Baltimore Wedding Photographer Kathy Freundel » 443.844.2352

Yep, It’s been awhile since I’ve posted.

I’ve been on my own journey.

And it’s a joyful one. So, indulge me once again.

Because the details are in the fabric on this one, to quote my boy, Jason . . . .

Rewind to November. I’m in Tom Bond’s office at Helping Up Mission in Baltimore . . . taking a friend on a tour through my home away from home . . . and I see this incredible piece of artwork on Tom’s office wall.  Robin in the Hood.

“I need to meet him,” I say to Tom. And he laughs.

“I’m not kidding.”

It took one meeting with Shawn Colvin.  One hour of hearing his voice. . . .talk of his childhood in DC, his stint in foster care, his stepfather’s abusive hands, his chance meeting with an estranged father on a public bus . . .his season of hope . . .  his journey into addiction in LA. . . and his fight into recovery. It’s  the texture of his beautiful tapestry that captured me.

I sensed it immediately . . . incredible focus, drive, talent, joy, passion . . . and it’s irresistible. Yes, I was hooked.

So . . . .I brought my friend, Jerry Pope to meet Shawn.  Jerry, of our Giant commercial. Now, Uncle Jerry to our family.

Jerry is a Cannes/ Chloe award winning director who survived the challenge of working with a nervous “real mom” over the summer.  He told me  to trust him, and I did. And I survived. Actually, I thrived.

He, also, is driven by incredible focus, drive, talent, joy and passion. Jerry saw it in Shawn.  A story that needed to be told, and if Jerry Pope is anything, he is an amazing story teller.

And selfishly, I wanted to witness the birth of a beautiful relationship between artists.  The building of trust. The marriage of true minds.

It was bliss. And I think that makes me a mensch. Officially. Which is what I always wanted to be, anyway.

And the icing on the cake? Jeff Barklage  happened to be in town, and brought along his Epic . . . taking our little production to a new level.

So . . . take a look at my truly photojournalistic documentation of the synergy of three amazing artists converging.

Keep your eye out for Shawn Colvin. Soul City is his movement.   Amazing graphic artist. That’s all I’m at liberty to say . . . but remember that name. And guess where  Robin in the Hood lives?  Well, let’s just say I made out on that deal:)

Who ever said there are no heroes in the ghetto?

My girlfriend , artist and chocolatier, Valerie Corkran,  told me last night over Chinese and Shiraz, “Kath . . .I know that everybody does not have ‘the real deal’ like you say they do, but I read your blog faithfully, because you see what could be.”

I own it. Some would say I have rose colored glasses, but I would prefer to believe that I, like Emily Dickinson, “dwell in the possibility.”

 

It’s  Easter morning. A glorious one. And here’s a little real for ya.

 

My mentor, Lyn Brakeman told me earlier this week . . . Faith OF Jesus. Not faith IN Jesus.

 

I quickly spouted off an email response to her :

Lyn,

Faith OF Jesus? So when mine goes to hell in a hand basket, He fills it with unexpected and underserved randomness. Clearly,  MY Easter basket . . . specially chosen for the girl who pretends to eschew truffles and trifles, but craves and loves the good stuff of life.

 

Know what she said?

 

 

Jesus ate chocolate

 

yep.

Wanna know how I eat it?

Sip of Shiraz.

Whole truffle in my mouth.

Heavenly melt.

Sip of Shiraz.

 

p.s. My truffle of choice? and I know truffles . . .  hand made, gold leaf decorated by Emily Michael, principle at Michael’s Studios. 

 

And at the edge of the bar sat a girl named Doris and ooh, that girl looked nice. 

Lazy Sunday afternoons after church, my sister and I would seclude ourselves in the club room basement my dad finished himself, complete with rich panelling, red carpet, and a  wall full of their books. We acted out our fairy tale dreams through our Barbie collection, fought over who had to be Ken, married ourselves off, and birthed a bevy of adoring children.

Unaware, we created our lives.

And on the console stereo, Jim Croce would lead us through missives for which we had no understanding.

