Categories
Travel

When in Northern Alabama, See This

Tennessee River. Rocket Center. Ave Maria Grotto.

For spring break, we searched for a place where we could inhale the ocean salts but not sink into the crowds known to, say, Florida. The state of Alabama had never settled into a tourist destination in my head before. With this blog and next, I wish to help fellow travelers like me to find their “far from the maddening crowd” in Alabama. Today’s focus is the northern part of the state, touching Tennessee, which we haunted not too far ago.

Athens, Alabama

Tennessee River cuts through this small town, surprisingly equipped with coffee and restaurants like Atlanta bread, etc. Toward East is unbroken development until Huntsville. But fifteen minutes west of Athens, the buildings shed into sleepy farmlands, the cattle grazing over dark violet wildflowers, and the Wheeler Reservoir cultivates a habitat for birds, their songs ringing through the night. We stayed at an Airbnb on the reservoir. The view delivered its promise but not the home. Nonetheless, break that cycle of the daily grind. Come here. And relearn how to fill time with absolutely nothing, just the hum of hummingbirds, the body of sun over the water, and the carpet of purple over emerald.

Rocket Center

As you enter “Sweet Home Alabama,” a stationary rocket soars the skies. This destination is Alabama’s most widely known stop. And for nerds like me with sons like mine who fantasize about outer space, it will not disappoint. Its hours of operation between 10 a.m. and 4/5 p.m. (depending on the day) dictated we begin our day here. The lines form fifteen minutes before opening. Most visitors had booked their tickets online, but somehow, we lucked out. Not only did we gain entry, but we also beat the line. For our final destination, six hours away, ten o’clock was a late start, and the lines imperiled not only the time-crunched itinerary but the covid-weary minds as well. Everyone wore a mask. Rest assured, most of the attractions are outside, our worries ebbing in minutes.

Inside, the lunar tale, the launch capsules, the Saturn 5 rocket, the spaceships, and the ISS replica will deliver the geek fix, export you to history and the future at once. Reserve two hours for a relaxing trip to read and learn though you can comb the area in one hour.

Ave Maria Grotto

An hour south of the Rocket Center, away from the bustling, developed university town of Huntsville (falling right on our route,) is a place named Cullman, Alabama. While I am not religious or share the same religion as Brother Joseph, but this stop is for all and a must-see. It showcases outdoor cities worth of sculptures from around the world—Jerusalem, Spain, Italy, Vatican City, France, Brazil, Babylon from various periods. The precision of every rock, every glass will not only allow your legs the welcome outdoor stroll they need, but it will also mesmerize your soul with the record of events. The self-guided tour begins and ends in the gift shop, filling fifteen minutes to a half-hour with a world history tour.

My Alabama blogs will show how the state offers a diverse palate of destinations keeping the adults and children motivated, learning, and loving. After the Ave Maria Grotto, our final stop was the state’s southernmost island town named after the heir to the French throne, Louis XIV’s great-grandson, once Louisiana Territory’s capital, Dauphin Island.

Categories
inspiring non-fiction

The Distance Between Us – My Interview With Dr. Nijher

We all have our days of reckoning: the day we are born, the day we realize who we are. For Dr. Navinder Nijher, it took two days for the latter. Unlike me and my friends, who remember 9/11 through the TV images, through our interactions with our distant locales, Dr. Nijher was on ground zero. Securing in body bags, his team collected torsos, arms of people who had jumped off the skyscrapers. To save a life from debris, they made life and death decisions like whether to chop a limb or wait for equipment. Stationed in the American Express Center with oxygen tanks and other supplies, they watched and worried about additional structures collapsing. Dr. Nijher had seen trauma before, such as gunshots. “But those victims still had their skin tone. Here, everyone was the same color.” Ashy. A weeping firefighter handed them his friend’s body in a bag and lunged back into the smoke. He refused their care, focused on helping others. Dr. Nijher never saw him again.

Dr. Nijher

That day, he was a doctor, a hero in scrubs, a colorless physician volunteer, who hitched a midnight ride via a boat to his hospital in Brooklyn, not home. Another on-call day later, he reached home past one in the night. In the morning, his roommate refused to let him leave without accompanying him. Strange, he thought. A day ago, he had cleaned open wounds at ground zero in what resembled a nuclear war zone. Why would he need protection from his roommate? Dr. Nijher hadn’t absorbed the news cycle that had fastened to the TVs across the globe.

