Author: Carolyn Freudenthal

My husband and I live in rural Virginia, just outside of Richmond. I enjoy writing about our family, our animals, and all areas of my life. California, Connecticut, and Texas are also places I have called home. Our family of six moved around the country and met interesting people along the way. I started Grizzlybearma in 2018 as a puppy blog and it has grown into much more.

Chicken Noodle Soup Does the Trick (and makes you feel loved)

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Deep Thoughts, Family1 Comment

One week ago I was riding high on the wave of creative inspiration until that wave crashed. Shortly after viewing the Solar Eclipse with my husband in our protective eyewear, my body started to feel different. It was the beginning of April. I had not gotten sick one time in this calendar year. The tell tale signs moved in. My back was hurting. A headache was beginning in the front of my forehead. By dinner time my appetite waned and I felt chilled. My eyeballs felt hot. I had a fever. Determined to fight this bug I must have picked up while traveling, I hydrated and rested.

It is no wonder that I got sick. It had been almost six months since I had last flown on an airplane. I spent four days with four hundred writers at the workshop. My adrenaline and excitement had propelled me into the crowds of new people and close conversations. Simple. I picked up something. That tends to happen to me after long anticipated events involving many people. After my daughter’s wedding I got very sick. After vacations I come home and am exhausted (from traveling or having too much fun and relaxation).

I would not trade any of the experiences I had at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop. As soon as I feel back to my normal healthy self, I plan to apply all of the great things I learned. Until then, my pace is slower. It is amazing how my energy is impacted by what goes into my body. Hydration and a healthy diet are key for my recooperation.

At times like these, I am reminded of my younger self and being taken care of my my mom. Even over the phone when she heard me tell her I had a high fever, I could hear the loving concern in her voice. It made me remember a piece I wrote in my memoir class. The prompt was to write about a smell and a memory associated with that smell. I wrote about canned chicken noodle soup.

Do not be concerned, I am on the mend. My husband took great care of me (and all of the animals in our herd). I slept and rested. Then I turned a corner at the end of last week when my sweet son-in-law brought me over some homemade chicken noodle soup. It was delicious. Even more, it was such a loving and thoughtful gesture.

Here is the piece I wrote a few years ago about my mother taking care of me with soup:

Sore scratchy throat, upset stomach, chilled, and feverish. Someone in my family was sick, which called for a bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. I twisted the handle clockwise with my right hand, holding the can opener firmly with my left hand. As soon as the sharp edged lid separated from the red and white can, I smelled the familiar chicken noodle contents. I dumped the thick yellow gunk of condensed soup and noodles into the pot on the stove, filled the same can with water and added it to the pot. Over low to medium heat, I slowly cooked the soup, stirring occasionally with a wooden spoon. Aroma of chicken broth soon filled the kitchen air. The scent of this simple soup sent me back forty years. 

“Mommy, I don’t feel well,” I moaned. My head ached and my tummy hurt as I curled up on the sofa with my legs tucked under my long nightie. My mom placed the back of her hand on my forehead and felt for warmth. After she hustled my sisters out the door to catch the bus to school, she returned to my side with the thermometer in hand. She shook it in several downward thrusts through the air. Open up, she said, and reminded me not to bite the glass thermometer but to keep it underneath my tongue.  It was cold and poked into the soft pocket under my tongue. I pressed my lips close together to hold it in place. The length of time lasted forever. Finally she came and sat at my side and pulled it out, tilting it to read where the red line ended.  “Oh, sweet lamb, you’ve got a fever.” Then the love, attention and pampering began. 

First she gave me two orange flavored chewable Josephs baby aspirin.  She spread out a blanket on the sofa, with a soft cotton bed pillow for me to lay my head on (instead of the scratchy weave of the upholstered arm of the sofa). Then she lay another light blanket over me, the kind with the satin edged hem. On my forehead she placed a cool damp washcloth. 

The house felt so different on a school day, my three sisters not here making noise or taking my mom’s attention, just the sounds of my mom doing what she does while we are at school. I heard her talking on the phone. Then when it was quiet, I wondered, maybe she is making lists on her yellow note pads. Maybe she is cooking, or reading or sewing. She came in to get me settled, and turned on the tv across the room. We chose the channel and that’s what I watched (no remote control), and set the volume loud enough for me to hear, but not too loud to hurt my head. It was either game shows, like Let’s Make a Deal or The Price is Right, or the black and white shows. I loved those. The Andy Griffith Show, The Dick Van Dyke Show, I love Lucy, and The Beverly Hillbillies.

My mom came in to check on me often, with kind gentle soothing words. Then came the soup. She laid the whole lunch out on a serving tray. A napkin, a spoon, the bowl of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, some round salty ritz crackers, and an orange sliced into fourths. The magical healing soup: the ceramic edge of the bowl hot to the touch. Little wisps of steam rising. Thick noodles resembling spaghetti but nowhere near as strong or long. Tiny cubes of chewy chicken. I float a few crackers while waiting for the soup to cool, spooning the softened rapidly dissolving salty ritz into my mouth. Bite by bite, I blow on the spoon and then empty the noodles and chicken into my mouth. The liquid remaining in the bowl was thought to contain the most nutrient dense weapons for fighting off the infection. The bowl now cool enough to hold in my two hands, and lift up to my mouth,I tipped it until every last drop was consumed.  “Good girl,” my mom says.

After lunch she checked my temperature again, and gave me more baby aspirin if needed. Wanting me to nap, she turned off the television and read me a book or two.  I didn’t mind the tv going off since the programing turned to boring romantic soap operas around lunch. The day stretched out for a long time, so different that a day spent busy at school with a schedule of subjects, recess and constant interaction with other people. By evening time, I grew restless. If my sickness had not improved it was soup again and then off to bed. I remember the feeling of waking with damp sheets and jammies signaling that I’d broken my fever. The other indicator of my recovery was when my appetite returned. For some reason, it would be a cheeseburger that I would ask for when I reached that point. Not that it was a cheeseburger that I was given, but it was something more than soup. Toast, and eggs maybe.

I was a pretty healthy child growing up, and did not miss many days of school. I was active and liked going to school. And yet…there was something special about staying home alone with my mom, getting her un-divided attention, and love in the most nurturing way. Nobody likes to feel sick, but I was glad that my immune system let germs infect me once in awhile.

