备考2019年高考英语一轮复习33：夹叙夹议类阅读理解

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    Give yourself a test. Which way is the wind blowing? How many kinds of wildflowers can be seen from your front door? If your awareness is as sharp as it could be, you'll have no trouble answering these questions.

    Most of us observed much more as children than we do as adults. A child's day is filled with fascination, newness and wonder. Curiosity gave us all a natural awareness. But distinctions that were sharp to us as children become unclear; we are numb(麻木的）to new stimulation(刺激), new ideas. Relearning the art of seeing the world around us is quite simple, although it takes practice and requires breaking some bad habits.

    The first step in awakening senses is to stop predicting what we are going to see and feel before it occurs. This blocks awareness. One chilly night when I was hiking in the Rocky Mountains with some students, I mentioned that we were going to cross a mountain stream. The students began complaining about how cold it would be. We reached the stream, and they unwillingly walked ahead. They were almost knee-deep when they realized it was a hot spring. Later they all admitted they'd felt cold water at first.

    Another block to awareness is the obsession(痴迷) many of us have with naming things. I saw bird watchers who spotted a bird, immediately looked it up in field guides, and said, a "ruby-crowned kinglet" and checked it off. They no longer paid attention to the bird and never learned what it was doing.

    The pressures of "time" and "destination" are further blocks to awareness. I encountered many hikers who were headed to a distant camp-ground with just enough time to get there before dark. It seldom occurred to them to wander a bit, to take a moment to see what's around them. I asked them what they'd seen. "Oh, a few birds," they said. They seemed bent on their destinations.

    Nature seems to unfold to people who watch and wait. Next time you take a walk, no matter where it is, take in all the sights, sounds and sensations. Wander in this frame of mind and you will open a new dimension to your life.

    My mom only had one eye. I hated her... she was such an embarrassment. My mom ran a small shop at a flea market. She collected little weeds and such to sell... anything for the money we needed she was such an embarrassment. There was this one day during elementary school.

I remember that it was field day, and my mom came. I was so embarrassed. How could she do this to me? I threw her a hateful look and ran out. The next day at school... "Your mom only has one eye?!" and they taunted me.

I wished that my mom would just disappear from this world so I said to my mom. "Why don't you just die?" My mom did not respond. I guess I felt a little bad, but at the same time, it felt good to think that I had said what I'd wanted to say all this time. Maybe it was because my mom hadn't punished me, but I didn't think that I had hurt her feelings very badly.

    That night... I woke up, and went to the kitchen to get a glass of water. My mom was crying there, so quietly, as if she was afraid that she might wake me. I hated my mother who was crying out of her one eye. So I told myself that I would grow up and become successful, because I hated my one-eyed mom and our desperate poverty.

Then I studied really hard. I left my mother and came to Seoul and studied, and got accepted in the Seoul University with all the confidence I had. Then, I got married. I bought a house of my own. Then I had kids, too. Now I'm living happily as a successful man. I like it here because it's a place that doesn't remind me of my mom.

This happiness was getting bigger and bigger, when someone unexpected came to see me "What?! Who's this?!" It was my mother... Still wither one eye. It felt as if the whole sky was falling apart on me. My little girl ran away, scared of my mom's eye.

And I asked her, "Who are you? I don't know you!!" as if I tried to make that real. I screamed at her "How dare you come to my house and scare my daughter! Get out of here now!!" And to this, my mother quietly answered, "oh, I'm so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address," and she disappeared. Thank goodness... she doesn't recognize me. I was quite relieved. I told myself that I wasn't going to care, or think about this for the rest of my life.

    Then a wave of relief came upon me... one day, a letter regarding a school reunion came to my house. I lied to my wife saying that I was going on a business trip. After the reunion, I went down to the old shack, that I used to call a house, just out of curiosity there, I found my mother fallen on the cold ground. She had a piece of paper in her hand. It was a letter to me.

She wrote:

My son, I think my life has been long enough now. For you... I'm sorry that I only have one eye, and I was an embarrassment for you. You see, when you were very little, you got into an accident, and lost your eye. As a mother, I couldn't stand watching you having to grow up with only one eye… so I gave you mine... I was so proud of my son that was seeing a whole new world for me, in my place, with that eye. I was never upset at you for anything you did. The couple times that you were angry with me I thought to myself, ‘it's because he loves me.' I miss you so much. I love you. You mean the world to me. So I gave you mine. With all my love to you! Your mom.

My World Shattered. I hated the person who only lived for me. I cried for My Mother, I didn't know of any way that will make up for my worst deeds...

We'd arrived at Rockefeller Center station on the D train. As in many of New York's underground stations, trains pull in at both sides of the platform. Or rather, they seem to erupt into the station first on one side, then on the other.

    Abruptly, my wife stopped.

“Uh, what's this?” she said.

