A
My First Marathon（马拉松）
A month before my first marathon, one of my ankles was injured and this meant not running for two weeks, leaving me only two weeks to train. Yet, I was determined to go ahead.
I remember back to my 7th year in school. In my first P.E. class, the teacher required us to run laps and then hit a softball. I didn't do either well. He later informed me that I was ＂not athletic＂.
The idea that I was ＂not athletic＂ stuck with me for years. When I started running in my 30s, I realized running was a battle against myself, not about competition or whether or not I was athletic. It was all about the battle against my own body and mind. A test of wills!
The night before my marathon, I dreamt that I couldn't even find the finish line. I woke up sweating and nervous, but ready to prove something to myself.
Shortly after crossing the start line, my shoe laces(鞋带) became untied. So I stopped to readjust. Not the start I wanted!
At mile 3, I passed a sign: ＂GO FOR IT, RUNNERS!＂
By mile 17, I became out of breath and the once injured ankle hurt badly. Despite the pain, I stayed the course walking a bit and then running again.
By mile 21, I was starving!
As I approached mile 23, I could see my wife waving a sign. She is my biggest fan. She never minded the alarm clock sounding at 4 a.m. or questioned my expenses on running.
I was one of the final runners to finish. But I finished! And I got a medal. In fact, I got the same medal as the one that the guy who came in first place had.
Determined to be myself, move forward, free of shame and worldly labels(世俗标签), I can now call myself a ＂marathon winner＂.
What Theresa Loe is doing proves that a large farm isn't a prerequisite for a modern grow-your-own lifestyle. On a mere 1/10 of an acre in Los Angeles, Loe and her family grow, can (装罐) and preserve much of the food they consume.
Loe is a master food preserver, gardener and canning expert. She also operates a website, where she shares her tips and recipes, with the goal of demonstrating that everyone has the ability to control what's on their plate.
Loe initially went to school to become an engineer, but she quickly learned that her enthusiasm was mainly about growing and preparing her own food. “ got into cooking my own food and started growing my own herbs(香草)and foods for that fresh flavor,” she said. Engineer by day, Loe learned cooking at night school. She ultimately purchased a small piece of land with her husband and began growing their own foods.
“I teach people how to live farm-fresh without a farm,” Loe said. Through her website Loe emphasizes that ''anybody can do this anywhere.” Got an apartment with a balcony (阳台)? Plant some herbs. A window? Perfect spot for growing. Start with herbs, she recommends, because “they're very forgiving.” Just a little of the herbs “can take your regular cooking to a whole new level,” she added. “I think it's a great place to start.” Then? Try growing something from a seed, she said, like a tomato or some tea.
Canning is a natural extension of the planting she does. With every planted food, Loe noted, there's a moment when it's bursting with its absolute peak flavor. “I try and keep it in a time capsule in a canning jar,” Loe said. “Canning for me is about knowing what's in your food, knowing where it comes from.”
In addition to being more in touch with the food she's eating, another joy comes from passing this knowledge and this desire for good food to her children: “Influencing them and telling them your opinion on not only being careful what we eat but understanding the bigger picture,” she said, “that if we don't take care of the earth, no one will.”
Celeste Ng,a new writer,has gained recognition for her first novel,Everything I Never Told You.
Ng's parents came from Hong Kong,China in the 1960s.Ng was born in America and grew up in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania,and Shaker Heights,Ohio,in a family of scientists.Celeste went to Harvard University and earned an MFA from the University of Michigan,where she won the Hopwood Award.
Although her novel is not about race,the characters are Asian.The main character is Lydia,a teenage girl,who is the favorite of three children born to a white mother and a Chinese-American father.The story is about Lydia's disappearance,and the emotions the family goes through as the mystery unfolds.The whole family deals with sorrow, regret,and exposed secrets as they search for their lost daughter.
Though the characters in this story are Asian,Ng says she didn't really want to include Asian characters.She was afraid people would think the story was about real people in her life.Because she grew up in America and doesn't speak Chinese,she was actually surprised that she included.Asian characters in the book.
The book has taken off,especially on Amazon,where it won the Editor's Pick for No.1 Best Book of the Year in 2014.Ng is still getting used to the attention,saying she is still amazed when people tell her they have read her book. With so many readers,it's safe to say this is a book you should read.But if you're looking for a simple mystery,this book might not be for you.Most readers warn that you should not read this book unless you're prepared to cry.
Finding true love can be prey tough for a lot of people, but a lady from a fairly well-known San Francisco advertising agency seems to think money helps. She is offering $10,000 to any of her friends who can introduce her to her Mr. Right. She wants to find her future husband through this way.
The unnamed husband seeker who sent out the email had just finished reading the best-selling book named Lean In. It was 11 p.m. on a Sunday night and she realized this was the second self-help book she had read in the month. She was still single. Things were not looking fine, but there was hope for her still. If the book had taught her anything, it was that she needed to take a more positive role in finding love. After all, if she wanted to get a better job, she wouldn't just sit outside an employer's building and wait for someone to offer it to her, so why should finding a husband be any different? But instead of going out and meeting new people she decided to write an email to all her friends, offering to give them $10,000 on her wedding day if any of them managed to introduce her to her future husband.
