Category: Comic Relief

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

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!”  

Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce? I Am here For It and Let Me Tell You Why

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Children, Comic Relief, Deep Thoughts, Family1 Comment

(5 minute read)

Normally I do not poke my nose into the business of celebrity match ups, but with this pairing I feel compelled to speak up. From one Mama Bear to a couple other mama bears, Donna and Andrea, I will get right to the point. Your kids are just right for each other.

There is more to the union of these two gorgeous and famous 30-somethings. The hype and hoopla around their public courtship has been fun for music and football fans alike. Travis at the Eras concert with a friendship bracelet. Taylor wearing red in the box cheering on the Chiefs. The two, hand in hand, decked out in fearless fashion, exiting the building. Tweets. Posts. Pods. ESPN sports center coverage. Commercials. Taylor and Travis are everywhere. 

For a moment, let’s go back to Donna and Andrea. The mothers. The ones that want the best for their babies. Fame and fortune have been achieved by their young dreamers. Both moms can remember the days of driving to football practice or guitar lessons. Donna had two rambunctious football boys to shuttle around and feed. I wonder if she ever imagined a day where both boys would be playing in the NFL, in the Super Bowl, on opposing teams. Or if Andrea ever envisioned her daughter selling out football stadiums, being so loved, that scores of fans danced in the parking lots just to be close enough to hear the performance.

As moms, we all want our children to soar, to reach for their dreams. We are there for them when times are tough, during setbacks and disappointments. Our love and support lifts them when they need it. Our normalcy grounds them when they need it. But through it all, what is at the core of our mama-bear love, is to see our babies find their own way in life, to make good choices, and to flourish.

Are Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce making good choices in choosing one another? Yes. And let me outline the three reasons why:

  1. Travis is a tight end. For those unfamiliar with football, the tight end position is on offense. The players who play it are tall and strong (at least 6’4” and average 250 lbs). The best tight ends can both catch passes and block defenders. They are just the right combination of confident leaders (a little showy at times), playmakers, and protectors (willing to do what it takes to help the team by providing coverage, so not always showy). This makes them attractive partners in life. I consider myself an authority on this because I married a tight end that I met in college, and we raised a son that played tight end in college. Often tight ends were Quarterbacks in youth football. True for my husband, my son, and Travis. Smart, athletic, decisive, protective and ultimate team players, the tight ends make great husbands and fathers. (I would also add that centers and unicyclists make for good partners as I have a couple of those in the family as well). Travis was also a pitcher in baseball (another strong leader position).
  2. Taylor sings the songs she writes. So many artists out there lend their God given voices to the words of talented lyricists. Nothing is wrong with that (I wish I could sing). What makes Taylor so loved by the world is the heartfelt songwriting she does in addition to her beautiful vocals. She is a storyteller. This makes her very observant and reflective. Taylor can express the feelings she has for others like a poet. Her albums are the chapters of her memoir. She puts it all out there. Her dreams as well as the heartaches. I raised a daughter who grew up loving Taylor Swift and attended three of her tours, and last year stayed up until midnight for an album release listening to it into the wee hours of the morning on a work night. I know the positive impact her music has on people. She inspires and moves her fans. What mother would not want her son sharing his life with such a person? Better yet, who wouldn’t want this strong woman mothering her future grandchildren? 
  3. Grandchildren. That is my third reason for the pairing of Travis and Taylor. Stating the obvious, they would make gorgeous babies together. His blue eyes and her blonde hair. Tall. Long fingers (big hands) for playing guitar or piano or football or baseball. Physically, the combination of these two needs little explanation. As for them as parents, I can picture Taylor singing soft lullaby songs and writing lyrics that tell the stories of her babies’ lives. Look no further than Travis, as Uncle Travvy, on the podcast he has with his older brother Jason (“New Heights”). His nieces adore him. That says a lot. Perhaps the biggest challenge as parents they will face will be keeping some sense of privacy and normalcy for the family they raise. I am certain Grandma Donna and Grandma Andrea will help keep them grounded.

As final words of wisdom on the topic of Taylor and Travis directed at their moms, kids will love who they will love. I just married off two of our four children. Each wedding and union was unique and different from the other. I gained a wonderful son and then a wonderful daughter. My children are happy. What more can a mother ask for? 

As my own mother sang to me as a child, “Que sera, sera. Whatever will be, will be. The future’s not ours to see.” 

If Taylor and Travis are meant to be then I am here for it. Go Chiefs! And I look forward to the next Taylor Swift album! I shared this blog post idea with my husband, the tight end, and he said, “How do you know they’d be a good match? You don’t even know them.” 

I just know.

Before, During and After the Happily Ever After

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Comic Relief, Family, farm life2 Comments

(20 minute read)

ACT 1 

The scene opens up next to a barn. A woman is crying. Chickens and goats at her feet, she sets down the wire basket of eggs. Only three eggs today. Maybe the chickens are also stressed. Their usual offering of eight to ten is less than half, and one egg has been pecked and oozes with yolk, dirtying up the nesting box. Carolyn scoops out the sticky shavings and tosses them into the bushes. This mess is the least of her problems lately and just par for the course.