    I looked over her shoulder. There at our feet lay a young woman of about 20. She was on her stomach with the top half of her body on the platform, while her legs hung over the tracks kicking powerlessly.

    She was stuck. She had also, clearly, been down on the tracks and discovered that climbing back up is really hard.

But unlike in our imaginings, this woman was not in panic, expecting her approaching death by the F train which would be screaming into the station in the next few minutes, if not seconds.

    She was laughing! So was her friend who half-heartedly leant down to assist. The assistance was somewhat weakened by the fact that the friend was holding her smartphone. Was she hoping to capture this moment with a picture? Or composing a text?

It's well known that people's compulsive checking of their phones can be deadly. Among young people in America, texting is now the number one cause of car crashes. Maybe it's also a leading cause of leaving friends to die when they fall in the river or on to the train tracks.

    I stepped forward, leant out as far as I could, got hold of her leg somewhere near the knee and, together with her finally-engaged friend, dragged the young woman on to the platform.

    And you can guess why she'd been on the tracks. Still laughing, but maybe chastened (内疚）by my look of horror she said, “Thanks. Sorry. My phone fell down there. ”

    While I turned to hold my daughter's hand and head upstairs, the young woman and her friend walked away. I wonder when she'll be scared.

    I now work 40 hours a week at a weather company and I love it Compared to when I became a mom, I don't feel bad about being away from my three kids. When I had my first child, I was a busy manager. My husband had a part-time job and cared for her the rest of the time. Once I became pregnant with my second kid, I quit my job to focus fully on writing.

    At first I felt like I was living the dream. I was a work-from-home mom who never had to be away from my children. But working from home can end up being more stressful than working full-time or being a stay-at-home mom.because you're frequently exhausted between work, keeping house and telling sweet faces you don't have time to play. Ever tried writing an article with a baby screaming? It was awful.

    I was so stressed that I eventually started taking my kids to 8 day care center a couple of days a week. The whole reason I worked so hard to be able to write for a living was to be at home with my kids and here I was taking them to a day care center.I thought I was a failure then.

    Over the past five years of being a freelancer(自由作家), I've realized a couple of things. As I wrote six months  ago, "I though I felt bad leaving my daughter for ten hours a day but now she is old enough to ask me to read her a story .Try telling your kid no, 20 times a day. It's cruel. You end up feeling worse for having to ignore them." I also realize not socializing with people weren't good for my mental well-being.

    Not only that, but I can now show my kids that Mom is important and has a job at a flashy office building, something they didn't realize when1 sat around in yoga pants typing on my computer all day long.

    It could have been any of us, but it happened to be me. I received a brief 18-months of undivided attention and love as the only child, before three more appeared. The second was a severe blow. No doubt, learning the need to share was important, but I had tasted the life of an only child.

    Then came years of requests to look after the siblings（兄弟姐妹）, being urged that, You should be setting a better example, “Again and again the others got away with doing wrong but I didn't. We each played our roles; the second one who later skipped school to meet boys; the ever so attractive third, the boy who could do no wrong; and finally the surprise appearance of the fourth, seemed certain to be spoiled even now. So that left me: the reasonable, quiet one who got the grades, did the housework and became a chameleon（变色龙）—skilled at reading a situation and being what was needed.

    Then eventually came the chance to be the first to leave and experience life on the outside, not defined（定义）as the eldest. The moment I had waited for. But now, many years later, being the eldest matters again. It's down to me; it seems, to take the lead in caring for our parents, AH the time I was made to learn about sharing; however, when it comes to responsibility, it no longer seems to apply. The others are too busy, too far away, or too unconcerned. So dutifully I travel many times across the country for hours to provide care and support. Requests to my siblings to help out more fall on deaf ears. To me, the dutiful first born, it feels like the right and only thing to do; to be there for our parents as they were for us. Sadly, that feeling isn't shared by the second, third or fourth.

    Chinese students' extremely neat handwritten compositions have aroused a heated debate among Internet users since photos of the compositions and a teacher's picky remarks were published on Daily Mail Online.

    “Can you believe this essay is handwritten? ” Daily Mail Online asked.

    The website reported on the compositions that looked like they had been machine printed and on the teacher's remarks at Hengshui High School in North China's Hebei Province, one of China's top 100 high schools. The teacher wrote, “not one stroke (笔画) more, not one stroke less” about some compositions that weren't neatly written.

    The story immediately aroused a heated debate among British Internet users and got 652 comments after it was published on Wednesday. Some British readers were amazed by the neat handwriting and attributed (归于)China's growing development to this strict teaching method. A reader named Jim said, “This is another example of why China is rising to the top”, and his comment gained 72 supports. But some readers thought the too-picky method doesn't make sense in helping students learn better English and suppresses（压制） students' creativity.

