I spent most of my teenage years in an old farmhouse in the Durham County countryside. That was more than 30 years ago, but life there dated back to an even earlier era. I spent my summer days doing stoop labor in tobacco fields and my summer evenings shelling (脱粒) peas in the backyard. My fall weekends were often spent cutting wood and splitting logs. Some of my neighbors still had outhouses. We had an indoor antenna (室内天线) which helped us tune into the few television stations we could receive.

Living where we did, we could see three or four other houses from our own, none of them within shouting distance. But we knew our neighbors, some of them elderly, and — mostly because my father wouldn’t let other folks do without when he had enough — we helped them out when they needed it.

Jimmy lived across the street, on the far side of a tobacco field. He was seventy years old and lived alone. He lost his wife two years ago. He had barely supported himself these last couple of years since his body condition was getting even worse. We went to visit him at his home. It was a small wooden cabin with stained windows and a curtain that had been mended countless times. The poor old man would sit in an armchair by the window, holding a faded photo, and with tears in his eyes, recall happy memories of his wife.

One weekend, my father went to check on Jimmy. But a rare heavy snow happened to fall. It was so heavy that he couldn’t get his old truck up Jimmy’s rutted, snow-covered driveway. Nobody could understand what prompted him to slog (跋涉) the 400 yards or so to Jimmy’s house. My brother and I were waiting anxiously at home. After a long time, he came home hastily and told us that Jimmy was sick and out of firewood.

My father asked us if we would like to help.

We knocked on Jimmy’s door, and he greeted us.

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read beneath the long branches of an old willow tree. I was abandoned. Endless quarrels with my family had left me nowhere to go but this desolate corner of the park. As I sat on the bench, recent events began to flash through my mind. Days seemed like months to me recently. No cozy home to stay. No happy memories with family. No considerate family members to talk to. Even the book I was reading was no fun. Not content with life, I had a good reason to frown, for the world was intended to drag me down.

And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, a young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. He stood right in front of me with his head tilted down and said with great excitement, “Look what I found!” In his hand was a flower. What a pitiful sight, its petals were all worn-not enough rain, or too little light. He must have picked the flower from somewhere shady and sunless, just like where I was staying these days. I couldn’t help being self-pitying. Wanting him to take his dead flower away and go off to play, I faked a small smile and then looked away. “Why couldn’t everyone just leave me be!” I thought to myself, upset and gloomy.

But instead of leaving, he sat next to my side and placed the flower to his nose and declared loudly with certainty, “It sure smells pretty and it must be beautiful, too. That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you. ” The weed before me was dying or dead, not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red. But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. So I reached for the flower, and replied, “Just what I need." Again, instead of placing the flower in my hand, he held it mid-air without reason or plan. Curiosity drove me to look into his eyes. Blue as the sea, there is no color or light in his beautiful eyes.

It was then that I noticed for the very first time that the boy could not see: he was blind.

For all of those times I myself had been blind towards the world around me.

At noon that day, I drove back to my house after the performance. Just as I entered the living room, I heard a gentle sound coming from the bedroom upstairs—it was the sound of my favorite violin.

“Thief!”

I dashed upstairs. Sure enough, as expected, a boy of about 12 years old was petting my violin. The boy had messy hair and a thin face, his oversized coat seemingly filled with something. At first glance, I found a new pair of shoes missing. It seemed that he was surely a thief.

Then, I saw his eyes full of fear and despair. My anger was immediately replaced by a smile, I asked, “Are you Mr. Ram’s nephew, Michael? I’m his housekeeper. Two days ago, I heard his nephew living in the countryside will come. It must be you. You’re really like him!”

On hearing my words, the boy was first astonished, but then quickly said, “Has my uncle gone out? I think I’d better first go out for a walk and visit him again in a while.”

I nodded and asked the boy who was preparing to put down the violin, “Do you like to play the violin so much?”

“Yes, but I’m so poor that I can’t afford it,” the boy replied.

“Then, I give this violin to you.” The boy looked at me questioningly, but he picked up the violin. Going out to the living room, he suddenly saw on the wall my huge color photo I performed in the Sydney Opera House. He involuntarily trembled for a moment and ran out without looking back.

I was sure that the boy had understood what happened because no one would decorate the living room with the housekeeper’s photo.

A few years later, I was invited to be a judge at a music competition of senior high school students.

After the competition, “Michael” ran to me, holding a violin box.