The Hero in My Eye

For years, putting up Christmas lights had been a family tradition for the Patrick’s household. It was an occasion when they would busily prepare for the celebration of Christmas.

Their Christmas light display was always a highlight of the neighborhood and brought much delight to the whole community. Typically, Anthony would invite the neighbors over as they decorated the Christmas tree in the front yard. Emily, who lived next door and had known Sara’s family for long, often came to admire their wonderland of Christmas lights.

In early December, Anthony would string colorful lights all around their roof until it looked dazzling. On the front lawn, he would blow up a large white Frosty the Snowman and a Rudolph with a glowing red nose. Sara always joined in, along with their warm-hearted neighbors, hanging gifts on the tree and playing “White Christmas” over and over to keep everyone in the spirit.

Yet the bad news came in the midst of the festive mood, before they could finish the Christmas decoration. Anthony fell desperately ill. The symptoms suggested acute heart failure and he was soon admitted to hospital. Sara spent days and nights in the ward, attending to Anthony and praying for his recovery, though the hope was slim. On Christmas Eve, Anthony passed away.

It came as a huge blow to Sara. In the following days, she had to manage the funeral while struggling to figure out a way to cover housing and household expenses, and tackling a seemingly endless list of difficult to-dos. Perhaps hardest of all, she had to persuade herself into accepting the loss of her father. It was too much to take.

When she pulled up to the house after a long day on the go, the only thing that could comfort her were the twinkling Christmas lights, which brought her a spark of hope-it felt as if the brightness of the lights could cancel out some of the darkness of the past days’ misfortune.

Wanting to help, Emily shared their story on a community website.

Touched by their kindness, Sara decided to fulfill the lighting decorations, though Christmas was gone.

Grandma tried to straighten out her fingers.“You know, Ann, I think I am done knitting.” she said.“My fingers just won’t do what I tell them any more.”

I looked at her hands.When I was little, she had taught me how to sew dresses for my dolls and how to embroider (刺绣) the faces of my dolls on the dresses.

But now she can hardly bend her fingers.The doctor said she should keep her hands warm.I made her cups of tea to hold and moved her chair closer to the fire.But it didn’t work.

I wasn’t used to seeing her hands so still.When I came downstairs, her quiet hands made even her voice stay still.I missed her voice more than ever.

I tried to help her find her voice.“Grandma, tell me about when you were a little girl,” I begged, knowing she loved to tell stories.“Tell me about Peti and Zoe.” Peti and Zoe were her brother and sister.“That was so long ago, Ann,” whispered Grandma.“I can barely remember.” But I still remembered her story about Peti cutting off Zoe’s two beautiful long braids (辫子) and then hiding them in the closet.Were those words still moving silently in her head?

Mom was sorting through our clothes for spring.“Ann, take these out to the trash,” Mom said.“There’s no need to keep worn-out clothes.”

I looked sadly at the pile of sweaters and then picked it up.

“Wait,” Grandma said as I walked by her and put the pile downstairs.“Let me see those.”

“Ann, wind the yarn (纱线) of the old sweater into a ball, like this.Then you can use the yarn to knit something new.” Grandma wrapped yarn around and around her fingers, first in one direction and then the other to keep the ball round.

After dinner Grandma fell asleep in her chair.

Mom came downstairs with an old pair of gloves with small holes to add to the pile of sweaters.

Suddenly, the pair of old gloves gave me an idea.

“Your family,” I said, handing the gloves with the faces of Peti and Zoe to Grandma.

8 . 阅读下面材料，根据其内容和所给段落开头语续写两段，使之构成一篇完整的短文。

My dad was always building and repairing things. When he was six, he sawed (锯) the legs of the dining-room table in half so he could sit at it more comfortably. By the time he was ten, he’d formed a bicycle from useless parts. He did the same in his 20s with a used car. Building taught him the value of solving a problem with his own hands.

I was almost seven when one day Dad and I walked by a toy store window. There in the corner was the most unusual doll house I’d ever seen. Little egg-shaped windows were cut into it, with tiny balconies.

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, “isn’t it beautiful? Can you buy it for me as a birthday gift?”

My father looked at the price — $100 — too much in those days. “I think we can’t afford this house,” he joked. I was quite disappointed at the reply and angry. “But I will build one for you,” Dad then added.

Though I had known about Dad’s building skills, I cast a doubtful eye on him and fell into complete silence.

Days later, after the doll house was almost forgotten, Dad, despite all the unfinished projects at home, started making one for me. Night after night, Dad would come home from work very tired, yet he’d always find time to work on the doll house. He cut, sawed, painted, and did all that was necessary. In those days, the small yard was occupied by various instruments that Dad needed and things that Dad produced for later use. Our ears had got used to all the noise. Every morning, I was greeted by something new that Dad had made the previous night. I was so excited. Dad even added a tiny path to the front door.

The doll house was the greatest gift a child could ask for and it kept me company for over ten years.

注意：1．续写词数应为150左右；

2．请按如下格式在答题卡的相应位置作答。

One day, when getting ready for college in another city, I accidentally dropped it on the ground.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

On Christmas day, entering my room, I was truly amazed by what I saw.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The Day Mother Cried

Coming home from school that dark winter’s day so long ago, I was filled with anticipation. I had a new issue of my favorite sports magazine under my arm. Dad was at work, my sister was away, and Mother wouldn’t be home from her new job for an hour.

I was shocked into stillness by what I saw . Mother pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.

I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder. “Mother?” I said. “What’s happened?”

She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, really. I’m going to lose this new job. I can’t type fast enough.”

“But you’ve only been there three for days,” I said. “You’ll catch on.” I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning or doing something important to me. She sobbed in silence .

I felt helpless and out of place. At the age of 16 I still assumed Mother could do anything. To provide enough income for my college two years later, Mother was crazy for ways to save money.

A few months ago, Mother arrived home with an old typewriter. It skipped between certain letters. “That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, immediately after dinner, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. On Monday, she got a job as a typewriter at a radio station. I was not the least bit surprised but she was excited. But on Tuesday Mother looked drawn. I didn’t care honestly.

My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday showed how little I understood the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand.

“I guess we all have to fail sometimes,” Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain. I reached out and put my arms around her.

A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods at half the salary the radio station had offered. “It’s a job I can do,” she said simply.

But the evening practice routine on the old green typewriter continued.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired.

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________