    Chinese Internet users also expressed different opinions after English newspapers, a user of China's Twitter like Sina Weibo, posted the story along with its comments on Weibo on Thursday. Since then, the post has received 1, 479 comments. Sina Weibo user wenjinzetui said, “Beautiful handwriting proves an ability”, echoing an old Chinese saying that the style is the man. However, another Weibo user, honorificabilitus, said, “It's meaningless to pursue that neat English handwriting, since learning language is for communicating, let alone English students don't write that neatly. ”

    There are also many Weibo users showing worry about this too-strict teaching method, as weibo user li-owl-stop said, “We should reflect the Chinese-style education, and it's hard to imagine what would happen if all the schools in China adopted the teaching method at Hengshui High School. ”

    Before we came to Canada in 1951, when I was three, my parents and I spent a year at refugee camp (难民营) in Austria. We had escaped from what was then called Czechoslovakia. My parents had already lost their livelihood once to the Nazi. Mummy was freed from the Nazi concentration camp Bergen-Belsen and spent the years after the war trying to find her family, only to discover she was the only survivor. She met my father in a small town outside Prague. They married and had me in 1948. When we arrived in Montreal, everything we owned was contained in an army trunk and a couple of army blankets. Mummy bought an old sewing machine and some inexpensive materials and using patterns in magazines, taught herself to sew. Her hands were always going, making something. She learned English by singing along to the hit song as she worked.

    For me, high school was a lonely time. My mother worried that I'd never come out of my shell so she signed me up for classes at the Montreal Children's Theatre. That's where I found my voice with her strong faith in me, Mummy had opened a door. Although she was an educated woman, I never heard my mother said “This is what I gave up for you.” She was always there for my younger brother and me. When I sat in the kitchen with her, I felt safe. When she made soup or sewed a ballet costume for me, it was all a gift, a labor of love. She wanted to make us happy. For a long time, I had a picture hanging in the kitchen saying “Put your heart into it.” I grew up with that phrase. Mummy taught that lesson by example, and it has become my own work ethic(职业道德).

    I am building a tiny house. Not a dollhouse, but a livable space with bed, kitchen, storage-everything you'd need to live.

Why did I decide to build a house? I hoped it would give me skills that really matter in life, such as using tools for construction. And in building the house, I would understand how much labor goes into a home and truly appreciate what I am living in.

    But this past year, life gave me a heavy hit: My father, one of my best friends and my tiny house construction partner, died in a traffic accident.

    This is where my enthusiasm conics from now: the desire to finish my house for my father. Because of this decision, I now have some life experiences that some adults don't have. I can relate not only to people who want to build a house, but also to people who have lost a parent. And to all of them, I can say that giving up is not a choice.

    Still, without the help of my friends and family. I would probably stop my project. My friend Luke came to help the week after my father died; he knew I needed to get my walls up. The guidance from fellow tiny house builders and their families has been helpful. Putting windows in is no easy. And installing(安装) electricity is not something you do in your dreams. Ten hours of stabbing (戳) your fingers with metal string and getting shocked a couple times is not ideal.

    Sometimes when people get a hard knock, they stay down. I didn't. I didn't only want to show that anyone can build their own house; I also wanted to show that when I was handed lemons. I not only made lemonade. I made a delicious lemon cake.

    I am a strong believer that if a child is raised with approval, he will learn to love himself and will be successful in his own way.

    Several weeks ago, I was doing homework with my son in the third grade and he kept standing up from his chair to go over the math lines. I kept asking him to sit down, telling him that he should concentrate better. He sat but seconds later, as if he didn't even notice he was doing it, he got up again. I was getting frustrated, but then it hit me. I started noticing his answers were much quicker and accurate when he stood up. Could he be more intent while standing up?

    This made me start questioning myself and what I had been raised to believe. I was raised to believe that a quiet, calm child was a sure way to success. This child would have the discipline to study hard, get good grades and become someone important in life.

    Now those same people perhaps come to realize that their kids are born with their own sets of DNA and personality traits, and all you can do is loving and accepting them. As parents, throughout their growing years and beyond that, we need to be our kids' best cheerleaders, guiding them and helping them find their way.

    I have stopped asking my son to sit down and concentrate. Obviously, he is concentrating just in his own way and not mine. We need to learn to accept our kids' ways of doing things. Some way may have worked for me but doesn't mean we need to carry it through generations. There is nothing sweeter than being individual and unique. It makes us free and happy and that's just the way I want my kids to live their own life.

    Yesterday I work up to the sound of music on my couch in my fifth floor apartment downtown. I couldn't possibly tell you what song was playing because my monologue of things to do that day had already begun. My thoughts ranged from what deals needed my attention today to what is the meaning of life. I felt as if it was going to be one of “those days”.