Something As Scary as The Bear in My House

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn AUDIO, Children, Comic Relief3 Comments

(20 minute read or listen to the audio)

Do you remember the story I wrote last summer about the bear coming into our vacation rental house in Lake Tahoe? The bear that clawed his way through the screen door down in the bedroom on the first floor? The bear that came up the carpeted stairs right into the room we were sitting in? Yes, that bear! “Scary” does not even begin to describe it. Crazy, Unreal, Freaky, Alarming, Shocking, Hair-raising, Spine-chilling, Pee-your-pants-panic. The true fight-or-flight test. (I’m flight, by the way). I may have found something almost as scary.

Saturday night in Dayton, Ohio, I got to relive the bear experience. Up. On. Stage. The Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop concluded with a Stand Up Comedy Show. After another full day of learning from experienced authors and listening to two more keynote speakers that left me in awe, I summoned up all the courage I had to do something I’d never done. A month earlier, when I was filling out the registration form, I impulsively checked a box. Sure, why not? I’ll throw my name into the hat for the randomly selected stand up comedy show at the end of the workshop. What are the odds? My name was selected. Ahh! I screamed and laughed.

The fun part began when I shared this news with my family and friends. I was thrown different ideas (all from my blog stories). Tell about the 7 goats named after the Peaky Blinders. Tell about the 16 chickens that arrived in a tiny cardboard box at the Post Office. Or how about when you fell through the attic grabbing hidden Christmas toys. It was not for a lack of stories to tell. It was figuring out what would work on stage and stay under the three minute time limit. And, more importantly, what would be easiest for me to remember when stage fright struck. The bear encounter was the top contender in my family. I’d told it countless times, just never on stage in front of hundreds of people. Not just any people, very talented humor writers. No pressure. Add to that, only ten of us were randomly selected, the other eight were chosen in previous competitions who were experienced stand up comics. They also happened to be very encouraging to us newbie randos.

I never told anyone this before, but I had a secret dream about twenty years ago. When my days were full of all of the crazy stuff that goes down raising four kids and moving a dozen times, I had a vision of standing on stage with a microphone in my hand and telling stories. Maybe it was delusional thinking after a lack of sleep and isolation with four children under the age of eight. I imagined spinning the ridiculous (and true) tales in front of an audience. My stories never got to the stage, but I do believe they are reaching others through my writing. At least that is what I am working toward. This is why I was so excited to attend the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop in Dayton. Her humorous writing connected with others and resonated with so many people over the years. Whether is was about our roles in the family as wives and mothers, or as women in the workplace or the neighborhood, Erma found humor in the simple things. She may not have ever been a stand up comic, but her writing surely read like one, as well as her televised delivery of her pieces.

It made sense that the workshop included the stand up comedy show on the final evening. I was amazed at the writing and performances of the veteran and first-time comics. At our rehearsal in the afternoon, I was almost sick with fear. My nerves were putting me into a state of panic. Each comic took a turn practicing her three-minute bit in front of the others, and then it was my turn. I flipped a switch, and just told the bear story like it happened. This rehearsal was in a small room of twenty people. It felt like the drama classes I had taken in high school a good thirty years ago. So I left nervous Carolyn on the chair, and stood up to “perform” the bear story. It went great. If only it was that easy up on stage in front of a much larger audience.

Our final dinner at the conference was over, and an amazingly moving speech by author Wade Rouse closed the workshop. It went by so fast. Now we would have to wait another two years for the next Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop. People took pictures together. But wait! It was not over yet. Everyone was invited to return to the ballroom at 9:30 for the Stand Up Comedy Show.

Comedian Jane Condon opened the show with her witty commentary and then introduced each performer. One after another, these brave souls got up on stage and grabbed the microphone and told stories and jokes for three minutes. A digital timer was at the base of the stage to help performers pace themselves. The audience rolled with laughter at times and chuckled softly at other times. In between they watched and listened quietly. This is where an experienced stand up comic thrives. It is like when a sailor who knows the wind and the direction and strength of the current adjusts the mast and the jib (I may have made that up because I cannot sail either), or a seamstress knows which stitch width to use (I don’t sew either). Or when the goat stall or the chicken coop smell of ammonia and it is time for a mucking and a fresh shaving clean out (this I do know).

After Jane introduced me and handed me the microphone, I got on stage and felt like Judy Garland as Dorothy in munchkin land. This was not because of the lady in the front row who was holding a tiny dog that looked like Toto (no joke). Although I did worry about my bear growl scaring tiny Toto. What threw me off was the whole sea of faces looking up at me. It’s one thing to type on my keyboard envisioning an audience, but performing live in the spotlight is a whole other thing. You can’t backspace and delete. And you are on a running clock. I fumbled a bit at first, reintroducing myself off-script. I’ve learned that going off-script is where I have goofed in the past, just ask my family how they worried when I went off-script during the welcome toast at my daughter’s wedding. I had a lovely welcome planned but then I went rogue because I was worried people would stay seated in the “stations style reception” where the wedding planner insisted on only providing seating for sixty percent. It was a bone I would not let go of, but I was right. People like to grab and stay in their non-reserved seats. “Get up, eat, dance, mingle, get up. Enjoy.” See, you can understand how my family worries when I go off-script. Carolyn, get back to the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop stand up comedy recap.

I wish I could describe the experience of being on stage in greater detail, but I cannot. It is actually a bit of a blur. I told the story. I growled into the microphone. I wriggled around like a zombie and jumped across the stage. I whispered. I hollered. At almost all of the right parts of the story. The truth is that I mixed up the order of a couple things. The people who had heard my story in rehearsal earlier, reassured me afterwards that my goof about not revealing it being a bear across the room (that sent me running to the bathroom) did not matter. Because when I was on stage and crouched down in fear, it dawned on me that I had not said into the microphone that it was indeed a BEAR in the house. So I improvised and added that important detail in. People laughed. I took a bow and returned to my seat at the table with the other stand up comics. For better or worse, I did it! I was now one of them. I can add this to my repertoire. Daughter, Wife, Mother, Sister, Aunt, Friend, Writer, Chicken/Goat/Horse/Doodle/Cat Keeper, Tennis teammate, Triathlete, Swimmer, Soccer player (ok, maybe I am reaching back too far but while I am there) Piano player, Blogger, and now a Stand Up Comedian.

