The Morning Tram in the Old City in Spring

    Spring was finally in charge of the ancient city, relishing the sight of chestnut trees blooming, spreading a sweet, heavenly fragrance throughout the lively neighborhoods. The old buildings, sinking in white blossoms, had that distinctive European flair which people fall in love with the minute they step foot on the narrow streets covered with stone paving. Through the centuries, Lviv, which is situated in West Ukraine, has absorbed many cultures that created a special charm, attracting both foes and followers of history.

     In spite of all odds and many outlandish rulers, the proud natives have preserved their language, which flows like a breath of spring breeze. Catchy and musical, it charms ears and brings smiles to strangers’ faces. There is something soothing and melodic when Ukrainians speak in their native language, something that brings out a pride for their flocks and country.Every country has something unique to be proud of. It may be enormous landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and the Egyptian pyramids, or just something small like blossoming chestnut trees thriving in May. 

    The sweetly scented white and pink flower of the horse chestnut is one of the symbols of Ukraine. Growing to a height of thirty-six meters, these impressive trees have a domed crown and stout branches, creating a huge umbrella of shade in the summer months. Tall and majestic, they tower above the tiled roofs and golden churches. The leaves consist of five to seven leaflets which change from light to dark green as they grow, and transform into a breathtaking array of gold, copper, and bronze as they die off in winter and fall to the ground. The flowers produced in spring consist of panicles with between twenty and fifty flowers on each. Between one and five fruits develop on each of these panicles, and within the green spiky capsule-like shell is a nutlike seed called a horse chestnut, or conker. Planted along streets and in parks, they flourish for hundreds of years with beauty and charm, gracefully changing moods with each passing season. The spontaneous burst of flowering trees is intimately linked to the annual rite of spring. The appearance of the flashy, spiked efflorescence, the color of pale spring sunshine, is a natural miracle that marks the return to life in the streets and parks of the old city. For Ukrainians, chestnut trees represent the re-creation, strength, and stability. 

    I was sixteen when I left a village deep in the Carpathian Mountains and moved to Lviv to attend college. The city met me with the noise of the old trams, swarming on the streets like red fire ants. For years, the loud trams have consoled and inspired artists and poets, actors and lovers, and even a simple girl like me. I woke up to the their noises, announcing the beginning of a new day, and went to sleep with the thought that tomorrow the bell would ring in front of my window, greeting me with a happy shriek. The old tramway was one of these places where I fell in love, read, talked, hid, and thought until midnight. It was my shelter from rain and snow, sun and cold, sadness and frustration, loneness and vagrancy. It took me to places I wanted to go. It was my refuge and escape, comfort, and place to unwind, a tiny getaway at the end of the day. It cradled my children when they could not sleep. It watched me crying when I had to leave my country. It was more to me than a mere machine or transport. It was my friend for sixteen years.

    Often sipping dark coffee under the crown of the blossoming trees, I turned my melancholy gaze to the screeching trams, covered in glittering petals, spinning like tiny snowflakes above their red roofs. It was something melancholic and at the same majestic to watch a morning tram going through the tunnel of the flowering trees, glowing in the dawn like young brides.

    May in Lviv was one of those beautiful seasons that always brought peace to my soul. It reinvigorated my thinking and gave me a fresh outlook on my life. Majestic silhouettes of temples, surrounded by the flowering chestnut trees, make me feel closer to Mother Earth and God. Magnificent outlines of old streets, blooming parks and wide avenues, created a feeling of purity and being born again. Elegant buildings of different ages and architectural styles surrounded by thriving chestnut trees formed that unique and unforgettable atmosphere that I will never forget.

    Years passed, things changed, but my memories will always hold the sound of the first morning tram, slowly crawling beneath the flowering chestnut trees thriving with a wild passion.

LVIV IS A UNIQUE BLEND OF EAST AND WEST CULTURES. TODAY IT IS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL CITIES IN EUROPE, AN IMPORTANT INDUSTRIAL, SCIENTIFIC, EDUCATIONAL AND CULTURAL CENTER OF WESTERN UKRAINE. LVIV IS CONSIDERED TO BE THE MOST EUROPEAN AMONG OTHER UKRAINIAN CITIES, WITH HIGH CULTURAL AND MENTAL PROXIMITY TO EUROPEAN PEOPLE.