    After taking my son to school and glancing at my calendar, I noticed I was meeting my 85-year-old friend Harry. I remembered that we first met at a glass shop. I needed a new window and he was talking to the store clerk about his glass fireplace insert needing replacement. As I stood behind him in line, I found not how this old man funny and compassionate at the same time. By the end of his discussion I was so entertained that I decided to drum up a conversation with him. That was how our friendship began. I later learned this gentleman was originally from the mid-west and grew up on a farm. At 17, he joined the army and travelled the world until his late 40's. After the retirement, his wife passed away and now he lives alone in his three-bedroom home.

    We met at the appointed time. I promised to take him to lunch anywhere he wanted to go and he said, “I am a simple man; let's go to Taco Bell. Furthermore I don't need a pat on the back because it is only 18 inches away from a kick in the rear.” We both laughed as we got into the car.

    As we pulled into the parking lot of Taco Bell, Harry jumped out of the car and told me, “I have to go into the donut(甜甜圈) shop next door before going to Taco Bell.” Of course I agreed and in we went. He immediately walked in and began having a joke with the owner of the shop in his fashion. They bantered as she gave him a dozen donuts and off we went. I couldn't help but ask him, “What are the donuts for?” He quickly replied, “You will soon see.”

    As we opened the door to Taco Bell, the line was very long. It was lunch time. People were on their cell phones. Babies were crying and the waiters looked stressed and burnt out. Harry and I were waiting in line chatting about nothing until we reached the front of the line. As he walked to the counter, all the waiters began smiling. He placed the box of donuts on the counter and said, “These are for you and other staff.” Instantly, the mood in the restaurant changed. This single act of kindness made the customers, the waiters, the kids and even me take a look internally and ask: when was the last time we did something nice for a stranger?

    What was most amazing to me was earlier that morning I wasn't thrilled with my life. It felt like it was just another day. Watching this gentleman spend 6 dollars on donuts and provide them for the staff in a packed restaurant at the lunch rush hour changed my outlook on life. If you don't believe me, try it yourself. Take the approach in life that you make an effort to do the little things in order to make people feel appreciated on a daily basis. You will see that your life will be better and you will have less of “those days” I was talking about earlier in this article.

    We took a rare family road trip to the Adirondacks in late August，and it was as refreshing and exhausting as family vacations tend to be．Toward the end of our long drive home, even the kids were leaning forward in their seats urging my lead foot on．At that point in a road trip，even sixty-five miles per hour feels slow. We have become numb to our speed and numb to the road signs flashing by.

    My family lives on the edge of Lancaster County. Only thirty miles from home，I hit the brakes，and we began to roll，slowly，behind a horse-drawn carriage. We began to open our eyes again．We saw familiar green hills and the farm with the best watermelons. I rolled down the windows, and we breathed again．Just-cut hay and a barn full of dairy cattle．

    At five miles per hour，you remember what you forget at sixty-five．You are thinking about a place，even when you are moving from place to place．

    I am a placemaker. A homemaker, too. I am a mother of a young kid at home，and also a writer and a gardener．But，for me，those roles are wrapped up with the one big thing I want to do with the rest of my life：I want to cultivate a place and share it with others．

    The place I make with my family is a red-brick farmhouse built in l880. It has quite a few nineteenth-century bedrooms and a few acres of land，and we love nothing more than to fill them with neighbors and friends. We grow vegetables and flowers，keep a baker's dozen of egg—laying chickens，and，since we moved in three years ago，we have planted  many，many trees．

    Living with my life's purpose does not allow for much travel. I need to be here，feeding the chickens and watering the tomatoes. Any extra in the budget，and we spend it on trees．

    But I learned something at the end of our family road trip．Travel can help me in the task of caring for my own place．When I slow down and pay attention to the road between here and there，travel tells me the connections between my place and all the other places．

    Watching wooden dolls come to life may not be one of the most popular forms of entertainment today, but with over twenty years' experience, talented puppeteer (木偶表演者) Peter Roberts has earned himself the title “master puppeteer” because of his great ability to turn puppets into believable, almost living characters. “People are quite often surprised to hear what I do for living and have little appreciation of puppy as a form of entertainment. But while the exact origins of puppet theatre are unknown, it has been popular in many cultures and may have been the very first kind of theatre,” he explains.

    Roberts' shows are highly original. “A puppet show can involve anything from clowning(傻逗) to storytelling,” he says, Equally diverse are the audiences he performs for. “Some are attracted by the puppets themselves, while others enjoy the dialogue.” Roberts believes that this form of entertainment can be appreciated by people of all ages and cultures.

    Roberts' interest in puppets started when he received some beautiful glove puppets one Christmas. He started putting on shows with these for family and friends and then moved on to handmade Chinese string puppets. Learning mostly from books and personal experience, he explains, “I was already spending most of my free time carving puppets and putting on shows, so I hardly noticed the change from students to full-time professional puppeteer.”

