Man’s Best Friend

Unaware, at first, that my glance was focused upon him, he laid resting, his chin whiskers white with age.  His once mischievously sparkling eyes turned slowly up to meet mine, their expression of ever-ready enthusiasm for a lively romp together now replaced by one of weariness that comes with age.  It was as if I could read his thoughts, for his eyes conveyed an unquestionable sense of peace and contentment.

His life, having been a very full and happy one, seemed to leave him with nothing more to be desired.  It seemed that his only wish now was to be with those of us who have always loved and cared for him and that he be permitted his well-deserved periods of quiet solitude and understanding – understanding of his gradually increasing ‘grouchy moods’ when Old Father Time has so unfairly nagged at his once ‘patient to a fault’ good nature.

My sentimental thoughts were only momentarily interrupted when he arose slowly and a bit shakily to curl up in the chair, beside me.  It occurred to me that he oftentimes repeats that same gesture of affection now, seeming to prefer our quiet companionship and restfulness to his previous younger days of neverending, boundless energy.

I gently petted his soft fur, and as he slowly drifted to sleep, my thoughts wandered back to those days long ago . . . . .

We had decided that our three-year-old son might enjoy a pet of his own to love and help care for.  So we had traveled to a kennel where we found numerous dogs of all sizes, shapes and colors.  They all began jumping up anxiously against the fences that held them inside their orphanage-like home.  It was as if they were each competing with the others for our attention.  They seemed to know why we’d come and each appeared to be desperately hoping that we would choose him or her.  We petted many little wet noses and soft paws as they groped out to touch us.

Suddenly, our attention was caught by a little black dog (a Schipperke) who was huddled alone in a corner at the far end of a kennel.  He wasn’t sharing in the other’s enthusiastic attempts at performing for us.  Moving closer we could see that his coat lacked the bright sheen of those of the other dogs, but, instead, appeared to be dull and snarled.

Noticing our concern, the kennel owner explained that he’d been a sort of misfit since his birth and that even at six months of age the other dos had refused to accept  him.  It was evident to us that he’d given up hope of ever gaining the acceptence of the other dogs.  With the hope that we might win his trust, we decided to adopt the lonely little outcast huddled there in silent solitude.

Realizing that he’s never before had any real contact with humans, we expected that it would take time to win his trust and love.  To our delight we were to discover just one of the many wonders of the nature of “man’s best friend.”  He seemed almost immediately to sense our desire to give him a whole new kind of homelife – one filled with love and trust.

In return, he assumed his role as an affectionate pet, court jester and trustworthy watchdog.  We marveled again and again at his amazing transformation from daytime loving, energetic playmate into our nocturnal sharp-eared watchdog whose ferocious sounding bark would have frightened away even the most brave of nightly intruders.

As time passed we watched his puppyhood with all of it’s playful antics, evolve into a more mature personality.  However, he never really outgrew many of his puppy characteristics: his knack for becoming stranded in snowdrifts (because of his small size); his shaking like a leaf with fear during thunderstorms and his refusal to eat or drink when it became necessary to board him if we vacationed without him.  Like many dogs, he’s never outgrown his dislike of baths.  He never fails to saturate all of us by briskly shaking off the excess moisture afterward before making his ritualistic ‘mad dash’ down the stairs and out the back door to seek refuge inside our fenced-in yard.

Then, of course, there were his reigning days of the reincarnated ‘Don Juan’ syndrome.  After careful consideration we had a long talk with our neighborhood veterinarian whose strong recommendation was that we’d best put an end to his seemingly incurable roving ways.  Upon following his advice we discovered that the very minor surgery involved served to domesticate our pet even more and saved the neighborhood female dog owners numerous headaches.

There was, of course, the time just before his surgery that he disappeared from our yard.  We were beside ourselves with worry and sadness.  Three days later as I watched out the front window, I saw a small black dog who looked exactly like Skipper!  I found out who the people were that lived in that house and I made a phone call to them.  The dad explained to me that they’d had the dog for a few days now and his children had fallen in love with him.  The man at the other end of the line was not anxious to consider parting with the dog.  So, in desperation, I asked him to put the phone to the dog’s ear.  There was a silence at the other end of the line.  Needless to say, I could only imagine how crazy the man must have thought me to be.  So, I said, “If the dog doesn’t respond to my voice, he’s yours.  But! If he does respond, you’ll have to admit that he belongs to me!  “Okay . . . ” I heard the man say at the other end of the line.  I shouted loudly, “Skipper!  Hey Skipper!  Come here Skipper!”  The dog responded by barking up a storm.  The man returned the handset to his ear and in a defeated sounding voice tone, said, “Well, I guess I can’t deny that he sure knows you!”  Within minutes I was across the street rescuing our precious dog.

