My folks bought their first house in the early 1940s after Dad got a better job in Marquette, Michigan. We lived just inside the city limits in what was still a rural area.

    In the spring of 1948, when I was 6 years old, my parents bought a calf (小牛) to replace our cow, which had been killed the year before. So one day we drove to a local farm and returned with a white and brown calf we named Tubby.

    We didn't own a truck, so Tubby rode home in the backseat of Dad's car with my 9-year-old brother Steve, and me. As you can imagine, the trip was a lot of fun for us kids.

    Later that summer, Mom thought it would be cute to take a picture of me sitting on Tubby's back. All went well unti1 the snap of the camera shutter sent Tubby charging off on a run, with me holding on for dear life. I lasted for about 30 feet before I hit the ground. Mom was quick enough to shoot a follow-up picture, so we had photos of me both on and off Tubby!

    When summer had passed, the day arrived for poor Tubby to fill our freezer I must have been somewhere else with my Mom on the fateful day, because I have no memory of how it happened. All I knew was that the barn was empty, and that we had plenty of meat for dinners.

    I hadn't lived on a farm like my mother, so I didn't understand that what happened to Tubby was not unusual. Livestock aren't meant to be pets, and most farm kids know and accept that truth.

    Whenever we had beef for dinner, I would tearfully, “Is this Tubby” This went on for a couple of weeks until Dad had finally had enough and declared, “No more cows!” That made me feel a little better about poor Tubby.

    It was an autumn morning shortly after my husband and I moved into our first house. Our children were upstairs unpacking，and I was looking out of the window at my father moving around mysteriously on the front lawn. “What are you doing out there?” I called to him.

    He looked up, smiling. “I'm making you a surprise.” I thought it could be just about anything. When we were kids, he always created something surprising for us. Today, however, Dad would say no more, and caught up in the busyness of our new life , I eventually forgot about his surprise.

    Until one gloomy day the next March when I glanced out of the window，I saw a dot of blue across the yard. I headed outside for a closer look. They were crocuses (番红花）throughout the front lawn — blue, yellow and my favorite pink，with little faces moving up and down in the cold wind. I remembered the things Dad secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dullness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timely to my needs?

    My father's crocuses bloomed each spring for the next five seasons, always bringing the same assurance: Hard times are almost over. Hold on, keep going, and light is coming soon.

    Then a spring came with the usual blooms but the next spring there were none. I missed the crocuses, so I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs (植物球茎). But I never did. He died suddenly one October day. My family were in deep sorrow, leaning on our faith.

    On a spring afternoon four years later, I was driving back when I felt depressed. It was Dad's birthday, and I found myself thinking about him. This was not unusual — my family often talked about him, remembering how he lived up to his faith. Suddenly I slowed as I turned into our driveway. I stopped and stared at the lawn. There on the muddy grass with small piles of melting snow, bravely waving in the wind, was one pink crocus.

    How could a flower bloom from a bulb more than 18 years ago, one that hadn't bloomed in over a decade? But there was the crocus. Tears filled my eyes as I realized its significance.

    Hold on, keep going, and light is coming soon. The pink crocus bloomed for only a day, but it built my faith for a lifetime.

    Cuyahoga Valley National Park Volunteer Program

    Building a Community of Park Stewards

    Position Title: Wildlife Volunteer – Butterfly Monitors (2 positions)

    Dates: Mid May to September, 2018

    Hours: 8 ~ 16 hours / week

    Location: Cuyahoga Valley National Park

    Duties: Park staff will train volunteers in butterfly identification and data recording for one week before volunteers work in team of two to help track butterfly monitoring areas. Butterfly monitoring areas are 1 ~ 2 miles in length and are walked one time per week. There are a total of three butterfly monitoring areas within the park. Butterflies are identified by using binoculars （望远镜） or by netting and releasing. Data is recorded on data sheets.

    Skills Required: Applicants must have self motivation and desire to work with others. Volunteers will work during days when temperature is 70 degrees or more, between 10:30 am and 5 pm. Ability to walk a long distance in hot and humid conditions is needed. Skills with basic butterfly identification are not a must but helpful.

    Requirements: Applicants must complete a National Park Service Agreement and have their backgrounds looked into. U. S. citizenship is required. Applicants must be current Kent State University students.

    How to Apply: Please request an application from Mike Johnson at gkovach@kent.edu and send it back to Mike Johnson at gkovach@kent.edu, with the above position title as the subject, by February 15, 2018. If offered an interview, please come to Cuyahoga Valley National Park with your personal resume introducing your education and your previous work experience.

    For further information, please call Jamie Walters at (330) 657-2142 or email jwalters@forcvnp.org.