She sits down on the worn teak bench that was a twentieth wedding anniversary gift to her husband fifteen years earlier. She chose the bench made of teak wood because this particular wood ages beautifully in time and remains strong even as it endures the weather in its environment. It withstood snow, rain, sleet and hot sun. The bench moved from under the canopy of towering fall colored leafy trees in Connecticut to the green grassy backyard in a Virginia suburb. Carolyn never imagined the anniversary bench would end up in a goat pasture behind a barn next to a chicken coop.

Staring at the miniature goats running to catch up with one another and butting heads in play, she saw none of the frolicking before her eyes. Her tears flowed as her mind ran down the list of all the unfortunate events that had come her way in the month before her son’s wedding. What should be the happiest time for a mother to launch her oldest son off into a life of love and matrimony with his bride, was instead an onslaught of adversity. One thing after another, testing her resolve, wearing her down.

“You are being tested,” were the wise words from her older sister. No stranger to stress leading up to a wedding, Carolyn knew from the start to expect hiccups. Only a year before she traveled this road with her daughter’s wedding. Little pivots here and there needed to be made as they navigated the multitude of decision making and inevitable budget busting. In the end, the one big thing they had no control over happened. It rained. Not just rain, but a chilly 40 degree rain in the month of May, so the garden wedding turned into a beautiful indoor in front of the fireplace wedding. No one was the wiser. The stress of the week before as they painfully checked the weather app and readjusted expectations was behind them. They were tested and passed with flying colors.

Ada, the littlest goat hopped up onto Carolyn’s lap, nudging her head into the nook of her arm to be snuggled. She scratched Ada’s back with pointy fingernails from her manicure. The manicure where the wrong color was used. She had asked for the dip #191, which was a soft taupe. As the woman was finishing up her nails, Carolyn sat there puzzled at the peach color. She wondered how it could be so different. Then her eye caught the dipping powder container and it looked from her angle to be 161. An easy mistake. Par for the course. Too late. Add it to the list.

Carolyn did the one thing her mother cautioned her not to do. She made a list. Every bad thing that kept happening got added to a running list on her cellphone. She opened up the sticky note app to the list titled, “Sh*t You Just Can’t Make Up” and added “wrong nail dipping color.” Her mother would not like this list. Often in life one crappy thing after another takes place, like a tumbleweed, snowball or tall Jenga stack. Her mother in California once listened to her crying on the phone from Connecticut as Carolyn listed everything that had gone wrong in the span of 48 hours. Her mother calmly advised her to take a breath and pause for a minute. Then she gave her three words to say aloud, a mantra of sorts. It was a short phrase to acknowledge the single unfortunate incident, but to not let it compound with other unlucky stuff happening. “It’s just this.”

Carolyn tried it. The kids were all loaded into the car and she was searching the house upside down like a mad woman, looking for the car keys. Unsuccessful, late to preschool, she gave up and brought all four kids back inside of the house. “It’s just this,” she told herself. Hours later a full gallon of milk got knocked off of the counter by an independent 4 year old. “It’s just this.” Then the toilet overflowed because of a plastic toy inserted into the deep cavity. “It’s just this.” The mantra only helped by making her laugh in a maniacal crazed way. The children stood wide-eyed and wondered why Mommy was laughing and crying as she sopped up the flooded bathroom with towels. It was more than “just this” then as well as in the month before her son’s wedding. To list it is to see that it was truly a test of all tests. Within the span of several weeks leading up to the wedding…

“Sh*t You Just Can’t Make Up”

A well-meaning sister gives writing advice that bursts this budding writer’s bubble

The Sisters argue

Flu shot at the doctor was not the best timing the week before the wedding

Torrential down pour reveals two leaks in the roof, one above the kitchen with water gushing through a light fixture and one above the bedroom closet

Car Battery Dies at Walmart 

A chicken dies (RIP Chicken #14 aka Crazy Purple)

Mother of the groom is stung by a yellow jacket and has allergic reaction results in swelling and pain (on the outer arm which will show on the slit in her dress)

Hairdresser has a death in the family and has to cancel

Make up artist lesson goes well but advises the wrong shade of foundation to purchase, resulting in more of an oompa loompa look

Wrong nail dipping color was applied at the salon

Air Conditioner goes out as the Temperature reaches 80

Washing machine malfunctions and floods the laundry room

While cutting the grass, son gets debris in his eye, which swells and is infected

While cutting the grass, the bad boy ride-on mower breaks down

Got lost finding the way to the embroidery shop

Argued with son over the confusion of getting lost and not following gps

Got lost finding the way to the new dog groomer

Argued with husband over the confusion of getting lost and not listening to him and the gps

Sons argued and cried

Bride and groom had a spat and cried

Son/groom bought a tuxedo shirt too short for his arms (realizing this two days before the wedding)

Grandma makes the trek from Arkansas to Virginia but it takes a toll, she wakes up dizzy and her son/father of the groom takes her to the ER and spends the whole day there getting tests done (the Thursday before the wedding)