It can all be summed by to the quote from Erma Bombeck, “It takes a lot of courage to show your dreams to someone else.” For the record, my mom told me the same thing. The whole weekend reminded me of how blogging and writing my novel and memoir are brave steps I am taking in my life. Even though dogs and horses still frighten me, I have been face to face with a real life bear (through the bathroom door) and lived to tell about it.

The YouTube video will make its way out soon. For now, I have included the link below to the original telling of the bear encounter last July.

Close Encounters With A Bear

Screenshot

Another Great Day in Dayton, Ohio!

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Uncategorized2 Comments

If someone had told me a year ago that I would be living it up and laughing in a room full of writers in the middle of Ohio the first week of April I would have thought they had me mixed up with someone else. I am not saying that I do not belong here, but I must admit to a little imposter syndrome. I am surrounded by talented writers with published books, real authors! The people attending the workshop brought business cards, bookmarks, magnets and even their books here for sale. I am counting on there being a subtle alchemy or a bit of osmosis taking place here. How can it not when you put that many verbally expressive people into the same space for several days? The crowded elevators with witty comments have to be transferring something to me. I hope so.

Everyone has been supportive and encouraging. Today I took two classes in craft: one focusing on Voice, and another on Memoir writing. The other two classes were about the business of writing: publishing (or self publishing) and social media presence. My head may explode with all of the helpful information I gathered. I loved the classes focussed on the craft of writing the most. The others can be stressful.

We had two terrific keynote speakers today. At lunch we were treated to the enthusiastic Zibby Owens. She was fantastic in telling her story in a clever way. I enjoyed reading both of her books, “Blank” (fiction) and “Bookends” (her memoir). Like a rock star, she is on tour, the “Zibby-verse” book tour. I got a book signed and a pair of glasses. This evening we listened to Beth Lapides, a funny comedian with an audio book I listened to last month. It is called, “So You Need to Decide” and it is so much more than entertaining. It is thought provoking. She includes interviews with some of her very funny friends. Check it out.

Speaking of friends, I have made some here. I came to Dayton, Ohio, for this writing workshop without knowing a single person. The conversations we have shared at lunch and dinner or between classes have been interesting. Everyone has a story to tell. The special component of gathering writers together is how eager people are to find out your story. So while there is a bit of business card swapping (or bear paw sticker in my case), it is actually done in more of a networking “let’s stay connected” way.

I promised an update for you today. It was a long day filled with “good stuff.” When my kids used to ask me what was for dinner my reply was always, “good stuff.” Too tired to elaborate, or not having decided what exactly to cook, “good stuff” was enough to capture what was to come. I anticipate tomorrow, the last day of the conference to have more “good stuff.”

I will have something you will definitely want to read about. It is a secret for now. The only hint I can give is that I am stepping way out of my comfort zone. Good stuff.

Erma Bombeck Might Have Cured My Cancel Pleasure Condition

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Blog Writing, Comic Relief, Deep Thoughts, TIPS3 Comments

I am here in Dayton, Ohio, at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop. If I wait until it is over to write a recap of the weekend, then it is sure to be too long. I will divide it up. Day One was pretty cool, and I will tell you three reasons why.

  1. I started my morning by walking over to the Dayton University Library where they have a big exhibit on Erma Bombeck. I’m telling you that I got chills in that space with her typewriter, newspaper clippings, and correspondence. I felt almost teary eyed reading her words. It’s clear to me just how much she lead the charge for women as humorists.
  2. My name tag badge has an added blue ribbon that says, “First Timer,” so that veteran Erma Workshop attendees can welcome us or be helpful. It was great to spot other newbies. I made a few friends tonight. Believe me when I tell you at first I felt like I was back in a middle school cafeteria trying to find a person to talk to or sit with.
  3. The third part that was cool about the opening day was meeting two authors I really like. One who is a relatively new other who also had a podcast (Moms Don’t Have Time to Read) Her name is Zibby Owens, author of Bookends (a memoir) and Blank (a funny fictional novel). I went a little fan girl on her. The other author, Anna Quindlen, was interviewed on stage. She’s a favorite of mine, fiction and non fiction. I brought a book for her to sign. She was lovely to talk to. One quote I wrote onto my phone that Anna said which really stuck with me was (in referring to the collective group of authors in the ballroom), “We are the connectors in a world that needs connecting.”

The last part of the evening they opened up the mic for anyone volunteering to read aloud something they were working on, or a piece they wrote for the Erma Writing Contest if it had not been chosen as a winner. It was entertaining to listen to all of the writers read their work. A few months ago I sent in a humor entry (450 words or less) and did not win. I did not read it aloud on stage. In the spirit of sharing, I have decided to include it below. The topic is Cancel Pleasure. Without a single itty bit of a doubt, I am glad that this Writing Workshop did not get cancelled or that I did not have to cancel it for any reason. One sentiment I took away this morning from my visit to the Erma Exhibit made me think about the piece I wrote. Erma wrote a whole page about “If I had to live my life over again…” One line was, “I would have invited friends over to dinner even if the carpet was stained and the sofa faded.” That one line made me reconsider my cancel pleasure.

MY ENTRY into the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop:

“We cannot make it tonight.”

“Of course we can reschedule,” I replied into the phone, attempting to mask my inner happy dance. 

Cancel pleasure!

A rush of dopamine washes over my introverted body. I am not a social recluse. I like people (sometimes). We make plans and look forward to them. But when something comes up like a scratchy throat or an 8% chance of snow then things change. I am more than fine with that. Delighted in fact, because I suffer from (or relish in) cancel pleasure.

Not to be confused with cancel culture where one’s public actions or words are deemed socially unacceptable leading to a boycott. Cancel pleasure is much better (and socially acceptable I hope). It is that feeling one gets when you can put back on your pajamas, keep your car inside the garage, and sink into the sofa. It is the highly coveted gift of time. 

