My second year in college had started. I hadn’t decided whether to fly home for Thanksgiving yet. Although I had missed the holiday the year before, I didn’t have the money for the ticket, plus I wasn’t sure I could get enough time off from my part-time job.

All that wondering changed when my mom called. She got right to the point: “Your grandmother isn’t doing well. Your dad and I decided you should fly out there for Thanksgiving. We thought you would want to come along so I covered your ticket. We’ll fly from Alabama, and you can fly from Minnesota. We will meet in Northern Califomia the afternoon before Thanksgiving. Your dad and the younger kids will join us shortly later.”

I met her at the Oakland airport, and we took a taxi to our hotel. When we got in the door, Mom called my grandpa, “We would like to come over and enjoy this Thanksgiving together, Dad.” Mom was anxious to see her parents, especially her mother, who was really fragile. When we finally got to their house, we got to say hello and then Grandpa helped Grandma lie down again and led us to the living room, telling us we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at noon. Then he went into the kitchen.

Soon Dad, my brother Peer and my sister Mary arrived, joining us. Mom paced the floor. Finally, I asked her what the matter was. “He can’t cook,” she murmured. “How’s he supposed to fix a Thanksgiving meal for us?” I tried to reason with her. “Can’t you smell the dinner? Grandma is upstairs resting. Grandpa is the only one who could be cooking.” But we couldn’t see through the kitchen door.

She had an idea. “Let’s sneak out of the front door and see what’s going on. Then we will know how Grandpa is really cooking.”

I followed her around the house to the kitchen windows.

Seeing the cut on Grandpa’s finger through the windows, Mom hurriedly pushed open the kitchen door.

Growing up, I understood one thing about my dad: He knew everything. This was our relationship, in sum: I asked him questions and he told me the answers. Is there really a man on the moon? How do sailboats work? What is the highest score anyone has ever gotten in Pac-Man?

In my teen years, he taught me things I’d need to know to survive in the real world. How to drive a car. How to check your car tire’s pressure. The correct knife to use to cut melon.

When I moved out on my own, I called him at least once a week, usually when something broke in my apartment and needed to know how to fix it: the toilet; the air-conditioning; the wall, once, when I threw a shoe at a terrifying spider.

But then, eventually, I needed him less. I got married, and my husband had most of the knowledge I lacked about gutter cleaning and water heaters and harmless insect removal. For everything else, we had Google.

I don’t know when it happened, but our conversations when I called were shortened to six words. Me: “Hi, Dad.” Him: “Hi, sweets. Here’s Mom.” (Because her, I still needed—What’s your chicken recipe? Do I need to call the doctor for my daughter’s fever?)

I loved my dad, of course, but I wondered at times if maybe he had already shared everything I needed to know. Maybe I’d heard all his stories. Maybe, after knowing a man for 40 years, there’s nothing left to say.

Then, the past summer, my husband, our four kids and I moved in with my parents for three weeks while our house was being decorated. It was the first time that I had lived with them since I got married.

They own a lake house, and Dad asked me to help him repair the walls. ___________________________________________________________________________

A few weeks later, after my family moved back into our own house. _______________________________________________________________________

Mama and I spend mornings cleaning up the dirt that blows into our house. Mama says all the dust is due to the drought（干旱）. The dirt is everywhere. It covers our clothes. We have to wash the dishes before each meal. We rarely drive the truck because Papa fears the dust from the road will ruin the motor. We rarely drive the truck because Papa fears the dust from the road will ruin the motor. So it became our amusement park, where we flashed the lights and sounded the horn（喇叭）, pretending to be real drivers.

When my sister, Faye, and I walk to school, we wear scarfs over our mouths so we don't breathe in the dirt. On days when the air is so bad that they close the school, we stay home and help Mama put wet sheets over the windows. But the dirt always finds a way in.

Last Sunday, there was no dirt in the air, only bright spring sunshine and a clear blue sky. After church, Papa headed out to the field to check on the cattle while Mama started dinner. Faye and I played in the yard. The temperature suddenly dropped-it felt good. The heat had been building since dawn.