Father of the Bride gets ill and is in the hospital Thursday with the likelihood of making it to his daughter’s wedding looking very slim

The Virginia humidity swoops in and smothers the afternoon outdoor rehearsal dinner

Father of the bride is unable to make the rehearsal or dinner, and remains at the hospital

All of the vendors for the dinner get lost on the rural property

Three challenges present at the setup of the dinner: ice delivery delayed so no drinks are cold on this hot steamy evening, no cork screw to be found (at this winery property) and totally running out of time

What else can be added to this list? Just when Carolyn was sure that luck had turned a corner, something else happened. Perhaps the last straw or the final push over the edge, was when she and her husband dashed from the rehearsal dinner set up at the barn over to the pavilion to catch the end of the rehearsal. As soon as she saw her son and his bride and the whole bridal party, her emotions surfaced. They approached the tent just as her son was walking a strange woman up to the outdoor altar. Arm in arm they moved up through the aisle between the chairs to the music of La Vie en Rose. Like a record needle scratching to a stop, Carolyn twisted her face in confusion and asked what was going on and who her son was walking arm and arm with. “Oh, that’s the officiant,” answered one of the wedding coordinators.

This small thing triggered something in Carolyn. Of what remained in her shallow reservoir of flexibility, she just snapped. “No. That is not right. If he is going to walk someone up the aisle arm in arm before the ceremony begins it should be me. Not whoever she is.”

It was not exactly a “Mother of the Groomzilla” moment, but pretty close. 

ACT 2

The scene opens up next to a barn. A woman is crying leaning against a red truck (a truck that would need to be towed three days later because it would not start at the end of the night). She is trying to catch her breath and stop hiccup weeping. Out from the large open air white hilltop barn emerges an older woman. She walks to her daughter’s side with purpose, only to be warned by her son-in-law that “Carolyn is just having a moment.”

The wedding rehearsal at the pavilion had been a bit chaotic until order was restored. The groom got to walk his mother down the aisle, with his father trailing behind. The practice of the ceremony made the whole thing real. It was happening. Before she left for the barn her son gave her a big hug and said, “This is amazing!” This opened the floodgates of tears for Carolyn as she and her husband drove the mile back to the barn.

“I just need a minute,” she said to her husband. At the sight of her mother with open arms, Carolyn’s crying returned. Then her mother took her by both shoulders and whisper-shouted at her daughter. 

“Carolyn! Everything is beautiful inside of that barn. The table, the flowers, the candles. It is magical! Pull yourself together,” she said through tears in her own eyes.

“So much stuff, Mom. I wanted it all to go well. Why does stuff keep happening?” Like a 14 year old girl she whined to her mother. Then something changed. Standing there in the gravel parking lot in Virginia with her 83 year old mother in front of her, there all the way from California, a new feeling washed over Carolyn. She thought to herself, “My mom and dad are here. My son is getting married. As I sobbed in the car my husband asked me if this was how I wanted to remember our son’s wedding. No. This is not.”

She wiped away her tears and sweat with a tissue. The tissues came from little packages that said, “Happy Tears for the Wedding” which were placed in the hotel welcome bags. Her mother was right. The rustic barn had been transformed into an elegant intimate dinner gathering. As the wedding party made its way from the pavilion to the barn, there were gasps of awe and delight. Let the festivities begin!

People mingled. Friends and family got better acquainted. A welcome followed by a blessing, and then a delicious al fresco Italian pasta dinner. The barn was no ordinary horse stall barn. It was open on all four sides. A long tree cut table flanked with two benches sat 36 people. The bride and groom sat in the center. They could glance in both directions and meet eyes with those they loved.

The toasting began with the groom’s bothers and sister. Then friends, cousins, parents and grandparents each took a moment to share words of love and well wishes to the couple. At one point in the toasting there was a pause, so Carolyn stood up. She explained that she wrote something (actually dictated it into her phone) a week prior to this night. Her toast was about tears. In the month leading up to the wedding she was extra weepy. It made her wonder what water (coming from her eyes all too often lately) symbolized. She shared with the rehearsal dinner guests that she did what one does when they want an answer to such a question. She Googled what water symbolized. “New beginnings or change.” The day she wrote (dictated) her toast she thought all of the stressful things were behind her. She had yet to have a yellow jacket sting her arm or her car battery die at Walmart. As she held the little tissue package of “Happy Tears” Carolyn toasted her son and future daughter-in-law. “To a lifetime together of shared tears!”

The positive energy inside of that open-air barn was contained and intact. Carolyn’s mother was right, “It was magical.” 

Hearing so much love and admiration expressed for their son and for the woman he was to marry the next day washed away all of the stress leading up to that evening in the barn. Even the red truck not starting at the end of the evening could not ruin the mood.

ACT 3 

The scene opens up on a hillside near a barn. The woman is dressed in a long black wedding gown with lace sleeves and jet black curls. She is standing smiling as the love of her life, her tall handsome prince turns to see her for the first time on their wedding day. It is the “First Look” that is a private moment between the bride and groom (and the photographer). Jyl always dreamed of wearing a black wedding gown. Her uniqueness is matched by Colton, donning a white tuxedo jacket, black tie, vest, black and white patent leather shoes, looking like a dashing old movie star.