Leroy Brown was Mom’s song.  Singing her line at the top of our lungs, we’d then wait for Dad’s line . . .  the men just called him sir. We liked that idea.

Mom taught me a thing or two about a thing or two.

 Here’s a partial list.

When life gets hard, keep moving. Forward, preferably.

Never depend on another person to make you happy. Do that for yourself.

Be your own best friend. Kind, honest and forgiving.

Never write anything you don’t want the whole world to see.

I get some of them right, some of the time.

Mom’s birthday was a celebration of indulgence. Emily Michael’s  truffles,  food prepared by Chef Jerry Edwards, a steady stream of Alison Krauss,  Mom’s two besties and our family. Of course my dad made it all happen . . .  heavy lifting, setup, and clean up , you name it.

One more  admission . . . when Jerry said yes to , “will you come make beautiful food for my family?,” he had no idea that he’d be entertaining and teaching a culinary class. But the whole family wanted in on the action. Can you blame them really?

Jerry:   ” Now, what do you think will happen when I pour club soda into the tempura batter?”

Happy birthday, Mom. I LOVE YOU!  Mwahh!!

I’m not trained, per say, by profession or schooling to weigh morality or administer counsel. My girlfriends would say I have a knack for capturing a cool snapshot,   throwing together a tasty meal out of “catch as catch can,”  and drawing the life story of just about anyone who will share.  I have a keen eye for color and the ability to get a task completed quickly and efficiently. I love clean lines and order. That gives me peace.

All this to say I’ve never earned a doctorate, run a marathon or written a book. I’m actually not an expert in any field, and to write about why my favorite place to be is HUM, is, well, a bit daunting. I can’t even really talk about the economy, politics or the scientific case for the universe, and when my professor husband uses phrases  like “integrating learning community pedagogy,” well, I have to admit I find myself hungry for a bowl of Cherry Garcia. My life is motherhood. I have a large family, and I’ve been one of those hem them in and protect their souls kinda moms. I’m a photographer. So my work is to draw people out and capture the real. I don’t confuse the two, for the second is only an extension of the first.

My favorite place to be these days is at HUM, an addiction rehabilitation program for 400+ men in the heart of my Baltimore. I’m not exactly sure how I got there. For years, I had heard about HUM but argued that it was too far, and that our small town, an hour northwest of the city had it’s own addicts. And you don’t get to pick your addicts or your family. Why travel an hour to fill a need that existed right out my back door?  And, honestly,  the thought of serving  400 men, barely hanging on by a thread was actually not that appealing to me, for after feeding my own family of ten, three squares, I’m not looking for more kitchen time.

I made the leap on behalf of a Great Books course I was tutoring. They were seniors, and we were all bored. So, I got permission to take the lot of them to HUM . . . just on a whim. I was doing this for their own good. We started with our facility tour, and I knew I was in trouble when I entered the library. It was the guy behind the library desk. He was the guy that I had seen in the comfy chairs at Barnes and Noble, sipping a latte and reading Atlas Shrugged. Young, bright, stars in his eyes. It happened over and over again that day. What I thought I would see was not what I saw. These were not strung out, lazy indigents . . . and I am ashamed to write that phrase, but that was my expectation. I served dessert at lunch that first day . . . and quickly realized that these guys were just like me. One decision from destruction, but they were living  transparent lives . . . living their beautiful mess out loud. From the get go, I realized that HUM gives me more than she takes. She gives me hope. She gives me escape from my own sludge . . . if just for two hours, twice a week. And yes, she gives my heartbreak, for I’ve oft come to look forward to seeing a friend only to find he’s been beckoned back to his mistress.

I haven’t completely figured out why I wake up happy to drive an hour to fill up the cups with ice water.  Maybe it’s where I see Jesus these days most clearly. Maybe it’s human connection. Maybe it’s completely self serving. But a couple times every week, we pile  into the Suburban, roll down the windows, turn up the music and barrel on down to the city where I leave with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. Every time.