    The puppets are designed specifically for each show, which is extremely time consuming. According to Roberts, “Sometimes what you expect and what you actually create in the end are two very different things. I've made some of my best puppets 'accidentally'.”

    When most people hear the word “puppetry”, they more than likely think of a way of keeping children entertained at birthday parties. Certainly the subject matter will be expected to be light-hearted rather than serious. However, Roberts wants to point out that puppets come serious messages sometimes.” he says.

    Music is magic! Music speaks louder than words and it is a “language” that the whole world can understand. A piece of music can produce a response in the heart and mind. Like feeling an electrical current or receiving a personal radio signal, music has a spiritual effect on a person. Different kinds of music influence people in different ways.

    I have listened to music all my life. When I was twelve years old, the Beatles came to America and my whole world opened up. Maybe young people today cannot understand the influence of the Beatles when they exploded across America. Their influence changed the way we dressed, looked, acted and spoke... even our culture. The Beatles arrived in America from the UK just under three months after the assassination(暗杀) of President John Kennedy, which had put America into a great depression. And the freshness and lively spirit of the Beatles was exactly what the country needed to refresh itself.

    Music links the heart of the hearer with that of the composer. This means that it mixes the spirit of the composer with your spirit when you listen to it. And the music can take your spirit out of your body and transport you into another world. Music has a great way of touching people. Music can make you laugh, cry or shout. It's also a great source of inspiration.

    Try this one day and notice what happens: make yourself a cup of tea, sit on your sofa and play one of your favorite songs. Close your eyes, and soon you'll find yourself creating vivid mental images—matching the music that you are listening to.

It seems the more time we have, the longer we put off living the life we see in our heads, because we feel like we've got some time to kill.

I know where you think I'm going with this, and I also know you've heard it all before: seize the day, make the most of it, live life to its fullest, and so on. But that's the problem. You've heard it all before. These ideas have their impact and have become a cliché. Luckily, that's not my thing.

The real answers wake something up inside you. They make you think. That's what I want to give you today, the story of Bobby Darin, which wakes you up to the truth.

If you haven't heard of the man, I know you've heard his songs. Among his many hits are Mack the Knife, Beyond the Sea, Dream Lover, and Splish Splash.

    If seven years, Darin had several top ten hit songs, was nominated(提名) for four Grammy Awards (winning two), nominated for four Golden Globes (winning one), and even nominated for an Oscar.

    So what was his secret?

All his life, Darin had a heart condition that developed from a childhood illness. The doctors at the time said he would be lucky to live to 16. In other words, his time was limited. And this was secret. He knew the truth. He knew that we all have such a hard time accepting: Life is short. You can't just say it; you can't just hear it. You have to know it, believe it, and feel it. Because Darin knew his time was limited, he packed as much life as he could into the time he had. But he had an unfair advantage. He knew, without a doubt, his time was limited.

    There was no fooling himself, no putting it off. It was now or never.

    My color television has given me nothing but a headache. I was able to buy it a little over a year ago because I had my relatives give me money for my birthday instead of a lot of clothes that wouldn't fit. I let a salesclerk fool me into buying a discontinued model. I realized this a day late, when I saw newspaper advertisements for the set at seventy-five dollars less than I had paid. The set worked so beautifully when I first got it home that I would keep it on until stations signed off for the night. Fortunately, I didn't got any channels showing all-night movies or I would never have gotten to bed.

    Then I started developing a problem with the set that involved static (静电) noise. For some reason, when certain shows switched into a commercial, a loud noise would sound for a few seconds. Gradually, this noise began to appear during a show, and to get rid of it, I had to change to another channel and then change it back. Sometimes this technique would not work, and I had to pick up the set and shake it to remove the sound. I actually began to build up my arm muscles(肌肉) shaking my set.

    When neither of these methods removed the static noise, I would sit helplessly and wait for the noise to go away. At last I ended up hitting the set with my fist, and it stopped working altogether .My trip to the repair shop cost me $62, and the set is working well now, but I keep expecting more trouble.

    William Purkey, a well-known professor of education, said, “Dance like no one is watching, love you'll never be hurt, sing like no one is listening, and live like it's heaven on earh.” It seems like the perfect life philosophy — and one I've learned to apply to running over the year.

    But I didn't always feel this way. In my early days, when I weighed 240 pounds, I ran like everyone was watching — and judging. If I was on a run and saw a car approaching, I'd stop and pretend I was looking for something I'd lost. I bought the high-tech gear and clothes that I thought would make people believe I was a runner. And I didn't have a clue if the expensive shoes I was wearing were the right kind for me — I just wanted to look like I fit in with this group.

    To be honest, I felt a certain satisfaction in believing that someone was watching. I really thought that other people cared about my performance. The best example of this was a combined, two-lap marathon in Florence, Italy. As I approached the finishing line, the crowd began to cheer. I was surprised. Here I was, thousands of miles from home, and the Italians were shouting for “IIPenguino.”