The morning downpour ushered out the humidity and brought in the mild dry fall day that they had hoped for. The vineyard in Virginia was a picturesque backdrop for this October wedding. All of the bridesmaids wore fall colors, each symbolizing something different. For two creative people that Jyl and Colton are, every decision came from an idea they came up with. As one guest noted, attending this wedding familiarized them with the bride and groom. If someone did not know them too well before this day, they certainly would by the end of it.

The wedding ceremony had a strict “No Cellphones” rule. Only the professional photographers captured the entrance, the exchange of vows and rings. All friends and family in attendance were fully present. In fact, the miracle of the day was that Jyl’s father was released from the hospital in time to come walk his daughter down the aisle. Their vows, heard by those in attendance, were beautiful and unique to Colton and Jyl. The guests tossed flower petals at the newlyweds as they left the tent.

The string trio was followed by a jazz band during the cocktail hour. Guests mingled. Some wore costumes as encouraged on the invitations. A scarecrow, Dolly Parton, a skeleton, and the Addams Family were in attendance. Then it was time for dinner inside of the pavilion. Then toasts and dancing. The bride and groom glided around the dance floor to “Something” after taking dance lessons for the last month. It was a touching cover of the Beatles tune. The lyrics stirred emotion for all watching,”There’s something in the way she moves.” They stared deep into each others eyes. It was romantic.

Then Jyl danced with her father to the score of their favorite movie, Jurassic Park. It was beautiful, and even more special since he almost was not able to make his daughter’s wedding. The third special dance was the mother and son dance. They chose the Michael Buble’ song “Forever Now” which he wrote when his son was born. As Michael crooned, “I’m always going to love you forever, now,” guests’ eyes welled up. No tears from Carolyn. She was basking in the glow of a day that went far better than the month leading up. Swaying in the arms of her overjoyed son, Carolyn thought of nothing else. She savored the present moment.

Then the party cranked it up a notch with the band playing classic rock tunes. Guests of all ages and dressed in different costumes hit the dance floor. Stonebrook rocked the place. One special part of the night was when the band played Lynard Skynryd’s “Free Bird.” It was a fun contest known as The Anniversary Dance. All the married couples went to the dance floor. As the song went on, the lead singer interrupted with, “If you have been married less than two hours, please leave the dance floor.” The newlyweds were off. Then two years, then five years, then ten years…The dance floor crowd emptied out as the wedding years accumulated. The groom’s grandparents, married 63 years, were the last dancers remaining. Two eighty-three year olds dancing to Free Bird was an unforgettable moment. They won! Truly inspiring.

The bride and groom cut the pumpkin cake, tossed the garter and bouquet. Then, something you do not often see at weddings, the groom took the stage and played keyboard with the band. As a musician it made sense that their guest book was vinyl record albums for guests to sign with metallic sharpie pens. So creative. There were s’mores outside at fire-pits. Best costumes were awarded. Then after a magical day and night, the newlyweds were sent off with a sparkler exit. They spent their first night together as husband and wife in a vintage train car. Soon after the happy couple flew off to California for their honeymoon. 

Carolyn sits on the teak bench next to her barn, with chickens milling around. There is a slight breeze. A dog barks in the distance. She hops up onto her feet and walks the perimeter of the pasture under the orange and brown leafed trees. The seven little goats frolic and follow along.

a magical barn

Step Back in Time, But Remember to Hike Your Hike

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Children, Comic Relief, Deep Thoughts, Family, TIPS1 Comment

(12 minute read)

It is no surprise that I love nostalgia. I enjoy a good retro theme party as much as the next person. I like any movie or book that takes place in yesteryears with all the fashion trends and pop culture of the time.  Memoir writing allows me to travel back to my own past. But everyone these days is always telling us to “be present.” While I do agree that it is good to pause, breathe in fresh air, pet the baby goat in my lap, and feel the joy of the peaceful present moment, I also think a trip down memory lane is restoring. Remembering details of my past helps me appreciate modern progress. I’ll never forget sitting on the curb outside my junior high after school waiting for my mom to pick me up. Is that her car? No. I’d wait and wonder just how long before her car came around the corner. I was tired from a long boring school day. Not showering after P.E. left me sweaty in my corduroy pants and sweater vest. My stomach growled since the last thing I’d eaten was my tunafish sandwich at lunch. Where is Mom? Her car will be the next one…nope. No cellphones existed in 1978. So there I sat waiting, without any idea of when my mom would swing by the school to pick me up. Maybe she is stuck in a long line at the grocery store. Maybe she lost track of time talking on the phone at home. In those days, there was no way to get instant information on whereabouts and estimated time of arrivals. A 13 year old today can text, “whats your eta” and get a return text “on my way.” My tired hungry young self had to sit patiently, hoping, that the next car around the corner would be ours. For the record, my wait on the curb was no longer than 45 minutes, but each minute dragged on longer than the last. In my mind I envisioned kicking off my shoes, peeling off my knee socks and raiding the pantry when I got home. Where is she?