I’ve published this retrospective into a hip pocket sized book . . . and yes, it’s available with a portion of the proceeds going to HUM. Contact me if you’d like to support HUM in this way. ($25.)

My Caroline Joy. She’s ten and straddling the divide between girl and pre adolescent. So, yeah, I’ll admit it . . . I’m feeding the girl part, while taking the opportunity to speak about the art of being a true blue girlfriend. Caroline’s got a good bunch surrounding her, like I’ve got a good bunch surrounding me. Mine? Jenn, who came to do makeup for fourteen, Noel, who did hair for the same bevy, and my sis, Nancy who lent us racks of fru-fru costumes. Oh, wait, and my mom, who provided the venue, and my grandmas who provided a whole arsenal of  vintage jewelry, hand held mirrors, and ribbon . . . well, if you know me, my list of people to be grateful for goes on and on.

But Caroline, my Caroline. . . yeah, I want her on my roster:)

Check out the whole stinkin’ cute gallery right here. . . .and Caroline’s girlfriends . . . right click and snag away:)

Pale baby blues that made his heart stop. Confident athlete’s swagger that made her heart start. Townie falls for  Jersey girl. Blind date. Western Maryland College. Late 50′s.

I wish I had a snapshot of the first time he laid eyes on her.

I don’t. But I do have a snapshot this day. After fifty years of marriage . . . she still has him.

Theirs was a whirlwind romance. She was a senior; he had one more year on the Hill. But he had to have her. Sold his trenchcoat to buy the diamond . . . took her to their special booth at Baugher’s . . . and sealed the deal.

They dreamed together. Built a little 60′s style brick rancher on top of a hill dotted with a row of brick ranchers. Built right next to their best friends.

They had kids . . . three . . . and raised us with love and focus. Perfect in their imperfection. So much love and honesty.

And now, fifty years later . . . they are in the sweet spot. And to be around my mom and dad is to understand what it means to live life to the full, to love without limits and to count your blessings.

This photo . . . I snapped it on top of WISP mountain in the early 90′s. I’ve always LOVED this photo. What I did not know is the story behind the photo.

Dad was superintendent of the school system at the time. And it was a sticky time in our county with budget cuts and teacher’s salaries. And Dad was about the kids . . . every day he served in that role, he was for the kids . . . so, he kinda went through the ringer in the press. Lost weight. Had trouble sleeping. It was on this weekend, that Dad told mom he was done. Retiring.  This snapshot holds a new sweetness for me.  Choices. Difficult ones. And keeping the main thing the main thing.

I want that. For all of my days.

There’s a reason that Nancy, Andy and I stay connected . . . really connected to our parents. And there’s a reason why all the grandkids want to be at 64 Blue Swallow whenever they get the invite . . . which is pretty much all the time. It’s their legacy. Indulgent love.

I wanna be Lily when I grow up.

Rain out. State Fair Day. I don’t mean showers . . . I mean, no chance, not even entertaining the thought, rainout. So, while we’re all inside throwing our little pity party, Lily grabs my umbrella . . .digs out her coolest Stevie Nicks . . .and heads out, unannounced, to the yard. And I look up from my seat in the living room and see her skipping in the rain through the yard on a dreary Saturday afternoon.  She’s a party waiting to happen . . . in 100% . . .for whatever the day brings. She makes me so happy.

Yep. I wanna be Lily when I grow up.

My guess is it’s pretty hard when you’re number seven of eight to feel like you’re the special one. And for Isaiah, six . . . it’s quality time that fills his tank. The other thing about Isaiah these days is that he tells me at least once a day, “Mommy, don’t leave . . . you know I have separation issues.” (his exact words . . . wonder when he overheard me say that??)

So . . . Carl and I have been purposeful this summer about doing some confidence building with our little man. And our friend, David gave us the perfect opportunity. Long story short, I bought a car from David a month ago.  I was only going out to look . . . he must be a really good salesman or I am really impetuous. Maybe both.

Yes, both.