He didn’t realize not only did he carry the weight of sights and sounds, the bloody flesh’s nauseous smell, but also the turban over his head. Undeterred and unable to let go, he snapped the aftermath pictures. Today, not in his scrubs, an average American wounded by the 9/11 trauma, he grasped the change when he stood across the attendant inside a gift shop.

When he asked the price to develop his camera roll in one hour, the shopkeeper retorted. “For you people, five hundred dollars.”

People filled the streets. They yelled Osama at Dr. Nijher. Two days. They differed as night and day, reckoning Dr. Nijher about who he was and who he wanted to be, the boy who grew up in the mountains of New York tucked far away from the Sikh community but protected inside his home’s bubble. He gave interviews, appeared in Newsweek, and crossed the country, speaking. Because that is who Dr. Nijher is: a hero.

I asked him today, twenty years later, have we healed as a nation? Do we know one another better? His calm and pragmatic response stunned me. Not quite. Dr. Nijher blames the lack of information for it. After 9/11, the Sikh community has outreached across the aisle better, but not enough, limiting it to the population centers. But where he lives, in Florida’s red rural county, north of Orlando—deep Trump country—there’s more work left, which doesn’t involve going from his gated community to the hospital or attending the Gurudwara every Sunday. Instead, we must better integrate with those who don’t know us or fear us. That doesn’t involve educating people or holding seminars for like-minded individuals, rather penetrating the very fabric of America through institutions like schools, sports, charities, local boards. Don’t live a disconnected life. Dr. Nijher coaches a sports team, which avails him with opportunities to do just that, break the stereotype, break the victim mentality, and assume responsibility for our American lives.

I thank Dr. Nijher for being willing to talk to me as I collected real-life stories on what it’s like to be a Sikh in post 9/11 America. While he hasn’t read my book, and this is not an endorsement, Land of Dreams, my upcoming fiction book, has provided an outlet for me as I delved into our divides. To diminish our distances is to reach across the aisle and learn about one another.

Releasing this June, my book House of Milk and Cheese (originally Land of Dreams) is an #ownvoices narration about growing up in an immigrant Sikh family in post 9/11 America. Subscribe at www.bookofdreams.us to win a FREE copy.

Image by Marisa04 from Pixabay 
image source – Ivanovgood from pixabay

Categories
Childrens non-fiction

The Truth About Santa Claus

Moist tremors awoke me a few moons ago. An abrupt awakening removed from our awareness of our own body, from the life we have built at a time when only the soul stridulates in the arms of an imagined dream or a nightmare, is alarming. At that hour when your mind hasn’t bound to your human body, and you jump back into it, a question percolates: for how long? How long do you have in your body, which enables you to kiss those you so love for so short? A rude reminder echoes that one day our life will end without knowing how deep the separation or the memory. You coax yourself that it was just a nightmare, only a night, and after you lull yourself to sleep, a new day will begin. It does.

And then I tell my children what I tell myself: I don’t know if they exist: Santa Claus or tooth fairies or any magical creatures they believe. But it isn’t until the darkness of the inky blind night you force yourself to ponder on life on the other side, the unseen world. Our life is a speck in the spectrum of the unknown. The unseen is more than us. So, maybe Santa Claus is real. Maybe fairies fill the eternal world. Life on Earth is attached to our bodies for a limited time. We live at different times, but memories carry, or so we hope. There has got to be magic if there is God. So why not Santa Claus?

I don’t lie to my children anymore that unseen is unreal. It is more permanent than real. Dreams are true.

My forthcoming book, House of Milk and Cheese (originally Land of Dreams), is about such dreams, unseen but unrealized, that need a fight, first to believe, then to realize. Stay tuned at www.bookofdreams.us for more on its release. If you subscribe , you enter a raffle for a chance of a free copy during the book launch.

Previous blogs on the Book Launch Series: The World Behind Words

The Boy With a Strange Hat

Myriams-Fotos image from Pixabay 

Categories
Newsletter

Book of Dreams (Mars D. Gill) Newsletter – Dec 31, 2020

Notable Dates

Jan 31, 2021
Land of Dreams Announcement

Land of Dreams sneak peek.