I am 58 years old and sometimes forget to buy the cat litter at Walmart because I leave the list at home on the counter, but I remember sitting outside Stanley Junior High like it was yesterday. Memoir writing has helped me to open up moments of the past hitting all of my senses. The rough cement parking lot curb. The thick hot knee socks with ribbing, loose enough to sag down my shins, but constricting all the while. The whiz of the cars passing by the school. Honks of horns, doors opening and slamming, as other luckier classmates got picked up before me. My impatience mounting, mixed with renewed hope with each car coming around the bend. Who doesn’t remember waiting for a ride? While it is not the most comfortable of a situation to recall, I do love transporting back to my 13 year old self.

Last week I had the chance to really time hop. The book written by one my favorite authors growing up, Judy Blume, was made into a movie:  Are You There, God? It’s Me Margaret. Several friends and I went to the matinee. It was definitely a trip down memory lane. The 70’s clothing and house decor, with shades of orange, brown and yellow in patterns on sofas, curtains, and polyester shirts. Or the lucky girls with matching pink and powder blue ruffle and lace canopy, bedspread and curtain bedroom (mine was not like this). Then there were the cars, lovely shades of pea green and burnt orange, no seatbelts worn for safety, and even included the rear facing seats in the station wagon with the swing out gate. Watching that movie, I was taken back to being a child in the 1970’s: note-passing in class, having secret crushes, bossy girls, saying “pinch to grow an inch” on someones birthday, playing spin the bottle, and having a first awkward kiss with whoever was at the other end of that bottle.

Seeing the young girl on screen acting out the Margaret character I read so many years ago brought me back to that same stage of my youth. I was reminded of staring in the mirror at my own flat chest and shorthair, and wondering when my body would fill out. I did not feel pretty or cool like the popular girls. I don’t know if it made my experience worse or better to have two older sisters (and a younger sister). I remember feeling embarrassed about the bra shopping and was teased by my oldest sister, so I downplayed the need. I never chanted loudly “we must improve our bust” in my house. Our local department store, McCaullous, had a lingerie department in the back corner. In our small town, I remember hoping we would not run into anyone of my mom’s friends or someone from my school in the store on the way back to the corner I never shopped in. It seems like old ladies always worked that department, and made the experience even more embarrassing. I went home with a Maidenform scratchy AA cup bra. I felt like everyone would notice my change, with this new undergarment. Who knew that years later I could not wait to unsnap my DD cup bra at the end of the day. The movie (and book) also focussed on the girls getting their first period. This is something I do not remember in my own life, at least not the first one. Instead I remember not being able to swim at a sleepover party because of my period and my maxipad. It is interesting to me that I have no recollection of this milestone transition into womanhood. Sometimes doors to rooms filled with memories open up when traveling down hallways of other times. Perhaps my memory is tucked away because of teasing from an older sister. I laughed in the movie when one character was pestered by her brother and she yelled at the top of her lungs, “MOM!” That is something I remember doing. A lot.

My biggest take-away from watching my childhood book on film was how universal and timeless the insecure feelings the coming of age people of all genders feel. We question our physical attributes. We compare ourselves to others. We tally our shortcomings and long for what we lack. I am too tall. My hair is so frizzy. I still have braces. I am flat as a board. I was so self conscious growing up. What I did not know then that I do know now is that everyone else was also feeling insecure. The other day a good friend reminded me of a quote from Theodore Roosevelt. “Comparison is the thief of joy.” Interestingly enough, this came up in our conversation about our college age kids navigating life post graduation, the mental stress they endure sizing themselves up to their peers. The other way I have heard this quote phrased is, “hike your hike.” I think we all need to be reminded of this. Somehow at 58 years old, I find it easier to hike my own hike. I am not worried if people think I am a nut getting chickens and goats, or that I just bought a pair of overalls and they are so comfortable that I might wear them off the farm. I wish I could go back to 13 year old Carolyn and say, “Hike your hike. You are rocking the Billie Jean King haircut. Your boobs will soon fill in, more than you will want. And everyone is feeling what you are feeling, so relax and enjoy your days with your flat chest and no period.”

After reflecting on those coming of age highly emotional years, I remembered something that helped me just when I needed it. In high school, there was a program started that focussed on communications with peers. They were workshops led by an organization called the Center for Living Skills. What I remember most about the weekend workshops were that classmates from all the different cliques were brought together in one place, and led through different self esteem building and team building exercises. Popular kids were less intimidating, and quieter kids came out of the woodworks. There was a close-knit feeling by all in the workshop by Sunday night. And maybe, just maybe, when we all returned to the halls of our high school things had changed in some small ways. It was like The Breakfast Club but organized by trained adults. Today I wish there were more organizations like the Center for Living Skills from my high school days in the 80s. These kids need it as much or even more than we did.

