Proudly reading my words, I glanced around the room, only to find my classmates bearing big smiles on their faces and tears in their eyes. Confused, I glanced toward my stone-faced teacher. Having no choice, I slowly raised the report I had slaved over, hoping to hide myself. “What could be causing everyone to act this way?”

    Quickly, I flashed back to the day Miss Lancelot gave me the task. This was the first real talk I received in my new school. It seemed simple: go on the Internet and find information about a man named George Washington. Since my idea of history came from an ancient teacher in my home country, I had never heard of that name before. As I searched the name of this fellow, it became evident that there were two people bearing the same name who looked completely different! One invented hundreds of uses for peanuts, while the other led some sort of army across America. I stared at the screen, wondering which one my teacher meant. I called my grandfather for a golden piece of advice; flip (掷) a coin. Heads—the commander, and tails—the peanuts guy. Ah! Tails, my report would be about the great man who invented peanut butter, George Washington Carver.

    Weeks later, standing before this unfriendly mass, I was totally lost. Oh well, I lowered the paper and sat down at my desk, burning to find out what I had done wrong. As a classmate began his report, it all became clear, “My report is on George Washington, the man who started the American Revolution.” The whole world became quite! How could I know that she meant that George Washington?

    Obviously, my grade was awful. Heartbroken but fearless, I decided to turn this around. I talked to Miss Lancelot, but she insisted: No re-dos; no new grade. I felt that the punishment was not justified, and I believed I deserved a second chance. Consequently, I threw myself heartily into my work for the rest of the school year. Ten months later, that chance unfolded as I found myself sitting in the headmaster's office with my grandfather, now having an entirely different conversation. I smiled and flashed back to the embarrassing moment at the beginning of the year as the headmaster informed me of my option to skip the sixth grade. Justice is sweet!

    We took a rare family road trip to the Adirondacks in late August，and it was as refreshing and exhausting as family vacations tend to be．Toward the end of our long drive home, even the kids were leaning forward in their seats urging my lead foot on．At that point in a road trip，even sixty-five miles per hour feels slow. We have become numb to our speed and numb to the road signs flashing by.

    My family lives on the edge of Lancaster County. Only thirty miles from home，I hit the brakes，and we began to roll，slowly，behind a horse-drawn carriage. We began to open our eyes again．We saw familiar green hills and the farm with the best watermelons. I rolled down the windows, and we breathed again．Just-cut hay and a barn full of dairy cattle．

    At five miles per hour，you remember what you forget at sixty-five．You are thinking about a place，even when you are moving from place to place．

    I am a placemaker. A homemaker, too. I am a mother of a young kid at home，and also a writer and a gardener．But，for me，those roles are wrapped up with the one big thing I want to do with the rest of my life：I want to cultivate a place and share it with others．

    The place I make with my family is a red-brick farmhouse built in l880. It has quite a few nineteenth-century bedrooms and a few acres of land，and we love nothing more than to fill them with neighbors and friends. We grow vegetables and flowers，keep a baker's dozen of egg—laying chickens，and，since we moved in three years ago，we have planted many，many trees．

    Living with my life's purpose does not allow for much travel. I need to be here，feeding the chickens and watering the tomatoes. Any extra in the budget，and we spend it on trees．

    But I learned something at the end of our family road trip．Travel can help me in the task of caring for my own place．When I slow down and pay attention to the road between here and there，travel tells me the connections between my place and all the other places．

    A few weeks ago, I called an Uber to take me to the Boston airport for a flight home for the holidays. As I slid into the back seat of the car, the warm intonations（语调）of the driver's accent washed over me in a familiar way.

    I learned that he was a recent West African immigrant with a few young children, working hard to provide for his family. I could relate: I am the daughter of two Ethiopian immigrants who made their share of sacrifices to ensure my success. I told him I was on a college break and headed home to visit my parents. That's how he found out I go to Harvard. An approving eye glinted（闪烁）at me in the rearview window, and quickly, we crossed the boundaries of rider and driver. I became his daughter, all grown up – the product of his sacrifice.

And then came the fateful question: "What do you study?" I answered "history and literature" and the pride in his voice faded, as I knew it might. I didn't even get to add "and African-American studies" before he cut in, his voice thick with disappointment. "All that work to get into Harvard, and you study history?"

    Here I was, his daughter, squandering the biggest opportunity of her life. He went on to deliver the age-old lecture that all immigrant kids know. We are to become doctors (or lawyers, if our parents are being generous) – to make money and send money back home. The unspoken demand, made across generations, which my Uber driver laid out plainly, is simple: Fulfill your role in the narrative（故事）of upward mobility so your children can do the same.