“I am writing you today because I've decided to make an aggressive action plan on finding the man that I get to hang out with forever,” the woman writes in her email. “Introducing me to my husband is just not high on your to-do list. But I think I have an idea that might change that…” You guessed it, and this is where she offers to reward her “closest friends” with cold hard cash.
“I will personally give ten thousand dollars to the friend who introduces me to my husband.”
Here is how the program works:
Step 1: You set me up on a date with a man.
Step 2: I marry that man.
Step 3: I give you $10,000 on my wedding day.
I know you're thinking that this is nuts. Just plain crazy. 'You can find a husband without giving $10,000.' Well for starters, thank you! I'm happy.”
I visited Copenhagen for the first time last Easter. As a student，I'm always strapped for cash，so I assumed I could only afford to breathe the air — but luckily everything about Copenhagen is breathtaking.
I was staying in an Airbnb, and rented a bike so I could cover more ground. One of the first places I visited was the Rundetaarn, or "round tower" built in the 17th century as an astronomical observatory. It has an equestrian staircase (a wide set of stairs big enough for horses to use) that went on and on. As I was going up, I stopped to visit the tower's library hall. At the top, there's a glass platform that gives a view 80-foot straight down, as well as a bell loft. Luckily, the views over Copenhagen from the top were well worth the climb.
After coming down, I hiked up to the Kastellet Fortress to see the famous Little Mermaid statue. Taking a photo with her was almost impossible with all the tourists crowding around—but sitting there and hearing the lapping waves of the deep blue Baltic Sea, waiting for the sun to set, was an unforgettable and calming experience.
The next day, I visited the Glyptotek art museum, exploring the grand exhibits. I looked into the marble eyes of many Roman gods，and walked down dimly lit staircases to see mummies from Egypt.
Before I unwillingly boarded the train back to the airport, I told myself that I must visit again—to experience the thrills of Tivoli Gardens, try more of the street food and everything else from this amazing city.
Home from the Navy, I started school at Greenville College in my hometown of Illinois. I'd been out of high school for four years, but my high school headmaster, Mr. Gardner, invited me to a Valentine's Day dance party at school. The thought of seeing my former teachers was exciting. So I agreed.
When Friday came, I cleaned up, dressed up and drove to the high school gym. I chatted with my teachers and approached Mr. Gardner to thank him before leaving. Just then, the band started playing and a young girl stood up to sing. One look at and I was crazy—I had never seen such a beautiful girl!
I asked Mr. Gardner who she was, and he answered, “That's Marilyn Riley, Cut Riley's daughter.” I was shocked to say the least. They lived just around the corner from me. I walked across the gym floor to introduce myself, “Hi, I'm Jack Joseph.”
“I know who you are,” was her not-too-friendly response.
“Would you like to dance?” I asked. “No! I'm working,” she shot back.
“Can I call you next week for a movie date?” I asked. “No,” was her response.
For the next month I phoned, trying to set up a date. She always had the same answer: No. then one rainy afternoon in March as I was driving home after basketball practice, I saw Marilyn, walking with no umbrella, no raincoat, no hat. I pulled alongside her and asked if she needed a ride, half expecting her to say no. instead, she stepped over the roadside and sat down on the seat next to me. It was only a few blocks to her house, but after pulling into her driveway we talked for 45minutes. It was magic from then on.
One day a very skilled artist met a beautiful woman who immediately became the object of his affections. As he observed her and spoke with her, he admired her more and more. He showered her with kindness and words of praise until she consented to be his wife.
Not long after they were married, however, the beautiful woman found out that she was more the object of his artistic interest than of his affections. When he admired her classic beauty, it was as though he were standing in front of a work of art rather than in front of a human being to whom he had pledged his love and promised his life. And soon he expressed his great desire to put her rare beauty on canvas.
“Please sit for me in the workroom,” he pleaded, “and I will make your beauty permanent. The work will be my masterpiece!”
She was humble and patient as well as flattered by his words, so she said, “Yes, my love. I will be happy to sit for you.” So the beautiful, young wife of the artist sat meekly for hours in his studio, not complaining. Day after day she sat patiently, smiling as she posed, because she loved him and because she hoped that he would see her love in her smile and obedience. She sometimes wanted to call out to him, “Please love me and want me as a person rather than as an object!” But instead, she spoke nothing but words which pleased him.
At length, as the labor drew to close, the painter became wilder in his passion for his work. He only rarely turned his eyes from the canvas to look at his wife. As he stood there gazing at his beautiful work of art, he cried with a loud voice, “This is indeed life itself!” Then he turned to his beloved and saw that she was dead!
It was the men's skating finals of the Winter Olympics when I was 16. Someday I'd be in the Olympics. In fact, it was my dream.
That night I lay on our living room floor excitedly watching the battle between the Brians: American Brian Boitano facing Brian Orser in Canada. Both of them had been world champions. Both of them deserved to win. Naturally I was for Brian Boitano, a northern Californian like me. We had skated on the same ice. I held my breath in amazement. Boitano performed successfully. The gold medal! I jumped in the air when his score went up.