Courtesy of Google search

Lviv is definitely one of the most picturesque cities in Ukraine. The historic center of the city has the status of the UNESCO World Heritage Site. Also, Lviv has the largest number of monuments in Ukraine

Courtesy of Google search

Lviv architecture reflects a lot of European styles corresponding to different historical epochs. Fortunately the city was not heavily damaged during the wars of the 20th century.

Courtesy of Google search

After fires of 1527 and 1556 there were almost no traces of Gothic Lviv, but the following epochs are well presented: Renaissance, baroque, classicism. The historical center of Lviv has a lot of architectural monuments of the 14th-17th centuries.

Courtesy of Google search

One of the beautiful churches is built in the neo-Gothic style. It is located in Lviv, on Kropivnitsky Square. According to legend, originally, it was named in honor of the Empress Elizabeth Habsburg, the wife of the Emperor of Austria-Hungary Franz Joseph I.

Since 1991, the church is owned by the Ukrainian Greek Catholic Church and is called the Church of Sts. Olha and Elizabeth.

THANK YOU!!

The Heartbreaking Road

Easter Memories: The Holiday of Forgiving 

by Mrs.D.

I lived in the house next to the river, where memories of my early childhood blur together. The beginning of spring always reminded me of Easter. It was a holiday that children waited for all year. It was not because of an enormous fluffy bunny that would lay its eggs in the bushes, not because the baskets with goodies and candies would arrive by our doors, and not because the dinner table would bend under all the delicious food, but because this was the only holiday when parents would buy new clothes and shoes for their children. They were simple shirts, dresses, and sandals—sometimes too big, sometimes too small—but kids did not care about the blisters on their feet or newspaper stuffed in their shoes so that they wouldn’t lose them while showing them off to their friends. Kids worked hard through the harvest, and new clothes and shoes were a reward for their effort. For me, though, it was a heartbreaking road to that store in the city.

During the winter, our pig gave birth to piglets. Day and night we protected them from the pig so that she wouldn’t eat them or squash them beneath her heavy body. Every day after school I ran to the stable. It was warm from the animals breathing, making friendly noises as soon as I walked in. The pink piglets slept peacefully by the pig’s belly, shaking tiny legs in their sleep from time to time. Making a warm sound, the proud pig rolled on her back, exposing full nipples, swollen from milk. Squeaking, the hungry piglets fought for food. It was my job to make sure every piglet was fed and safe. Exhausted from feeding, the pig rolled on her belly, ignoring her babies. I curled on the hay in the corner and played their surrogate mommy. Looking for nipples, the piglets hid under my old sweaters, poking my chest with their warm noses. Making sweet snoring sounds, they were falling asleep. I listened to their breathing and read books until the pig called her piglets to eat again. As the days passed, I felt as if I were their mother, not the pig. I cuddled them, I named them, I protected them and fed them for months. Then it was time to say goodbye.

Easter was just around the corner, but the chilly breath of old man winter still hung in the air, as it fought a hastening spring passionately declaring her arrival. The snow slowly dribbled from the wet stable, thawing under the glowing sun. The water made shallow puddles, and tiny streams escaped to the noisy river, carrying ice and debris. Swollen from slush, it roared like a wounded bear caught in a deadly trap. I was ready to howl like the river when I saw a long wooden box placed by the stable door. I knew the piglets would be sold at the market to people who would raise them for food. I walked to the window to see my babies again.

Snubbing the snow on the ground, the blissful sunrays beamed through the dark glass, which was covered in sparkling beads of water, dripping on the painted wall like my bitter tears. The piglets slept serenely next to their mother, not realizing that this would be their last night together. Too big to fit next to the pig’s stomach, some of the piglets curled under her neck and ears. The pig tenderly poked them with her nose, as if she kissed them for the last time. I sat on the box and cried.

That night Mom took them to the market. I wept in the stable all day. I knew that no one would love and care for my piglets as much as I did. I wished Easter never came. It should be the holiday of forgiving and rekindling souls, but I did not feel that way. I could not accept the price I paid for the new dress and shoes. Easter after Easter, new scars marked my soul, until I realized that my pains were imperceptible compared to the agonies God’s Son suffered.

Lovers in the morning ...

