Jenna, a popular girl from Westwood Middle School, had graduated first in her class and was ready for new1 in high school.

However, high school was different. In the first week, Jenna went to tryouts{#blank#}1{#/blank#}(选拔赛) for cheerleaders{#blank#}2{#/blank#}(啦啦队队员). She was competing against very talented girls, and she knew it would be2 for her to be selected. Two hours later, the3 read a list of the girls for a second tryout. Her heart was down as the list ended without her name. Feeling4 , she walked home carrying her schoolbag full of homework.

Arriving home, she started with maths. She had always been a5 maths student, but now she was struggling. She moved on to English and history, and was happy to find that she didn't have any trouble with those subjects. Feeling better, she decided not to6 maths for the time being.

The next day Jenna went to see Mrs Biden about being on the school7 . Mrs Biden wasn't as8 as Jenna. "I'm sorry, but we have enough9 for the newspaper already. Come back next year and we'll talk then." Jenna smiled10 and left. "Why is high school so11 ?" she sighed.

Later in maths class, Jenna devoted herself to figuring out the problems that had given her so much12 . By the end of class, she understood how to get them right. As she gathered her books, Jenna decided she'd continue to try to fit in at her new school. She wasn't sure if she'd13 , but she knew she had to try. High school was just as her mum had said, "You will feel like a small fish in a big pond14 a big fish in a small pond. The challenge is to become the15 fish you can be."

Tanni was born with an illness,{#blank#}1{#/blank#} made her unable to move her muscles normally. Tanni was interested{#blank#}2{#/blank#} sports, but when she was growing up she didn't see many disabled athletes on television. Then several years later, while watching the London wheelchair marathon, she saw an athlete she knew. She dreamed that she would be on the starting line, competing in the marathon too. Finally, her dream{#blank#}3{#/blank#} (come) true. She was not only on the starting line, but also the winner at the finish line. Tanni believes you'll never know{#blank#}4{#/blank#} you can do unless you try.

Ever since we were together, my wife has known about a magical place called Lincoln City, a modest beach town on the central-Oregon1 . But for me, it holds a Shangri-La-like myth. Lincoln City is where I spent one2 week each year as a boy,3 the rough beaches for beautiful pebbles, fishing off the local pier, and4 matches outside my aunt's beach house. These are5 my happiest childhood memories.

So, it was with great6 that, not long after marrying, I took my wife to visit the "Best Place" in the world. For me, it was every bit as7 as I remember. For her, no so much. She couldn't8 the fishy smell as well as the chilly wind: Ever since, she has considered Lincoln City my unexplainable 9 with no basis in reality.

In most cases, our assessments of a place or experience seldom differ. In this case, our wildly10 , perceptions of Lincoln City can be11 . by one of the strangest and most powerful feelings that humans12 : nostalgia(怀旧). Psychologists have defined nostalgia as a self-conscious, 13 but dominantly positive experience, a defense response to unhappiness and a relief from a negative mood. Maybe that is why on a windy14 day, the kind that would normally make me15 . a fishy smell will bring me the mixed feelings that my wife couldn't share.

As I have perfect pitch(绝对音感) and started playing piano at 3 years old, it's much natural for me to join the school's choir when I got to college in the US.

At first, everything went pretty 1 . I passed the audition(试音), and was even invited to join the more selective Chamber Singers. However, I soon became 2 after several rehearsals(排练). From jokes to music theory, I simply couldn't understand what they were talking about! And when I 3 others' pitch mistakes, they seemed unwilling to accept. I remained silent even when I knew the pitches were 4 .

It was our New Year Concert last year that 5 me out of deep waters. When we were singing the words of a song: "To live is to give", I thought "how could I be 6 just being a silent Asian?" Soon after the 7 , I started my plan. In my second term, I 8 to join all the conversations and started to help fellow singers with my abilities 9 identifying pitch. I was overwhelmed by the content of helping people, and was thrilled 10 more choir members came to me for casual talks.

From March to May, I was 11 soloist(独唱者) for four different songs, an unusual 12 for a first-year student. Among them, my favorite piece was a Spanish folk song that we 13 during the choir's spring tour to Madrid. A Chinese student singing a Spanish song in an American choir—how proud I was to 14 as an ambassador of cross-cultural communication! When the audience applauded us, I came to see a better world with understanding, 15 and love.

I was heading back home after giving my colleague a lift. I took a  1  as the snowstorm was approaching.

Then the snow started and was coming down  2 . Within minutes I was in a whiteout. The windows were 3 and getting covered with snow, so I slowed down and rolled down my driver's side window, thinking I could better 4 the road edge and keep to a straight line. But really, I had no  5  where I was. I stopped and kept the car running to stay 6  . I called 911. The operator told me to wait things out for the night.

The call left me in  7 . "Breathe," I told myself. An idea occurred to me. I 8  my location online and explained what I was  9 , wishing for anyone to come to my rescue. Soon enough, people started chiming in on my post. I got a 10 from someone who was going to put me in touch with people nearby. I had never been more  11 .

Then I saw a big 12  in the dark. He had walked about 500 meters to get me, 13  the wind and snow each step of the way. "You'll be OK. Follow me." He turned around and started to trudge through the snow, sure of the 14 . I drove slowly behind him. When we reached his house, I burst into tears of 15 .

The text from my son said it all: "Dad, there's an article you were born to write that the world is finally ready for: Bring Back the Handkerchief!" As my son knows, there's no "bring back" for me. For me, the handkerchief never left. 

My mother raised me with several fixed rules. One was that a gentleman always has a clean handkerchief in his right rear pocket, a piece of simple cotton, roughly 15 inches square and less than four inches when folded. I was a dutiful son, but as a child, I had been wondering what it was there for. After 60 years, my body weight now feels wrong if I'm heading out of the house with an empty back pocket. 

I am sure this habit has sometimes struck friends but in polite company nobody comments on somebody else's business. Children like my kids think of my hankie ridiculously old-fashioned and they have their arguments. If you have to be prepared every day for allergies or a cold, why not choose a little packet of tissues, which saves you from that disgusting business of blowing your nose in the thing and then stuffing it back in your pants?

Point taken. But a handkerchief is more durable and has a far wider variety of uses. Can you grab the handle of a pot that's boiling over with a Kleenex? Or do you recall the cases of skinned knees and drippy noses that hankie wiped? In fact, my wife gave me several new handkerchiefs as gifts. Neither of us can count the number of times her eyes have welled up at a movie, or, as happens, she's needed to blow her nose. 

Yet not even my mother could have anticipated the hankie's new role as an Essential Public Health Appliance. All of us have learnt how hard it is to follow advice from medical experts about not touching your face. Here is an answer. Use your hankie. In case of emergency, your handkerchief can become a makeshift DIY mask that can be pulled over your lower face like a robber entering a bank. 

And it will certainly give me the chance to lift my chin and look at my adult children through one eye, asking in her good-hearted way, "What do you have to say now, smarty-pants?"