Gentle Reminder
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Books

LETTERS FROM THE QUEEN

NOOK Smashwords

Amazon

Mars D. Gill News

The magic of a New Year comes with a promise to start a new journey, write a different story, and change our trajectories. It’s a reset to bad habits.

I find myself pondering the secrets of life and reflecting on 2020–when our lives screeched to a halt, when we disagreed loudly and passionately.

And how did it all begin?

We spent New Years’ in Cancun with my sister’s family. I learned in 2020 that I had aged. The realization wasn’t gradual: it was abrupt. That leads me to my lesson number one.

1. Health is Wealth

I fell sick in Cancun. Again, when we traveled to Montana. Then, when we visited Pennsylvania—the typical viral infections. The awareness that I hadn’t taken one vacation where I hadn’t fallen sick perturbed me. Working from home further exacerbated my neck. So I’m popping vitamins to increase immunity. By the year-end, my local gym had adapted to COVID-19 and posted exercise videos online. We are hitting the living room floor now.

2021 resolution #1: Next vacation, I will avoid even a runny nose.

After we returned from Cancun, two birthday parties took the reins of my life: for my littlest and my oldest, who was plunging into double digits in March with an overly-planned Harry-Potter-themed family affair.

On February 29, 2020, I didn’t realize I had hosted the year’s last birthday party at my home over home-cooked food and the movie Frozen 2. It’s a fond memory in hindsight.

By March, the stores ran out of toilet papers. I called the BIG March party invitees, assuring them hand sanitizers would be abundant, etc. A few days later, I canceled the party as schools shut down, too. Mischief managed. Reality started to sink in that the pandemic was real. Our lives were to be changed by an invisible, barely alive virus. Lesson number two:

2. The Most Important Human Need is Love

A state of perpetual search gripped me two months into the lockdown, as though something critical went missing from my life, not present at home. I had to venture out for it. Same time, something else was transpiring.

We played Hangman, Pictionary and board games to kill time. For the canceled party, we put the banquet hall decorations inside our home. My son video called with classmates, friends, and family—doing everything one did when they were happy and celebrating. It’s impossible to halt life.

The first warm May weekend, we drove to the Mississippi River. We were together with those we loved the most. Nothing else mattered in life. COVID-19 was a skilled master. It revealed who we loved, who loved us, and who didn’t. Lucky were we to be together in love—the most fundamental of all human needs.

2021 resolution #2: Never take people who love me for granted. Not for one second.

Lesson Number three:

3. Life Doesn’t Stop

My heart aches for those who lost loved ones this year. Because the material items like restaurants, stores are recoverable. But life itself isn’t.

Our lives modified. Gigantic cross-country road trip became a single-destination quarantine in a rental. We carried out food.

Memories kept forming. Goals kept beaconing. And then . . .

I self-published my debut novel in May, a milestone in the life of a novice. The lockdown enabled me, not hindered.

My least favorite part of 2021 wasn’t COVID-19.

It was the vitriol, the lies, the deceit, the bullying by the most powerful “men” in America. The election is over, but not the platforms that spread conspiracies including those around the pandemic being a hoax.

How do I maintain my sanity? I focus on my favorite things: my children, ice cream, books, writing, knitting, a feel-good movie, traveling (now modified but not eliminated), a hearty conversation with my best friend, nature, sunsets. The list goes on. This attitude is grounded by the next lesson:

3. Life is Temporary

We forget we live on Earth for a limited time. Everything we accumulate—relationships, parents, children, money, homes, vehicles, knickknacks, memories (why memories, why, God??)—get washed clean. We don’t have an iota about what lies ahead, what exists outside of this dark universe, what shape God has. We know nothing. Yet, instead of humility, we display hubris.

 2021 resolution #3: Never forget how temporary I am. Be humble.

I turned forty in 2020. Via virtual technology, my husband surprised me with messages from across the globe. I found myself satisfied at forty. Despite everything.

Months later, my husband attended a Zoom call with his family and school friends scattered across the globe on his birthday. Humans adapt. Adapting is the key to our survival. Without this hardship, we would have been further apart. In disguise, COVID-19 brought us closer.

Looking forward, traditional or self, my second book, Land of Dreams, is coming out. I believe in this story so much, and it’s my conviction you will love it, too. People say never compare your children. They are unique. But this book is so close to the heart to be not a favorite.