    About 20 yards from the finishing, the truth set in when the winner of the full marathon went past me as I was finishing the half-marathon. No one was cheering for me. No one probably even noticed that I was finishing. I couldn't help but smile at my own illusion of self-importance.

    That's when I realized I had been running for every reason except the right one. I ran to make other people happy, ran to live up to their expectations. But no one was watching — no one cared. So I decided I was going to run for me—just me—and gained a new enjoyment from the sport I hadn't truly experienced yet. I've learned to run like no one is watching.

    So if you see me at race, and I look like a 60-year-old guy waddling(蹒跚) along, don't worry. I'm fine. The miracle isn't that I finished. The miracle is that I had the courage to start.

    Even before my father left us, my mother had to go back to work to support our family. Once I came out of the kitchen, complaining, “Mum, I can't peel(削皮) potatoes. I have only one hand.”

    Mum never looked up from sewing. “You get yourself into that kitchen and peel those potatoes,” she told me. “And don't ever use that as an excuse for anything again!”

    In the second grade, our teacher lined up my class on the playground and had each of us race across the monkey bars, swinging from one high steel rod(杆) to the next. When it was my turn, I shook my head. Some kids behind me laughed, and I went home crying.

    That night I told Mum about it. She hugged me, and I saw her “we'll see about that” look. The next afternoon, she took me back to school. At the deserted playground, mum looked carefully at the bars.

    “Now, pull up with your right arm,” she advised. She stood by as I struggled to lift myself with my right hand until I could hook the bar with my other elbow. Day after day we practiced, and she praised me for every rung(横杠) I reached.

    I'll never forget the next time, crossing the rungs; I looked down at the kids who were standing with their mouths open.

    One night, after a dance at my new junior high, I lay in bed sobbing. I could hear Mum came into my room. “Mum,” I said, weeping, “none of the boys would dance with me.”

    For a long time, I didn't hear anything. Then she said, “Oh, honey, someday you'll be beating those boys off with a bat.” Her voice was faint and cracking. I peeked(偷看) out from my covers to see tears running down her cheeks. Then I knew how much she suffered on my behalf. She had never let me see her tears.

I'm seventeen. I had worked as a box boy at a supermarket in Los Angeles. People came to the counter and you put things in their bags for them and carried things to their cars. It was hard work.

While working, you wear a plate with your name on it. I once met someone I knew years ago. I remembered his name and said, "Mr. Castle, how are you?" We talked about this and that. As he left, he said, "It was nice talking to you, Brett." I felt great, he remembered me. Then I looked down at my name plate. Oh, no. He didn't remember me at all. He just read the name plate. I wish I had put "Irving" down on my name plate. If he'd have said, "Oh yes, Irving, how could I forget you?" I'd have been ready for him. There's nothing personal here.

The manager and everyone else who were a step above the box boys often shouted orders. One of these was: you couldn't accept tips. Okay, I'm outside and I put the bags in the car. For a lot of people, the natural reaction is to take a quarter and give it to me. I'd say, "I'm sorry, I can't." They'd get angry. When you give someone a tip, you're sort of being polite. You take a quarter and you put it in their hand and you expect them to say, "Oh, thanks a lot." When you say, "I'm sorry, I can't." they feel a little put down. They say, "No one will know." And they put it in your pocket. You say, "I really can't."

It gets to a point where you almost have to hurt a person physically to prevent him from tipping you. It was not in agreement with the store's belief in being friendly. Accepting tips was a friendly thing and made the customer feel good. I just couldn't understand the strangeness of some people's ideas. One lady actually put it in my pocket, got in the car, and drove away. I would have had to throw the quarter at her or eaten it or something.

    I had decided that one year was enough. Some people needed the job to stay alive and fed. I guess I had the means and could afford to hate it and give it up.

    My family was gathered for a barbecue when the discussion arose about a celebrity who earned a large amount of money. The major criteria for receiving millions of dollars seem to be determined by how much the audience will pay to watch the performer achieve.

    The discussion led to a sudden self-questioning. Why did I choose teaching for a career? I half-listened to their conversation as I pondered the answer.

    I remembered my three children watching me spend nights planning for my class. I remembered how they intently listened to my frustrations concerning materials, procedures and the amount of responsibility that seemed to endlessly be thrust into the laps of classroom teachers. I remembered when it came time for each of my own children to choose a profession. How I waited to hear if any had plans to follow Mom into teaching. Long considerations held no mention of anyone becoming a teacher.

    Dessert was being served, and everyone was still involved in the discussion of the enormous salary of one individual, when the phone rang. My husband handed the phone to me.

"Hello, this is Bonnie Block," I said.

