Mail lay scattered across the kitchen table. I couldn't put off sorting through it any longer. I checked the envelopes, putting aside the ones addressed to my husband.

    It had been over three years since Bob had died. To friends and family it looked like I had moved past the worst of my sorrow. I took care of my house, socialized and kept up with community. On the outside everything appeared to be normal. But inside I was anything but I worried I would never get better, never be myself again. They say sorrow has no set time limit, but I was so tired of feeling empty and hopeless. My sorrow was sharp and fresh as ever. It was like a wall of pressure in my chest, pressing my heart.

    I picked up a piece of Bob's mail and held it out to tear in half, but stopped myself from cutting up the envelope. The letter was from an organization that funded a Haitian orphanage called My Father's House. Its founder, Carol Hawthorne, had given a presentation at our church. Bob and I had donated, and Bob ended up on the mailing list to receive the newsletter (通讯) with updates on the children.

    I hadn't read one since Bob died. But just three months before, in January 2012, the country had been hit by a terrible earthquake. In my depressed state, it hadn't even occurred to me to wonder whether the orphanage had survived. I opened the newsletter and was surprised to find out that My Father's House was still standing. Of course now it was more crowded than ever. At the bottom of the page was an announcement about an upcoming trip to visit the orphanage in person. “I should go.” The thought wouldn't leave me. I contacted Carol Hawthorne.“What would I do if I go?” I asked.“Build houses?”

    “The Haitian people there are eager to work and they know what they're doing,” said Carol. “What they need are raw materials, and we provide them. We also visit with the children. We go to clinics and schools, pass out supplies. You'll be very busy, I promise!” I reserved a seat but didn't mention it to any of my friends. Just a few weeks later, I was at the airport with seven strangers, waiting to board a plane to Haiti. Even after takeoff I wasn't really sure of what I was doing.

    In Haiti we were met by Pastor Ronald Lefranc, the director of My Father's House. We piled into an old school bus and drove over uneven roads full of stones and mud. We passed women shaking under the weight of huge water buckets balanced on their heads. Piles of rubbish scattered across the landscape, and the land was covered with broken tents. Finally we pulled up to the orphanage. A crowd of children—52 in all—rushed up to greet us. I couldn't understand the words of the song they sang in Creole, but with the smiles on their faces I didn't need to. Each child planted a big kiss on my cheek.

    Carol and Pastor Ronald led us into the main building. “What are those over there?” I asked, pointing to a collection of thin tents. “Is there not enough room in the building for all the children?”

    “We have the room,” said Pastor Ronald. “But many of these children came here after the earthquake. They still don't feel safe sleeping under a roof.”

    There was no sign of fear in the playroom inside. I played dolls and other games. Children I'd just met presented me with pictures they'd drawn and letters written in Creole. In the evening the children gathered in the dining room. They took turns reading aloud and then they all joined in song. The words were strange, but the tune sounded familiar.

    They'd lost so much, yet were so joyful. In the evening the children gathered in the dining room. One of the older children stood up to speak and then they all joined in song. The words were strange, but the tune sounded familiar. The children settled down. In the silence, a quiet noise began.

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    Every man wants his son to be somewhat of a clone, not in features but in footsteps. As he grows, you also age, and your ambitions become more unachievable. You begin to realize that your boy, in your footsteps, could probably achieve what you hoped for. But footsteps can be muddied and they can go off in different directions.

    My son Jody has hated school since day one in kindergarten. Science projects waited until the last moment. Book reports weren't written until the final threat.

    I've been a newspaperman all my adult life. My daughter is a university graduate working toward her master's degree in English. But Jody? When he entered the tenth grade, he became a “vo-tech(技校)” student. They're called “motorheads” by the rest of the student body.

    When a secretary in my office first called him “motorhead”, I was shocked. “Hey, he's a good kid,” I wanted to say. “And smart, really.”

    I learned later that motorheads are, indeed, different. They usually have dirty hands and wear dirty work clothes. And they don't often make school honor rolls(光荣榜).

    But being the parent of a motorhead is itself an experience in education. We, who work in clean shirts in offices, don't have the abilities that motorheads have. I began to learn this when I had my car crashed. The cost to repair it was estimated at $800. “Hey, I can fix it,” said Jody. I doubted it, but let him go ahead, for I had nothing to lose.

    My son, with other motorheads, fixed the car. They got parts(零件) from a junkyard, and ability from vo-tech classes. The cost was $25 instead of $800.

Since that first repair job, a broken air-conditioner, a non-functioning washer and a non-toasting toaster have been fixed. Neighbors and co-workers trust their car repairs to him.

    These kids are happiest when doing repairs. They joke and laugh and are living in their own relaxed world. And their minds are bright in spite of their dirty hands and clothes.

