Friday, October 27, 2023

Field Notes on the Luxury of Being


A walk into town always presents a row of magnificent trees lining the sidewalk next to the road in front of the Catholic Church. Spread about twenty paces apart, one freshly cut down, ("Oh no! A sibling lost to weariness!") but close enough to pedestrians inclined to reach out and convene an exchange that only touch itself can explain...the soldiers of our very breath itself stand tall and clipped around the power lines. 

Some of them rebelliously push the sidewalk to cracking but, hey, how else are they going to get noticed? My favorite, for some unknown reason, calls to me often and I have reached out for a pat or sat next to him many times. Except today. It never occurred to me my tree friend could hold me. Embrace me and contain what my skin cannot. Perfectly curved armrest roots exposed, the trunk an angle to beat any chiropractic care, and a mossy seat with a direct link to the dark, still elixir of the earth herself. I sit down and rest. And heal.

I see a someone, (later I know as Stan,) making his way up the incline. He stops, grabs his chest and bends over for air. Having known the terror of a fragile heart myself, I stand up to assess. He walks again. I see his stubbornness on his face and walk towards him the second time he bends. I call out to ask if he needs help. He waves me away. When I get near, he stands and passes me quickly, panting and head high, "I have to get to The Church." I back off and watch him pass and keep my eyes on him as he bends two more times until greeted by another person I assume is meeting him at The Church.

I notice he's carrying a cube shaped tote and wonder what meeting, more important than a cardiac arrest, his pastries needed to attend. I walk on into town and get a haircut.

On my way back, I pop in a local shop selling goods by local artists and enjoy the leisure I've awarded myself for the day to care for and transcend the autumn-ness of my emotional, transitional, karmic realities. And I'm feeling blessed for the privilege of time to slow down. Think. Learn. Feel and listen to what my nerves are predicting and protecting. I give myself the day to keep shields down and senses on full receive.

Talking to my bestie through my headphones on the way, she had heard in real time the exchange as I'd encountered The Leaning Man on a Mission To The Church. She and I are chatting on and off. (Sometimes we're just "together" in silence.) I had expressed that perhaps the appearance of the gap between our generations, created a common bias and had made him reject my concern. No matter. Just an assumption in a long line of daily discernments. Forgotten in minutes. 

I pass my tree friend on my way back home and a shower of acorns fall around me. One even bounces off the ground and pegs a paper bag I carry, leaving a mark. "Agh! Acorns!" I speed up and am shocked I'm not aching from one on the top of my skull. (Sometimes I'm blessed with bird poop, once a large tree branch as a child, and in NYC, someone once spat on my head, the target, and once I was knocked unconscious from the siding that peeled off of a building in a brisk wind. Including the many stitches from my early years, I tend to attract head wounds—literal and metaphorical.) As I escape the shower, I think "Oh my friend really needed me to have asked to have sat in his lap. He's angry." But then another thought occurs: he was trying to get my attention. 

I turn around. Give him a smirk. And walk back to sit on his thrown. I never saw Stan coming.

The moment I'm down and grateful for another horticultural hug, The Man Now Without Pastries, says, "I wanted to thank you for checking on me," and we begin a conversation of care and gratitude and shared cardiological diagnosis. I tell him the next time he needs a break on his walk he should consider my friend's thrown on which I was sitting.

As he leaves, I call out and give him my name. He turns around and tells me he is Stan. My bestie heard the entire event even as I walked away in tears. "If my tree hadn't called me back, I would never have known Stan. Never have known my impetus to "meddle" is sometimes indeed helpful. And I never would have felt so held by everything and everyone around me." 

She tells me "I'm not just blowing wind up your skirt when I tell you you're magic" and I remind her that her love and belief in me over our 30+ year sisterhood is one of the only reasons I even figured out how to receive such beauty and love from my surroundings in the first place. 

I walked home feeling like I mattered. Sometimes loving others helps you love yourself. And sometimes loving yourself comes from letting others love you. Including the trees.

Tuesday, January 24, 2023

Zombie Zombie Zombie

Still from the documentary Sins of Our Mother

So much going on in the world that’s all of this…I don’t know…waking up? So scary and hard and also, to me, it feels…right…makes sense…even though it’s closer and closer to being a world of systems we don’t recognize…I’m so glad for us…sad for us…rooting for us…terrified for us… But we keep fighting... 

