  He asked me where I worked.  I was stunned.  What was his point?  I told the judge I was scared to say where I worked.  I did not want any of them to know where I worked.  I knew Kardos wanted me to say I worked at The Bucks County Courier Times.  He was going to say I had something to do with the press coverage of this case.  It was ridiculous, I was lucky if I got a pen in that building let alone the power to drive the news.  I turned to Kardos, smiled sarcastically and answered I worked for a company called GPN.  He was clearly, annoyed that he did not get the answer he wanted.  It was the truth.  GPN was Greater Philadelphia Newspapers, I did not lie.  That was what was on my paychecks.
            I nervously looked over at Laurie Mason, she is the writer for The Bucks County Courier Times, that covers all trials and court related events.  She even has her own little office in the basement of the courthouse.  I thought that was so cool.  She smiled.  I ran up to her as soon as it was over and asked her if I lied.  She laughed, and said no.  She said it was amazing that I came up with the perfect truthful answer.
            I found out later from the prosecutor and the reporters that they had never, ever, heard someone questioned after giving an impact statement.  It was another excuse to hate Mel Kardos.  What an arrogant sob he was.
            Judge Heckler gave a little speech.  He said there had been many lulls in the fighting that night and he said Jimmy and Jerry should have stopped.
 Jerry Reeves asked to speak.  He stood up and said he was not responsible for David’s death.  He said the real killer was still free.  Yeah, I had to agree there were other killers still free, but he was responsible for David’s death.  They all were.  Peter Hall asked the judge to delay the sentencing so he could do more investigating.  He was a moron, more investigating was not needed, more arrests were needed.  Thank God the judge refused.
Bucks County Courthouse; Doylestown, Pa.