I am aware that not everyone enjoys a good cancellation like I do. Last Saturday morning my son paced around the kitchen in his collared shirt and golf pants. He stopped walking and read the text on his phone and threw up his hands.

“Darn it! He can’t play now.” 

“Bummer! But now you can get comfortable and relax.” I reminded him, “It’s a bit cold outside anyway. And you get a little cancel pleasure!” My son frowned at me and then texted someone else to play golf.

Modern technology makes cancelling even easier. Rather than a painful conversation on the phone hearing the disappointment in a friend’s voice, you can simply send a short text and add some emoji (the green barf face or the masked face both work great). Even better if you’re on a group thread and others start bowing out, you can join in with, “Gee it looks like only half of us can make it to dinner. Maybe we should reschedule?” Then your comment gets thumbs-up likes. Now we are all enjoying some cancel pleasure.

COVID tipped the scales and overfilled our cancel pleasure tanks. Parties, weddings and trips were all cleared off the calendar. It’s no fun to sit at home with your son in cap and gown as his name is announced on a virtual college commencement ceremony. Or to change a big family reunion beach vacation to a chaotic Zoom call with technology challenged elders (like me). No dopamine rush there. 

But alas, we rebounded and we are happier than ever to get out and see people. Restaurants, stadiums, and airports are now buzzing with crowds. Places to go and people to see. Go, go, go.

“What’s that? You have a fever? Oh, I totally understand. Let’s do it another time!”  

A Solar Eclipse and A Special Dog

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Blog Writing, Deep Thoughts1 Comment

We are just a couple weeks away from something amazing taking place. I am not just referring to the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop that I am attending in Dayton, Ohio. That will indeed be amazing and only comes along every two years. Far more rare is the Solar Eclipse that will be on Monday, April 8th. This is when the Moon passes between the Earth and the Sun. The path of totality will be twice as wide at the Solar Eclipse back in 2017. The most intense path will be from Texas to Maine. NASA says that 31.5 million people live along that path of totality. The Solar Eclipse on August 21, 2017, did not last as long as they anticipate this upcoming one will last. In the right place the Solar Eclipse could be experienced for a good four minutes this time.

I must admit right away that I am very limited in my knowledge of this scientific phenomenon. In fact, it did not even occur to me that I was going to be in the path of totality when I booked my travel to the writing conference. As it is, I am departing from Ohio one day before the Solar Eclipse. Until last week, speaking with my mom, I never thought it through. So while people flock to Ohio, I will be passing them on my way home to Virginia. I was discussing this with my son the other day and telling him how I remembered viewing a solar eclipse when I was in junior high school and we made a special cardboard box with a hole to watch the moon partially cover up the sun. I remember being told very sternly by our teacher not to look directly at the sky because our we could go blind.

My son reminded me that we had a Solar Eclipse in 2017. I barely remembered it because we were going through something very sad with our beloved 14 year old dog. My son said it was for that reason that he would never forget the Solar Eclipse. Some astrologists believe that an eclipse is a life-changing time to seek change and usher in evolution. The word eclipse literally (from Latin and Greek origins) means “to fail to appear” or “to abandon an accustomed place.” This made me think about how our sweet Australian shepherd, Dot, left us that day of the Solar Eclipse of 2017. As a tribute to her, I am sharing below a piece that I wrote about Dot. As for the upcoming Solar Eclipse on April 8, I hope wherever you are that you can experience the brief and very rare moment when the moon aligns directly between the Earth and the Sun. I will be back home in Virginia with my pair of special eclipse glasses.

I must admit that I have a feeling that my experience at the Erma Bombeck Writers Workshop may overshadow the eclipse. I signed up to attend this workshop last Fall. Ever since then I have been reading the books written by the speakers. I have been in a Facebook group with other excited Erma writers. Over 350 people are coming from 35 states and 4 countries. It is sure to be a laugh, but I also look forward to learning more about the craft, networking with other writers, and being inspired. I love the quote from Erma Bombeck that will be on the coffee mug I ordered along with some other fun merch. “You Can Write!” Just as some believe a solar eclipse can be a life changing shift, I’m willing to bet my experience in Dayton, Ohio, will impact my life as well.

The piece I wrote several years ago about our Sweet Dot:

It was Christmas morning in 2003. We lived in Southlake, Texas, on Truelove Trail. As was our tradition, the kids came down the stairs in order of the youngest first: Luke, Jack, Courtney and Colton. All wearing matching new pajamas they’d opened the night before. Their pace picked up as they rounded the corner into the family room where Santa had left them each a present. They screamed with excitement, running straight to the hearth to retrieve their open and assembled toys. I cannot recall exactly what Santa brought them that year, because my memory is filled with the most special gift that we gave the kids that Christmas.

“Ok, guys, sit down on the sofa for a minute,” Kevin said, as he started recording on the camcorder.  All four of them sat side by side on the brown leather sofa, with growing curiosity about what was coming next. Our tradition had always been to eat a little breakfast and then begin taking turns opening the gifts from under the tree.  Instead, on this morning, we sat them down, their legs and arms wiggling with anticipation.  I slipped out of the room to go get the special gift.

“Each one of you had something on your list.  What have you always wanted?”  Courtney was the first to blurt out, “A dog.” Jack echoed her answer, “A dog.” 

“You guys all had that on your list. Well, look what Mommy has.”  Right at that moment I entered the room with a nine week old miniature Australian shepherd in my arms. “A PUPPY” each of them exclaimed! She heard their cries of joy and matched them with her own. Yelping in a high pitch, pushing her legs to leap out of my embrace.  The kids jumped off of the sofa and raced over to the tile floor where I was keeping her, in case she piddled in her excitement. They slid to the floor with giggles and screams of delight. Luke cried, “Yay, we got a puppy!” She jumped around, twisting her little black and white body. Colton asked, “What’s it’s name?”

“I don’t know yet, we will have to pick a name.”

Courtney asked, “Is it a girl or a boy?” “It’s a girl.” Jack grunted at my answer. Luke wanted to go find Kitty to have them meet, Kevin told him to wait until later. When he spoke, the puppy recognized his voice and skipped over to him, barking at his legs while he continued to record the whole thing. Kevin had been the one to go pick her up from the breeder, and had spent the five our drive creating their bond.

