Mice, Ash, India?

I awakened this morning with my mind awash in memories.

I was running events through my head to find the one memory that would volunteer to open my memoir. You don't have to begin a memoir with "I was born in …" It can start anyplace. Playing in my mind, what fun! Often, when I come to my office, I get distracted, but in bed, memories flow.

Ideas, so said one writer, are like shooting ducks (Don't do it!), but the idea is the same: shoot quickly for they will be gone in an instant.

I hit a memory of my daughter who found a nest of baby mice in an old chest of drawers she wasn't using. She and her son thought those babies were so cute—they had fur, but their eyes weren't open. And since my daughter and son feared that the mother wasn’t coming back, they began feeding the babies with a teeny bottle.

My daughter had planned a birthday celebration for herself, which included a two-night stay in a hotel with a room that featured a jacuzzi tub. She didn't trust her son to take sufficient care of the baby mice or me either, or didn't want to bother me, so she took her little stash of mice on a trip, smuggled them into an upscale hotel, fed them, had her stay, and smuggled them out.

The mice thrived, and when they were old enough — with eyes open and eating regular food — she and her son took them to a field near a pond and ceremoniously released the city mice to take their chances as country mice.

I have heard some people say that the best thing you can spend your money on is something to make memories.

Last night I completed a novel where the author said, "It takes a lot of funds to be a Vagabond."  She wished she could travel the world. A present, she was being a paid companion for a disabled girl. They were following a trail from the girl's mother that led to India. What a description of India: "The land of dreams and romance, of fabulous wealth and fabulous poverty, of splendour and rags, of palaces and hovels…the land of a hundred tongues, of a thousand religions…" --Mark Twain.

India: After a 14-hour flight six of us from San Diego landed in New Delhi, India.

Three were seminar leaders quite devoted to the “Holy” man we were going to see. We three women were not Devotees, but considered ourselves open-minded. One woman left early, so that left Florencia and I as traveling companions.  (I loved her, one couldn't ask for a better traveling companion). We opted for the chance to visit a guru, who, so it showed us via a movie, could produce vibhuti (holy ash) from his hand, and kept a giant jug flowing with vibhuti as long as his hand kept stirring it. (Don’t get me, I’ve seen better magic acts.)

So, we visited an ashram and slept in a cement room, ate cayenne pepper coated cashew nuts and drank lime soda, for we were afraid to eat the food. (We did eat in their cafeteria once, a rice dish all participants ate with their fingers.) Following that, we traveled by train across the countryside to visit the Taj Mahal. On the way home we made a few airline stops. Yet when we landed in New Delhi, the windows of the airport looked like my car window after the dog's nose had circled it a dozen times, and walking outside, the scent of baby poop hit me. It seemed to permeate the air, and if you remember, baby poop has a basic sweetness layered with others.

I understood why the Indian people are strong on incense.

These descriptions are cryptic; I’m saving the full ones for the memoir, which, instead of calling it a memoir, I prefer to call it "A journey."

A memoir sounds so staid. A journey is fun, an adventure, and isn’t that what life is? There was a time when being a Vagabond sounded appealing, but for now, I'm letting my fingers do the walking, aka typing. My memories are like a river flowing through my mind, and I never know where it will splash next.

  

 P.S. This past week I ordered the teeny paper book Where the Frogs Sing Café’ I have been talking about. It came in two days. Whoa, and that was with on-demand printing. 

It cost me $4.60, so see I am starting out in the hole.

An now I found that the price went up to $5.20 after I joined UK.

It is presently being offered for FREE on Kindle Unlimited, and to purchase the Kindle version is 99 cents. Remember, I am keeping my WHERE series under 10,000 words, so as I said, the book is small.

Since not everyone has a Kindle, I am offering a FREE transcript on a private site that I will link to you via your email address. 

Click here: Yes, Please 

 

 Yep, there is a physical copy in on my desk.

Did Peaches Send her Blog Post “Don’t Worry!” to Me?

 

First, since it is May 1, exactly two years since I decided to write a memoir I’m honoring our Pink dogwood Tree.

He ha, two years. An entirely new memoir that could be stuffed into that space.

However, two years ago, on this day, I began writing a memoir and declared that I would try to write 50,000 words before the blossoms fell from the tree.

The last blossom fell thirty days later, and I had only written 48,000. It beat me.

 

Wasn’t it cool that I could look into that living color bouquet outside my window and type out my life?

Seven years ago, when we bought this house, the tree was cut down to its barebones, a trunk and five branches. Nary, a twig or branch showed, no leaves either, but then it had no branches to support them, and it was December to boot. I didn’t pay much attention to the tree until it pushed out a teeny tiny pink blossom one year, and I exclaimed, “I think it is a dogwood tree!”

A Pink Dogwood is one of my favorite trees. Since then, it has grown about 20 feet and pushed pinkness out all over itself. (I think my ashes ought to be sprinkled under that tree. It can decide how long we will live, and we can go out together.)

After about 16 thousand dumb title ideas for my memoir, I am now calling it Echoes after a Ray Bradbury’s quote, “No sound, once made, is ever truly lost.”

I love that guy—he hugged me once, did I tell you? Oh, that was name-dropping, but I hoped his hug would somehow shore up a bit of talent for me. Besides, he seemed like such a happy fellow and taught like Socrates—out under a tree.

And from Barbara Davis (The Last of the Moon Girls) comes:

“At Some Point, We Must Step into our Stories and claim them as our own. It won’t be easy, stepping into the light never was, but it’s what we’re called to do.”

 

From Peaches’ blog comes: “Don’t Worry,”  August 6, 2012.

 

 Me catching a power nap under the steering wheel.

 

Don't Worry!

I Peaches, Party Poodle for Peace, am a happy dog. Don’t worry about the future. Future will take care of itself. Many people don’t know how to be happy, don’t roll in grass, don’t know how to dig for moles and come to house with nose stacked with dirt. Don’t know how to give high-pitched happy bark in greeting, or how to give low bark that tells owner, “Check this out.”

Worry? I don’t worry—waste of time. Well, I did worry when I accompanied Bear to the Vet.  Couldn't help it! I thought I would have to go see the doctor, maybe be left there, but didn’t. Whew!

Can’t nap and worry.  Can’t chase lizards and worry. Worry takes away joy. I live for joy.

I have a job that makes me happy. I look after my people and the house. I go for rides and walks with family. I keep lizards away from the door. I keep Obi Kitty away from my food dish too—cats are so sneaky.

 

Me

An aside from Momma: Little Peaches has Addison’s Disease which is not a disease, but a condition. It means her adrenal glands are not working properly.

Peaches lives with her chronic health condition. We take care of her, we give her medication, she maintains. She goes about her life in a positive way. If she feels poorly we give her more subcutaneous fluid. She makes a contribution to life. I love her, she loves me, and she pontificates on her blog…

 

On my way to my other blog this morning, I stopped by Dog Blog by Peaches and saw that a few people check in occasionally, even though she hasn’t written since 2021. I saw that one person has Peaches’ blog noted on her blog. Bless that girl, so I downloaded her book on Kindle—haven’t read it yet, maybe tonight.

https://monicaeuen.blogspot.com/ 

 

Did Peaches send me to her blog because I need the message?

That’s the way it works sometimes.

https://dogblogbypeaches.blogspot.com/