But, it was a big win for our family . . . especially Isaiah. Because David has this whole skill set that passed  by our entire family . . . and he’s willing to share it with us.

We were hanging out at a festival in Littlestown, PA . . . chillin’ on the front porch of David’s lot, Automotive Alternatives. Carl and some guys were playing music, the kids were hosting a bake sale/ lemonade stand, and we got on the subject of gokart riding. I remembered our friends had a renegade gokart in their garage they had been trying to unload. . . so a couple of texts later, we were heading over with the trailer to start our project.

Fast forward one day . . . and David has the project ready for Isaiah to tackle.

Best part? Isaiah got to do some of the repair work . . .

And, David gave a minimal driving lesson . . .

. . . and then let Isaiah figure out a whole bunch of things on his own. I had a huge smile on my face the entire time, watching Isaiah experiment and gain confidence, little by little.

As we were leaving, Isaiah said to me in the car . . . “Mommy, next time you don’t have to stay. Mr. David and I can take care of things just fine.” Happy mamma.

Sometimes I am humbled at the gifts I receive. Gifts I don’t even ask for. And when your child is the recipient, it’s even sweeter. Thank you, thank you, thank you, David. We are grateful.

The bread is the myriad “favorites” that everyone brings. Last night it was two kinds of meatballs, sushi, buffalo chicken pizza, spinach feta pizza, texas caviar  . . . and some yum to wash it down. And dessert to die for. And all of it beautifully displayed with the help of my girl, deb edge, with her man, Jim, cheering us on.

The jam is . . . well, just that. An evening with those “out of the box” musician types.

The caveat last night? The kids were invited. And here was the thought . . .  why not expose our most precious ones to the rich flow of talent that we love so well? Value their gifts, give them a microphone or a pair of sticks and have them go to town.  It worked. They took their turns in the jam room, played football at dusk and flashlight tag in the dark, ate way too much dessert, met some new people, stayed up way past bedtime, and couldn’t stop talking about it the day after.

Isaiah, six, sat for a long time studying Steve Drummond, the man who plays every instrument in the room, and does it well.

Lily and Caroline are besties already, but when Lily opens her mouth and Caroline gets on the keys . . .

Even Sam sang his Superman Bathtime Song . . . the one Carl wrote just for him, with vocal coach, Lily right there to encourage.

And my Kristiana and Carl did a little Mandy Moore.

Sam kinda made his rounds . . . meeting new people and climbing into laps to watch for a set. David was the winner on this set.

B & J newbie Matthew Peregoy . . . kicking it on the guitar. Guy can sing too,

And my favorite executive chef/ drum boy dude . . . Patrick Peregoy . . . the man who never sleeps.

Wonderwall, as I recall. Travis, Carl and Kristen. Sweet.

And . . . a little Journey, compliments of Andy and Sherry.

We adults got our turn too. And it was sweet.

Why is it the ones that are so quiet are so screaming talented??? Katie Morse. Case in point.

And finally, my one.  The guy who pours out his heart and soul to  make these crazy plans come to fruition . . . the one who has given our kids the music gene and continually lays down his own will to lift the rest of us up.  He is my heart.

Way back in ’83, two brothers took two girls from neighboring towns out on a double date . . . out for Chinese food at Fan’s on Main Street. The boys didn’t pan out. Our friendship did. Meet Ann.

When the rug was pulled out from under her fairytale, I watched this one find truth and walk on like a warrior. When my time comes, I want as much strength and transparency as Alysse.

She’d put egg whites in her hair, pull out her hairdryer and go to town. Then she’d head down to Hammerjacks. She’s my girl that knows all the words to the songs we grew up with and got our hearts broken with. And every time she texts me, I laugh out loud. Kim.

And, who else would be enough of a friend to lean over in the middle of an end-of-the-year kids’ program . . . while they are reciting their Bible verses . . . and whisper . . .”that blush is horrible on you. you look like Barbie!” My girl, Jenn.

Girlfriends.  We know each other and love each other just the same.

Got your net in place?