But what happened next is what I'll never forget. Brian Boitano sat in front of the camera with his coach, surrounded by a group of journalist. He was talking about his career and his medal, talking to the whole world. A terrible sinking feeling went through me. I could never be in the Olympics, I thought…I could not talk in public like that. Just the idea of a press conference terrified me.
I loved skating partly because I didn't have to talk. I could express myself with my jump sand dances better. I didn't have to stand up and give a speech like some teachers expected. I could feel the blood rush to my face if I thought a teacher was going to call me. I stared at my shoes. I was sure I'd make a fool of myself.
The next day I was at the rink (溜冰场) as usual. I was practising a combination of jumps that had once seemed impossible. I worked very hard the next few years—on the ice and especially off. After journalists talked to me and although my heart pounded every time I spoke to them, I got to know them. They became familiar faces. And they got to know me. So when my big moment came four years after Brian's, I was ready.
Sometimes I think my biggest accomplishment was not winning the gold but talking to the press afterwards. When you do the thing you fear most, you put an end to fear.
Fear can stop you dead in your tracks. Fear can kill a dream. What are you afraid of? What scares you more than anything else? This year, walk right up to it and conquer it, step by step.
"You'll be blind by the time you're twenty-five," a doctor at Children's Hospital predicted. "Your blood sugars are much too high." It consumed me. No matter where I was or what I was doing, it was overhead like a dark cloud, waiting for just the right opportunity to break open and destroy my world.
I liked painting. Losing myself in painting filled me with peace. Painting provided me with the only place where I could escape from those threatening words.
When I was twenty-one, my right eye went blind. Precisely three months after my twenty-fifth birthday, I had a massive hemorrhage (大出血) in my left eye because of an accident. For the next twenty years, vision came and went. I went through many eye operations in an attempt to keep my vision. But after one final operation, I lost the battle and all remaining vision. And I buried all dreams of painting.
Desperate, I enrolled in (注册) a sixteen-week program for the blind and visually impaired (损伤的). I learned personal adjustment and the use of a computer with adaptive software. A whole new world opened up to me through this program.
"Jaws and Window-Eyes are leading software for the blind," my instructor told me. "You can use the Internet, e-mail and Microsoft with all its tools and features." It's amazing! Hope went up for the first time in years. "By learning how to use hot keys to control the mouse, you can use Microsoft Access, Excel and Powerpoint," my instructor added.
For the next several years, I learned that when one door closes, another door opens. There are plenty of choices available for the blind and visually impaired through the gift of technology. Not only do I have a speaking computer, but I have a speaking watch, alarm clock and calculator.
I stood in a noisy group of sixth grade students, waiting for the answer to our burning question: What type of crazy tie would Mr. Miller be wearing today?
Our teacher walked around the comer with a GREEN ELEPHANT TIE that matched his large elephant coffee cup! Oh, the satisfaction in our young hearts—a green elephant tie!
With his glasses at the tip of his nose, he greeted us cheerfully, “Good morning, folks!” He was strange and unique and he brightened every day for us. He was the most dynamic teacher I had ever met.
I loved music, so I remember how excited I was when he said he was going to give us music lessons. But when he turned on the music, my classmates and I slowly turned our heads toward the sound of… Feter Paul and Mary singing “If I Had a Hammer”.
Snickers（窃笑）filled the room. If it wasn't rap or hip hop, we didn't recognize it. What were these people singing about? My classmates were not into this at all. But for me, a girl of 12, it was a discovery. An awakening.
Twenty years passed and now there are forty little eyes staring at my wild musical-note shirts as I greet them with a joyful, “Good morning, class!” I wonder if my students wait and wonder what crazy music clothes I will wear each day.
I glance at my 2015 Teacher of the Year Award, which I received for being a dynamic teacher And I smile to myself, wondering which child in front of me will carry this on－as I've carried on the legacy（遗产）of Mr. Miller.
One teacher, who dared to be different and open new worlds to kids like me, threw the significant stone into the pond of my life. I pray the ripples（涟漪）never end.
These days, I walk down the steps leading toward the south end of the All England Club in Wimbledon, and still look for the Crow's Nest, a small green observation tower with an outer ladder that I used to climb on for a wide view of the grounds, but which has since been knocked down.
The Crow's Nest was a particularly useful point, because it allowed a tennis writer to keep track of the action on as many as 10 outside courts at a time. At days end, reporters from different nations would share notes on what they had observed all over the grounds.
Twenty-seven years later, the press room has touch screens that allow us to watch live videos from any court, and even go back to watch key moments in key matches long after they have finished. You could cover Wimbledon without leaving your seat. But that is a bit like spending all your time ordering room service and looking up fun facts on Wikipedia.
More than at any other tennis tournament, there is also an appetite for stories that deal with the setting, the history and the traditions.
If they change the price of the fish tacos (鱼肉卷饼) at the United States Open, it's not a story. If they change the price of the strawberries and cream, the signature treat at Wimbledon. It's time to email your editor using capital letters.