Looking down at him now, so many years later, I found myself wondering whether there is any being who is so loyal, loving and trusting.  I realized that he had, indeed, become one of the family right from that first day seven years ago.   It wasn’t difficult just then to fully understand why his kind has, for centuries, been labeled “Man’s Best Friend.”  For whatever trials or tribulations are set before him, he repeatedly gives his master his love without question . . . without expecting anything in return.

Once again, my reminiscing was interrupted as I felt him nuzzle closer.  As I reached down to pet him gently, he raised his head with chin whiskers white as snow and his eyes looked up at me as if to say, “You’ve always understood.”

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 1974 – 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

Through a Child’s Eye

Driving down the narrow, winding road my heart leapt as I approached the old town hall I’d remembered so well.  I had finally ventured back to the little town where I’d grown up so long ago.

I had intended for so many years to return there.  It has always possessed some of the most cherished memories of my life and had for some time aroused a sentimental curiosity within me.  Yet I reminded myself that to enter the past is impossible as the old saying, “you can never go back home” echoed through the corners of my mind.

As I rounded the corner by the old town hall I slowly drove past house after house.  I was disillusioned by what I saw.  I wondered how this could possibly be the same small town in which I’d grown-up.   The roads all seemed so much narrower now than I had remembered and the houses had aged beyond belief.  Despite a vague familiarity nothing looked quite the same to me.  I experienced a strange, deep surge of sadness.

Driving on, I felt certain that the old house in which I’d grown up would surely not disappoint me.  How well I remembered it’s beauty.  As a child I’d always loved to think of it as my huge white castle.  It was surrounded by a wonderland of Catalpa Trees, lilac bushes, apple orchards and hundreds of lovely flowers.  A perfect setting for a child to imagine her very own wonderland.  It had always been a place which radiated love and tranquility and I’d always known happiness there.  It was almost as if all those beautiful memories had, for years, been beckoning my brief return.

Turning into the long, narrow, gravel driveway, I slowly passed what I had remembered as a beautiful garden.  It had flourished under the tender loving care which my grandfather had labored many long, hard hours to provide.  There, now before me, stood only an enormous field of tall, unkempt weeds.

I thought to myself how grateful I was that my grandfather would never have to bear the heartbreak that seeing this would have brought him.  I visualized him there, pushing his old hand tiller, the sun beating mercilessly down on his back.  I looked farther ahead expecting to see the picturesque apple orchards, but they, too, were gone.  Everything looked so painfully desolate.

Driving on, my eyes fell upon the house which has, for so long held so many of the wonderful memories of my childhood.  Shocked, I saw before me a decrepit old house.  It was no longer the towering white “castle” that I’d hoped to find.  It obviously had been neglected and allowed to weather with the years.  It appeared to be crying out for the care that it had once known.  There were no blossoming Catalpa trees nor billowy lilac bushes standing majectically around it.   Only brownish, sun-dried grass which desperately thirsted for water.

I stopped my car and sat silently engulfed in sadness.  My heart cried out to that dear old place that I had loved so well.  I knew then that I should never have ventured back.  As I felt a tear emerging, a sound caught my attention.  I looked up to see a little girl of about five come running out of the house slamming the old porch door behind her.  I wondered how she could appear so happy in that old run-down place.

As I was just about to drive away, she ran toward my car.  As I paused to roll down my window, she very cheerfully announced “Hello!  I’m Snow White and this is my cottage where I live with my seven dwarfs!  Would youu like to play with us?”  I smiled but shook my head ‘no’.  As she turned and scurried away it became apparent to me that she was every bit as happy there as I’d once been.  I pondered over her words, “this is my cottage.”  They reminded me so vividly of the way in which I had referred to that place as my “castle” when I’d been her age. 

As I paused to watch her happily at play, my heart was suddenly warmed by what I saw.  It was then that I realized that that dear old place had not really lost it’s beauty at all.  The old cliche “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” ran through my mind.  I had seen reflected in the little girl’s eyes every bit of the beauty that I had once known there.   I wondered whether perhaps she, too, would one day return there just as I had.  I somehow hoped that she wouldn’t.

Driving away, I dried the tear that I’d felt emerging earlier, no longer a tear of sorrow.  For, the little girl I’d met had unknowingly transformed my sadness into a very peaceful kind of understanding and acceptance.