By Joe Wilkins

It was a touch after six this magical morning when, restless for motion, I slipped on my sandals and stepped out for a morning walk. “Magical” because of place, time and happenings. With apologies to my snowbound friends in the North staring out their windows at yet another dreary day of winter weather, I am on a Florida Key as I write this, a coral island so small it’s little more than a wide place in the road. But that road is US 1 at a point where I can dip my toes in the calm Atlantic or walk across the road and dip them in the even calmer Gulf of Mexico.

 On this particularly mild morning I choose to dip them in the Atlantic where, walking past the boat slips and through the palm trees and scrub vegetation I come out at the end of a jetty to catch the faint rosy glow of the coming dawn in the east and, over my shoulder in the west, the brilliance of a full moon still coloring the night sky. 

High out over the ocean is Venus, bright with the reflection of the sun still hidden below the horizon. From its corner of a great celestrial triangle, the sun lights up both Venus and the full moon, filling the sky with light from three different directions. I am enchanted by the scene, and lulled by the easy slap of water hitting the jetty. There is no light-pollution. No street lights or neon signs or city skylines spoil the sight of the Atlantic Ocean rubbing its eyes and slowly coming awake.

 I am in this lovely place determined to finish my current work-in-progress, a personal memoir of my work and travels during the first decade of the federal “War on Poverty”, now fifty years old. For days I have been deep in my notes about trips to the hard-times scenes of Appalachia, Indian Reservations, migrant camps on the West Coast and the slums of our big cities. It is an important, if obscure, tale to tell, a matter more of a writer’s duty to record than a thrilling adventure, something like a soldier’s recollection of lost battles in a forgotten war that some university press may publish for some future historian to consult. There can be sadness in such tales, but I prefer to search for the positive side of things. I am proud to have been involved and happy to be doing the book, but a short break from work on this wonderful morning is a welcome thing. 

Out on the jetty, bemused and entranced by the romance of this morning’s scene, my thoughts turn to a writer from a previous time, Richard Halliburton, whose “Royal Road to Romance,” “Seven League Boots” and “Flying Carpet” filled my young boy’s head with dreams of adventure and romance. He was a writer famed in the days between the great wars for such ideas as sneaking into the Taj Mahal on a moonlit night to commune with its beauty; and hiding overnight in the beautiful Parthenon atop the Acropolis in Athens to talk with the resident goddesses. 

It was an odd mix of emotions, there on the jetty. My book-in-progress covers a rough time in America and folks caught in private worlds of electric-bill cutoffs and dead-end jobs. And yet, deep in my notes I find long-ago interviews I did with high-school dropouts dreaming of getting into the Navy; of teenage volunteers from upstate New York and southern Louisiana working to inspire even younger Indian girls trapped on desperately poor reservations; of young people across the country fighting their way up from scenes of Dickensian want. Their determined optimism still shines from the faded pages of my old notes. 

As I reached the quiet boat slips on my walk back, I heard the slow crunch of tires on the shell-covered path and stepped into the shadow of the bushes wondering what early-rising fisherman was on his way. But it was no fisherman. Passing by in an old golf cart were a young couple. The driver was a tall, lean young man in jeans and sweatshirt. Snuggled up to him for warmth and love was a beautiful young woman, the two of them heading neither for the rising sun nor the lingering moon, but for the beckoning light of Venus, known to young lovers since the dawn of time itself as the Goddess of Love. I am reminded it is still true that the dreams of the young remain the strength of America. 

Thinking of the young among so much morning beauty I felt my optimism coming back and my spirits rise. Refreshed, I made my way back down the jetty’s path in the still-bright moonlight, ready to return to pages and chapters still to be polished.

 © by Joseph T. Wilkins

Joe Wilkins  is a semi-retired lawyer and former municipal judge who lives in Smithville, NJ. He is the author of   "The Speaker Who Locked up the House" , an acclaimed historical novel about  Congress set in the Washington of 1890, and  "The Skin Game and other Atlantic City Capers" , a richly comic account of the stick-up of an illegal card game as the Atlantic City casino age began. 

PUBLISHED!! 

 Kennedy's Recruit: Tales from the Poverty Wars - the vivid account of the great federal anti-poverty effort that sparked the social wildfires of the Sixties and Seventies across America, told by a man who was there and saw it first-hand – and the political storms it brewed, from the migrant camps of California and Southern New Jersey to the haunted poverty of the Dakota Sioux reservations; from the truck coal mines of eastern Tennessee to Dick Daley’s Chicago and Louise Day Hicks’s Boston. 