The new retractable (可伸缩的) roof was put in place in 2009. Until then, you always had to have a rainy-day story in your notebook because there were no guarantees any matches would be played. Now tennis is a sure thing on Centre Court, which has made tennis reporters a bit less creative. But at least it guarantees us daily access to the most atmospheric place in the sport.
So much has changed, but Centre Court remains true to its original spirit: more a theater than a stadium. Catching that feeling is part of covering Wimbledon, too.
The Maltese Islands are rich in Neolithic (新石器时代的) sites. Ggantija in Gozo, Tarxien, and the Hagar Qim/Mnajdra Complex here on Malta's south coast are perhaps the most well-known. These piles of stones are some of the earliest known manmade structures in the world. They are showing their age a bit but what would you expect for buildings that are five and a half thousand years old. My house was built in the year 2000 and is already in bad condition round the edges. These temples are older than the pyramids!
In my opinion the temples are best seen after the visitors have left. Come with me for a late afternoon walk down the hill past Hagar Qim towards the Mnajdra Complex. There are chain link fences around the temples now but we can ignore those and try to image why Maltas earliest people went to the trouble of building these structures on this windy and poor hillside.
Of course the temples would have looked rather different when they were constructed. They may have been decorated with pigments and possibly even roofed with animal skins or other materials. Who knows? We do know that they were changed and added to over a 1,000 - year period or so.
Getting to Mnajdra and Hagar Qim is easiest if you have a car. Or if you don't mind a hike, you could get a bus to Qrendi(3 km away) or Zurrieq (5 km away) and walk from there. Warning: although the distances are not too great, walking several kilometers in the Maltese sun can be very hard and possibly dangerous. Take water and sunscreen.
Mrs. Jones was my first patient when I started medical school—and I owe her a lot.
She was under my care for the first two years of my medical training, yet I knew very little about her, except that she was thin, perhaps in her mid 70s. It might seem rather negligent not to know the basic facts of my patient ,but I had a valid reason—Mrs. Jones was dead, and had been dead for about three years before I made a patient of her. Mrs. Jones was the dead body that I dissected（解剖）over the first two years of my medical training.
Of course, her name wasn't really Mrs. Jones, but it seemed a little impolite to be conducting research into someone's body without even knowing its name, so out of courtesy, I thought she should have one. "Me and Mrs. Jones, we've got a thing going on," went the song coming out of the radio as I unzipped the bag of her on my first day — and so she was christened.
As the months passed, I soon forgot that Mrs. Jones had, in fact, once been alive. One day, though, she suddenly became very human again. I'd been dissecting Mrs. Jones a good 18 months before I got around to the uterus（子宫）. After I'd removed it, the professor came up to me, "If you look at the opening carefully, you'll see that the angle indicates that this woman has had several children, probably three." I stared at it, and I suddenly felt very strange. This woman, who had given me something incredibly precious that I'd begun to take for granted, wasn't a dead body. She was a person, a mother, in fact.
At my graduation, the same professor came over to congratulate me. I explained the story about Mrs. Jones to him, and recalled what he'd told me about her having children and how that had affected me all those years ago.
"Well," he said, "at the beginning of your training you had a dead body and managed to turn it into a person. Now you're a doctor, the trick is to have a person and not turn them into a dead body," and he laughed, shook my hand and walked away.
For years, my time spent in the shower could have got me a mention in Guinness World Records as the shortest time taken to bathe. I hurried up during this process.
One day, however, while at a party, I heard an artist friend telling everybody that his idea came while he was having a shower. “What about you?” he asked, “Don't you get your creative thoughts from the same place?”
“I'm in and out in a hurry,” I told him proudly. “I have no time to waste!”
“What a pity,” he said. “That's the place where you need to slow down; plenty of great thoughts come from there!” I tried it out. I slowed down the whole process, started enjoying the warm water, taking a little longer to soap myself and even spending more time just enjoying the process, and realized how much I had missed in hurrying up all these years.
A woman told me how much stress her friend was suffering from and how she sought to convince her that she needed to find ways to relax. She gave her a videotape on stress management and relaxation techniques, and encouraged her to watch it right away. Fifteen minutes later, her friend handed back the tape. “It was good,” she said,” but I don't need it.”
“But it's a 70 - minute video,” the woman replied, “You couldn't have watched the whole thing.”
“Yes, I did,” her friend said. “I put it in fast - forward!”
A major social problem of the 21st century is Hurry Sickness. We hurry through work. We swallow fast food. We complain that we don't have enough time. We race through the days and weeks until one day we look back in amazement and comment, “My god, how the years flew by!” Then we realize the heavy price we have paid for traveling fast.
Symptoms of Hurry Sickness include stress and anxiety, bad relationships, lowered work performance and even disease. Some people don't survive it. What's the cure? Slow down, for life is so short and precious that we must live it well.
