"It's little things that mean so much"
I made a new profile picture/logo for my page yesterday and a dear friend, Cindy, liked it a lot, so I surprised her this morning and made a logo for her.
She loves coffee, writes absolutely beautiful poetry, and her favorite color is purple.
After I sent her the picture, she wrote this beautiful poem for me that made me cry.
It's little things that mean so much
A kind word, a gentle touch
Handmade treasures filled with love
Or surprise gifts, just because
When life seems hard and hope is lost
Hearts feel thoughtfulness, not size or cost
The smallest gesture of a dear friend
Sparks belief the darkness will end
Rainbows start shining through the rain
Life's Garden begins to bloom again
~By Cindy J. Smith
It's little things that mean so much
It made me happy to make something nice for her and it made her happy that I thought about her. And then, she made me cry happy tears when she wrote a poem, just for me.
Do something nice today for someone
A kind act will brighten a friend's day and your day as well. Trust me!
There is so much misery, jealousy, cruelty and suffering in our world, brighten someone's day if only for a minute, and put a happy smile on their faces.
Cindy is a great poet, her life experiences provide her with inspiration.
Wife, mother and grandmother, she has a myriad of beautiful memories to draw from. Never having been good at playing the part of "starving artist", she has had many careers. Recently she retired from being an over-the-road truck driver with her husband, Dave, which provided different perspectives of the world in which we live. Cindy has published five poetry books (with two more coming out in December) and a children's book. More of her poems appear in various anthologies as well as several books by fellow authors.
You can find Cindy's poetry books on AMAZON
Her page on FACEBOOK
And on TWITTER
And three of her eBooks on many sites:
Because I couldn't finish this story to little Johnny
Today I will share a painful memory with you
This painful memory stayed with me throughout my nursing career and I'll never forget this little boy who loved listening to my stories.
As a young nurse, I worked in the pediatric unit for a short while. Johnny was a nine-year-old cute as a button little boy who had leukemia. The medications and treatments wiped him out physically and emotionally but he still had a sweet smile for everyone who entered his room.
Restrained sobs choked me every time I saw his pale, angelic little face and heard him say, "Hello, beautiful. Give me that shot quickly and tell me a story." (his father was a flirt and he imitated him by calling the nurses beautiful or gorgeous.)
Our storytelling sessions started when he had a very bad day and the medications didn't work to suppress his nausea and headache. All I could do was sit by his bed, hold his hand and wait for the stronger medication to kick in. To break the silence and get his attention away from heaving and pain, I started reciting a fairy tale, "Once upon a time..."
As I continued the story, his breathing slowed and he hung onto every word seemingly forgetting his pain and mystery for a few minutes. The story with medicine became our routine and one morning, because I didn't remember any more fairy tales that I had read as a child, I started telling him my childhood memories.
One of my fondest memory was how my best friend and I saved four drowning kittens when a cruel neighbor threw them into the river.
Johnny grew weaker and weaker and could listen to the story only a few minutes at a time, but he remembered the next day where we left off. When we got to the part where my mom prepared a wicker basket for the kittens, Johnny's eyes lit up and said, "A kosarnyi kiscica" which means "A basketful of kittens."
When I wrote this story into a children's book last year, in memory of little Johnny, I gave the title to the book he came up with: A Basketful of Kittens.
I never had a chance to tell him the end of the story. There were only a few minutes left to tell him how Daniel and I dealt with the neighborhood bullies, but when I entered little Johnny's room the next morning, his bed was empty.
This book is for you little Johnny!
Read a few pages from the book
Erika M Szabo
"Erika became an avid reader at a very early age, thanks to her dad who introduced her to many great books. Erika writes alternate history, romantic fantasy, magical realism novels as well as fun, educational, and bilingual books for children ages 4-12 about acceptance, friendship, family, and moral values such as accepting people with disabilities, dealing with bullies, and not judging others before getting to know them. Erika also likes to encourage children to use their imagination and daydream about fantasy worlds.
“Much like Erika, Joe’s dad introduced him to books, as well as movies and music, at a very young age. He was encouraged to write as soon as he could hold a pencil. While Joe writes mostly Heroic Fantasy, Sword and Sorcery, Horror and Science Fiction for an older audience, he decided to reach out to a younger audience and write something entertaining, as well as educational. This is his first collaboration with Erika, and his first children’s book.”
They called me chicken one too many times...
As kids, we did a lot of crazy and stupid things. although I was scared silly, I hated that the kids called me chicken because I shrugged off too many dares, so I thought I had to accept this one.
As young teenagers, we always traveled in a pack. We did a lot of stupid things together and dared each other to do more stupid things. Well, we didn't eat Tide pods, jumping out of a moving car, sucking on shot glasses or anything that stupid, but we were pretty inventive too.
Usually, I made a joke out of it when the others dared me to do dangerous things such as jumping into the icy river but that mid-November evening they called me a chicken one too many times so I gave in.
The dare was to walk across the cemetery that only had two gates and was surrounded by stone wall. There was only one gate in and one gate out, there was no chance to cheat. Two older kids who did the dare the previous year became the self-appointed judges and walked to the opposite gate to wait for us rookies as we walked across one by one.
My friend, Steve, was brave enough to go first. We saw him for a little while walking down the close to a quarter-mile path between the tall headstones and dark mausoleums in the eerie light of the full moon. Then we heard a loud thump and his muffled cry that gave us goosebumps. We looked at each other ready to go after him when he yelled out, "I'm okay! Just tripped over a bench."
A few minutes later we heard a cheer from the other gate and one of the older kids yelled, "Who's next?"
Okay, let's get this over with, I thought and crossed the gate. I was scared. Walking across the cemetery was a shortcut on the way home from school and I'd used that shortcut a lot, but the headstones looked a lot taller and a whole lot scarier than in daylight.
I kept walking throat constricted and knots in my stomach, but I kept walking. Suddenly, I saw a dark shadow from the corner of my eye. I turned my head and there it was, back-lit by the moon, a werewolf. I saw it clearly as it raised it's head and howled. I froze and couldn't move a muscle. Although I screamed in my mind, I couldn't make a sound.
Read the full post HERE
Erika M Szabo
Author of urban fantasy, magical realism novels and children's books,
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