To buy Joe's books, invite him to talk to your group, or send him your comments, you can email him at  wilkinsjt001@comcast.net,  visit his website at  www.josephtwilkins.com  or catch his author's page on Facebook.

High Heels for Cinderella

Cinderella Story  

By Mrs.D~

It was February 12, a few days after a massive blizzard swept through the region, paralyzing towns and roads. The intense winds that followed the storm piled tall drifts by the doors, crippling the lives of people trapped inside their homes. The area was still digging out, but the breath of oncoming spring caressed the air, predicting the end of the harsh winter. The snow was melting in the afternoon sun, which was cheerfully burning on the rosy skyline. The crystal snowflakes sparkled on the trees, challenging the determined sun trying to melt them into gray slush.

Slowly driving through the tiny parking lot, sinking in the thick mush, she looked for a safe place to park her car. She finally parked it next to the lonely car shining with clean windows in the approaching sunset. The steep steps, buried in the melting snow, made her feel insecure and uncomfortable. Carefully walking in her high heel stilettos on the drenched path, winding between towering drifts, she beat herself up for saying yes to a blind date. It was one of those arrangements she always disliked.

The evening before the blizzard began, she received a call from a friend, who was helping deaf children in her old country.

“Can you help us with some papers.” She asked her to stop by their club and finish some work. When she arrived at the club, her friends were gathering by the merrily burning fireplace, enjoying the quiet snowfall through the wide window, sipping wine and eating homemade donuts. The papers were in a neat pile on the edge of the table, except for a few pictures purposely placed in the middle.

“We want you to meet someone.” One of her friends moved the pictures closer to where she was sitting.

“Not ready. Sorry,” she said, moving the pictures back without looking at them. Single for years, she dated people of her choice, but never let herself get attached to anyone. She always walked away as soon as men told her they wanted it all. Falling in love was not part of her plans.

“You can’t do this to us,” her friends protested as one, telling her how great he was and that one date would not kill her. “He is one of our biggest sponsors.” They surrounded her in a tight circle, convincing her that the blind date would do well for her and the man who had just joined the dating market.

“Don’t be stubborn. Say yes,” her good friend whispered as she poured more wine in her glass. “We already set up a date for you. Here is his address.” She pressed a piece of paper between her hand and glass.

“You devils are twisting my hands.” She laughed, hiding the address in her pocket. “So there is no work for me, I presume.” She smirked, anxious to leave before the blizzard began pounding the roads. “I hope he is worth your efforts.” She grinned as she left. After debating for days about her choice, she finally decided to go on her first blind date.

Now, making her way through the wet snow to his office, she was not at all sure of her decision.

Slipping on the thin layer of ice hidden under the sleet, she cursed herself for wearing high heels. Upset with herself, she grabbed the rail, which was covered in glittering snow. The glowing white powder fell to her feet, covering her high heel stilettos and wrapping her legs like wild snow cats.

 “Give me your hand.” She suddenly heard the voice above her, and without hesitation grabbed two outstretched hands. Their eyes locked for a second as he pulled her up from the snow.

 “Not the best choice for this weather,” he smiled, looking at her fancy shoes jutting from the snow. She blushed, feeling hot waves running through her body, burning her ears and cheeks.

“This is crazy.” She was ready to turn around and run barefoot through the snow back to her car.

“I lost my shoes on my first blind date.” She suddenly burst into a tense laugh, imagining her friends’ faces, when she told them what had happened.

“Sorry.” He smiled. “I will order rain next time.” He held her hands tightly, but gently; ready to come to her rescue if she slipped.

She let go of his hands as soon as she felt the firm wood underneath her freezing feet. Shaking snow from her dressy coat, she pulled herself together and walked through the opened door to his office. Not sure what to do next, she sat in the first chair she came across.

He was standing on the steps, shaking the snow from her beige shoes. Watching him through the open door, she observed him carefully, scrutinizing his appearance and body language. He inspected her high-heeled shoes like a shoemaker.