The setting was a packed gymnasium just before the start of a game against another school. There were five girls who were members of the Danville High School basketball team—all of them starters. They were not in uniform to play that night and would not be on the team for the rest of this season. They were there to admit their breaking of team rules. They were there to support their coach's decision to take them off the team. They were there to let the town know there was a problem in their little community that needed to be addressed. And they did it with sincere regret rather than defensiveness.
While the school had been out for the New Year's holiday, the five girls had gone to the party with several of their friends. There was alcohol there. And they all drank some.
Coach Rainville has a zero tolerance rule on drugs and alcohol for her members though it was a hard decision to make. When classes resumed and accounts of holiday parties were shared, rumors about the five girls began closing in on them. The coach said she couldn't back down on her rules. And the players—two junior students and three senior students—agreed. That night in the gym was part of their public support of the coach's decision.
“We hope you will understand that we are not bad kids. What we did was definitely not worth it. We hope this event will make everyone realize that there is a big drug and alcohol problem in our community,” one of the senior students said, “And if you work with us to try to solve this problem, you will help us feel that we have not been thrown off our basketball team for nothing.” The five left the floor to deafening applause.
The team may not win another game this year. But they've learnt something about personal responsibility, the effect of one's action on others, and honesty that will serve them well throughout life.
The summer before my dad died, we moved house. Up until that point, our family had our own space to spread out. Money was tight, so there was no television set, but we owned a turntable on which my dad's records played constantly. Mostly, it played Bob Dylan. Tracks from The Basement Tapes and Desire became an important part of our new life. My brother and I, aged 8 and 10, climbed trees, built hideaways and learned the words of Clothes Line Saga. We would chant over the, lost in our own joy.
It was January when my dad left us forever because of the cancer. He was 36 going on 37 then, the same age as Dylan. Afterwards, our laughter disappeared, but we kept on playing the records, which became our only ritual of remembrance. The two men became so intertwined in my head, I struggled to tell them apart.
Dylan was my dad's gift to me. What child wouldn't be fascinated by songs full of pirates and seasick sailors? How did it feel to have No direction home? Farewell, Angelina became my party-piece. I would sing this at church cheese and wines to the assembled audience. A lot of donations were made.
Growing up, I remained a fan of the music, but I wasn't obsessed with Dylan until one day in early 1995, my brother bought us both tickets to see him play at Brixton Academy. London felt like a long way to go. But finally seeing Dylan step out onto the stage brought a sudden rush of excitement.
I have seen Dylan a couple of times since. My brother is not around so much these days. But he was up for a visit recently. We passed a happy evening laughing and drinking, while his son, aged nine, performed his party—piece Subterranean Homesick Blues for us. He sang it word-perfect. And so it goes on: Dylan's music as a gift, passed down the generations.
This is my origin story: when I was a teenager I wrote terrible poetry. Like really bad. Worse than yours, I bet. A lot of it about how every little thing reminds me that we're all going to die one day. I wrote collections and collections of these poems, thinking one day I would have my moment. I named one collection, ironically, The Eternal Optimist.
In 1996, I found an advert for the International Poetry Competition. I was 16 years old and ready for my poetry to be released on the world. Not only was it a competition with a cash prize, but it was poetry, which I wrote, and international. This was my ticket to becoming world-famous. I submitted a poem called Trail of Thought. If you ever wrote bad poetry as a teenager, you'll have written something like it. In the poem, I went for a walk and noticed small poignant(辛酸的) things in nature, and each one reminded me that we were all going to die one day.
I filled out the form, printed off the poem and sent it off, fingers crossed. I waited to hear back I carried on writing, I probably finished another collection. Then I got a letter from the International Society of Poets. I opened the envelope carefully, just in case a prize-winning cheque fell out I hadn't won. But, they liked my poem enough to include it in their anthology(诗选), Awaken to a Dream. I closed my eyes, I wanted to scream with happiness. I was going to be a published poet.
All I had to do in order to be published was accept the terms and pay £ 45（plus £ 5 p & p）for an anthology. If I didn't buy a copy of the anthology, my poem wouldn't be included. I had to convince my mum, who thought my writing a meaningless pastime, to part with £ 50. She even asked the question: “Why do you have to pay to be in this book?” Nevertheless, she wrote a cheque for £ 50 and I returned it with my letter of agreement.
I was 16 and about to be a published poet. This was what it had all been about. This is what it had all been leading to. The months waiting for the anthology were a torture. I hit some sort of writer's block, I couldn't write anything. It was almost as if, now I was published, it mattered more what I committed to page and I didn't want to write anything down unless it was good enough to go into an anthology like Awaken to a Dream.
The book arrived through the post. Here it was. The first thing I had ever been published in a book called Awaken to a Dream, featuring a blistering take on the mundanity(世俗) of mortality by yours truly. I opened the package to find a book, containing my work. The first thing that struck me about the book was that it was bigger than A4. And it was thick. And on each page was a poem, next to another poem, next to another. The type was small and the paper thin enough to trace with. With three or four poems per page and more than 700 pages, I had a sinking realization. This was a scam, an illegal trick for making money.