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 1974 – 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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“Old Click-itty – Clack”

Mt.CoalTrain2
Click-itty– clack, click-itty-clack                                                

as the able train chugs down the track,

I gaze out it’s window

green trees and blue sky

as they’re ever so quickly

whisked on by.

The train car rocks gently

from side – to – side,

then jerks in staccato’

drawing the eye;

returns to the rhythm

as we roll down the track,

the soothing sweet music

carries me back . . .

Two tiny girls, how we loved those old trains,

sleek, steel dinosaurs

rattled my brain;

the cry of their whistle

echoed into the night

as though they were bidding

Pat and Jeanie, “good night”.

The engine’s smoke billowing

up into the sky

 brushing the clouds

 as they floated on by;

 our ears to the ties

  little sister and I

  could predict by vibration

  another soon would roar by.

Off in the distance

we could hear it’s approach

til louder and louder

went thundering by

our bedroom walls trembled

but we didn’t cry.

 

Haunting howl of it’s whistle

faded into the night

after two tiny passengers

boarded it’s flight

in their bed, went along,

while all snuggled in tight;

rode the nightly dream journey

on old Click-itty-clack

as it carried two sisters

to dreamland, and back.

How we loved the sweet music

chugging down the track . . .

that magical rhythm

still takes me back

to our countless night journeys

on the sweet, soothing sound,

of Old Click-itty – Clack.

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 1974 – 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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“Abby Lee”

Grama Jeanie holding AbbyA tiny baby with beautiful eyes
Sent from heaven, out of the skies
Waited to greet me as you slumbered away
In your hospital room, I longed to stay.
Tiny fingers and tinier toes
Dark, pretty hair and a sweet button nose
When you let out a cry
it was a loud, strong sound
clearly not worried about the people around.
When the nurse took you from us
To irrigate your nose
Above all sounds in the building
Your healthy cries rose!
Tiny, but strong, your small arms flailed,
Little legs began kicking
The surprised nurse paled.
Aha! Thought I, to myself
This child will be no one to be left on a shelf!
She’s a robust spirit
Who is full of life
With a will made of iron
She’ll wage a determined life!
A force to be reckoned with
This infant will be
Yet the loveliest branch
On our family tree.
My heart overflowed with anticipation
At the wonderment of meeting
This tiny creation!
For, prior to this,
I’d touched you just once . . .
For before you were born,
Your mama, you see,
Was quite incredibly good to me.
Inside her tummy you’d stuck your bottom out
Your mama let me touch you . . .
So excited was I, that I nearly had to shout!
When suddenly I was aware
That my arms began to ache
With longing to hold you . . .
I could hardly wait!
Now little sweetheart, you’re finally here
How I treasure the moments
I can hold you near.
You’ve your daddy’s smile and dimpled chin . . .
Oftentimes when you giggle,
You wrinkle your nose
Just like HE did.
For truly, sweet angel,
You’re our gift from heaven above
God’s way of telling us
How very much we’re loved.

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 2008 – 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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The Monkey Won

 

˜by JC Eberhart, Jun 30, 2008

My emotions around losing my father to the disease of addiction when I was eight years old.   He died injecting Sterno into his veins.

A candle that flickered

then nearly dimmed

I’ve carried through the years

my heart, within.

In sorrow I stood

at my own heart’s door

watching you leave

cut to the core.

I’ve anguished long hours

into the night

struggling to recall

your face in my sight.

Oh, daddy of daddys,

where did you go?

How I’ve longed for your touch

I still love you so.

It never mattered

what you did to me

I’d have died for you daddy

couldn’t you see?

Without you my life

ceased to be

For you were the very

life force in me.

Some say it’s night terrors

I still struggle through . . .

in my dimly lit bed

I’m afraid of you.

It makes no sense

for you’re no longer here

Yet I’d give my right arm

to have you near.

You don’t understand

. . . . . . and neither do I

 

when you went away

how I’d cry and cry.

I have few memories

to connect to the pain

But, sometimes mid nightmares

I cry again.

The agony of losing you

was worse you see

than anything you ever

did to me.

They say you were mean

beyond belief

you cut-out my heart

Oh, beloved thief.

I know so well

that when you attacked

it wasn’t YOU daddy

but that monkey on your back.

That monkey who stole

you away from me

so that the rest of my life

without you, I’d be.

After all these years daddy,

my aching for you goes on

for it still breaks my heart

that the monkey won.

I’d have slain the monkey for you

but you couldn’t see

when Patty was one

and I was just three.