It was a strong bond that would endure for the next 14 years.  She was always especially close to Kevin. It did not take long for us to choose a name for Dot.  Her silky black coat had a big white dot of hair on the back of her head, which led us to calling her “Dot.”  I liked the short one syllable quickness of her name, easier off the tongue when needing to call her.  Sometimes we affectionately called her “Dottie-Girl” or “Sweet Dot.” The latter being something I called her in her older slower days in recent years. 


Dot, as an Aussie was a working dog, whose job was to herd animals.  That meant barking and nipping at the heels of the sheep to get them to stay in the herd.  Dot knew her job, and was constantly at work. As the four kids played in the yard, she barked and chased them. The more they ran apart from one another, the more she barked and nipped. 

I always worried about someone getting bit, even though nobody ever did.  The irony is that I was always afraid of dogs (and still am sometimes), and I now had a dog that I was worried would bite or scare others. Dot, being the very smart and loyal dog, sensed my anxious feelings when others visited and became protective on my behalf. Dot never hurt anyone, not even Kitty. Those two figured their relationship out the day Dot joined our family.  With one hiss and swing of her paw, Kitty showed Dot who was in charge.  Somehow Dot knew that she could chase, play with, bark at, but never would hurt Kitty.  Over the years they enjoyed each other’s company, sleeping near one another near the heat of the fireplace, eating in food bowls side by side, laying at our feet under the table while we ate, and both greeting us at the garage door when we arrived home.

It’s been almost three months, and I still expect to see Dot waiting at the kitchen door when I come in from the garage.  She isn’t there. It’s only Kitty, who has become increasingly vocal lately, meowing very loudly. Maybe she is lonely for Dot too. She was with us for fourteen years, living in Texas, Connecticut and Virginia. Dot and Kitty both adapted to our new environments as we settled into new homes.  Relocating was hard on our family but having Dot and Kitty with us always brought comfort. Our family was intact and just in a new spot.

That first winter in the northeast, Dot’s coat grew thicker and she learned to love snow. On one of our moves we had to live in temporary housing for several months. It was close quarters with four active kids, a herding dog, and a disoriented cat. With no backyard, we had to take Dot on many walks to relieve herself. I remember those nights when my heart was aching for the friends we were missing from Texas; I’d be openly crying as I walked Dot on the path behind our condo. She wagged her tail, put her nose into the cold air smelling for snowfall. 
She was happy just to be with me on a walk. I wondered if she missed the swimming pool in Texas, how she used run circles around the pool barking wildly as the kids swam. Just for fun, we would all come to the center of the pool in a tight herd, which would make her stop barking. Then one of us would swim away from the group, Dot would immediately bark and even jump into the water herself to push that person back towards the group. The kids loved her constant efforts to chase and keep them together.  Dot seemed to thrive at every place we lived.

  It was not until we moved to Virginia that I can say with certainty that Dot had a strong feeling for any place. When we moved to Virginia we bought a house in a neighborhood with houses right next door. Our love for the outdoors and space also led us to find a property a couple hours away.  Hickory Creek Farm was what we called it.

  It was not just our happy place to getaway, it was also Dot’s happy place. It was as if she had returned to her homeland, that of an Australian Shepherd. While there were no sheep to herd, Dot ran free across the grassy fields, running so hard she’d be limping on sore muscles when we returned from a visit. Kevin would often bring her with him when he went there to do some work.  As soon as she saw him in his work boots, she’d dance around our kitchen excitedly, knowing where they’d be going. If for some reason he did not take her, she would howl at the garage door after his departure. 

Every time I come into the house, I think of her waiting right at the door. She must have heard the electric garage door open from wherever she was napping and then made her way into the kitchen to be there to welcome me home. I miss her. I remind myself that she had been so sick and we had no choice. It was the day of the solar eclipse. Over the weekend she had taken a dramatic turn for the worse. Her bodily functions were shutting down. The medications to help her heart were no longer working effectively. She laid on her side, her chest rising and falling rapidly. After losing the ability to support herself on her hind legs, she just laid there. I carried her over to the rug by the fireplace, one of her favorite spots to sleep. I ran my hand along her smooth coat. I spoke to her as I pressed the palm of my hand down her soft curly black ear. It was time.

The doctor was ready for us when we arrived. He had a special room off to the side, where he’d spread out a large sheepskin blanket. We carried Dot into the room and gently laid her down. The vet explained in a calm quiet voice what would take place. We sat on the floor around Dot, crying, stroking her lovingly. Luke said through tears, “We have had her the whole time we were growing up.” In the soft-spoken words the vet said, “She raised all four of you kids, she did well, her job is done.” He gave her the first shot which would just remove her pain and have her sleep. Dot’s eyes had been wide open as her labored breathing filled the room. A minute passed before her eyes closed. Her chest still rose and fell. We continued to stroke her and tell her how much we loved her. He gave the next injection.  Dot stopped moving. Life left her body in an instant, I immediately wanted her back. Lift your head, Dot. She couldn’t. She was gone. Her black and white lifeless body lay between us. It was so final. Nothing could allow us to go back. It was done. She was gone. The hardest part was seeing her stillness, the next hardest part was leaving that room. Leaving our Sweet Dot.

Several days later, we brought Dot out to Hickory Creek Farm to bury her. Kevin took her to the far side of the pond. I watched from across the fields up on our deck. The ground was very hard and it took him over an hour to dig. I sat there feeling the warm sun on my face. The clouds were wispy and curled in the blue sky. There was a slight breeze. The tall grass waved back and forth. It was the perfect day to lay Dot to rest, in this place that was so very special to her.

Happy International Women’s Day!

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Deep Thoughts1 Comment

I want to kick off Women’s History Month by sharing with my readers the piece I wrote last year focusing on the impact of gathering with other women. At the time I wrote it I was coming off of two special getaways with friends. Then later in that same year I wrote about traveling with my high school girlfriends after our reunion. These experiences of talking, laughing and even crying with good friends nourished my soul and ignited my creativity.