    I have learned a lot from my motorhead: publishers need printers, engineers need mechanics, and architects need builders. Most importantly, I have learned that fathers don't need clones in footsteps or anywhere else.

My son may never make the school honor roll, but he made mine.

    Toronto is reminding citizens this month what exactly can and can't go into the blue bins an you may be surprised at what can't be recycled. As it turns out the takeout coffee cups you've been throwing into the recycling actually have to go in the garbage.

    The city's “recycle right” web explains that food left after a meal, woven (编织的) cloth, old VHS tapes and other things have been turning up in blue bins, where they don't belong.

    According to the city, about 45,000 tunes of garbage was mistakenly put into recycling bins last year alone.

    Among those things are the takeout coffee and tea cups we get while were on the go. The city says that because those paper cups are lined with plastic or wax they can't be recycled. The black plastic coffee lids (盖子) also can't go in the blue bin, although non-black plastic lids can be recycled.

    Emily Alfred, senior campaigner with the Toronto Environmental Alliance, said, “Millions of cups are used in Toronto every year and people are taking these out and putting them in the wrong bin.”

    When paper coffee cups are thrown in with the recycling. Alfred said, they produce a harmful effect on the system.

    “They can't separate the plastic and paper in a typical paper recycling center,” Alfred said, “so it just causes pollution of the recycling process, and it causes lower-quality paper if it does get recycled.”

    “New regulations passed last month call for changes to be rolled out over the next few years regarding what products companies can sell,” Alfred said. Her organization will be pushing for more producer responsibility laws, which call on companies that design and make products to take on the responsibility of recycling them.

    For now, consumers can consider carrying their own reusable coffee cups while they are on the go, ask for a ceramic mug (陶瓷杯) if they plan to consume their drink in the cafe, and support their local government officials if they have put efforts into changing recycling or producer responsibility laws.

    Alfred said, “I think people can change their habits easily if they understand what to do.”

    In a recent series of experiments at the University of California, researchers studied toddlers' thinking about winners and losers, bullies (欺凌) and victims.

    In the first experiment, toddlers (学步儿童) watched a scene in which two puppets (木偶) had conflicting goals: One was crossing a stage from right to left, and the other from left to right. The puppets met in the middle and stopped. Eventually one puppet bowed down and moved aside, letting the other one pass by. Then researchers asked the toddlers which puppet they liked. The result: 20 out of 23 toddlers picked the higher-status puppet—the one that did not bow or move aside. It seems that individuals can gain status for being dominant (占优势的) and toddlers like winners better than losers.

    But then researchers had another question: Do toddlers like winners no matter how they win? So researchers did another experiment very similar to the one described above. But this time, the conflict ended because one puppet knocked the other down and out of the way. Now when the toddlers were asked who they liked, the results were different: Only 4 out of 23 children liked the winner.

    These data suggest that children already love a winner by the age of 21-31 months. This does not necessarily mean that the preference is inborn: 21 months is enough time to learn a lot of things. But if a preference for winners is something we learn, we appear to learn it quite early.

    Even more interesting, the preference for winners is not absolute. Children in our study did not like a winner who knocked a competitor down. This suggests that already by the age of 21-31 months, children's liking for winners is balanced with other social concerns, including perhaps a general preference for nice or helpful people over aggressive ones.

    In a time when the news is full of stories of public figures who celebrate winning at all costs, these results give us much confidence. Humans understand dominance, but we also expect strong individuals to guide, protect and help others. This feels like good news.

    Many years ago, when we were a young couple with two small children, aged 2 and 4, we were practically impecunious. My in-laws lived from hand to mouth, so we didn't expect any help from them. My parents lived a great distance away, and I was too ashamed to let them know about our situation.

    My husband was trying to earn a living with an old pick-up truck, carrying groceries for local shopkeepers, but it was constantly breaking down. It took almost all the money we had to have it fixed. The truck was also the only means of transportation for us.

    We lived in the countryside, and we always used the back door because the driveway led to it. One winter evening, I stepped outside to take a bag of trash to the barrel and almost tripped over something. It was nearly dark, and I had to bend down to see what it was. I could hardly believe my eyes. There sat a large basket loaded with food.

    It was heavy, so I called my husband to carry it into the house. Once inside, we discovered two loaves of bread, some butter, several cans of vegetables, a can of orange sauce, and a large turkey. There was so much that I can't remember it all, but it was everything we needed to fix a wonderful dinner—everything except potatoes.

    A little while later I remembered that I hadn't taken the trash to the barrel. By now it was dark, so I had to turn on the yard light —and that's when I spotted a small bag of potatoes sitting on the porch.

    That dinner was the best I can remember.

    We weren't able to thank our donators, though, because we never found out who had been so generous in helping a struggling young family. Whoever it was, we are forever grateful.