I have so many ideas floating around in my head. I always have. I guess that if I could put those ideas to good use, then I could be considered a writer of sorts. First I would have to learn how to put the words in some kind of order, right?One of the blogs that I follow called Nick's Writing Blog, is written by a man named Nick Daws and for his biography, he writes,
Nick is one of the smartest, friendliest, most helpful people I have ever had the pleasure to "meet" (though we have only met online and via email), and I have purchased a few things from him, but I'm ashamed to say that I haven't really been able to use them yet. I've thoroughly looked over these things and I refused to send them back for a refund because I know that they are going to work. The items are: Write Any Book in 28 Days and Earn Quick Cash Writing. They are both fabulous writing aids, and I suggest that you purchase both of them! Now, since I already have them, what's my excuse? I better get off my bum, as Nick might say, and get busy, because that's just what I've been doing--using excuses! Starting tomorrow: NO MORE EXCUSES!! There you have it, ladies and gentlemen!
Before I close today, I have a story that I think is worth your while to read. It circulated on the internet quite some time ago, but I kept it because it touched my heart so deeply. I thought I'd share it with you today, and if you like it as much as I do, then please, pass it on. It's entitled "The Cab Ride. Here it is:
So I walked to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute,' answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.
After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940s movie.
By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.
There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.
'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.
She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.
She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing,' I told her. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother treated.'
'Oh, you're such a good boy,' she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'
'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly.
'Oh, I don't mind,' she said.. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a hospice.'
I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued. 'The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.
'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.
For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.
We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.
As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now.'
We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.
Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must have been expecting her.
I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.
'How much do I owe you?' she asked, reaching into her purse.
'Nothing,' I said.
'You have to make a living,' she answered.
'There are other passengers,' I responded.
Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.
'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said.
'Thank you'
I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.
I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift?
What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?
On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.
We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.
PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID, BUT..... THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.
Until next time...stay safe, stay well, and may God bless you all.
Cynde
Please visit my other blogs:
Cynde's Daybook ~and~ Usurper Exposed. Thank you!