He was in his fifties, young looking, but short and bulky, not the sort of man she usually dated. His dark hair, slightly dusted with silver, did not move in the slight breeze. It was sleek and neat, as if he had just stepped out of a fancy magazine. His face, hardly touched by age, was friendly and charming. Full of energy and passion, his brown eyes promised comfort and stability. She liked his voice; deep and soothing, it made her feel safe and contented.

“Not my type,” she murmured to herself, as if she wanted to convince her analytical mind to agree with her feelings. Tall and slinky, she loved men who matched her height in heels.

“I am Dave.” He introduced himself, unexpectedly breaking her thoughts. Taking her hand in his palm, he slowly lifted her cold fingers to his lips. His kiss felt as if a soft snowflake had just landed on her trembling hand and gradually melted away from the heat generated by her nerves. It was a pleasant touch, one that she did not expect, but admired so much. She grew up in Europe and his gesture meant respect.

“Crystal shoes for Cinderella.” He smiled, bending to his knees. “Can we try?” He looked straight into her eyes, full of confusion and doubt.

“Frozen Cinderella.” She smiled nervously, hiding her cold feet under her coat.

“I hope I can melt my princess’s heart one day,” he joked, placing her shoes next to the chair. There was something soothing in his voice, something she had missed and desired for so long, something that did not match his old-fashioned jacket and silky hair, something that wanted her to give a chance to this gentle stranger, something that in a short period of time turned her old life upside-down and made her stop fighting with her mindset.

Afraid to get up, she sat in her chair, thinking how she would look next to him when she put her high heels on.

“Shall we?” He reached for her hand, ready to help her up.

She rose slowly, calculating her next move, wondering what to do with her high-heeled shoes that would make her a few inches taller than her date. He smiled. She debated.

“I am not sure,” she said.

“Let see.” He reached for her shoes. “May I?” He asked permission to put her shoes on her feet. She nodded and slid back into her chair.

“They fit perfectly!” He announced, smiling. “May I take my princess to the ball.” He bent his arm, ready to escort her to his car. She took her stilettos off and walked to the porch. Then one by one she hit them on the wooden rail until the heels fell into the icy mud. Holding on to the rail, she put her flat shoes on. Stunned, he whistled.

“I do not recall Cinderella sacrificing her shoes for the prince.” He reached for her hand.

“You owe me a dance.” She spun in her new flats, making her look much shorter.

“I am a lousy dancer,” he warned her, bending in elegant reverence.

“My feet can take a little bit more beating.” She giggled.

“Shall we? ” He moved her closer to his chest.

“Princess is ready, my Valentine.” She placed her hand on his shoulder … and trusted him with her second hand.

It has been nineteen years since they met. Every Valentine’s Day he sends her red roses and high-heeled shoes as a reminder of their first blind date.

Courtesy of Google 

(pictures are taken from Google) 

www.mrsdbooks.net

© All Rights for the Text Reserved by Mrs.D.Books.

The Night Before Christmas

Magic of Christmas

Who doesn’t like stories about Christmas, family traditions, cats, and kittens? What could possibly go wrong in a story told from the cat’s viewpoint? But surprisingly, there is a story behind the story. Like all my other books, which are based on true events, The City Kittens and the Old House Cat includes two events that happened years ago.

One hot summer day, swimming in the pool, my younger daughter spotted something in the bushes.

“Mom! Look! Look! There is an animal hiding in the bushes.” She screamed, surprised.

“Oh dear,” I replied. “I hope it’s not another skunk or raccoon.” I left the pool and went to check on what was hiding inside the bush. To my amusement, a tiny kitten crawled out of the bush and rested its cute face on top of its tiny dirty paws.

“Hello, kitty!” I smiled at the little stranger, which was looking straight into my eyes.

Mew, the cute intruder replied, moving closer to my feet. Covered in dry mud and hay, it looked more like a porcupine than a calico kitten. It was teeny and playful, not old enough to leave its mom and take a long trip to our garden. Its white head, too big for its skinny neck, was covered in twisted fur mixed with pine needles and yellow grass.

“Where is your home, cutie?” I lifted the purring little stranger closer to my face. Feeling the warmth of my hands, the lost kitten clung to my shirt, looking for a mommy’s nipple.

“Where is your home?” I tried to examine its filthy collar, loosely hanging on the skinny neck.

Mew, the hungry drifter protested in a soft voice, sucking hard on my shirt.