If each poem had cost the author £ 45, they were sitting on a fortune. I felt ashamed. Everyone who had submitted something to the International Poetry Competition had fallen for the same hustle（忙碌）as me. I couldn't bring myself to show my mum. And she never asked to see it. Perhaps she thought if the price of me learning a lesson was £50 we didn't really have, then so be it.
But that stayed with me, that moment of realization. Because I determined to keep writing and ensure that my precious words always found a home worthy of them. Or at least that's how, more than 20 years later, I justify falling for a scam. Because your first time being published should be special, and if I don't convince myself that there was a reason for my first poem being in a vanity(无价值) book, then what good was it in the first place? And, strangely, someone is selling this book on Amazon at the moment. I wonder how many other writers who went on to do more stuff are in there.
Two young giant-panda twins born in the United States have returned home to China, but are straggling to adapt to the language and food.
The 3-year-old sisters, Mei Lun and Mei Huan, wens the first surviving panda twins to be born in the United States, and were returned to China from Zoo Atlanta on Nov. 5. But the pair still understand English belter than Chinese, and prefer American biscuits to Chinese bread.
A zoo-keeper said that his main concern is that the pair are so addicted to American biscuits that everything they eat — from bamboos to apples — has to be mixed with biscuits. They even want to snack on (零食) biscuits when drinking water.
The zoo -keeper is trying to wean them off their biscuit habit, gradually replacing the American food with Chinese bread. Mei Huan is adapting, but Mei Lun doesn't want to touch the unfamiliar bread.
Mei Lun is the livelier of the two, often jumping onto the roof and hanging upside down from a rail, but her slightly younger sister Mei Huan is calmer, preferring to sit still, observe her new environment and occasionally snack on bamboo.
A language barrier is also reported. While the pair respond to their own names, and understand some English phrases such as “come here,” they don't understand the Sichuan dialect of Chinese.
The news caused some laughter on Chinese social media, with some users commenting that the pandas would soon get used to Sichuan's famously spicy cuisine.
Truman headed home from school, with the homework in mind, a report on beehives (蜂巢). Truman's class had studied bees for three days, so he was ready. But, as his teacher Mrs. Lawrence had explained, to earn an A +，he needed a “new angle”.
Truman pushed open the front door to find his four-year-old brother, Bryan, sitting on the living room rag, hard at work. Paper towel tubes were all over the floor.
Bryan quickly stood up. “Truman, help me build a city!”
“I'd like to,” Truman replied, “but I have to do a report on beehives and ...”
“Can I help you?” Bryan begged.
“I don't think so, Bry. Sorry.''
“I know where there's a beehive.” Bryan smiled.
“Where?”
“In the wood pile by the garage.''
The boys marched to the firewood. Bending down, Bryan pointed out the hive deep inside the pile. Truman carefully removed the hive out.
“You got it!” Bryan shouted.
Back in the living room, Truman paced around, turning the fragile hive under his nose. Each cell was a perfect hexagon(六边形). How did the bees fit the cells together so neatly? And how did they make each cell six-sided? Could they count? Lost in thought, his foot came down on something ...
“Truman! You're mining my city!”
“Get your stupid tubes out of here，Bryan! I'm trying to…”
The towel tubes on the floor suddenly reminded him of something. The beehive!
Looking closer, he noticed the tubes were arranged with one in the middle, surrounded by six others, just like the cells of the hive.
Just to be sure, he tried five and then seven tubes surrounding the center tubes, but neither way fit. Six was the only number that worked.
“Bees don't count to six,” he said aloud. “The cells have to be six-sided.
Truman ran to Bryan and threw his arms around his brother. Bryan, you did it! Now I can build a model beehive with your tubes! I mean — if it's O. K. with you.”
One of the hardest parts of living abroad is being away from your loved ones, especially your family. While my friends are so important to me, I've personally found it more difficult being away from family.
However, I was fortunate that my mum and sister recently found the time to see me. Both my sister and I have major birthdays this year as she's tuming 18 and I'll be 21. My sister is a very big music fan and this year, I created my status as the best older sister by keeping an eye out for music concerts in Paris. In our home town of Leicester, we don't regularly get many well-known artists playing in our city. But in Paris, I managed to get the best 18th birthday present of all: tickets for all three of us to see my sister's favorite American rapper, Angel Haze.
I will try to visit for my sister's actual birthday in June, the chance for my sister and my mum to visit became a birthday treat. The experience of finding our way together to the concert or getting to show them around the Paris sites such as the Eiffel Tower,the Arc du Triomphe and even my favorite ice cream place,Amorino, was an amazing memory for us all !Despite the fact that I felt the slight pressure to make sure the weekend went smoothly,even the heavy rain failed to dampen our mood.
Therefore, while it can be difficult being away from home and potentially missing big family moments,there are ways to avoid the sadness and find a way to make the best of your situation to create an unforgettable memory. Just like the continuing rain while we went up the Eiffel tower, every cloud has a silver lining, because then we got the funniest photos ever!