I thought I would throw you a teaser about the novel I have been working on for the past five months. I am not ready to reveal the storyline or theme just yet except for this little tidbit. The supporting fabric of the novel involves four old friends who make the time to meet up together. Just as in my real life, the women value their friendships and look to those times together to relax, have some laughs, and lean into the strength the other women can offer one another. Have no fear, my friends! This is a work of fiction. I may mine my experiences for my fictional writing, but what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. (At least until my memoir comes out).

Please read the piece I wrote on the link below. I especially love the part about my mother and her backpacking friends (The Mountain Mamas). A week ago I received a beautiful flower arrangement from my high school gal pals while I was recovering from a little medical procedure (all is well). Their lovely note made me laugh and cry. I shared it with my mom, and she texted me that they are my “friends of the heart (where some are friends of the road).” This made me think how much I value all of the kinds of friends. With having moved over twelve times in my adult life and raising four children, I have many friends of the road. Some remain Christmas Card and Facebook friends. Other friends, the friends of the heart, can live across the river or across the country, and we can go days or months without seeing one another, but our very special bonds remain strong. Another way of looking at friendships that I have heard is that people come into our lives for a reason, a season, or a lifetime. How lucky I feel today, thinking about all of the women I call friends!

https://wordpress.com/post/grizzlybearma.com/1866

https://wordpress.com/post/grizzlybearma.com/1866

Mountain Mamas, watercolor by Barbara Papini (my mom)

Love is in the Air

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Deep Thoughts, Family, farm lifeLeave a comment

(4 minute read)

Happy Valentine’s Day!

I interrupt your day running errands (buying cards, candy or flowers) with a little update. Love is in the air! Not sure how that happened so quickly because I just put away all of our Christmas decorations the other day. Do I even bring out the Valentines wreath and red hearts, or just put out the bunnies and baskets? I have been holed up with reading and writing in my office. The only big reminder I get about Valentine’s Day is looking out my window at the big heart pasture. It is the one I have carefully consistently mowed in the shape of a giant heart. A neighbor who is a pilot once told me how great it looks from up in the sky. I looked on the FindMyFreinds app and saw that he was indeed correct. Love is right outside my window!

Today I want to write about a couple other touch-points of love in my life right now. At the start of this month, two weeks ago, our last baby left the nest. I write this smiling and welling up at the same time. We mamabears know that our job is to raise our cubs and then send them out into the world, but it still hurts the heart to watch them drive away with their car packed up. For all those families getting college acceptances (my sister) or taking six month pictures of their fast growing grandbabies (my sister in law), I see you and I feel your pain and joy. 

Kids grow up so fast! This brings me to my next love touch point. Our kids just celebrated their one year old birthdays! I do not blame you if you are confused. Our seven nigerian dwarf goats were born just days apart (and a few on the same day from the same mom). Ada, Arthur, John and Finn were born 1/30/23, Thomas Shelby on 1/31/23, and then Polly and Lizzie on 2/2/23. I had envisioned a big party with balloons, cake, guests playing pin the tail on the donkey (no we do not have a donkey, yet), and presents. I had been scouring the internet for ideas of goat toys and came across some fantastic ideas for adding onto their goat playground. 

But alas, the crumby weather and sick family members kind of party pooped those plans. We still got the chance to love on them after cleaning their stall, and giving each one a good long overdue pedicure (hoof trimming). I cannot emphasize enough how affectionate these little goats are! We debated the other day wether they can actually “love” us. My husband, with the background in 4H and raising animals, says they are conditioned to expect our arrival at the barn. It was a stretch for him to agree with me that they “loved” us. Well I have seen the way Polly looks at him, or Arthur rubs his head into our open palms. It is true love!

The next touch point will be brief. It is a love story that we have all watched unfold since back in September. So much press and so many differing opinions. The only thing this football mom can say is that watching this sport has never come with such delicious drama. I will miss it. Even though my heart was rooting for my dad’s 49ers to win, the silver lining was watching all of the post game partying. Congratulations to the winning pair! Where do they go from here?

Now for the final touch point of my love post. My one and only valentine, Kevin, makes my life everything it is. In my last blog entry I wrote about how much I have been writing up in my office. I was not exaggerating when I said how the hours fly by as I rip through the words for my first draft. He is my biggest supporter. Not only does he give me the space to hunker down, but he also takes on the barn duties and meal prep when I loose track of time. I also discovered that he was a great first person to roll out the plot and characters of my novel to when I was nervous about my ideas. He listened without a word for the three hours on a recent roadtrip. (It may have helped that I had him confined in the car in the backroads of Virginia). When I was done I looked for him to respond. He was engaged and wanted me to dive in even further. I love this man!  Everyone needs a person (a friend or spouse or mother), who is the champion of their passions.

Happy Valentine’s Day to you all. Look for the touch points of love in your life. They can come on four little legs, or a best pal, or a romantic love story on tv, or right next to you on a road trip when you share all the crazy ideas in your head. That is love! 


I’m Still Here (sing to the tune of “I’m Still Ken” from the Barbie movie)

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Blog Writing, Deep Thoughts1 Comment

(14 minute read)

I am alive and well. Even though colds, stomach bugs and COVID are jumping from house to house, I can assure my readers that my absence from the grizzlybearma blog has nothing to do with illness. Knock on wood. 

It has been more than a few weeks since my last post. Christmas has come and gone (it was wonderful by the way), and the calendar has turned to 2024 (happy new year to you). 2024 is still a crazy number to me. Back in high school, I pictured the year 2024 as a science fiction space traveling robot universe. In some ways we are not that far off. Music (previously from a boombox) and pictures (which required a two day turnaround to develop) are now instantly available on our phones. The telephone is no longer the clunky receiver connected to a tightly coiled cord to the base which was connected to the wall. A cellphone is no bigger than a deck of cards (remember that old fashioned game that could be played anywhere without a need to recharge). Calls can be made hands free from inside your house, or your car, and even while walking your dog. Despite that progress of freeing ourselves from the six feet stretch from the wall outlet, we are actually more connected than ever. 

But lately I have been disconnected, from my blog, and the internet (aside from putting goat videos on TikTok). “What’s up with that, Carolyn?” I hope you are wondering. I have been under a warm faux fur blanket my son gave to me for Christmas with my notebook and rollerball ink pen writing like a mad woman. 