By the time I graduated from high school, I believe my confidence had improved since the self doubting days of sixth grade, depicted so well in Are You There God? It’s Me Margaret. In fact, at my high school baccalaureate I was selected to read aloud a poem. I have wracked my brain looking for the title of it, the author of it, and no luck. What I do remember is that the message of the poem was to not compare ourselves with others, but to be our best selves. Here are some lines I remember from the poem:

“Who brings home the torch, the winner or the loser…

The only ribbons across my chest are those that hold in my heart and keep it from beating into endless nothingness…

I don’t compete. I am greater than no man and lesser than no other…

Being me is hard enough, some one other, never…”

The poem was much longer than this, and quite possibly worded differently. These are the bits that remain in my mind 40 years later. I will keep searching for the poem. It makes me happy to know that I chose a topic to bring to the baccalaureate committee that was so important for mental health. I had not mastered the art of “hike your hike” at age 18, but I was aware of the importance of striving for it. Life continued to give me practice: in my teaching career, as a new mother, as a homeowner in a suburb, as a writer… We all find ourselves comparing to others. There is definitely value in checking out what others are cooking, wearing, decorating with, or writing. Observation of life around you is important. I would simply echo what Teddy was saying, to not let comparison rob you of your joy. Mark Twain went so far as to say “Comparison is the death of joy.” I like the “hike your hike” motto best.

Who knew this little jaunt down memory lane at a Friday matinee would resurface such deep feelings. I laughed multiple times during the movie. It made me remember what it was like to be a tween, and how I felt reading Judy Blume’s words as a tween myself. Sitting with my friends last week, we watched the movie through a new lens, as mothers. When I read the book I don’t remember thinking much about Margaret’s mother. My eyes welled up with tears when her mom hugged her after she officially “became a woman.” The heavy weight on my heart was the knowing of how fast time passes. I remember the stage of each of my four children hitting puberty and leaving childhood behind. I was not Margaret as I watched this movie, I was her mother. At some point one day I will be the grandmother in the story. Now, that is getting ahead of myself! Back to the present moment. The goats are frolicking outside my window in the pasture. What a nice day it is today!

(My binder from Junior High School 1977-78ish)

How the “COVID” Stole Christmas

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Comic Relief, FamilyLeave a comment

(4 minute read)

Remember the part of Dr.Seuss’ “How The Grinch Stole Christmas” when the grouchy Grinch stood at the top of the mountain peak with the sleigh overloaded with all of the stolen Christmas presents and he hears all the Who’s happily singing? 

“And the Grinch, with his Grinch feet ice cold in the snow, stood puzzling and puzzling, how could it be so? It came without ribbons. It came without tags. It came without packages, boxes or bags. And he puzzled and puzzled, ‘till his puzzler was sore. Then the Grinch thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, doesn’t come from a store? What if Christmas, perhaps means a little bit more?”

Christmas 2022 is not going as planned. The Grinch (aka COVID) broke in and tried to steal Christmas from our family. Less than a week before December 25th the Grinch virus nabbed one of our family members, the following day another, and then another. Stricken with aches, pains and flu symptoms each person picked off. He creeped into the house at precisely the right day. Just enough time for out-of-towners to divert plans; enough time for the healthy immune to bolt for a safer distance. What was left in the wake of this holiday heist was a fraction of the family, nursing mounting symptoms and a heap of wrapped presents that would sit untouched for days beyond Christmas. The freezer, fridge and pantry stocked full of stashed away raincheck feasts that fell by the wayside, and was replaced by a menu of chicken soup, crackers and electrolyte drinks.

Stockings hung by the chimney with care, stuffed by Santa who was not aware. This house was robbed of a big lively multi-day celebration by the villain who has outstayed any expectation. Be gone COVID. It is 2022, be on your way! You zapped my energy and made me sneeze all day. You turned my result stick to positive and cancelled all the Christmas plans that we had, and made everyone in my family sad.

I cried boo hoo like Cindy Lou Who. But just as she and the other Who’s did, we found a way to celebrate too. It started out small, just us two empty-nesters and one youngest son, carrying out our traditions with the rise of the sun. Youngest to oldest, our son trailed each furry four legged sibling, down the stairs to check Santa’s cookie for nibbling. Much more quiet with just us three, but somehow it was better than I expected it to be. Our spirits were rising as the morning went by, reminding me of all the blessings we have in our life.

While missing celebrating Christmas with the rest of my kids on this day, I knew somehow we surely would find a way. Thank goodness for Zoom on the computer screen, we gathered together with miles in between. Telling stories and laughing hard, twenty minutes turned to an hour. Our shared joy and love was something COVID could not sour. Like the Who’s down in Who-ville we lightened up our December, and made this a holiday we would always remember. 

It came without gift boxes, shared meals, or family games. It came with naps, Kleenex and hot soup. All it took was a coordinated Zoom for our separated group. COVID thought of something he hadn’t before. What if Christmas, he thought, need not be a big family crowded into the same room? What if Christmas, he thought, could bring separated people together by Zoom?

What if Christmas, perhaps, means a little bit more?