On a February day during an unusually mild winter, found myself missing the snowy beauty. I enjoyed the feeling that comes from watching snow fall gently from heaven while I'm cosy inside with a good fire burning in the stove. But there were more serious concerns, like the lack of rainfall making our woods more accessible to summer forest fires. Local ski fields and hotels, all dependent on a snowy season, felt sorry for the vacant lifts, empty restaurants and unused snowmobiles.
Then I happened to see three little robins (知更鸟) fly into our yard. What were they doing here? West of us, in the Willamette Valley, wild flowers burst this time of year. But here in central Oregon, even if a groundhog (土拨鼠) had wanted to appear, it couldn't have broken through the frozen earth. And yet, these robins had arrived.
Their presence brought me a flow of happiness. It felt like a celebration as I dug into my bag of birdseed and spread a handful on the ground. Above me, the deep blue sky was cloudless, perfectly quiet but for some smoke from a neighbor's chimney. The lively cold made the air fresh and clean.
My robins jumped lightly toward the seed. My soul jumped with them, feeling equally carefree. Caught up in the moment of spring fever, I checked our snowless flower beds. To my delight, I spotted a green branch sticking out through the brown soil.
Despite the cold, I wasn't ready to go back inside. Just a short meeting with those robins had renewed my spirit. The next day I would return to my outdoor work with a cheerful heart and a hopeful eye for these signs of spring.
B
I work with Volunteers for Wildlife, a rescue and education organization at Bailey Arboretum in Locust Valley. Trying to help injured, displaced or sick creatures can be heartbreaking; survival is never certain. However, when it works, it is simply beautiful.
I got a rescue call from a woman in Muttontown. She had found a young owl(猫头鹰) on the ground. When I arrived, I saw a 2-to 3-week-old owl. It had already been placed in a carrier for safety.
I examined the chick(雏鸟) and it seemed fine. If I could locate the nest, I might have been able to put it back, but no luck. My next work was to construct a nest and anchor it in a tree.
The homeowner was very helpful. A wire basket was found. I put some pine branches into the basket to make this nest safe and comfortable. I placed the chick in the nest, and it quickly calmed down.
Now all that was needed were the parents, but they were absent. I gave the homeowner a recording of the hunger screams of owl chicks. These advertise the presence of chicks to adults; they might also encourage our chick to start calling as well. I gave the owner as much information as possible and headed home to see what news the night might bring.
A nervous night to be sure,but sometimes the spirits of nature smile on us all! The homeowner called to say that the parents had responded to the recordings. I drove over and saw the chick in the nest looking healthy and active. And it was accompanied in the nest by the greatest sight of all — LUNCH！The parents had done their duty and would probably continue to do so.
B
When I was 17, I read a magazine article about a museum called the McNay, once the home of a watercolorist named Marian McNay. She had requested the community to tum it into a museum upon her death. On a sunny Saturday, Sally and I drove over to the museum. She asked, "Do you have the address? ""No, but I'll recognize it, there was a picture in the magazine. "
"Oh, stop. There it is!"
The museum was free. We entered, excited. A group of people sitting in the hall stopped talking and stared at us.
"May I help you?" a man asked. "No," I said. "We're fine." Tour guides got on my nerves. What if they talked a long time about a painting you weren't that interested in? Sally had gone upstairs. The people in the hall seemed very nosy(爱窥探的), keeping their eyes on me with curiosity. What was their problem? I saw some nice sculptures in one room. Suddenly I sensed a man standing behind me. "Where do you think you are?" he asked. I turned sharply. "The McNay Art Museum!" He smiled, shaking his head. "Sorry, the McNay is on New Braunfels Street." "What's this place?" I asked, still confused. "Well, it's our home." My heart jolted(震颤). I raced to the staircase and called out, "Sally! Come down immediately! "
"There's some really good stuff(艺术作品）up there."She stepped down, looking confused. I pushed her toward the front door, waving at the family, saying, "Sorry, please forgive us, you have a really nice place." Outside, when I told Sally what happened, she covered her mouth, laughing. She couldn't believe how long they let us look around without saying anything.
The real McNay was splendid, but we felt nervous the whole time we were there. Van Gogh, Picasso. This time, we stayed together, in case anything else unusual happened.
Thirty years later, a woman approached me in a public place. "Excuse me, did you ever enter a residence, long ago, thinking it was the McNay Museum?"
"Yes. But how do you know? We never told anyone. "
"That was my home. I was a teenager sitting in the hall. Before you came over, I never realized what a beautiful place I lived in. I never felt lucky before. You thought it was a museum. My feelings about my home changed after that. I've always wanted to thank you."
B
Cities usually have a good reason for being where they are, like a nearby port or river. People settle in these places because they are easy to get to and naturally suited to communications and trade. New York City, for example, is near a large harbour at the mouth of the Hudson River. Over 300 years its population grew gradually from 800 people to 8 million. But not all cities develop slowly over a long period of time. Boom towns grow from nothing almost overnight. In 1896, Dawson, Canada, was unmapped wilderness(荒野). But gold was discovered there in 1897, and two years later, it was one of the largest cities in the West, with a population of 30,000.