“You must belong to someone.” I settled the tired kitten on my knees and let it enjoy my flannel T-shirt.

Purr… The kitten rolled on its back, still gripping my shirt in its tiny mouth.

“I am not your mom.” I tried to detach its small paws, which were poking my skin through the thin fabric of the shirt.

“I guess you are now.” My husband smiled from the pool, watching me cradling a sleepy kitten.

“How will we name the kitten?” my daughter asked as she touched the sleeping kitten.

“Nyda. It means found in English,” I replied, recalling my grandpa’s old story about the baby that was dropped on his neighbor’s doorstep. In the old days in Ukraine they called a found baby “nyda.”

“Not what I had in mind,” my little daughter said, disappointed. “But I found her, so the name suits her well.”

“Nyda it is.” I hugged my daughter tightly with my other hand.

“Let’s be friends, Nyda.” She petted the kitten’s widespread paw, which was still poking my stomach.

Nyda and my daughter became good friends, and I became Nyda's surrogate mother. Time passed. Many bad and good events took place in the life of the little explorer. An adventurer at heart, Nyda used more than nine lives while exploring the nearest woods and neighboring towns. But this is another story.

 Now Nyda had grown old and my daughter had moved to the city. The City Kittens and the Old House Cat is not the story of how Nyda was found. It is the story of how Nyda the old cat opened her heart to two playful kittens, brought home by my older daughter to celebrate Christmas at home.

The day before Christmas, the kittens arrived at our house in a fancy bag. Their noisy Christmassy collars annoyed the old cat all day. Frustrated with their playfulness and nosiness, Nyda judged them by their looks and spoiled attitude. But the story that the old cat heard the night before Christmas made her change her mind and realize that the kittens were not spoiled little things from the city. They were found outside a store, freezing in the cold and starving. So that made Nyda warm up to the newcomers and think that before you judge someone, you should learn their story.

The City Kittens and the Old House Cat recently won a prestigious Mom’s Choice Award. The detailed artwork in this award-winning children’s book is family-friendly and will appeal to any age. It is a short, sweet read for beginning readers and good for anyone who loves Christmas and cats. So light your fireplace, take off your boots, and read this compassionate story while cuddling with your child. I hope that the warmth of the story and its beautiful artwork will plant good seeds in the hearts of your little ones.  

The City Kittens and the Old House Cat is available in print in soft- and hardcover versions, and as an e-book. To order this book, please visit Amazon, B&N, or Dog Ear Publishing. All links are provided below. 

To get a better idea of this book, please check out this charming book trailer. It will lift your spirit and put you in the holiday mood, and maybe it will make you think about our little friends in a more compassionate way and do something for others. 

May you have a very Merry Christmas and happy and healthy holidays!

www.mrsdbooks.net

Learn as You Live

 Learn from Life

We’ve all been there with our kids... cluttered desks, things on the floor, boxes under the bed, clutter on the shelves, messy closets, and rooms looking as if a tornado had just traveled through them. How many times have we told our youngsters that if they do not clean their room, something bad might happen? They just smirked, gave us a strange look, or simply ignored our warnings.

“Just wait!” We bite our lips, not having any idea how to replace the cutest smirks on their faces with an ugly fear. Some of us gave up and let them drown in their own mess, but some like me were determined to find the solution to the messy room.

Often, children learn lessons when we least expect them. That was what happened to my young heroine in my multi-award-winning children’s book Runaway Clothes. This book was based on an event that happened in my home many years ago.

That day was no different from any other.

“A mess again,” I said, walking into my daughter’s room. She looked at me with her angelic blue eyes, stopped playing with her dolls, and started stuffing her clothes in the closet on top of her shoes.

“That’s not how I taught you to clean your closet.” I pulled her clothes from the closet. Losing my patience, I started folding her new and now wrinkled clothes.

“I’ll help you tomorrow,” my daughter said sweetly, as she picked up her doll from the floor.

“There is no tomorrow. We must clean it now.” I made a strict face, determined to teach her once again how to take care of her stuff.

“I’m busy, Mommy. Can’t you see that?” She kept playing with her dolls.

“Time out! Rules start now!” I walked her to the corner in the hall. That was the first time I punished my child, and I was serious about making it clear who was in charge. Having grown up in a place and family where violence took place every day, I did not believe in punishments that degrade a child and harm his or her self-worth.