To talk about the hard things though… Justify, protest, debate, them…because that’s the only way we can make change…so here goes…here’s some more…

I was watching this Netflix doc, #SinsOfOurMother, and this man pictured here is the interview that…brought me to my knees. It's the moment where he, as a child, told his mother that her husband had been sexually abusing him and the way he describes what happens next is the inciting incident for the way the documentary builds the narrative around why his mother ended up so mentally unstable she murdered her own children. 

This man is the surviving member of his family and he spent his life, still spends his life, pointing to the day he confessed what happened to him as the reason. Because I’ve gone decades learning about how not to hate myself for what happened to me when I was small and how to survive the shame and guilt, and even though, of course I’m not even remotely alone… I’d just never heard my exact experience from anyone else before. And it…helped…it just does. We collectively know this about the power of story. But when it happens—SEEING someone else survive your similar story and KNOWING you’re not alone (even though logic and all the memes tell you you’re not—you just can’t explain an experience with words and learn the same lessons in your bones like when you FEEL it because you did it.) I’ll be damned for how much it matters to have that mirrored back to you. Validated. 

Believe it or not, it’s way more often than you’d think that the young victim is blamed by the old guard. I had a therapist yell at me once—“Why didn’t you just tell him to stop!? Why didn’t you say anything?!” Well. I told her I did. “Yes but not around the time it was happening?! You said something after it was too late?!l” She was furious with me. Too late for…? Oh! Making it not happen? Yes lady that would have been an amazing super power. I’ll bet you’d feel more comfortable too knowing time travel was real. (Ya I didn’t go back…) I don’t think it’s meant to be cruel. Just meant to try and make sense of it. Or hate the beaten dog because after all, that’s their role in the pack. Defend a dying system. (Or memory?) Keep the control in their purse. ”If only [you/he/she/they] hadn’t [said/worn/looked/smiled] then the [violence/pleasure/disgust] wouldn’t have happened.”  I mean, I suppose. 

We often face complicated child abuse scenarios like the TSA tackles terrorist threats…reactionary Wack-a-Mole and punishment for all. It’s just a bummer and there’s no more snacks on the journey. Sometimes it’s more humane to just throw up your arms and say “sometimes humans are awful” and before we lock away the perps, ask them ”why” until they run out of answers. Maybe we can learn some things. But everyone seems so afraid of what they themselves are capable of, they don’t want to know. You really CAN learn to do anything you set your mind to. Including evil. (You can also become evil by avoiding it. You might not recognize the symptoms. #DonaldTrump) 

It’s so difficult for people to understand why children blame themselves for their parents’ pain and abuse. Because we’re not kids anymore. But If you know you know. You know that it’s just devastating. Including the after shocks. Especially when a child shares ANYTHING they KNOW will make their parents and guardians—their initial means of modeling survival and self worth—hug them a little less tight or, cut them out all together. (i.e. sharing or revealing a stigmatized truth—identity, bullying, obsessions, divergence from what they’ve witnessed) The courage it takes for a child to even speak up in the face of a deathblow to their essence is almost unheard of. Can you imagine a blind and vulnerable day-old baby bird defying the instinct to open it’s mouth when it’s time to feed? It absolutely will NOT survive. It’s suicide. Would you, on your own, enact a solo defiance without planning any resources or support or calling on anyone's expertise, and tell your boss something that you know would not only get you fired, but ostracized? Arrested? Canceled? Killed? Because that’s not only how it feels to do such a thing as a child—it can be a reality. (Conversion camps and hospitals and medications can be as cruel as experimenting on small animals. Because…we have so little answers…whether we like it or not,  that’s exactly what we’re doing. Ask any rape victim how many times they were asked what they were wearing.) 

I always knew my mom was fragile in a sense. Strong in other ways but mostly made of glass. Kind of like I was. We were close to the same emotional age when we met only she could read self help propaganda, smoke, and have dessert any time she wanted. What I didn’t know and never will is that I suspect relative to how SHE grew up, she was actually in a thriving state. Not just surviving. She was probably a thousand times stronger than I give her credit for. She just never really told me. She choked on it I think. If I’d known the truth about her abuses…well…there we go blaming the victims for not speaking up….

My mother was also really beautiful back then. Except her body got heavier and darker muffled by silent trauma and as we both got older, she only seemed beautiful to me on her good days. 