There was no dark monster

I wouldn’t have fought

if back into your arms

we could’ve been brought.

But the dragons I know

you tried to slay

eventually won

and then took you away.

 

 

You’d entered a no man’s land

your drug induced hell

it stole the life from you

with it’s wicked spell.

You were not to be ours . . .

anymore . . .

To this little girl’s heart

I closed the door.

No more did I dare to love

for love equaled pain

I couldn’t let that ever

happen again.

In dreams of you daddy

I still call out your name

I still waken to find

a world of fatherless pain.

 

 

 

 

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 2008 – JeanieandDaddy1-512014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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Overdose: Help Your Therapist Help You

Accidental overdose can be prevented by helping your helping professionals help you. I clearly recall my first two experiences with a therapist. My first experience was with an older, kindly gentleman. I’d been afraid of my anger one day when I’d shaken my six year old son who had just lit a candle and placed it underneath our infant daughter’s bed. I met with Al for a few sessions when he concluded that I was a fine parent and really had just needed someone to talk to. Immediately following our final therapy session, I went home, took three five milligram valium (about which he’d known nothing) and wrote Al an overly enthusiastic letter about my success with implementing the information I’d just finished reading in a self-help book I’d recently purchased at the local drug store. Little did Al know, I could barely remember what I’d read.

My second experience was just a few years later. I’d been living a nightmare in a bad marriage and had experienced thoughts of ending my life. Out of genuine fear that I might be tempted to act upon these thoughts, I decided to seek professional help. I intuitively realized that the levels of hopelessness and despair to which my mood had been plummeting rendered me in some very real danger. I searched the yellow pages and found a wonderful therapist. He was attentive, supportive and validating. Lord knows, I’d desperately needed to find all three qualities in a hurry. When he suggested an antidepressant medication, I knew that he’d recognized the severity of my emotional state. When he recommended ongoing therapy adding, “I don’t want you brought in here on a slab” for the first time in years, I felt my heart fill with hope. (My hope stemmed from the fact that I knew he’d not only heard, but fully realized my cry for help.) This validation was to carry me through the coming year at a time when I believe I very well might have otherwise reached the end of my rope.

Sadly, there existed a dangerously intrusive element about which I hadn’t told my therapist. That cunning and baffling saboteur was my (as yet undiagnosed) alcoholism and addiction to prescription drugs. Little did he know (and little did I know it mattered) that each evening as I’d ingest my antidepressant, I’d chase it with anywhere from one to four vodka gimlets. Then, of course, were the ongoing prescriptions for Fiorinal I was ingesting every four hours without fail for chronic headaches along with the occasional valium pill for anxiety.

In many ways, I’ve credited that therapist over the years with having been one of the guardian angels who contributed to saving my life. Indeed, he played a critical role in saving this addict from herself in that his compassion came at a time when no one else was able to show me any care and concern. Could I have helped my therapist help me more effectively though? Absolutely. Without informing him of a few of the most imperative pieces of information of all, could he have unknowingly contributed to the catch-22 in which I’d unwittingly become trapped by my addiction? Absolutely. In retrospect, this had been a classic case of the blind leading the blind. He could have known nothing about my addiction. His very sincere compassion provided me the glimpse of the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel I’d needed to go on fighting my exhausting battle with depression. However, needless to say, with my daily ingestion of my liquid central nervous system depressant, alcohol, the antidepressant medication he’d recommended was rendered useless. In a worst case scenario, could this have inadvertently resulted in an accidental overdose? Most definitely!

As for working through the issues he and I talked about, I was literally either too emotionally numb, or too busy riding a roller coaster of emotional highs and lows from my drug use to have been able to make any kind of progress therapeutically. Fortunately, with the searching that my ongoing misery led me to pursue, I finally located another of my guardian angels. This lady (a chemical dependency counselor) performed a merciful intervention on my addiction one morning at 2 A.M. It was that night that my addiction to pills and alcohol was “called out” into the open where it could be clearly identified, confronted and dealt with. Later that same morning, I admitted myself to a residential treatment hospital in Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Thirty-three years later, here I am, still sober and extremely grateful. It was my fond memory of that therapist’s compassion for my emotional suffering that inspired me to move forward with my dream of helping other addicts find their way out of the nightmare of addiction. I returned to college not long after having gotten into recovery from addiction, divorced my alcoholic husband who refused to quit drinking and began to experience the richness and joy of a sober life. Don’t misunderstand, it’s not that my battle with addiction was easy, but having received the specialized treatment of my addiction counselor in treatment, I learned that I could face and deal with any problem that I encountered.  It became exceedingly clear to me just how fortunate I am to be alive and to have been spared suffering the agony of having taken anyone else’s life on those small town roads I’d so haphazardly, repeatedly navigated while under the influence.

