Par šo e-grāmatu
It takes the child from "baby books" to "big boy" or "big girl" books.
Par autoru
On a bright and sunny day in June, 1996, I was tending the small garden in my back yard accompanied by my first grand-daughter, Gianna.
Gianna was a very happy child; always willing to help and always ready with a barrage of questions that I was sure would turn her in to a magnificent woman some day.
She was busy watering some of the flowers in the potted plants as I was picking up twigs and brush.
As I reached down with my weed-picker and successfully plopped a dandelion out of my lawn by its root, Gianna let out an awful scream.
Thinking she may have injured herself, I ran to her side to find her staring up at me with as stern a scowl as you can imagine from a four year old.
“You killed that baby flower, Papa” she cried. “I pick those flowers for my mom and she likes them” she said sternly.
Standing there with the dandelion still intact in my hand, I was at a loss for words for the better part of a minute, as I listened to her rant.
After she followed me to the other side of the yard, where we transplanted the lovely little flower, I began to tell her the story of a dandelion’s life.
It wasn’t until she turned sixteen that I was reminded of the story that I had created to soothe her and she convinced me to publish it.
I hope you like it as much as she did.