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/

 

Gosh, it's true.

 

 

 

I tried to find a picture of a 1,000.00 dollar bottle of wine and came up short. Here's one for only $900.00, but the title was, "Have you ever had a $1,000 bottle of wine sent to you?"

Nope—never have. But I guess the receiver of that bottle of wine thought rounding up a $900 bottle to $1,000 seemed reasonable.

I kept searching for a $1,000 bottle of wine, and it's true: it made a $35.00 bottle seem cheap.

Why am I talking about wine? Well, why not? This morning, the thought popped into my head that I ought to offer something for $1,000—like that bottle of wine I saw on a menu once upon a time.  Then, for the first week, l could offer it a 50% discounted rate. That would be only $500.00. Then I could offer a coupon for 25% off and that would be $380. And for the first 25 people to sign up, I could give it to them for $49.95. That's reasonable, isn't it?

Hey, maybe I'm getting the hang of this.

As a writer who would love to make a living writing, I thought of the day I saw that $1,000 bottle of wine offered on a wine menu and figured that the restaurant owner didn't expect to sell that bottle of wine for the price he was asking, but it made that $20.00 bottle appear cheap. We were out with friends for a special occasion. No one wanted to be a cheapskate.

How do you determine value when it's something like wine or words? I agree that all wine and words are not created equal, and people do want value for their buck.

I praise Substack for offering a venue for some excellent writers; however, to stay in business, they must also pay themselves to keep their site open, and thus, they encourage writers to charge. With that fee, they hold a small percentage. The rest goes to the starving artist.

(Michael Moore said that people would rather spend a week with Marjorie Taylor Greene than plunk down five bucks on his Substack account.)

The big guys do not hesitate to charge for their offerings, be it books, paintings, music, entertainment, sports events, coaching, workshops, or channeling long-lost warriors.  I need to learn from the big guys.

Speaking of Substack, I came across a quirky fun site I had never seen titled Café Anne.

 "A former Wall Street Journal columnist traipses around NYC interviewing random senior citizens and investigating weird trash piles ... what's not to love?" —Mason Curry, author of "Daily Rituals" and Subtle Maneuvers.

Anne decided to ride the New York Subway for 24 hours.

Writes Anne: The rules: I can go wherever I please, chat with whomever looks interesting, and pass the time however I like—as long as I don't pass back through the turnstile. Also, I'm only allowed to eat, drink, and read what I buy underground.

"Any suggestions?" she asks her friend Shelly, who will keep her dog while she is gone.

"One word," says Shelly. "Don't."

"It's too late. I've wanted to do this for years, lord knows why, and have spent many hours at this point planning and packing for the trip, the way one might prepare for a safari."  

Here's her take away: 

 

Anne wears the same outfit for a year: an all-black, washable, collared button-down shirt, pencil skirt, black tights, boots with a two-inch heel, that's it. Black goes anywhere, she says, and it's hardly noticed on the street.  She does have a dress for special occasions. She was tired of the morning decision, "What to wear?" She said cops and most workers wear uniforms, so why not?

https://annekadet.substack.com/

I was a dental assistant for 5 years and wore a uniform. I loved it; that way, I knew what I would be wearing, and that made it fun on the weekends when I could wear color, dress up or down.  Even the dentist said, "Wow," when he saw me out of my whites, the second dentist switched to a soft green, same result.

How about signing up for a subscription to my Substack site—all my content is free; the only advantage is you would get a notice when I post, and it would help feed my husband, our three dogs, and one cat.

If I'm not worth reading, forget everything I said.

 

https://joycedavis.substack.com/

 

Motivation

 

Motivated by our magnificent three-legged dog, Zeke (see new pictures), comes the Traveling With Jo website.

 

Zeke’s previous life wasn’t a finely feathered nest, but look at that boy go now--two feet in the air, one on the ground, chew toy in mouth. https://travelingwithjo.com

 

Zeke doesn’t let his handicap slow him down much—a little tripping here and there (like me). He considers the cat to be a chew toy, but he's gentle and kind, and Obi allows it until he gets fed up and jumps up onto the cupboard.

 

Here are Zeke's thought forms that came floating to me this morning:

• Find a Forever Home
• Live life with zest.
• Be happy
• Build Castles in the Sky
  

 

 

Now my dears, if you would lend your synergy to

https://travelingwithjo.com

We need your integrity.

We need your free spirit.

We need your love for the land and its inhabitants.

 

I know you are out there--I can hear you breathing.

Love, 

Jo

Sidetracked on the Way to My Blog:

When I was three months pregnant with my first child, my husband developed a rash the doctor thought was German measles—the sort that can cause congenital disabilities in the fetus if the mother contracts it.

A three-month pregnancy is the worst time to get German measles.  I knew I had the hard (9-day) measles as a child (my mother darkened the room for my eyes hurt), but I didn’t remember any 3-day or a second dose of measles. My husband and I had been married for seven years—we had waited to start a family until we both had our degrees, and he had a job. I felt I had waited even longer for I had always wanted to be a mother. I was overjoyed.

The doctor gave me gamma globulin shots in both arms and both legs. Gamma globulin is extracted from the blood of many individuals and used to enhance the immune system. At the time, the doctor told me that someone in the group of contributors would have had German measles, and therefore, antibodies from that person or persons would be present in the dosage he gave me, and hopefully that would give me immunity.

 (Thank you to the people who donated blood.)

Long story short, I never contracted measles, and my daughter was born healthy. I never knew for sure if the rash my husband had was measles, but the doctor was doing everything he could to make sure I didn’t catch whatever. I am thankful, and I bow down in gratitude.

My best friend was so concerned after my experience that she took her little girl, about age seven, to the house of a little boy who had measles and bite into an orange he had bitten into. For most children, German measles is easy and over within three days.  

After that came inoculations. 

 I was on my way to this blog when I passed by a notice regarding the measles outbreak in Texas, and it brought up this experience. You know how the Internet can catch you.

 

Before getting sidetracked, I took my phone/camera outside to photograph this magnificent Pink Dogwood tree outside my window. (See my window behind it.) 

 

 

Looking closely at the blossoms, I thought they were aging like me. Her flowers might not be as pristine as some of the young trees about town, but she is gorgeous, flourishing, and putting forth her magnificent celebration of life. Where does all that pinkness come from? Those branches were gray sticks all winter. Now look at them–like a bridal arch decorated with living blossoms.  

 

 

This tree has particular significance for me as two years ago, on May 1, 2023, I decided to write 50,000 words on a memoir before the blossoms dropped from the tree. (It beat me when I had only 48,000 words) but I enjoyed the rehashing of my life motivated by Natalie Goldberg's book Old Friend from Far Away. Goldberg said that a memoir doesn’t have to be an older adult’s story; it can be any time. It can be for those moments that take your breath away.

It can also be for sadness and heartache, for that’s the joy of writing it—put it all on paper and emphatically place a period at the end of a sentence. That can allow the cycling brain to rest. You know, the one that keeps telling you those sad stories over and over.

Everybody ought to write one.

Thus, I began typing while staring into the pink dogwood tree.