Back in November I signed up for NaNoWriMo. You may be thinking it is a new form dance class like Zoomba, which I found to be a lot easier than step classes that required memorizing complicated sequences of moves. I never made cheerleader for a reason. NaNoWriMo stands for “National November Writing Month.” It is a month-long challenge where writers focus on quantity over quality, attempting to reach 50,000 words by month’s end. Roughly 1500 words a day (or more). Given that I tend to be longwinded, or to put it more eloquently, “I am still working on the economy of words,” this seemed like it would be easy. Not. (That’s a nice short sentence).

If you remember, the beginning of November was right in the middle of my 21 day traveling vacation (aka a break from the farm).  It was much harder than I thought to separate myself and bang away 1500 words on my iPad. I brought a notebook and some pens thinking the scrawling could reach my daily goal faster. It didn’t. I learned somethings about myself.

First, my handwriting and the content of my writing, is pretty bad after drinking margaritas all day on the beach. Rereading my stuff from those nights inside the Punta Mita casita made me laugh, almost as much as all the shenanigans I was having with my girlfriends. Even so, my sentences did not add up to anything worth saving, and barely reached the 1500 word count. I kept telling myself that it was about quantity not quality. I was strengthening muscles and working on my cardio (in bed with a buzz). I decided I would make up the time when we were back in the states.

Second lesson that I learned during NaNoWriMo? Writing is a solitary activity, so when you are visiting with people who you do not get to see often then writing is not so fun. I love to write, and I love to corner myself into a spot alone to think, write and read. Visiting my parents in California or hanging with old friends is not the ideal time to write. I put away my iPad and notebook and sat with my mom over coffee. Best decision ever. (Another good short sentence.)

The third lesson is that writing is not so fun when it feels like an assignment. School was not easy for me, I was a big procrastinator and ended up burning the midnight oil cranking out papers right before the due date. My mom reminds me of the night I sat at the dining room table crying over the report on Leif Erikson in the sixth grade. A blister on the inside of my ring finger on the pad formed from gripping my pencil for several hours straight. I cannot remember much about that Norse explorer (I even had to google that), but I do remember the tears and my stomach ache from the stress of so much due with so little done. “It would never happen again,” I told myself. It did. (look at that, another short phrase and with a subject and a verb!)

I realize that writing will come with deadlines, especially if I am lucky (or talented) enough to get to that point. But for where I am now, my motivation to write is much stronger when the gate is wide open. In fact it is precisely that message I tell myself when I feel writers block or self doubt or when I abandon a project I have spent a long time working on. I say to myself, “No deadline.” For those of you ambitious goal-setting people this may seem reckless and aimless. It works for me.

Over the last year or so I have been like a dog circling the floor finding just the right spot to lie down. Koda and Summer do this on top of our sofa, spilling the throw pillows off kilter. I bounced from one project to another, one genre to another: children’s book, historical fiction, memoir,  contemporary rom com and even sci fi. I let myself travel down these paths, building characters and plotting story arcs. “Write what you like to read,” is what I was told. So I read books in all of those genres. I spoke with other writers in zoom chat groups. I listened to a fantastic podcast called The Writer’s Routine. I bounced book ideas off of anyone I felt brave enough to spill the weird thoughts ruminating in my head.

And then one day…it happened. Something landed for me. I took out a black and white composition notebook and a pen and started to write. The letters formed words, the words into sentences, scribbled in a hybrid of print and cursive, my thoughts began to take shape. It was not November with the NaNoWriMo; nothing against that because many writers love the team goal of that challenge with inspiring words from others. (Uh oh, back to a long sentence again). It was actually right in the middle of the busy holidays when I was struck with writer’s “energy” or whatever is the opposite of writers block. 

There were still people in my house, some on vacation who were wanting to play games with me or watch some football. I tried to sneak in my ideas onto my cellphone or iPad. But back to Lesson number two about spending time with the people you do not see often, I put my project aside because I knew I could really dive back into it when the holidays were over.

So here I sit in my office with notebooks, colored sticky notes and index cards, various books on the craft of writing (Save the Cat is a good one) spread around the room on the floor and on the walls, and two dogs napping at my feet. I am writing, and loving it so much. The other day I was telling someone that writing the first draft of a book feels like you are reading a novel you just cannot put down or binge watching a series that makes you put off all household chores. 

When I do emerge from the depths of my writing cave, to get water or food, or go to the barn (yes the 13 chickens, 2 horses, and 7 goats are doing great), I stretch and check the clock. It is unreal how fast time goes by when your mind is in another place and time. I must looked dazed and confused as I adjust to the present moment. The funny thing about writing is that when I step away is when even more ideas for conversations or chain of events takes place. I could be mucking the stalls and suddenly it dawns on me to change the point of view from third person omniscient to first person. The importance of getting up and moving during the writing hours cannot be understated. My back and my dogs can attest to that.

If it is not evident, I am having a ball. The first draft is a ride with twists and turns and loads of cotton candy and kettle corn (not literally, unless perhaps I have my characters go to the fair, now that is an idea). I realize a lot of what I am writing will be cut during the editing process. So months (hopefully not years) from now when I am reading my manuscript for the fourth time and am growing weary please remind me of how excited I seem right now.

As for my grizzlybearma blog, I am afraid to say that it will continue to be sporadic. The big thing about writing is getting in a flow state. It is an awesome feeling. However, breaking from it to write my blog is tough. Just this piece today took me a few hours, time when I could have been writing the “catalyst” in Act 1 (see Save the Cat to understand that reference). 

To my faithful blog followers, however many of you who are still hanging in there, you mean a lot to me. Your support is what bolstered my confidence to stretch out of my comfort zone and commit to writing a book. Thank you! I will keep you all posted and might even drop some excerpts here on the blog. But do not rush me because as I said, “No deadline.” 

Yet. 

Maybe some day .

My writing assistants, Koda and Summer (hoping for a walk)

Is It Beginning to Look Like A Lot Like Christmas, Yet?