A Christmas Story: Watch Your Step Santa

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Children, Comic Relief, Family, TIPS4 Comments

(6 minute read)

Once upon a time there lived four children who could hardly be described as children anymore. Their long legs extended under the round oak table, knobby knees bumping and toes colliding. While the table remained the same diameter it always had through the years, these children grew like beanstalks, making the eating area shrink. Not yet full fledged independent self supporting adults, they clung to the comforting traditions of their childhood. As did their doting mother and father.

Father prepared the annual Christmas Eve seafood feast while Mother went through her mental checklist of all that still needed to be done before they lay down to sleep in order to produce the magical morning for her long legged adult children. Mother had said, “Once the magic ends the magic stops…so who does not believe in the magic of Christmas?” Santa came down the chimney and filled their stockings and left one unwrapped gift for each child next to the fireplace each year.

On this one special night while everyone was elbow deep in cracked crab and shrimp, Mother excused herself from the table. She removed her plastic seafood eating bib and set it on the back of her chair. “I will be back in just a minute.” The feasters hardly noticed her absence. Then she ran up the two staircases heading straight for the attic. She giggled at the brilliant idea that came to her earlier. For a bit of nostalgia, Mother would retrieve from the attic several of the saved special toys from her children’s younger years. The Legos, the American Girl doll, the Thomas the Trains, and the Rescue Heroes. In keeping with the tradition of Santa coming down the chimney during the night and leaving a toy for each child, the memorable toys would be pulled out of storage and placed next to the hearth.

Time was short as Mother entered and flipped the switch to light up the partially finished attic. She knew what and where they toys were. Her plan was to carry them down to hide in a closet closer to the living room for the night. She found Molly, once her daughter’s favorite American Girl Doll. Then she grabbed the Rescue Hero tower with a couple Rescue Heroes off of a stack of boxes. To the far side she spotted the light blue Thomas the Tank Engine shaped train box. She took several steps, until all of a sudden “Crash!” Her foot broke through the attic floor. One leg was dangling inside of a gaping hole. The only thing that kept her from falling right through the unfinished pink installation material covered plaster ceiling of a room below was the wood beam that she painfully straddled. The shock of falling through the floor startled her and masked the pain. Somehow she pried her leg free of the hole and scooted back onto plywood that was strong enough to support a person. She brushed the debris of white plaster and pink fluffy insulation from her Christmas sweater. That’s when she noticed the bloody scrapes up and down her arms. She pulled down her sleeves, wiped the sweat off of her brow and gathered up the toys to take down to the closet.

As Mother passed by the open door to her bedroom, something caught her eye. She approached and her jaw dropped. The beige carpeted floor was littered with white plaster bits and chunks. Their dark brown bedspread was a mess. She looked up at the ceiling above her side of the bed and could see right into the attic. As she pieced together what took place she heard her kids calling from downstairs. “Mom!” Leaving the room exactly as is, she closed the door and called out, “Coming!” Out of breath with scrapes and bruises hidden under her sleeves and pants, Mother returned to the dinner table. Nobody noticed anything odd. Following dinner and dessert, after the kitchen was cleaned up they all sat in their matching pajamas and listened to Father read Twas the Night Before Christmas. Mother could feel her leg throbbing and the sting of her cut up arms. She said nothing of what took place. All the children retreated to their rooms for the night.

Father was walking toward the closed door of their bedroom. Mother caught up to him and squeezed his hand and whispered, “Do not say anything? Do not react?” Puzzled, he opened the door and took one step inside. Quickly Mother shut the door and explained the reason for the white plaster disaster in front of them (and above them). Wide-eyed, he broke into a big smile, then wrinkled his brows in concern, “Are you okay?” He shook his head in disbelief. She rolled up her sleeves to reveal the scrapes and cuts. She pulled up the pant leg of the bruised leg that had dangled through the attic floor (through their bedroom ceiling). “How did this happen? What were you doing?” She began to silently laugh so hard she started to cry. They gathered up the large chunks of plaster and shook off their bedspread. Down the hall the kids were asleep.

The next morning it was Christmas. The kids came down the stairs in their matching pajamas playfully going along with the “Santa brought you all something from the North Pole!” Each of them broke into big toothy grins as they recognized their familiar toys from years ago. Mother sat down on the sofa with a sigh as they rifled through their stuffed stockings. She started to giggle. Then laugh. Then howl. All of her grown children looked over at her as she continued to rock back and forth in laughter so hard it was silent and tears fell down her cheeks. “What is going on? Are you okay?” She jumped off the sofa and told them to follow her. Everyone trailed behind her as she went up the stairs, opened the door revealing the plaster disaster and the the gaping hole in the ceiling. Their reactions were even more memorable than the nostalgic toys. A Christmas story for the ages.

It’s Halloween, Is Your House Ready?

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Children, Comic Relief, Family3 Comments

(5 minute read)

Today is Halloween! For many years in my childhood that meant homemade costumes for the Happy Valley School parade, carving jack-o-lanterns, and trick-or-treating for candy. Then with our children it was all about finding the right costume for each one, decorating the house, trick-or-treating and candy sorting and trading at the end of the night. These days I still buy candy for trick-or-treaters who would have to be very brave to come down our long gravel driveway. A wreath with a “Happy Halloween” sign in the center hangs on our front door, and a skeleton playing the banjo sits on the porch swing next to two faceless pumpkins. That is it outside for decorations, a far cry from the fright fest that used to take place each Halloween in our front yard.