Please stay tuned here for its key dates: Book cover details, the articles, the sneak peeks, and the LAUNCH.

For 2021, I’ll wish for you what I wish for me—a healthy perspective that allows you to live your life to the maximum. Here’s to 2021 . . . to the hope of a better everything.

Today’s Words

No matter how hard the past is, you can always begin again.Budha

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Latest Travel Blog – Pennsylvania

Like cotton candy, the trees had ballooned in rainbow colors, blanketing the mountains and the valleys. I and my family were traversing the COVID-19 year, where our travel and social life had catapulted into an unrecognizable, indefinite end. And our blessings, being the five of us together, propelled us on the road. Our destination was a rural town named Somerset, Pennsylvania. Besides the Fall colors, jutted from the street sides and homes signs of political affiliations—Read More

Latest Publication

https://www.readersmagnet.club/the-world-behind-words-by-mars-d-gill/

Categories
Poetry

It’s Time to Drop the Bag, My Brother

You carry not a giant backpack anymore
Nor those oversized black hand-me-down shoes
You elegantly roam in doctor’s blue scrubs
Performing surgeries, healing heart patients
What about your own heart you leave behind?

You no longer hold my finger to nursery
Or follow me out, unwilling to be left alone
You are fearless and a self-made man
Who needs not a sister, patronizing him on what to do

And yet, I scribble today only for you
Because we teach our children everyday
How to succeed, never how to fail
As you mend your patients’ hearts when they fail
Don’t forget the one you carry inside: your own (your baggage)

Sometimes in life, blessings come as hardships
What feels harsh to accept
May be God speaking to us
For when we fumble, we grow

Your bag of problems may be larger today
Than that giant nursery bag you’d held one day
Drop those problem; let them go
They are not worthy of your soul
Shed the burdens, they deserve not a shard of you

God created all his children, including you
Love yourself when its hard to do
We all make mistakes, we all fall
It’s not a feat only you know how to do

But what if I told you today
Our mistakes are tools through which God speaks
And we discover who are truly ours–and who are not
Would you laugh and dismiss me . . .
If I said it’s important to know your real friends?

For every second we value the wrong
We lose it with those where we truly belong
Count your blessings, and you will find
You have no time left to value the petty

So waste not another second
Pick up the pieces of your life
Recreate that dream that beaconed you
But not with those who failed to see your heart
It’s time for better investments

Drop that bag that was never yours
Bigger, better, bolder, more beautiful
That’s where you are destined to be
That giant bag is petty compared to the places you will see

Categories
Travel

Southwest Pennsylvania: The Colors of Life and Fall

We experienced southwest Pennsylvania in the middle of October 2020 at the peak of Fall.

Like cotton candy, the trees had ballooned in rainbow colors, blanketing the mountains and the valleys. I and my family were traversing the COVID-19 year, where our travel and social life had catapulted into an unrecognizable, indefinite end. And our blessings, being the five of us together, propelled us on the road. Our destination was a rural town named Somerset, Pennsylvania. Besides the Fall colors, jutted from the street sides and homes signs of political affiliations—heavily leaning on one side. For days of us roaming the streets, every dwelling, every shop flew Trump flags, building covers, yard signs, some mocking the President’s challenger with eye-popping insults. Loud honking processions cut off roads and changed our plans in an ostentatious display of allegiance.

Frankly, we weren’t here to observe and report on politics. We expect the same from any getaway—to forget our ailments and embrace the novelty of new scenes, new people, and local food—even in election year.

Luckily, the natural beauty delivered on its promise.

With the vibrant colors, we drifted to the Rock City, where we crawled deep into the hilly crevices; a carpet of leaves painted our paths orange, and red, yellow, green, brown covered our heads—our favorite hike in Cooper’s Rock State Park of West Virginia.

Our second favorite was the hike from the parking lot to the falls in McConnells Mill State Park in Pennsylvania. There’s something peaceful about sitting next to a whispering river reflecting yellow leaves, with tree droppings floating by.

A vast majority of our time, we spent quarantining in our beautiful rental home atop the Hidden Valley. Children played with new toys. Their excitement showed they were just like adults—excited about novelty.

