English was always easy for me, but that changed the first day I walked into Mrs. Johnson’s class. I’d heard rumors from former students that she was strict and demanding that her class was impossible to pass, and that I was crazy for even wanting to take it. Consequently, I was extremely nervous.

On the first day of school, Mrs. Johnson stood in the front of her classroom, smiling, while she waited for the class to settle down. Her long, curly, red hair and clear blue eyes made her seem full of life. You could tell she had so much knowledge that it just wanted to overflow and spill (溅出) all over the floor.

“This course is Advanced Writing Course,” she said. “I’m not exaggerating when I say this class will be difficult, but if you trust me, I’ll guide you.”

She explained her grading system was different from what we were used to and that we’d better forget about the so-called good grades we had got before. She guaranteed that our writing would improve once we understood the new writing skills which she would teach us.

“Writing is an art,” she said. “You can’t just put words on a piece of paper and sign your name on top of it. Instead, what you put your name on is out there to be judged.”

I’d never thought about it that way. Every time I rushed to finish an essay and wrote my name on top, it was still my writing, my words, out there for everyone to read.

She hoped that if we wanted to be good writers, we had to remember writing really was an art, and that it might take a long time to perfect.

Even though I thought I was doing fine in her class, my writing grade was terrible. I began to doubt myself and even thought about quitting the writing class. That was when I realized I needed to find out what I could do to improve my grade.

So I went to Mrs. Johnson’s office after class.

The after-class instructions continued for months until the Year Writing Contest came.

2 . My childhood was mostly silent. It was full of love, laughter, anger and sadness like any family, but these things occurred _______. The knowledge instilled (灌输) in me was _______ by watching my mother as she moved through her silent world.

I loved to watch her hands, which were always _______ me things by showing me how, as she watered, weeded and dug her garden. The hands were rough with cuts and _______, but filled with wisdom.

Sometimes, those same hands spoke to me literally. Basic _______ language started in the family quite suddenly but then _______ just as quickly. My mother _______ that lip-reading was quicker. She would look at me intently and _______ words such as, “watch this” or “this is how”, or “never touch this plant”. We often went for hours like this, _______ a word spoken and yet we were talking in various ways the whole time.

As I grew up, I began to ________ why my mother spent so much time in her garden. Her deafness had come during an era of little tolerance for diversity, and much ________ of disability. The world outside was demanding and unforgiving while her garden was full of kindness and ________. For her it was the only place under her ________.

My mother’s knowledge is deeply ________ inside me. I now have gardening hands, with cuts and scars, and cherish their ________. With any luck my kids will have them one day, too.

3 . One summer night, a boy felt himself lifted from bed by his father. Dazed with sleep, he saw stars flashing across the heavens. “What is it?” the child whispered. “Shooting stars. They come every year in August.” Decades have passed, but I remember that night still, because I was the fortunate boy whose father believed a new experience was more important than an unbroken night’s sleep.

Some parents like my father have the gift of opening doors for their children. This art of adding dimensions to a child brings the reward: the marvelous moment when the spark bursts into a flame that will burn brightly on its own one day. At a Golf Association tournament, a ten-year-old girl played creditably. “How long have you been interested in golf?” someone asked. “I got it for my ninth birthday,” she said.“ Your father gave you a set of clubs?” “No,” she said, “he gave me golf.”

I have a friend, a psychiatrist, who says there are two types of people: those who think of life as a privilege and those who think of it as a problem. The first type is enthusiastic and energetic. The other type is suspicious and self-centered. And he adds, “Tell me about your childhood and I can tell you which type you are likely to be.”

The real purpose, then, of trying to open doors for children is to build eager and outgoing attitudes, which is the most valuable legacy we can pass on to the next generation. But why don’t we work harder at it? Probably because sometimes we don’t have the awareness or the selflessness or the energy. And yet, for those of us who care what becomes of our children, the challenge is always there but the opportunities also come repeatedly. Many years have passed since that night. And next year, when August comes with its shooting stars, my son will be seven.