"Is this the Bonnie Block who used to teach kindergarten?"

    A nervous sensation swelled in me, and my mind raced with memories of those days long ago.

"Yes!" I exclaimed with a lump in my throat. It seemed like forever as I waited anxiously to hear what the caller would say next.

"I am Danielle—Danielle Russ. I was in your kindergarten class."

    Tears of surprise and joy rolled down my flushed cheeks.

"Yes," I uttered softly as I remembered that darling, wonderful child.

"Well, I am graduating from high school this year, and I have been trying to find you. I wanted you to know what a difference you made in my life."

She proceeded to give details. My influence on her wasn't limited to kindergarten but remained a strong motivating force when she needed a coach to help her meet a challenge. "I pictured you praising and encouraging me all the way."

    Why choose teaching?

    The pay is great!

    Each morning Grandpa was up early sitting at the kitchen table, reading his book. His grandson wanted to be just like him and tried to copy him in every way he could.

One day the grandson asked, "Grandpa, I try to read the book just like you, but I don't understand it, and I forget what I understand as soon as I close the book. What good does reading the book do?"

The grandpa quietly turned from putting coal in the stove and replied, "Take this coal basket down to the river and bring me back a basket of water."

The boy did as he was told, but all the water leaked out before he got back to the house. The grandpa laughed and said, "You'll have to move a little faster next time," and sent him back to the river with the basket to try again. This time the boy ran faster, but again the basket was empty before he returned. Out of breath, he told his grandpa that it was impossible to carry water in a basket, so he went to get a bucket instead. The grandpa said, "I don't want a bucket of water; I want a basket of water. You're just not trying hard enough." The boy again dipped the basket into the river and ran hard, but when he reached his grandpa the basket was empty again. Out of breath, he said, "Grandpa, it's useless!"

"So, you think it is useless?" the grandpa said, "Look at the basket."

    The boy looked at the basket and for the first time he realized that the basket was different. It had been transformed from a dirty old coal basket and was now clean.

"Grandson, that's what happens when you read the book. You might not understand or remember everything, but when you read it, you'll be changed, inside and out."

    It seems the more time we have, the longer we put off living the life we see in our heads, because we feel like we've got some time to kill.

    I know where you think I'm going with this, and I also know you've heard it all before: seize the day, make the most of it, live life to its fullest, and so on. But that's the problem. You've heard it all before. These ideas have their impact and have become a cliché. Luckily, that's not my thing.

    The real answers wake something up inside you. They make you think. That's what I want to give you today, the story of Bobby Darin, which wakes you up to the truth.

    If you haven't heard of the man, I know you've heard his songs. Among his many hits are Mack the Knife, Beyond the Sea, Dream Lover, and Splish Splash.

    If seven years, Darin had several top ten hit songs, was nominated(提名) for four Grammy Awards (winning two), nominated for four Golden Globes (winning one), and even nominated for an Oscar.

    So what was his secret?

    All his life, Darin had a heart condition that developed from a childhood illness. The doctors at the time said he would be lucky to live to 16. In other words, his time was limited. And this was secret. He knew the truth. He knew that we all have such a hard time accepting: Life is short. You can't just say it; you can't just hear it. You have to know it, believe it, and feel it. Because Darin knew his time was limited, he packed as much life as he could into the time he had. But he had an unfair advantage. He knew, without a doubt, his time was limited.

    There was no fooling himself, no putting it off. It was now or never.

D

    Adults understand what it feels like to be flooded with objects. Why do we often assume that more is more when it comes to kids and their belongings? The good news is that I can help my own kids learn earlier than I did how to live more with less.

    I found the pre-holidays a good time to encourage young children to donate less-used things, and it worked. Because of our efforts, our daughter Georgia did decide to donate a large bag of toys to a little girl whose mother was unable to pay for her holiday due to illness. She chose to sell a few larger objects that were less often used when we promised to put the money into her school fund(基金）(our kindergarten daughter is serious about becoming a doctor)

    For weeks, I've been thinking of bigger, deeper questions: How do we make it a habit for them? And how do we train ourselves to help them live with, need, and use less? Yesterday, I sat with my son, Shepherd, determined to test my own theory on this. I decided to play with him with only one toy for as long as it would keep his interest. I expected that one toy would keep his attention for about five minutes, ten minutes, max. I chose a red rubber ball-simple, universally available. We passed it, he tried to put it in his mouth, he tried bouncing it, rolling it, sitting on it, throwing it. It was totally, completely enough for him. Before I knew it an hour had passed and it was time to move on to lunch.

    We both became absorbed in the simplicity of playing together. He had my full attention and I had his. My little experiment to find joy in a single object worked for both of us.