As I watched life happen to her—well, I guess us—she got more and more vulnerable, her bones liquified by shame and addiction. Eventually I had to be the strong one, including walking away from her. She just couldn’t come back from the constant cosmic concussions. I didn’t mind that much in hindsight. I didn’t know any different really. I loved her. She was The Mother. But, as I mentioned, my tools were child’s play—make believe castles and toys. 

So when I told my mother—it was like watching a tree whose trunk was already leaning dangerously out of the ground, roots exposed, carrying the weight of the dying limbs, CRASH to the earth…and instead of laying there as a fallen tree…POOF, it became something else entirely, like a psychedelic fever, the moment it’s expected BOOM was to resound on impact, it made some anachronistic continuous noise instead. Like the sound of echoing sitcom laugh tracks or an amplified pack of malnourished lions eating a mare. Just horror. Pure horror. And the noise is forever there in the background like a haunting tinnitus. 

Because sometimes when you tell them the awful thing, you’re inadvertently their one bullet in the roulette chamber for every time life put the gun at their temple. And you had no idea you were even a part of the weaponization of their sanity. Until the light in their eyes just…goes out. They’re never the same again. Regardless of who’s fault it is that got everyone to that situation…it just is a fact. It was you that pulled the trigger.

I always thought I was alone in this experience. I don’t know why, except I’d never met someone who told me they got it in the same way I did. Maybe no one talks about it. Maybe no one I knew had a mother that was that close to the edge. At least mine didn't join the same cult as his. His chose religion. Mine, medicine. 

I’m so grateful to be years beyond the guilt and shame about all this. Thank goodness. And thank GOD for all of the incredible people who care enough to help each other. Love each other. Share their lessons. So…just in case someone else needed this moment in their heads…I just wanted to share what this man said in this film, because it really is this simple. He explains it, well, obviously way more concisely than I. 

It’s just…this death…this sharp change…this explosion…THIS is why kids think it’s their fault. Because, technically, it is. It’s just they are only doing what kids do…pointing out illogic of how poorly they are protected. It’s their parents and the grown ups around them who need to maintain the blame and shame and the lies and systems that protect the status quo so they don't have to face their part in it all. Kids will say the darnedest truths...

I don’t have answers or ideas here. I just wanted to try to explain how it feels to be a kid who is being abused and desperate enough to face the terror of surviving it and how grateful I was to hear someone who survived that life altering moment. Maybe if we normalize talking about the hard things even more, I don’t know, less bombs? More flowers?

#cptforptsd #pflag #PFLAGProud

Friday, January 13, 2023

Take Up Space

Many of the most important people in my life have I met through a shared passion for the performing arts. People who need people. I hear we're the luckiest.

But I spend a lot of time overcoming the humiliation for wanting my art to be seen and heard. There's no one thing I can point to that caused the shame I battle for a CALLING TO TAKE UP SPACE. Introvert, extrovert, I mean we all have to VERT.

Back in the day, I knew I had some extremes in my anxieties, but there was a particular time, I would just FREEZE. I mean you NEVER stop the scene in a performance. Here we all are driving down the road and I'm a tire that just rolls off. It was disconcerting.

I followed @lukeleonard and his recommendation to audition to work with Joe Chaikin and @nancygabor and @waynemaugans. Life altering. I hadn't really admitted or acknowledged my increasing jitters, but they appeared at the audition, and exponentially during class.

Imposter Syndrome for my membership in the species.

The class became a tribe and a haven. And even though Joe had aphasia towards the end of his life, I never once saw him stop. He had the ability to say things with laser-precise clarity, curiosity, passion, and a deep desire to connect. His presence was overwhelming--alarming. His dialogue would often be a single word. It was all you needed.

I have a tape cassette that I keep on my desk that Joe gave me after a particularly rough day. Joe's art thrived from the humanity of humans. Perfection was the most imperfect thing you could do to your work. He really wanted you to just...bring YOU when you showed up to the story.

On both sides of the tape he wrote one word the label.


I'm still not sure I am capable of what that looks like to most, but at that time, I was at a point when I wanted to stop myself forever. Roll my tire into a ditch without so much as a "go on without me!" 