So . . . . here is where you, the client, must take responsibility for being your own advocate! You absolutely must be totally open with your therapist about every medication you take and the amounts and frequency with which you use mood-altering substances. Don’t take chances with your life. Accidents usually happen because someone has been careless. Know that accidental overdoses are exactly that . . . they’re accidents that happen because someone has been careless in neglecting to research the possible dangers of mixing their prescription medication with another mood-altering substance. Whenever two mood-altering substances are mixed, each intensifies the potency of the other! Any pharmacist will gladly answer any questions you might have about any drugs and/or their interactions with one another. They can also be easily “googled” on the internet. The necessity of taking responsibility for everything we put inside our bodies cannot be overstated.

Don’t take chances with your life.

Make it your business to be in-the-know!                               

(Copyright 1974 – 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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ON BECOMING A GRA’MA . . .

Saturday, January 26, 2008 

Current mood:  grateful

.. . . . it is with deepest fondness and warmth that I recall the first moment I saw my own two babies for the very first time and my heart STILL skips a beat with excitement after all these years. ..

What I never anticipated were the intense feelings of joy and elation I would experience upon first laying eyes upon my two grandchildren. Truly one of the most awesome experiences of my life. .. During my daughter’s pregnancies, I clearly recall wondering just how I would feel once those two little munchkins would enter the world. (Brave little souls.) I can even recall asking myself the question, “Oh my gosh, what if I don’t feel LOVE for them?” ..

Then, the day came when my infant granddaughter entered the world. In retrospect, I have to chuckle to myself as I recall, “Noisy little thing she was!” .. ha ha As I walked toward my daughter’s hospital room I could hear this little baby crying. Suddenly, it was as though everything began to move in slow motion as I entered the room where mother, father and child were. Here, before me, lying helplessly on this small table with nurses wiping, adding ointment to her skin and eyes, poking and prodding her, was this beautiful, tiny, baby girl. I will never forget how those beautiful blue eyes immediately locked with mine as I began speaking in soothing voicetones to her trying to reassure her that everything was going to be alright. Needless to say, the nurse had to ask me to stop soothing her “because she NEEDS to cry to clear out her lungs!” Heartless woman, I thought silently to myself. I kept talking to her and those incredibly gorgeous eyes followed my every move. It was love at first sight. Every bit as powerful as any love I’d felt for my own two at their births.

Then, two years later, was to be the birth of my grandson. This child wasted no time joining us in the delivery room! .. And, oh my gosh! He looked like he was already three months old!! Holy cow! THIS was a TEN POUND little guy!! .. MY babies had been SMALL by comparison!!! Yes, he too, was a noisy little being. I could hardly wait to hold him. Did I know that I was going to instantly fall in love with him?? Most definitely. Never have I seen a happier baby. He was to be my little roly-poly love. To this day (six years later, I think he’s still a bit of a gra’ma’s boy!)

My life immediately took on an entire ‘nother dimension when these two precious little gifts entered my life. I experienced a whole new kind of joy I’d really never known before and it was wildly yet most contentedly delicious. These beautiful babies never cease to amaze me . . . my granddaughter, a bit like I was when I was a young girl and my grandson, identical to his father in appearance and with a temperment so very reminiscent of his mother’s when she was little.

I recall cuddling the two of them just the other day (the way that I’ve always done) as we watched Spiderman Three for the 4th time and saying to them, “Whatever am I going to do when you two are all grown up? I won’t be able to cuddle you like this anymore!” In unison, they responded lovingly, “Gra’ma, no matter how big we get, we’re ALWAYS going to want to cuddle with YOU!” One more time that these two little miraculous beings brought a tear of joy to my eye. Would I love them? Oh yes. With all my heart and all my soul. I thank God for them both every single day.

Just when I thought I’d been as blest as any woman could possibly be . . . surprise of surprises . . . I’m nearly bubbling over with joy and excitement . . . I was just informed that I have a THIRD grandchild on his or her brave little way!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Copyright 2014 by JC Fredlund) Copyright 1974 – 2014 by JC Fredlund (JC Eberhart, Past Pen Name): ©JC Fredlund and JC Fredlund’s Artistry Blog, 1974 – 2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to JC Fredlund and the link to http://www.JCFredlund.wordpress.com blog is included with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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