“Bang. . !” Sara pushed the door open. She threw her school bag onto the floor and called out, “I’m home!” No answer. The house was silent. It sounded empty, but she knew it wasn’t. Her mum and dad were working upstairs.

Sara got a glass of orange juice, went into the conservatory (玻璃房) and sat down in her favourite chair. The garden was still in the dark afternoon. On one side, her mum’s garden was neat and tidy with boring short grass, boring straight flowerbeds and boring straight paths. But on the other side, Sara’s Nature Garden looked wild and exciting with big dead sunflowers and tall grasses.

“Nobody is interested in me. Mum and dad only think about their work,” she thought sadly.

Then she recalled: One month earlier, she learned in a magazine that many dogs were abandoned because their owners got bored with them; One hour earlier, she saw a cute dog wagging its tail and licking her friend’s face.

Sara knew today was special. Today things were changing. She couldn’t wait any longer. It’s time to talk to her parents.

So Sara got up from her chair and climbed all the way to the loft (阁楼). “Mum, I want a talk.” said Sara. “Just a minute!” Her mum clicked on the keyboard, took off her glasses and turned to her daughter. Sara coughed, took a deep breath, and told her mum that she wanted a dog. “No, Sara. That’s impossible,” her mum said firmly. Sara went to her father but got the same answer. She rushed into her room angrily and slammed the door shut.

Later, Sara’s mum knocked at the door and went in. “Darling, we know this is important to you. You can have a dog if you take the responsibility. But look at your Nature Garden, your school bag, your bedroom! What a mess! Do you think you can take good care of a dog?” said her mum.

Sara was lost in thought and decided to make some changes.

With the dog’s company, Sara began her busy but joyful life.

Whenever I spread marmalade (橘子酱), I am reminded of my mother, a five-foot-tall angel who even befriended a skunk (臭鼬).

One day, while she was busy picking beans in the backyard, she came across a skunk no more than a meter away. The skunk’s embarrassment was evident as he had undoubtedly been rummaging (乱翻) through the garbage. He still had a marmalade jar stuck on his nose. Mom took pity on him. Instead of worrying the creature would spray something smelly all over her and the beans, she smiled compassionately at the little thing and extended a helping hand. Kneeling on the ground, she inched across the grass, reached out, and twisted the jar—very carefully.

The jar slipped off. The skunk nodded a thank-you before slipping away into the woods at the back of the garden. Obviously, there was no spraying incident, thanks to my remarkable mother. She repeated this tale numerous times, always calling the skunk Marmalade. However, that was not the end of the story. Three summers later, when I was about twelve, another encounter occurred.

It was a rainy morning, and both my mother and father had gone to work. My friend Rob came over to play, and we decided to run the electric train in my room. Suddenly, a scratching sound emerged from the attic (阁楼). Rob assumed that it might be some kind of animal. Curiosity got the better of us, and we ventured towards the source of the sound.

I cautiously opened the attic door in the hall. The noise ceased abruptly. I climbed up the stairs, Rob following my lead. There behind the toy box near the chimney stood the animal—black with a distinct white stripe down his back. Was he scared and trembling? I believe so, at least that’s what I remember. Instinctively, I retreated, fearing the potential spray or bites from the creature. “Hey, Rob,” I whispered urgently, “It’s a skunk. Let’s go to the kitchen and figure out a way to get him out of here.”

In the cupboard, several paper cups and a jar of marmalade caught our sight.

Rob and I followed the skunk as he ate his way down the stairs.

The economic downturn caught us. We sold our ranch and moved to town, Mother had decided to open a day nursery. She had had no training, but that didn’t stand in her way. She sent away for correspondence courses in child care, did the lessons and in six months formally qualified herself for the task. It wasn’t long before she had a full enrollment and a waiting list. I accepted all this as a perfectly normal instance of Mother’s ability. But neither the nursery nor the motel my parents bought later had provided enough income to send my sister and me to college. In two years I would be ready for college. Time was running out, and Mother was anxious for ways to save money. It was clear that Dad could do no more than he was doing already — farming 80 acres in addition to holding a full-time job. A few months after we’d sold the motel, Mother arrived home with a used green typewriter.

“That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, as soon as the table was cleared and the dishes were done, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. Soon I heard Mother got a job at the radio station. I was not the least bit surprised, or impressed. But she was wild with joy.

Monday, after her first day at work, I could see that the excitement was gone.

Tuesday, Dad made dinner and cleaned the kitchen. Mother stayed in her sewing room, practicing. “Is Mother all right?” I asked Dad. “She’s having a little trouble with her typing,” he said. “She needs to practice. I think she’d appreciate it if we all helped out a bit more. You might just remember that she is working primarily so you can go to college.”

Wednesday, I arrived home earlier and was surprised by what I saw — Mother was crying in the corner of the couch.

Mother took another job earning half, but the evening practice sessions on the old green typewriter continued.