    When my daughter Sara was in the fifth grade, she came to me with a problem." Marcy hates me！" she cried." Because Kathy is my friend, too. She wants me to be her friend and nobody else's. You talk to Marcy. You tell her that I want to be her friend, but I can have other friends, too！"

    Oh！I looked at her for a few moments，wondering how I got into this mess，when suddenly an idea came to me.

    Picking up two baskets from the living room, I explained, "When everyone is born, he or she has a little basket. This little one here is yours. The big one is mine. As you grow, so does the basket. You can see your little basket is inside mine because when you were born, there were too many things you couldn't do for yourself. I did everything you couldn't do on your own." She nodded.

    "Well, as you grew older and began to do some things on your own, I began placing a few more things in your basket. When you learned to tie your shoes, that went in your basket."

    She said softly, "I can tie my own shoes."

    "Right. As you grow older，there will be more and more things you must do on your own." As I spoke, I gradually took her basket out of mine and handed it to her." You will finally carry your own basket with things only you can do."

    She looked up at me and said," I understand. There are some things that I have to do for myself because they are in my basket."

    People who have seen Trisha Seifried Woodall with her cats say that she has a magic touch. Most people don't know anyone who can order a cat to jump on a table, sit for two minutes, and then jump to the floor and walk backward.

    Ms. Seifried Woodall has taught her cats to do all these tricks -- and many more. At her training center. Got Pet-ential, cats learn tricks for TV and magazine ads. Some of her cats have appeared on bags of cat food.

    When Ms. Seifried Woodall gets a cat, she first learns what that cat likes and doesn't like. "Some cats like to stay close to the ground, so I'll teach them how to stand behind me, and walk with me," she says. "Other cats, like high places, so they'll learn how to jump on my bent knee and then safely leap to my shoulder."

    Ms. Seifried Woodall grew up in a family with many pets, and she was first paid to work with animals when she was 18. At a summer job at an amusement park, she learned how to train a few of the animals for performances. She continued to train and learn about animals for 20 years before starting her own animal-training center.

    Ms. Seifried Woodall is proud of the skills her cats have learned, but she is also proud that her center's cats are healthy and social. She believes her cats enjoy learning new tricks.

    In Ms. Seifried Woodall's experience, no breed (品种) of cat is easier to train than others. All of her cats came from shelters. They have become pets in her home.

    Like most animal trainers, Ms. Seifried Woodall uses a reward system. Cats that are successful during training get food or a new toy. A cat that doesn't enjoy eating or playing will probably not be interested in being trained. She never scolds (责骂) them. "Cats need a lot of encouragement when they are performing, she says." I say good job or that s right several times during a single minute."

    Since we've headed into the snowy part of the year, it seems like a good time to solve a language puzzle that Eskimos have a huge number of words for snow. The idea was popularized by the now well-known expert Benjamin Lee Whorf in the 1940s. His number was approximately five Eskimo words for snow, but somehow the story was so wide spread and romantic that it got out of control and grew bigger and bigger.

    There are two problems with the concept of Eskimos having tons of words for snow.

    First, Eskimos speak at least two different languages—Inuit and Yupik. Just as we have talked about how English and many other languages developed from a common language called Proto-Indo-European, Inuit and Yupik come from a different common language called Eskimo-Aleut. So saying Eskimos have 100 words for snow is like saying Europeans have 100 words for kings or queens. It might be telling you something broad about culture, but it isn't really telling you much about language.

    The second problem is "What is a word?” The Inuit and Yupik languages make words in different ways from how we make words in English. For example, the West Greenlandic word 'siku,' (sea ice), is used as the root for 'sikursuit (pack ice), 'Sikuliaq (new ice), and 'sikurluk (melting ice). But it's not that West Greenlandic has so many more words for describing snow than English, it's just that West Greenlandic expresses ideas by combining meaningful units of language together into one word while English uses more phrases and compounds. We express all the same ideas; we just do it a little differently because of the way our language is built.

    So you're probably still wondering, "If it's not 50 or 100 or 400 words, how many is it?" Well, Woodbury lists 15 that are present in a Yupik dictionary published in 1984, but he says that depending on how you look at it this is not an exact number. It could be 12; it could be 24. But it's certainly not 100.

    Sometimes, the "hundred words for snow" puzzle is used to argue that because Eskimos have so many words for snow, they think about snow in ways that we can't even begin to imagine—that your language decides or limits your thoughts. Languages are just different. They don't decide what we are able to think about or are not able to think about. I can think about snow floating on water even if we don't have a word for that in English.

    So when you're out skiing or snowboarding or just shoveling your driveway this winter, don't believe the people who try to tell you that Eskimos have 100 words for snow.