You never know what ONE word can do. I have many I regret. Many I've stuttered. Daily I realize just how grateful I am for all who find ways to help each other share their art, their love, their calling. Thank you to the supporters who say, "KEEP GOING! Don't stop! You can do it! YOU HAVE A LOVE! YOU HAVE A CALLING!! TAKE UP SPACE!!!"

 Ok, Jennifer. Relax.

Wednesday, October 12, 2022

Breakfast by a Madwoman

Got turned down a few times to study playwriting in a grad school. I had all these IDEAS but that’s all they were. I hadn’t written much of anything I liked. I had been trained and experienced as a performer, but I was itching to tell my own stories the way I wanted to tell them. 

Around this time, I was at a longterm temp gig and I overheard a colleague I admired use the phrase A MAD WOMAN’S BREAKFAST. I froze. Those words meant something to me and I needed to know why. I had her repeat them and explain her anecdotal etymology and that night I was ignited to start in on a very poor first draft of a play about a woman who ran away from home. I wanted to see if I could find the line between nature and nurture and which one made her run. 

The next day, during a break on the admin gig, I searched and printed and taped my way to this odd thing and, as a joke, gave it to my colleague, thanking her for her words. 

Barbara. She kept it on her desk. 

This…IDEA. It was a poor excuse for a sculpture but the IDEA was no longer just that. I’d handed it to someone else…and they took it. Applauded it. Shared it. 

When I got to a presentable-ish version of MADWOMAN, many people read and commented and acted like this IDEA was a reality. I was #grateful. I was also #busy. 

I moved. Bought a house. Had a baby. A permanent full time job. THEN I got into grad school. Learned to write using more than my impulses. 

More #lifehappened and I moved again. To Atlanta. And in 2020, a bunch of theatremakers found each other and we took a mad woman’s play and ran with it. We crammed rehearsals with experiments and DIYed our way to a show we loved and gave to our fellow colleagues. A lot like handing over an awkward sculpture made out of extra office supplies. 

As I am watching all of my peers and partners and friends and family create and inspire and tell their stories—with a passion for nothing but fulfilling that first impulse they’re called to give—I just want to thank those who take us in and applaud us and share our work. 

Here’s to making ideas into stuff. Here’s to making that stuff matter. 

Tuesday, August 2, 2022

Hurt People Hurt. Hurt People Blurt.

Artist: Jennifer Skura Boutell

Whistleblowing. Speaking your truth. Advocacy can be traumatizing. To the advocate as well as their audiences. How can we be more careful when speaking up (and listening) so we don't create more toxic shame and perpetuate the problem?

When I was 15, I was in such an abusive situation that I had no choice but to speak up. IT spoke up for me. My voice. IT protected me. In the moment I blurted the truth out loud because it was my only weapon. My only defense. I couldn't help it. I blurted the truth so loud and fast in order to survive what was happening to me and my mother that when she heard what I said, she just...stopped...and stood dumbstruck and...well...then she fell apart. 

My mother had her own deep traumas and incredibly difficult challenges preventing her to thrive within her own life. My blurt was her last straw. To this day, if you took a traditional convention of modern American story telling, eliminated a lot of context, and diagrammed her life after that moment, you can trace her journey, her obstacles, and her climax to this exact inciting incident. My blurt threw that blade of wheat right between her eyes, landed in the straw cart, and the thing smashed to the ground with the wheels bouncing down the mountain. It wasn't the first (nor the last time) she snapped, but after it happened, she went back to the hospital for mental health treatments and when she came out, she was never the same again. She took A LOT, I mean A LOT of pills, and died an early death from non alcohol related psoriasis almost twenty years after that. Like many, she'd done the best she could with what she had and medicated herself to death.

Right after my Blurt, my mother IMMEDIATELY called her therapist and put me in the car to see them. (She was doing what she thought was right and also letting her toxic shame and fear lead the way. The next move should have been calling the police and someone should have been put in prison.) This therapist called an urgent family meeting (we went back that same night) and scheduled several other family meetings where I was forced to sit for weeks on end with some of the people who had been abusing me my entire life in order to "work things out" so our family could "get through" this major situation. Only there was no canceling of the abusive behavior. My reaction to the abuse was canceled. This Blurt that I had made that had disrupted everything, family therapy was about how to deal with the emotions that came up from it so we could all go back to exactly the way we'd been before. And the way we'd been before was against the law.