After four days of Fall photography and rest, we returned home to an uncertain future. I was editing Land of Dreams, readying it for a final beta review. The precarious future didn’t fool us this time into thinking things would get better. A month later, though, it got better—about 156 million people voted. Both sides showed up. And democracy worked. Life’s seldom about winning. It’s about getting your voice heard and feel like you matter. The election is over. Life carries on. And there is the hope of the next vacation, next outlet.

If you like this, please subscribe (click on the follow button in the lower right corner) with your email. Www.bookofdreams.us. And enter a RAFFLE to win my upcoming book, Land of Dreams.

Categories
Travel

#7. From Dawn to Dusk: Chasing Memories. The Way Home

Home was twenty-two hours East of Montana.

At six in the morning, we pulled out of our condo that had sheltered us for five nights. Dawn fulfilled its promise of vibrant colors through the drive out of Anaconda to Butte where we stopped for coffee and breakfast.

We drove under floating hot air balloons, by the babbling Yellowstone River to our unscheduled bathroom stop at a Rest Area which turned out to be a humble dose of history on Bozeman Trail where local tribes killed a traveling father and son while they camped.

As we left Montana and ventured deeper into the Northern Cheyenne reservation, fast moving motorcycles appeared. They stayed with us to the suburb of Rapid City where we refueled, wondering where the motorcycles were headed. That night as we called it a night at Chamberlain, SD, overlooking the Missouri River from our hotel on a hill, the motorcyclists, more than 400, 000 of them, converged in Sturgis, SD, a city we had crossed on the way. Later, on September 2, 2020, first Covid-19 death was reported from that event. At least 260 cases (those who agreed to testing) countrywide contracted covid from here. It was surreal to realize how close we had gotten ourselves to them. Not that we are the types to ignore medical professionals. But we were on the road. To be free, you must be alive, a concept lost to some.

We had stopped in the evening at the Chapel in the Hills located in Rapid City, not too far from Sturgis.

Next morning, with breakfast to go, we set our eyes on our home and drove east. Our pit stop today was at the Sioux Falls, SD.

We made it home in daylight. I wish I remembered what I felt, what we spoke about, but all I knew was we were home. We were lucky. We were blessed. Thank you, God, for giving me a perspective to see so much beauty and live this life.

This marks the final blog in the “Chasing Memories” series to Montana. If you like this, please subscribe (click on follow button in lower right corner) with your email here at www.bookofdreams.us. You will automatically enter a RAFFLE to win my upcoming book, Land of Dreams.

Categories
Travel

#6. From Dawn to Dusk: Chasing Memories. Gates of Mountains

The last full day in Montana descended upon us.

Today, we drove north via Helena to Canyon Ferry Lake where children played on its rocky shores. When I spotted a golden snake behind a boulder while trying to find a place to sit, the children unwilling to leave hopped back into the car. Unintended catalyst but intended outcome.

Our last Lewis and Clark spot involved the Gates of Mountains where boat tours left at the top of the hour, none carrying us, only fifty other brave souls. Since no private tours were offered, we snapped a photo and left. Gates of the Mountains marks the place where the Lewis and Clark journey, sailing west on Missouri River, ended when they hit the Rockies. They termed the range as Gates of Mountains to signify their impenetrable force.

We returned to our rental well in time today via McDonald Pass where the thunderous new look of the Georgetown Lake graced us. We packed and loaded our car, and I buried myself reading two books: Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine and Sin and Syntax.

All journeys end. Last year we had ended our diverse vacation to UK (England, Wales, Scotland) and Iceland. Despite it being one of our best trips, we were ready to return from it. Montana felt short—too short. I wanted to linger in its valleys. It had slipped between my fingers like a movie that ended prematurely.  And the future was as precarious as ever. But I’d to return to nipping and budding of my forthcoming book: Land of Dreams. And this writer had refilled her chest of imagination, inspiration, thanks to the big sky country of Montana.

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Categories
Travel

#5. From Dawn to Dusk: Chasing Memories. The Big Sky

Day five began with another colorful and peaceful dawn.

Today we drove on a dusty road to the shimmering, green Wade Lake where the children stood in its lapping waves; the pebbled shore massaged our feet; and people in kayaks floated on its waters. The lake was so still reflecting mountains in its depths that we, too, stole a few precious moments to reflect and ponder.