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn AUDIO, FamilyLeave a comment

(10 minute read OR listen to the audio version with bonus material)

The last of the Thanksgiving leftovers are gone. The turkey platter and fancy serving dishes are returned to the deep recesses of the china cabinet. Right about now is when I turn my attention towards Christmas. For all of the plan-ahead, shop-all-year-long, and decorate-the-tree-at-the-start-of-November people, I am sorry if my procrastination unnerves you. Not to worry, I got this! I have years of experience pulling it all together in under four weeks. I am actually right on schedule for my holiday calendar.

I kick off the season by lugging up the four pieces of our beautiful artificial tree. To my friends that put fresh cut trees in their living rooms, my hat is off to you. Been there, done that. Around 12 years ago I made the leap to artificial trees for Christmas. Maybe it had something to do with the move from Connecticut to Virginia. All of my friends and neighbors here have lovely perfectly shaped well lit trees. Blue Spruce, Fraser Fir, Alpine Balsam Fir, Stratford Spruce, almost every variety of tree is available online or in a store near you. Miniature to 18 feet tall, frosted or natural green, with or without lights, white or multicolored, the choices are endless. Even though we already own a 9 foot pre-lit fake Fraser Fir tree from Lowe’s, I still peruse websites and catalogs looking at the various dreamlike winter wonderland focal points.

My childhood included an entirely different tradition. In Northern California, in mid-December my parents would load all four of us girls into the car and head to the local Christmas tree lot run by the Boy Scout troop. Rows and rows of freshly cut trees lined the gravel parking lot. It was a pop-up forest perfect for playing hide and seek. We chased and ran and hid, while my parents shopped around.

My dad held his arm out to a tree, “How about this one? Or this one?”

“Hmmm, too bushy. No, that one is tilted off kilter.”

I am not saying that my mom was picky, or that my dad was impatient, but both of them wanted to find “the one.” Because somewhere in that Boy Scout staffed pop-up parking lot forest was the Papini Christmas tree for 1978. A thorough examination of the inventory was necessary until they found the right one. Then after a quick search for us giggling girls, they proclaimed, “This is the tree!”

I remember those tree finding days from my childhood fondly. It was a tradition I continued with my husband. The two of us loved picking out the fresh pine smelling tree that we could afford on our newlywed budget and could fit in our small family room of our townhouse. Whatever tree we brought home from the lot was perfectly grown just for us. A little daily water in the base, and it kept fresh through New Years Day. Nothing firms up the feeling of starting a life together as much as trimming your first tree (real or faux). 

As the years passed and our family grew, so did the size of our trees. Bigger each year. Our tradition with the kids was similar to my upbringing. My husband and I discussed pros and cons of different tree varieties, as our four kids darted between and behind the bushy rows of greenery. The kids squealed with excitement as the tree was loaded on top of the car and strapped down. Then after the tied up tree was carried into the house, it was a dramatic moment of untethering and the release of all the splendor of branches reaching out into the room. I always loved the bare tree, fresh with natural pine scent, and ready for adornment. “You were selected to be here with us, and now we are going to make you part of our Christmas.”

The not-so-fun and sometimes-even-frustrating part of tree trimming is the hanging of lights. The untangling of the strings. The tiny white bulbs burnt out and finding which ones needed replacing. The circling light strings onto the tree with a bit of backseat driving from the onlookers. But “Wa La!” once illumination is complete the decorating can commence! 

I am a fan of sentimental ornaments even if that means the odd looking yarn and bean “what the heck is that” ones the kids made at school. Over the years I always added some ornaments related to the kids’ interests: piano, football, volleyball, Spiderman, jimmy neutron, Chewbacca. Then there are the fancy fragile angels that hang out-of-reach at the top of the tree. Long ago, I gave up on the idea of gorgeous glass balls, opting instead for the more durable unbreakable plain silver and gold plastic (expensive looking) cheap balls. This is what works best with four children, two cats and two dogs. And there you have it: the Freudenthal tree for the Christmas season!

In every house we lived in, and there were more than a handful, it was important to select the right location for the tree. Next to the window? At the bottom of the staircase? In the formal living room or the cozy family room? I even remembering touring homes for sale and wondering, “Now where would the Christmas tree go?” My parents kept the tree at the same place on top of a low table in front of the same windows every year. The tradition of Christmas trees is a special one. My only problem with having a real tree is that in a matter of just a few weeks pine needles dropped and branches drooped, signaling an end to another Christmas season. Something about the dried dying tree after the holidays makes me sad. It served its purpose, bringing joy to our home as we celebrate the birth of Jesus. It also was the backdrop for gathering, gift exchanging, and tradition.

As I sit across the living room from our tree, I do not smell the pine needles. The triangular shape is perfect, each wired branch bent into place. The assembly took less than an hour. All I had to do was walk down into the basement to retrieve the pieces, then attach in the right order and manually fold out each of the small needled twigs stemming out from the branches. Plug in the cord and instantly the green tree is aglow with white lights. “Sounds so special, right?” I ask with Bah Humbug sarcasm. It actually still is, faux fir and all.

Last week I contemplated going back to our old tradition of heading to the tree lot and buying a real genuine freshly cut fir. I brought up the idea to my husband whose response was less enthusiastic. “But why would we do that when we have a great looking tree in the basement that we bought two years ago when you wanted to move from a 7 foot tree to a 9 foot tree? That wasn’t cheap. And trees are expensive, and messy.” He is right. A pine scented candle can solve the nostalgic aura. Once all of the sentimental ornaments are hung, the tree transforms our home. Christmas is coming. 

Soon colorful patterned gift wrapped boxes and bags will accumulate under the tree (I better start shopping). Sugar cookies shaped like stars, angels and reindeer will bake in the oven. Alexa will play music from Michael Buble, Mariah Carey, Alvin and the Chipmunks, Nat King Cole, and Bing Crosby. Malls will get crowded with shoppers (I better get out there). Friends will gather in ugly sweaters. Family will gather in matching pajamas (I actually already ordered those for this year). And the Amazon truck will come up the driveway (I really better start shopping). The Advent Calendar tiny numbered doors are waiting to be opened one by one. Plenty of time. I am not stressed.

“It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas,” was and is one of my favorite songs. But it is also a tune that I am not ready to hear until it is time. Now is the time! The tree trimming is just the beginning. The final touch is to hang the star. And we mustn’t forget, to hide the pickle!

Picking out the Freudenthal tree in 2012