Dawson did not have any of the natural conveniences of cities like London or Paris. People went there for gold. They travelled over snow-covered mountains and sailed hundreds of miles up icy rivers. The path to Dawson was covered with thirty feet of wet snow that could fall without warming. An avalanche(雪崩) once closed the path, killing 63 people. For many who made it to Dawson, however, the rewards were worth the difficult trip. Of the first 20,000 people who dug for gold, 4,000 got rich. About 100 of these stayed rich men for the rest of their lives.
But no matter how rich they were, Dawson was never comfortable. Necessities like food and wood were very expensive. But soon, the gold that Dawson depended on had all been found. The city was crowded with disappointed people with no interest in settling down, and when they heard there were new gold discoveries in Alaska, they left Dawson City as quickly as they had come. Today, people still come and go — to see where the Canadian gold rush happened. Tourism is now the chief industry of Dawson City — its present population is 762.
Benjamin West, the father of American painting, showed his talent for art when he was only six years of age. But he did not know about brushes before a visitor told him he needed one. In those days , a brush was made from camel's hair. There were no camels nearby. Benjamin decided that cat hair would work instead. He cut some fur from the family cat to make a brush.
The brush did not last long. Soon Benjamin needed more fur. Before long, the cat began to look ragged （蓬乱）. His father said that the cat must be sick. Benjamin was forced to admit what he had been doing.
The cat's lot was about to improve. That year, one of Benjamin's cousins, Mr.Pennington, came to visit. He was impressed with Benjamin's drawings. When he went home, he sent Benjamin a box of paint and some brushes. He also sent six engravings （版画）by an artist. These were the first pictures and first real paint and brushes Benjamin had ever seen. In 1747，when Benjamin was nine years old，Mr.Pennington retured for another visit .He was amazed at what Benjamin had done with his gift.He asked Benjamin's parents if he might take the boy to Philadelphia for a visit.
In the city, Mr.Pennington gave Benjamin materials for creating oil paintings.The boy began a landscape (风景) painting.Wiliams ,a well-known painter,came to see him work . Wiliams was impressed with Benjamin and gave him two classic books on painting to take home .The books were long and dull. Benjamin could read only a little,having been a poor student.But he later said,”Those two books were my companions by day,and under my pillow at night.”While it is likely that he understood very little of the books,they were his introduction to classical paintings.The nine-year-old boy decided then that he would be an artist.
D
I read somewhere that we spend a full third of our lives waiting. But where are we doing all of this waiting, and what does it mean to an impatient society like ours? To understand the issue, let's take a look at three types of “waits”.
The very purest form of waiting is the Watched-Pot Wait. It is without doubt the most annoying of all. Take filling up the kitchen sink(洗碗池) as an example. There is absolutely nothing you can do while this is going on but keep both eyes fixed on the sink until it's full. During these waits, the brain slips away from the body and wanders about until the water runs over the edge of the counter and onto your socks. This kind of wait makes the waiter helpless and mindless.
A cousin to the Watched-Pot Wait is the Forced Wait. This one requires a bit of discipline. Properly preparing packaged noodle soup requires a Forced Wait. Directions are very specific. “Bring three cups of water to boil, add mix, simmer three minutes, remove from heat, let stand five minutes.”I have my doubts that anyone has actually followed the procedures strictly. After all, Forced Waiting requires patience.
Perhaps the most powerful type of waiting is the Lucky-Break Wait. This type of wait is unusual in that it is for the most part voluntary. Unlike the Forced Wait, which is also voluntary, waiting for your lucky break does not necessarily mean that it will happen.
Turning one's life into a waiting game requires faith and hope, and is strictly for the optimists among us. On the surface it seems as ridiculous as following the directions on soup mixes, but the Lucky-Break Wait well serves those who are willing to do it. As long as one doesn't come to rely on it, wishing for a few good things to happen never hurts anybody.
We certainly do spend a good deal of our time waiting. The next time you're standing at the sink waiting for it to fill while cooking noodle soup that you'll have to eat until a large bag of cash falls out of the sky, don't be desperate. You're probably just as busy as the next guy.
B
I first met Paul Newman in 1968, when George Roy Hill, the director of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, introduced us in New York City. When the studio didn't want me for the film— it wanted somebody as well known as Paul— he stood up for me. I don't know how many people would have done that; they would have listened to their agents or the studio powers.
The friendship that grew out of the experience of making that film and The Sting four years later had its root in the fact that although there was an age difference, we both came from a tradition of theater and live TV. We were respectful of craft（技艺）and focused on digging into the characters we were going to play. Both of us had the qualities and virtues that are typical of American actors: humorous, aggressive, and making fun of each other— but always with an underlying affection. Those were also at the core （核心）of our relationship off the screen.
We shared the brief that if you're fortunate enough to have success, you should put something back— he with his Newman's Own food and his Hole in the Wall camps for kids who are seriously ill, and me with Sundance and the institute and the festival. Paul and I didn't see each other all that regularly, but sharing that brought us together. We supported each other financially and by showing up at events.
I last saw him a few months ago. He'd been in and out of the hospital.He and I both knew what the deal was,and we didn't talk about it. Ours was a relationship that didn't need a lot of words.