The drive to Big Sky featured the Earthquake lake where burnt trees stumps jutted from its surface, and the Madison River that roared from the cliff below. When we reached the restaurant inside a golf course, where our order was ready for pickup, not one customer dined in their outside patio, and every worker and customer wore a face mask, even their mannequins. We gleefully grabbed an outside table and dined out for the first time since March in the quaint valley of Big Sky. I wish I had remembered the last restaurant we ate at before covid. But still, this experience was precious, precious, precious.

Our last stop involved hiking to the ousel falls. Along the babbling river, we walked with our face masks on, on the crowded trail, carrying an awareness inside our hearts: this was the last hike, the last activity of our trip. The future reeled in the throws of a pandemic during an election year. Nothing was certain. One truth defined our present moment: our existence, our thoughts, our love for one another, and our ability to place the happiness of each other over our own—the secret sauce of happiness is in breaking the self-involved outlook and gain empathy for others’ feelings. When I became a mother, I learned to truly give and that made me happy. Those unhappy often complain about how they are treated, how they should be treated, etc. And it’s easy for anyone to fall into that trap. So I hang on to this realization close to my heart. Our vacation would end soon but better not our love.

Ousel Falls – Big Sky, MT

The drive back along another gushing river delivered an ointment to old wounds, rejuvenated the spirit, and prepared us to face life again. Tomorrow would be our last day in Montana before we ventured back east to the place we call home: Chicago, IL

Categories
Travel

#4. From Dawn to Dusk: Chasing Memories. To Idaho

We were sailing the most peaceful segment of our week-long, socially-distant getaway. Two books overtook the reins of my mind every free second—when I wasn’t driving the car or before I fell asleep at night. Idleness had found an objective. No worry seeped into an absorbed mind.

We drove south toward Idaho this morning, starting the most historic, the most scenic drive, also my favorite day of our vacation. Mountains enlarged beyond Wisdom, Montana when our cherished companion, the babbling, whispering, and calming Salmon river, joined our journey, leering at us through the window, forcing us to make unscheduled stops along the road.

Our first formal destination involved learning about Sacajawea while walking this picturesque museum’s “outside trail” at Salmon, Idaho: featuring tipis, outdoor schools, and above everything else, Sacajawea. At a time riddled with wars and bloodshed, massacres and deep mistrust, the young, free-spirited, native American woman, mother of an infant, formed deep friendship with Lewis and helped complete their voyage from North Dakota to the Pacific Ocean. Lewis and Clark sailed on Missouri river based on the conviction it would flow into the Pacific until they hit the Rockies. They termed the Rockies Gates of Mountain because they were impenetrable. Sacajawea helped serving as a messenger and a translator with the local Indian tribes. Two tales circulate on Wikipedia, only one the museum believed from the Lewis and Clark journals, which claims Sacajawea died at the tender age of twenty-five years from an infection she protracted during childbirth. The signed adoption papers for her infant to Lewis and the journal serve as proof. The museum shunned other stories that she escaped an unhappy, arranged marriage and lived a long life till the age of ninety-five because she wouldn’t abandon her children.

After appreciating the efforts to preserve this precious sliver of history, we set camp at the Salmon river and ate lunch. I even recorded its whispers forever in a video. I wish we could make it all the way to Stanley, Idaho, but restfulness (along with wandering) was our supreme goal. So, we turned around midway to Challis and headed to Lemhi Pass up a gravel mountain, another Lewis and Clark stop, a trading post where they had camped and written into their journal. Not a soul accompanied the five of us atop the Lemhi Pass allowing us a strangely peaceful, quietly breezy, and blatantly ginormous three-sixty-degree view of the region.

A dust cloud flew behind our car, the mud coating our rearview window, as we drove on gravel toward Montana—the sights, the lakes, the mountains, I’ll not even attempt to describe. Let’s leave it at: we absorbed stories from years ago, idled in pristine nature, and refilled our hearts with purpose.

Back at Anaconda, we helped ourselves to pancakes and scrambled eggs for dinner. Hey, it’s our vacation; we’ll flip it as we wish.

The next morning, I’d worry about a vacation shortening with each breathing second; I’d worry about my never-ending mistakes, but today was prebooked by worry-free, untainted memories in the making.

Trivia:

Thomas Jefferson had sent Lewis and Clark to explore the west in order to expand. He’d asked congress for $2500; records indicate about $50, 000 was the actual expenditure.

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