Thumbing through the old journal in a desperate attempt at finding some inspiration, I smirked at the poetry I'd written so long ago; poetry I'd thought at the time was actually GOOD.

Looking back now, it's pretty pathetic but then again- I was only 7 when I started writing and ONLY able to write and read by the grace of Olga and her 17 year-old ambition in teaching her "5 year old baby sister the joys of literature."

So little Helga G. Pataki took one of Olga's journals one day when the inspiration hit. I wrote in that sucker every day until I turned six and ran out paper.

That's when the "Olga Journal Tradition" began.

Every year on my birthday, Olga gives me a journal. Growing up, I'd fill them up so fast, it was a great idea believe it or not. But these days I didn't have the time to write like I used to OR the inspiration and I was probably 4 journals behind.

Writer's block had taken root in my otherwise creative mind like a plague.

I sighed and turned my first notebook to the first page- to the only poem I remember writing in the book. It was called "Rain" and I almost cringe every time I read it.

But then I remember the content, the memory, and I can't help but smile at how important of a memory it was and still is to me years later.

"Rain"

By: Helga G. Pataki

The rain was cold

And so was I

When he showed up

To stop my cries

The rain was cold

And so was I

But the little boy wasn't

No, he was dry

The rain was cold

And so was I

But then the rain stopped

And I wondered why.

So I looked up

To see only blue

The blue of an umbrella

Being held for two

"I like your bow,"

My bow of pink

"It's pink like your pants"

What did I think?

He went inside

The boy named Arnold

The only person

To make the rain not so cold

I smirked at the poorly spelled words and shook my head while closing the childhood journal.

I remembered trying so hard to find something that rhymed with Arnold- hold and cold the only things I could think of in my 7 year old mind. But all in all- I guess it was a pretty good poem.

I closed my eyes for a moment, the memory I'd recalled so many times slowly coming back to me and the writing itch quickly returned. Instinctively I reached out to pick up a pen and scrambled for a lose sheet of paper before finally settling on one of the 4 empty Olga journals piled on my bookshelf.

Turning the journal to the first page, I began to jot the poem already taking form inside my brain.

"Rain"

Droplets surround me

Succumb me

Envelop me

Their pitter patter but a song

Pushing me along

When it stopped- it was you

Your yellow hair

Eyes as haunting as air

Holding the umbrella that saved me

In ways one could never see

It was you- always you

Your caring heart

You tear me apart

With the love you have yet to see

A love made by rain

On the day you saved me

I tore the page from the journal and crumpled it up before stopping to unroll it and read the words I'd just written over again.

It wasn't good.

Not by any means.

The writers block had CLEARLY taken root deep inside of me. But the sheer content- the fact that this was yet another poem of that day on the first page of a new journal, well, I HAD to keep it.

Trying to straighten the paper from the wrinkles I'd given it mere seconds ago, I carefully placed it back in the blank journal where I'd ripped it out of its home.

Another poem about the rain.

Maybe one day, in our distant future, at long last I'll be able to show Arnold the poems he helped to inspire; the poems that have saved my life.

Because HE saved my life.

"Oh," I swooned, "Arnold..."