I haven't blogged much lately, but today I've been sick and in bed all day. In fact, I think I have slept for about 16 hours. I worked a bit on my memoirs and typed a few more pages. Here's a selection about one of my best memories as a child:
One time while visiting Dad in Manheim, we found three baby mockingbirds that were homeless. They were wandering around Jetti’s property. Perhaps rashly justifying it to ourselves, we decided it was too dangerous for them to be on their own with cats around. So we took them in. We named them Peep, Cheep, and… I think Reep-a-cheep. I am not sure about the third one. I believe he either ran away too early or got hit by a car for his name to really stick. Whichever one of those fates Reep-a-cheep picked, Cheep picked the other one. Peep was the real trooper. I don’t even remember if his eyes were open when we got him. He was young though. We took him back to Marietta and had to feed him by hand for a while. I don’t remember all we fed him, but I do remember that we fed him hard boiled egg yolks. As if that isn’t against some sort of Birdaic Law, I don’t know what is. For a while we could just keep him in a cardboard box since he couldn’t fly. Then he got older and I think we gave him free roam of the enclosed porch. Once he broke his wing, but it ended up healing alright. The best, but also the saddest moments, were when he started to learn to fly. Some mornings we would go out and he wasn’t in the porch. So we would go into the yard and yell “Peep Peep! Peep Peep!” Within a few moments he would fly down and perch on your shoulder. It felt almost as if I was freed by the bird. The fact that we had a pet bird, and he flew, was almost like we could fly. It was as though we had harnessed the power of the bird by raising one. This delicate balance between man and wild only lasted for a while before calling Peep’s name wouldn’t bring him down from the trees. I hope he had a good life.
Tell me what you think. Let me know if you want all 37 pages I've written so far. You would probably know more about by childhood than anyone else. It only goes up to 3rd grade so far. I started writing it before my mission to make up for the fact that I hadn't kept a journal. I thought I would forget all of my memories over the two years in Montana, so I started writing frantically. Today was the first time I had worked on it since I left.