I instinctively rebelled after a few sessions and even refused to get in the car regardless of threats and punishments. I stayed home and acted out my own self harms. It became them against me and I was shamed for not playing along and not forgiving them and eventually called a liar and a drama queen. 

After the The Blurt to my mother, and still not knowing what to do to stop the abuse, I had told some close high school friends. One of them was my high school sweetheart, who OF COURSE was also a child, and OF COURSE needed to do what they needed to do to survive their own challenges, much less my...disruption... But after two years of being together and two weeks shy of graduation, they broke up with me and continued to hang out with our friends. It was high school, so OF COURSE, that meant I didn't have my tribe anymore to spend time with. With the exception of my life-long bestie, they refused to let me in their cars. I stayed home with my self harms until the day we graduated. The person I spent the most time with was a new friend who'd confided in me in tears one day after school. They'd been socially ostracized because they'd had an abortion. No one asked who had abused them either. We became close and talked each other through our loneliness. Sometimes trauma bonds are good things.

At graduation, my old tribe and I took pictures together on the steps leading up to our alma mater. It was the right thing to do and I don't remember and still don't feel slighted by any of them from what happened. We're all posing together, looking like we are right out of a frozen moment in a John Hughes film. We were all pretty popular. Earlier that year I had been crowned Homecoming Queen. Those photos were in the local newspaper. I look back at those and remember that my mother was in the hospital and my step-father, pictured while escorting me to be crowned, is looped with me arm in arm. He'd been molesting me for years.

One day in the aftermath of my blurt, Children's Protective Services showed up at our door. I answered it. The person asked if there was a little girl in the house who was unsafe. "You don't look like a little girl, how old are you?" I told them. I also mentioned I had a three year-old half-brother who I helped take care of. Rifling through papers in an overstuffed bag, they said, "Oh. It says here there's a little girl that might be in trouble. I must have bad information...let me check something..." My heart was pounding. My voice was NOT able to speak up for me in that moment. I stood numb and didn't know what to do. (People weren't allowed at our house without major home renovations. We had secrets we kept and needed careful and clever ways to hide them in plain site.) While they searched their paper trail, I secretly prayed this person had arrived because of a neighbor on a white stallion and scanned the neighborhood for a knight. I hadn't noticed my mother had come out of her room. I hadn't felt her behind me. She blew past me and got in the CPS worker's face and started yelling for them to get off her porch. They literally ran away to their car. I wasn't invited along for the ride and we never heard from them again.

After that moment you can bet that not only immediately, but for the rest of my days at home, the abuse did not stop. The Blurt seemed to have made everything worse. To this day, I walk into a room and those who know some of my stories about my traumas either cringe to a palpable effect because of my mere existence or they are drawn to me for them. It's a part of me. Some days it seems unbearable because sometimes the people who I want to love me do the cringing and sometimes people who are drawn to me make me cringe. Manipulation comes in all shapes and sizes and intensions. 

I can't ever get away from these things that happened to me. And I can't ever get away from the things I did about them or because of them or just because I've lived my life. You can't ever get away from yourself. You can't leave the room you're in. I mean, meditation, dreaming, drugs, sure...but in most of society, you have to be conscious on the regular and all while in the body you arrived here with. I'm me. I am a sum of the show starring me. All of this is a part of me. And I am so very lucky that there are so many more days now where I'm actually grateful that it is the case. It wasn't always. 

But now, even more so than that, I'm grateful for my voice. The one that blurts and also the one that slows down and learned to speak more clearly and without traumatizing myself or others in the name of advocacy. I owe a special thanks to the people and the tools and the situations that have allowed me to speak up and remain vulnerable and safe. We all do.

After leaving my childhood home, for many many MANY years, I acted out all the stereotypical (and not so typical) ways to move in the world while living with PTSD and other memory related mental issues along with some severe somatic effects. I hurt a lot of people because of it. Still do even though I'm much more aware and careful not to. But back then, I was blessed to get to continue a childhood passion and went on to a career in acting and as I got older, even though I did a lot of work on my emotional well being, I wasn't healed. Sometimes I was encouraged for not being healed. It's impossible to stop blurting altogether, but you can be an expert at putting them to use. There's even modes of acting skills that encourage it. Art is Us after all. 