Not so long ago, most people didn't know who Shelly Ann FrancisPryce was going to become. She was just an average high school athlete. There was every indication that she was just another American teenager without much of a future. However, one person wants to change this. Stephen Francis observed then eighteen-year-old Shelly Ann as a track meet and was convinced that he had seen the beginnings of true greatness. Her time were not exactly impressive, but even so, he sensed there was something trying to get out, something the other coaches had overlooked when they had assessed her and found her lacking. He decided to offer Shelly Ann a place in his very strict training sessions. Their cooperation quickly produced results, and a few years later at Jamaica's Olympic trails in early 2008, Shelly-Ann, who at that time only ranked number 70 in the world, beat Jamaica's unchallenged queen of the sprint(短跑).

“Where did she come from?” asked an astonished sprinting world, before concluding that she must be one of those one-hit wonders that spring up from time to time, only to disappear again without signs. But Shelly-Ann was to prove that she was anything but a one-hit wonder. At the Beijing Olympics she swept away any doubts about her ability to perform consistently by becoming the first Jamaican woman ever to win the 100 meters Olympic gold. She did it again one year on at the World Championship in Berlin, becoming world champion with a time of 10.73— the fourth fastest time ever.

Shelly-Ann is a little woman with a big smile. She has a mental toughness that did not come about by chance. Her journey to becoming the fastest woman on earth has been anything but smooth and effortless. She grew up in one of Jamaica's toughest inner-city communities known as Waterhouse, where she lived in a one-room apartment, sleeping four in a bed with her motherand two brothers. Waterhouse, one of the poorest communities in Jamaica, is a really violent and overpopulated place. Several of Shelly-Ann's friends and family were caught up in the killings; one of her cousins was shot dead only a few streets away from where she lived. Sometimes her family didn't have enough to eat. She ran at the school championships barefooted because she couldn't afford shoes. Her mother Maxime, one of a family of fourteen, had been an athlete herself as a young girl but, like so many other girls in Waterhouse, had to stop after she had her first baby. Maxime's early entry into the adult world with its responsibilities gave her the determination to ensure that her kids wouldnot end up in Waterhouse's roundabout of poverty. One of the first things Maxime used to do with Shelly-Ann was taking her to the track, and she was ready to sacrifice everything.

        It didn't take long for Shelly-Ann to realize that sports could be her way out of Waterhouse. On a summer evening in Beijing in2008, all those long, hard hours of work and commitment finally bore fruit. The barefoot kid who just a few years previously had been living in poverty, surrounded by criminals and violence, had written a new chapter in the history of sports.

        But Shelly-Ann's victory was far greater than that. The night she won Olympic gold in Beijing, the routine murders in Waterhouse and the drug wars in the neighbouring streets stopped. The dark cloud above one of the world's toughest criminal neighbourhoods simply disappeared for a few days.“I have so much fire burning for my country,” Shellysaid. She plans to start a foundation for homeless children and wants to build acommunity centre in Waterhouse. She hopes to inspire the Jamaicans to lay down their weapons. She intends to fight to make it a woman's as well as a man's world.

        As Muhammad Ali puts it, “Champions aren't made in gyms. Champions are made from something they have deep inside them. A desire, a dream, a vision.” One of the things Shelly-Ann can be proud of is her understanding of this truth.

      Failure is probably the most exhausting experience a person ever has. There is nothing more tiring than not succeeding.

We experience this tiredness in two ways: as start-up fatigue(疲惫) and performance fatigue. In the former case, we keep putting off a task because it has either too boring or too difficult. And the longer we delay it, the more tired we feel.

     Such start-up fatigue is very real, even if not actually physical, not something in our muscles and bones. The solution is obvious though perhaps not easy to apply: always handle the most difficult job first.

Years ago, I was asked to write 102 essays on the great ideas of some famous authors. Applying my own rule, I determined to write them in alphabetical(按字母顺序), never letting myself leave out a tough idea. And I always started the day's work with the difficult task of essay-writing. Experience proved that the rule works.

Performance fatigue is more difficult to handle. Though willing to get started, we cannot seem to do the job right. Its difficulties appear so great that, however hard we work, we fail again and again. In such a situation, I work as hard as I can-then let the unconscious take over.

      When planning Encyclopaedia Britannica (《大英百科全书》), I had to create a table of contents based on the topics of its articles. Nothing like this had ever been done before, and day after day I kept coming up with solutions, but none of them worked. My fatigue became almost unbearable.

      One day, mentally exhausted, I wrote down all the reasons why this problem could not be solved. I tried to convince myself that the trouble was with the problem itself, not with me. Relived, I sat back in an easy chair and fell asleep.

An hour later, I woke up suddenly with the solution clearly in mind. In the weeks that followed, the solution which had come up in my unconscious mind provided correct at every step. Though I worked as hard as before, I felt no fatigue. Success was now as exciting as failure had been depressing.

      Human beings, I believe must try to succeed. Success, then, means never feeling tired.