On a rainy night three years ago my dear mom went to accompany her Lord. She did it her way.

    I got the call at work, and l headed home quickly. Mom and Dad lived on a small farm that they had owned since I was seven. I hated going there every weekend. There was nothing for a young girl to do but watch the one station on the old TV set, if the weather allowed reception.

    My mom, on the other hand, loved the peace and quiet of the land. The place was rural, with no indoor plumbing or heat. We had a big wood stove in the kitchen that did its best to heat the little farmhouse, but it always seemed cold and too quiet to me.

    In the evenings, my mom and I would sit for hours singing in the little kitchen. I sang the melody and Mom harmonized. Her favorite song was “Moon River” and we sang it over and over. Mom told me stories about how when I was a little girl I could sing before I could talk.

    As time passed, I had my own children and went to visit them every week or two. The kids loved the farm and the tractor rides with my dad. Me, well, I still hated the silence of the farm. While my mom loved to sit at her kitchen table and look out at her garden and flowers and retell all the old stories, I missed the hustle and bustle of my life at home. But I sat there listening quietly as she reminisced.

    Now, I sat back in the silence and the silence was deathly so I finally leaned over to turn on an old radio. Music always comforted me. My heart skipped a beat. “Moon River” was playing on the radio. I sat there wordless, with a tear running down my cheek, as I listened to every familiar note.

    When I was eight or nine years old, I wrote my first poem.

My mother read the little poem and began to cry. "Buddy, you didn't really write this beautiful, beautiful poem!" Shyly, I said that I had. My mother poured out her welcome praise. Why, this poem was nothing short of genius!

What time will Father be home?" I asked. I could hardly wait to show him what I had accomplished. My mother said she hoped he would be home around 7. I spent the best part of that afternoon preparing for his arrival. First, I wrote the poem out in my finest handwriting. Then I used colored pens to draw a border around it. Then I confidently placed it right on my father's plate on the dining table. But my father did not return at 7, Seven-fifteen, Seven-thirty. My father had begun his motion-picture career as a writer. He would be able to appreciate my poem even more than my mother.

    It was almost 8 o'clock when my father burst in. He was an hour late, but he could not sit down. I can see him now, a big Havana cigar in one hand, the rapidly disappearing drink in the other, calling down bitter words on his employees.

    Suddenly, he paused and glared at his plate. There was a silence. He was reaching for my poem. I lowered my head and stared down into my plate.

"What is this?" I heard him say.

"Ben, a wonderful thing has happened," my mother said. "Buddy has written his first poem. And it's beautiful, absolutely amazing".

"If you don't mind, I'd like to decide that for myself," Father said.

I kept my face lowered to my plate. It was only 10 lines long. But it seemed to take hours. I remember wondering why it was taking so long. I could hear him dropping the poem back on the table again. Now was the moment of decision.

"I think it's bad," my father said.

    I couldn't look up. My eyes were getting wet.

"Ben, sometimes I don't understand you," my mother was saying. "This is just a little boy. You're not in your studio now. These are the first lines of poetry he's ever written. He need encouragement."

"I don't know why," my father held his ground. "Isn't there enough bad poetry in the world already? No law says Buddy has to become a poet."

    I couldn't stand it another second. I ran from the dining room, threw myself on the bed and cried.

    That may have been the end of the anecdote(轶事) — but not of its significance for me.

    A few years later I took a second look at that first poem, and unwillingly I had to agree with my father's tough judgment. It was a pretty bad poem. After a while, I worked up the courage to show him something new, a short story. My father thought it was overwritten but not hopeless. I was learning to rewrite. And my mother was learning that she could disapprove of me without ruining me. You might say we were all learning. I was going on 12.

As I worked my way into other books and plays and films, it became clearer and clearer to me how fortunate I had been to have had a mother who said, "Buddy, it's wonderful!" and a father who shook his head no and drove me to tears with his, "I think it's bad." In fact all of us in life need that mother force, the loving force from which all creation flows; and yet the mother force alone is incomplete, even misleading, finally damaging, without the father force to caution, "Watch. Listen. Review. Improve." Between the two poles of affirmation (肯定) and doubt, both in the name of love, I try to follow my true course.

    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.

    “Sesame Street” has been called “the longest street in the world”. That is because the television program by that name can now be seen in so many parts of the world. That program became one of American's exports soon after it went on the air in New York in 1969.

    In the United States more than six million children watch the program regularly. The viewers include more than half the nation's pre-school children, from every kind of economic, racial, and geographical group.

    Although some educators object to certain elements in the program, parents praise it highly. Many teachers also consider it a great help, though some teachers find that problems arise when first graders who have learned from “Sesame Street” are in the same class with children who have not watched the program.

    Tests have shown that children from all racial, geographical, and economic backgrounds have benefited from watching it. Those who watch it five times a week learn more than occasional（偶然的）viewers. In the US the program is shown at different hours during the week in order to increase the number of children who can watch it regularly.

    The programs all use songs, stories, jokes, and pictures to give children a basic understanding of numbers, letters and human relationships. But there are some differences. For example, the Spanish program, produced in Mexico City, devotes more time to teaching whole words than to teaching separate letters.

    Why has “Sesame Street” been so much more successful than other children's shows? Many reasons have been suggested. People mention the educational theories（理论）of its creators, the support by the government and private（私人的）businesses, and the skillful use of a variety of TV tricks. Perhaps an equally important reason is that mothers watch it along with their children. This is partly because famous adult stars often appear on it. But the best reason for the success of the program may be that it makes every child watching feel able to learn. The child finds himself learning, and he wants to learn more.

    We often seek food after focused mental activity, like preparing for an exam. Researchers guess that too much thinking consumes a lot of energy from the brain. So the brain, sensing that it may soon require more calories to keep going, apparently leads to bodily hunger, and even though there has been little physical movement, we eat.

    The researchers note that tiring activity both increases the amount of blood sugar and lactate(乳酸盐)circulating in the blood and increases blood flow to the head.

    Because the brain uses sugar and lactate as fuel, researchers wondered if the increased flow of fuel—rich blood during exercise could feed a worn—out brain and reduce the urge to overeat.

    Thirty—eight healthy college students were invited to determine their fitness and metabolic(新陈代谢)rates and to report what their favorite pizza was. Afterward, they sat quietly for 35 minutes before being given as much of their favorite pizza as they wanted. At a later date, the volunteers returned and spent 20 minutes making selections from college and graduate-school entrance exams.

    Next, half the students sat quietly for 15 minutes, before being given pizza. The rest of the volunteers spent those 15 minutes doing intervals on a treadmill(跑步机)two minutes of hard running followed by about one minute of walking, repeated five times. These students were then allowed to gorge on pizza, too. But by and large, they did not overeat.

    When the researchers factored in(将……作为因素考虑)the calories burnt on running, they determined that those students actually consumed 200 fewer total calories after their brain workouts than the resting students.

    The researchers do not know if the runners consumed extra calories at dinner. They also cannot tell whether other types of exercise would have the same effect as running, although the researchers say they suspect that if an activity causes someone to break into a sweat, it should also increase blood sugar and lactate, feeding the brain and weakening hungers call.