So like everyone who's still here, I learned the skills to survive, to hide my shames that I only continued to perpetuate in secret, but really, I learned excellence in how to keep my voice in check. I learned how not to disrupt or speak up because when I did...sometimes things changed in pretty big ways.

I used acting out other people's stories to help me hide my toxic shame. I'm now using my own stories to share it. 

I believe toxic shame is killing us and I believe the only way to beat it, is by speaking up. Advocating for truth before judgement. Shame becomes toxic in dark and secret corners and with all the ways we are encouraged to be an avatar of our life, we're in the middle of a toxic shame pandemic. We hide reality every day in new and inventive ways. Shaping it for the sake of beauty and necessity. But like any force that has the ability to multiply and grow, it will take up the space and the shape of whatever container it is given. 

It's been a while since I've had to live with or felt I had to tolerate abusive behavior. And it's a joke to think there's ONE thing that abuses us or traumatizes. ONE moment that we survived. There is actually and factually no reason or fault as to the exact narrative of why we get hurt and suffer individual and universal toxic shames. You couldn't do a science experiment to reproduce their origins. There's no final source but all encompassing good 'ol organic, judgement-free consciousness. There's too many variables that, depending on your belief system, either destiny or chaos, control. We love and hate. We just do.

But the reason why we have to keep going and stay focused on speaking up and disrupting with our truths, even when it's hard, scary, and exhausting...the reason we can't get overwhelmed from the loneliness of making enemies and losing loved ones as we break generational and societal trauma and refuse to tolerate abusive behavior... (Canceling people isn't fair. Canceling behavior is. It's the only thing that works.) The reason we can't be tired of continuing to do the work to make necessary changes in order to thrive, not just survive...the reason we can't be numbed by the saturation of the hashtags and memes and headlines and storytellers...the reason we have to stay focused and continue to endure the simple act of listening and paying attention and staying engaged as if we are Olympic athletes...the reason is...because if we don't, we will not only perpetually traumatize ourselves in the same ways, but we will continue to add new ones. Toxic shame has to go. Keep speaking up AND keep listening. 

Some of the most traumatic parts of all we've survived and lived through is simply what happens because of The Blurt. That blurt tends to come out in the first moment you realize you're going to die. Either it feels that way or it IS that way. The Blurt is what protected you. Like a seatbelt. But it has to be used in safe ways. The Blurt can also become the thing that won't release you from drowning in a car that goes over a bridge. Everyone knows you unbuckle before the headlights hit the water.

The Blurt, like a seatbelt, can be the thing that changes the course of EVERYTHING. It's powerful. There's seatbelt laws for a reason. (And constitutional rights to say what we want to and NEED to.) Having the societal stamina to protect ourselves from the toxic shame that can happen before, during, and after advocacy and safe communication is something we need to deal with and now. (I personally think we need to add communication and relationship skills to our public school curriculum.)

Hurt people hurt. Hurt people blurt. And we are all hurting from something at any given moment. All of us. I'm advocating for safe advocacy. 

Don't shoot the messenger, and find designated drivers to and from the delivery. 

I'm so incredibly grateful to be able to get up every day and have the life I have. It isn't lost on me completely the who, why, how, and when all of these resources and people and situations have enabled me to continue to thrive. It is a passion of mine to share that. IT won't let me stop...

Tuesday, November 21, 2017


First Day of Bard Pre-school - 153 Weeks

Ren. He was there. - 153 Weeks

This kid. Going places. - 154 Weeks

Pausing at the grocery store to sing Ren's new obsession, "It's the End of the World as We Know It."
The next morning Ren asks, "Mommy? Can we go to Target and get a Michael Stipe doll?"  - 155 Weeks

"Sunny days...sweeping the clouds away...on our way to where the air is sweet..." - 156 Weeks

THE. COUNT. OH EM GEE. - 157 Weeks

At home, Ren LITERALLY play-pretends posing for photos with his favorite friends.
I think it's paid off. - 157 Weeks

In some ways, visiting this sign in the hotel would have been enough. - 157 Weeks

Daddy, I got this. - 157 Weeks

Daddy, you got this. - 157 Weeks

Au revoir fare city... - 157 Weeks

Friday, November 17, 2017


How can we have this much fun when there is so much suffering in the world? - 149 Weeks

Dude, I'm ready. - 150 Weeks

First Tinkle - 151 Weeks

Late Summer Dinner - 152 Weeks