I used to feel anxious and backed into a corner by the questioning, but now as a junior in college, I'm grateful for their support more than anything. This holiday season, I've promised myself I won't get annoyed at their inquiries. I won't defensively respond with "but I plan to go to law school!" when I get unrequested advice. I'll just smile and nod, and enjoy the warmth of the occasion.

    A man came home from work late, tired, to find his 5-year-old son waiting for him at the door.

    “Daddy, how much money do you make each hour?”

    “If you must know, I make ＄20 each hour.”

    “Oh,” the little boy answered, with his head down. He thought for a moment, looked up and said, “Daddy, could you lend me ＄10?”

    The father was furious, “If you asked for the money to buy a toy or some other rubbish, go straight to your room and think about why you are so selfish (自私)！”

    The little boy went to his room with no words and shut the door. After a short while, the father calmed (平静) down, and started to think, “Maybe he really needs to buy something and he didn't really ask for money very often.” So he went to the little boy's room.

    “Sorry！Maybe I was too hard on your just now.” said the man, “Here's ＄10.”

    “Oh, thank you Daddy！” he said happily. Then the boy took out some coins. When the father found that the boy already had money, he got angry again.

    “Why do you want more money since you already have some?” the father shouted angrily.

    “Because I didn't have enough, but now I do.” The little boy replied, “Daddy, I have ＄20 now. Can I buy one hour of your time? Please come home early tomorrow. I would like to have dinner with you. ”

The Greatest show on Earth

    The Olympic Games are the greatest festival of sports in the world. Every four years, many countries send their best sportsmen to compete for the highest honour in sport. As many as 6, 000 people take part in over 20 sports. For the winners, there are gold medals and glory. But there is honour, too, for all who compete, win or lose. That is in the spirit of the Olympics—to take part is what matters.

    The Olympic Games always start in a bright colour and action. The teams of all the nations parade in the opening ceremony and march round the track. The custom is for the Greek team to march in first, for it was in Greece that the Olympics began. The team of the country where the Games are being held—the host country—marches in last.

    The runner with the Olympic torch (火炬) then enters the stadium and lights the flame. A sportsman from the host country takes the Olympic oath (宣誓) on behalf of all the competitors. The judges and officials also take an oath. After the sportsmen march out of the stadium, the host country puts on a wonderful display.

    The competitions begin the next day. There are usually more than twenty sports in the Games. The rule is that there must be at least fifteen. The main events are in track and field, but there are a few days before these sports start. Each day the competitors take part in different sports, like riding, shooting, swimming, and cross-country running. Points are gained for each event. Medals are awarded for the individual winners and for national teams.

    More and more women are taking part in the Games. They first competed in 1900, in tennis and golf. Women's swimming events were introduced in 1912. But it was not until 1928 that there were any track and field events for women. Now they compete in all but half a dozen of the sports. In horse riding, shooting, and boat racing, they may compete in the same events as men.

    On a steamy July day in Bayonet Point, Florida, Gene Work and his brother-in-law, Mark Rouco, were renewing Gene's lawn. It had grown brown and patchy in the heat, and the homeowners' association had threatened to heavily fine him if the situation wasn't improved. The new sod (草皮) was sitting in the driveway on four pallets, but the job was slow-going. Gene, then 40, wasn't feeling right. He went inside to take a break and collapsed on the couch, clutching his chest. His wife, Melissa Work, called 911 quickly.

    Even though he was staring down death. Gene had one thing on his mind: that lawn. If the sod wasn't put down that day, it would die. "While he was having his heart attack, literally in and out of consciousness, he kept begging me to have it put down because he didn't want it to go to waste," Melissa wrote in a Facebook post.

    Soon Pasco County Fire Rescue arrived and took Gene and Melissa to the hospital, leaving Rouco behind to tackle the yard. Within an hour, he had managed to remove the old grass. He was about to lay the new sod, which he feared would take him well into the night, when two emergency vehicles appeared. Seven men--the same ones who had treated his brother--got out. Gene had told them how badly he'd wanted to get the sod down, so they had returned to help. The job was done in under two hours.

    Meanwhile, Gene had surgery to insert stents (支架) in his heart, alleviating a potentially deadly blockage. He's home now, fully recovered--and enjoying his beautiful lawn.

    The Works are still amazed that those EMTs (Emergency medical technician) went above and beyond their job description. "These men," Melissa told tampabay.com, "saved Gene's life, and then came back to save his grass. That's just so awesome."