I checked on her in a few minutes. “Are you ready to say sorry and go back to clean your room?” I asked.

“I’ll have to think about it.” She turned away her cute face. Watching her playing with her fingers and talking to herself, I felt terrible.

“Rules must be obeyed,” I said, as I walked away, convincing myself more than my child. I checked on her again in half an hour, but she said she was still thinking.

“OK. Think a little bit longer.” I left her alone for another half hour.

“Still thinking?” I asked when I returned.

“I like thinking,” she said quietly, looking at her fingers. Another half hour passed, but she still refused to clean her room.

“I love my corner,” she mumbled, looking down. Three hours passed and she was still standing in the corner. Worried, I was wondering how I could finish this teaching ordeal graciously and still make her understand that it was a serious punishment, not a game. Debating with my motherly feelings for another half hour, I was ready to apologize for placing her in the corner.

“One day your clothes will run away from you,” I said casually.

“Where they will go?” she asked, not turning her face from the corner.

“To our neighbors, or maybe your stuff will find another girl who will take better care of it.” I came up with the first excuse that popped into my head.

She thought for a second and then simply said, “Our neighbors have boys. They don’t need my clothes.”

Not sure how to handle her answer, I said, “Bad things happen when you least expect them.” Losing my battle, I removed her from the corner and tried to change the clothes conversation to something else. The rest of the day, I felt as if I had punished myself.

There must be other ways to get through her. I searched for the right resolution day after day. Weeks passed, but nothing changed. I pleaded, I explained, I bribed, I complained, but her clothes were still jammed in the closet.

But one day everything changed. The night before, I rewashed all her clothes and put them out to dry on the clothesline behind the house. In the morning, she knocked on my door.

“It happened, Mommy,” she said, horrified.

“What happened?” I looked at her sad face, ready to cry.

“All my clothes ran away,” she sniffled, heartbroken. “Just as you said.” She cried.

“Clothes have feelings too,” I said, hiding a smile. I told her that if she doesn’t respect her stuff, her toys might follow her clothes.

“I guess they will.” She sobbed quietly.

“You better hurry,” I said casually.

“OK, Mommy,” she said, walking away. My distraught girl had learned her lesson without me trying or preaching. I went outside to fold her clothes.

Writing this story, I saw a great opportunity to help families learn how to deal with an issue that drives every parent crazy. Going back in time, I always analyze my behavior and reactions that taught my children and me great lessons. Now, looking back on their mischievous misbehavior and the rules I tried to apply, I see things that I wish I had done differently. Like many parents, I naively thought I would have perfect children, just as I saw on the front page of parenting magazines—happy, smart, and well-behaved. The reality proved me wrong. There is no perfect child or parent. Parents and children learn from each other on a daily basis. Raising my girls, I learned that not every rule is written in stone, and that sometimes, unplanned lessons are the best teachers.

Memories of my children have always been my golden treasures when I write children’s stories. Every time I dig out some event from my children’s childhood, I discover something new, something I did not see in the past, something I overlooked. Now I can honestly say that over the years, the best lessons I learned were the ones that my children taught me. These lessons helped me to raise my girls into determined and ambitious young women, and I hope they will help other parents too.

The older I get, the more memories I collect. Some of them vanish with time, but some never leave. Happy or sad, funny or disappointing, they are part of my life and my stories. With age, I grew wiser and looked at things differently. The stuff that once drove me crazy and seemed so important then, appear funny now. As my grandfather would say, learn as you live.

Runaway Clothes is a beautifully illustrated, award-winning children’s book that will entertain and educate children without them realizing it. It was awarded Mom’s Choice Awards, Readers’ Favorite International Awards, has earned the Literary Classic Seal of Approval, and is recommended for home and school libraries. It is a great read for any age. If the children are too small to read it independently, the detailed illustrations will tell them the story of the runaway clothes. The beautiful book trailer below will provide insight into what this book is about. Runaway Clothes is available in print in hardcover and softcover form as well as e-book form.

You may order Runaway Clothes on Amazon, B&N, and through Dog Ear Publishing. Please see the links below:

I would be delighted to hear your opinions and suggestions. Your reviews are always welcome on Amazon, Goodreads, and B&N.

And please don’t forget to read with your child.

Their love for reading begins with YOU.

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