We have as many black plastic bins of spooky decorations as we do green and red bins of Christmas lights and decor down in our basement. We have tombstones, skulls, bones, bats, rats, spiders, webs, witches, chains, zombie body parts, glow-in-the-dark eyes that stick into the bushes and trees. There is the Grim Reaper that stands eight feet tall once assembled, ghosts that require annual battery replacement along with the dozen motion detected skulls on spikes that rattle, the pirate skeleton for the front door with bendable fingers, the fog machine, the black lights, creepy music to blast out of the windows and a homemade coffin.

We were living in Texas when the real enthusiasm for Halloween decorating kicked in. Kevin and our four kids looked forward to the day each October when all of the bins were brought out and the transformation of our front yard took place. Many neighbors sported the spooky stuff, and it was a popular subdivision for trick-or-treaters. On our street there was stiff competition from a family with three sons. They had the normal stuff (webs, spiders, ghosts in the trees) but then they took it up a notch. The mom sat out front dressed up as a scary witch cackling as she stirred a large cauldron with a broom stick. Two of her sons stumbled around the yard made up like dead zombies. The oldest son ran around with a chainsaw, a real chainsaw (with the chain removed of course, I hope). He kept revving it as the trick-or-treating children passed by, too afraid to approach the house for candy. They definitely were the scariest (freakiest) house on the block the night of Halloween.

But I take pride in our house being spooky, fun, and festive, both at night and during the day for most of October. In fact, in our Texas neighborhood there was a garden of the month awarded to residents, usually recognizing lovely landscaping. We won for October! We got to display the award sign in our yard for weeks and received a $100 gift certificate to the Home Improvement store (which we probably used for more yard decorations).

A few years later, we moved to Connecticut. When October rolled around, we were treated to the most beautiful fall foliage. There is nothing like the orange, red, yellow and brown leaf show that we experienced that first year. The kids were a little older, Kevin was busy and commuting each day, and I was unsure what our new neighbors would think about our over-the-top Halloween decorations. So all of the black plastic bins stayed tucked away in the basement. The kids were disappointed but did not fuss until breakfast one morning in October before heading off to school. They sadly reminisced about our Texas Halloween memories. After they caught the bus to school I sat in the empty quiet house and felt bad. Really bad. I cleaned up the kitchen, I kept feeling bad. I folded clean laundry remembering those fun times, and felt bad. Then I got a wild hair. Deciding to do something about it by myself, I went down into the basement and hauled several black plastic bins up the stairs and outside. It did not take me long to scatter skeleton bones around the flower bed in front of our pristine New England home. I set out tombstones, hung some ghosts, and lined the stone wall with skulls. I looked at my work with satisfaction that while it was not even close to the spectacle we created in Texas it would be appreciated for effort and at least make the family smile.

As the day went on and the time of the school bus arrival grew closer, I got another idea. I went into our costume bins and found the overly large scary troll mask. I put on overalls, a flannel shirt, gardening gloves and Kevin’s big boots. Sometimes in our Texas Halloween scheme we set out the troll stuffed with paper and sat him on a bench. So in Connecticut on this beautiful October day, I sat out on the bench in full costume waiting for the bus to arrive. My timing was such that I was there for a few minutes of cars passing by and my anticipation growing hearing my own breathing inside of the cumbersome troll mask. I sat completely still watching them through the small eye openings. As each one of my kids exited the school bus they were all smiles when they saw the decorated front yard. They skipped towards the front door and glanced my direction. Jack did a double take, stopped and kind of tilted his head and squinted his eyes. He walked closer to me slowly. When he was within arms reach I jumped up and roared. I got him. We both laughed hard. The excitement on their faces that afternoon made all my efforts worth it. Plus I kind of had some fun myself getting into the spirit of Halloween.

*If you go back to a blog post on Halloween of 2018 you’ll find a scary movie trailer I made. (Friday Film Days in the Menu). BEWARE, it is frightening!

I AM STILL HERE! It’s Friday so enjoy a Friday feature I call “Bird dogs?”

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Blog Writing, Comic Relief, Puppy Tales, Uncategorized1 Comment

After taking a little time to think things over, I have decided not to shut down the grizzlybearma.com operations. Hold your applause and cheers, I will be continuing to write puppy, cat and kid stories but may post less often than I did in the early stages of my blogging. A household with two aussiedoodles and a young energetic tabby cat provide plenty of material to write about (and make videos of). I am excited to share my other writing ideas with you as they unfold. For now, enjoy this little video I made illustrating the keen bird sense of the aussiedoodle hybrid breed.

An Important Question

On By Carolyn FreudenthalIn Comic Relief, Family, Puppy Tales, Uncategorized1 Comment

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An important question: Have I completely gone over the edge if I am wearing socks covered with my black aussiedoodle faces of Koda and Summer?

…is it also a little odd that the rest of the family received these socks and are wearing them?