Then Mama shouted from the house. "Iris, you and Faye get inside, real quick now!" I looked to the west and saw a huge black cloud of dust, like thick smoke from a railway engine's stack（排气管）. All the birds flew away. "Faye, go with Mama!" I shouted. "I'll warn Papa."

Faye ran toward the house. The storm hit so fast I barely saw her climb the steps. Fine sand beat against my face and in an instant the day turned into night. I tripped over our bicycles left carelessly in the yard. I screamed for Papa, hoping my voice would lead him back.

The dirt and sand stung my skin like a thousand bees. I needed to get to shelter. Covering my face with one hand, I felt my way towards the truck and opened the door. Dirt flew in with me as I pulled the door closed.

Papa was still out there and I needed to help him find the way to the truck.

Suddenly, Papa s face appeared at the window.

“I wish we hadn’t come on this trip!” Jeff’s voice echoed across the narrow canyon (峡谷). His father stopped, breathing heavily. “This is hard on you, but you’ve got to come through with courage!” He gently placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Now, I don’t know if I can make it without stopping every so often. You’re young, but you’re strong and fast. Do you remember the way back from here to the road, if you had to go alone?”

Jeff flashed back to the painful scene of Mark, his seventeen-year-old brother at their campsite. His leg was bitten by a snake yesterday and they did first aid with the wound so that it wouldn’t get so serious before they returned home. But this morning Mark couldn’t move, and the pain got worse. He needed medical attention right away otherwise he might lose his life. The only way is to get the rescue helicopter as soon as possible. They had left their phone in the car, which was stopped out of the canyon and it must have been out of power by then. Leaving Mark at the campsite and seeking help was their only choice.

“Jeff, could you do it?”

Jeff looked to the end of the canyon, several miles away. He nodded and a plan began to take hold in his mind. “What is the name of that little town we stopped, Dad?” There must be a hospital there.

“Flint. We parked at the side of the road a few miles out of Flint.”

Jeff nodded. Then they continued climbing. Stone by stone, they made their way up the canyon. Gradually, Jeff’s father grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Jeff waved to him and then climbed toward the road. Two hours later, he finally reached the road and struggled toward the town, almost exhausted.

“Can’t stop,” he thought. “Mark’s in big trouble. Keep going.” Suddenly, he saw a truck heading toward him. “Hey, mister!” he shouted, waving both arms. He began to jog toward the truck, and then broke into a full-speed run.

The driver saw Jeff and brought his truck to a stop.

Hours later, Jeff came to himself.

Last year at Christmas time, my wife, three children and I were on our way from Paris to Nice.Somehow everything went wrong. Our hotels were “tourist traps” and our rented car broke down. On Christmas Eve, when we checked into a dirty hotel in Nice, there was no Christmas spirit in our hearts.

It was raining and cold when we went out to eat.We found a small restaurant poorly decorated for the holiday.Only five tables in the restaurant were taken.There were two German couples, two French families, and an American sailor, by himself. They were eating in stony silence except the sailor.He was writing a letter, and a half­smile lighted his face. In the corner a piano player was listlessly (无精打采地) playing Christmas music.

All of us were interrupted by an old French flower woman through the front door. She had a worn overcoat and her old shoes were wet.Carrying her basket of flowers, she went from one table to another. No one bought any. Exhausted and frustrated, she sat down at a table.

The sailor finished his meal and got up to leave. Putting on his coat, he walked over to the flower woman's table.

“Merry Christmas, ” he said, smiling and picking out a handful of flowers.“How much are they？”

“Two francs, Sir.”

The sailor put a twenty franc note in the woman's hand.

“I don't have change, Sir, ” she said. “I'll get some from the waiter.”

“No, ma'am, ” said the sailor, leaning over and kissing the ancient cheek.“This is my Christmas present for you.”

Then the sailor headed for our table with the flowers in his hand.

The piano player came alive and pleasant music filled the whole room.