Two things changed my life: my mother and a white plastic bike basket. I have thought long and hard about it and it’s true. I would be a different person if my mom hadn’t turned a silly bicycle accessory(配件) into a life lesson I carry with me today.

We had to earn our allowance by doing chores around the house. I can still remember how long it took to polish the legs of our coffee table. My brothers can no doubt remember hours spent cleaning the house. Like the two little girls growing up at the White House, we made our own beds (no one left the house until that was done) and picked up after ourselves. We had to keep track of our belongings, and if something was lost, it was not replaced.

It was summer and, one day, my mother drove me to the bike shop to get a tire fixed — and there it was in the window. White, shiny, plastic and decorated with flowers, the basket winked at me and I knew — I knew — I had to have it.

“It’s beautiful,” my mother said when I pointed it out to her. “What a neat basket.”

I tried to hold off at first. I played it cool for a short while. But then I guess I couldn’t stand it any longer: “Mom, please can I please, please get it? I’ll do extra chores for as long as you say. I’ll do anything, but I need that basket. I love that basket. Please, Mom. Please?”

I was desperate.

“You know,” she said, gently rubbing my back while we both stared at what I believed was the coolest thing ever, “If you save up you could buy this yourself.”

“By the time I make enough it’ll be gone!”

“Maybe Roger here could hold it for you,” she smiled at Roger, the bike guy.

“He can’t hold it for that long, Mom. Someone else will buy it. Please, Mom, please?”

“There might be another way,” she said.

And so our paying plan unfolded.

A few days later, A neighborhood girl appeared with the exact same basket.

I was eight years old and lived in Toowoomba, Australia in 1950. My mother was in great pain from polio (小儿麻痹症). She wished to visit specialists in London.

The day before we boarded the ship, my father said goodbye to his five-year-old Australian cattle dog, Spider, who was loved by us all. My father’s friend Sandy was to be his guardian while we were overseas.

Six weeks later, Sandy told my father that Spider had run away. I would always remember my father’s sad face when he read the news. Sandy had advertised in the newspaper again and again, but Spider was never found. It seemed Spider just kept running and searching for us. My mother thought Spider would be killed. But our family thought that Dad held a secret hope that Spider was still alive.

We sailed back to Australia two years later and re-established our home in Toowoomba. My father immediately began his own search for Spider. However, many false calls and information meant that a huge atmosphere of disappointment hung over our home.

One cold Saturday morning eight months after our return, my father had a call from Gin Gin, 375 kilometers from Toowoomba. An elderly lady told my father she was just catching sight of a dog looking like Spider in her old farm.

That was enough for my father to stop my homework. My mother said to him, “Ian, this has to stop. You will be driving miles in the bush!”But we set off in the end.

Five and a half hours later, we arrived. The elderly lady invited us into an old bush kitchen for tea. My father was anxious to see the yellow dog. So we followed her to the old farm.

Sadly, she then told my father that the dog hadn’t been around. My father had a strange look in his eyes.

My father put two fingers in his mouth and did his special whistle for Spider.

In the evening, we arrived home with Spider.