1 . One person’s happiness causes a chain reaction that benefits not only their friends, but their friends’ friends, and their friends’ friends’ friends. The effect lasts for up to one year. The opposite, interestingly, is not the case: Sadness does not spread through social networks as strongly as happiness. Happiness appears to love company more so than misery.

Focusing on 4,739 individuals, Christakis and Fowler, who co-authored this study, observed more than 50,000 social and family ties and analyzed the spread of happiness throughout this group. The researchers found that when an individual becomes happy, a friend living within a mile experiences a 25 percent increased chance of becoming happy. A co-resident spouse (配偶) experiences an 8 percent increased chance, siblings (兄弟姐妹) living within one mile have a 14 percent increased chance, and for next-door neighbors, 34 percent. But the real surprise came with indirect relationships. Again, while an individual becoming happy increases his friend’s chances, a friend of that friend experiences a nearly 10 percent chance of increased happiness, and a friend of that friend has a 5.6 percent increased chance.

The researchers also found that, contrary to what your parents taught you, popularity does lead to happiness. People in the center of their network groups are the most likely people to become happy, and then there are chances that increase to the extent that the people surrounding them also have lots of friends. However, becoming happy does not help migrate a person from the network fringe (外围) to the center. Happiness spreads through the network without changing its structure.

“Imagine a bird’s eye view of a backyard party,” Fowler explains. “You’ll see people in groups at the center, and others on the fringe. The happiest people tend to be the ones in the center. But someone on the fringe who suddenly becomes happy, say through a particular exchange, doesn’t suddenly move into the center of the group. He simply stays where he is—only now he has a far more satisfying sense of well-being.”

Next time, if you’re happy and you know it, thank your friends—and their friends. And while you’re at it, their friends’ friends. But if you’re sad, hold the blame.

2 . Eight months after my father died, I saw some letters on top of my mother’s coffee table. They were tied with a silk ribbon and addressed to her decades ago in my father’s neat handwriting. I couldn’t imagine my serious father ever writing anything like love letters.

“Would you like me to read them to you?” Mom asked with a hint of a smile.

The letters were written in 1974 over the course of a month when my father traveled to Italy to care for his beloved, sick mother, leaving his wife and me, their newborn daughter, behind in Toronto, the city my parents called home after immigrating to Canada from Italy in 1956.

Growing up, my father was my hero and protector, but he was also a man of few words, part of a generation of immigrant men who worked hard for a better life.

I sat back while my mother read his letters to me, and thought, “Who is this guy?” My father used endearing terms I had never heard him say. He referred to my mother as “my dearesr” and “my companion” who was always in his thoughts. In each letter, he enclosed a Canadian one-dollar bill for me and declared, “You and your mother are my life.”

As children, we assume we know everything about our parents. But, sometimes, we find out that they were and are people with various facets.

My father was proud and stubborn, and he married a woman who was his equal in that regard. During their 58-year marriage, their stubbornness often led to conflict. So it was bittersweet to hear my father’s youthful sentiments read aloud by my elderly mother with a wistful (留恋的) tone. I knew she was thinking about what could have been and what had been once upon a time. After she finished reading the letters, I held them in my hands and examined them like they were fossils. Although a man I knew as economical with his thoughts, he had filled the front and back of several pages.

These letters are only part of their correspondence. My mother wrote back to my father. One day she will read those letters to me, she’s assured me. And just as with my father, they might help me discover another dimension of a parent I never knew before.

3 . My mother and sister had gone through Grandma’s belongings after her memorial service and decided on the sewing machine for me. I wasn’t sure if I was the right person for it, though. I hadn’t sewn since taking a class in high school. This would take some experimenting.

I opened the built-in drawer to find Grandma’s old pieces of thread. I held her tomato-shaped pincushion(针垫)and thought of all the memories wrapped up in this machine. Grandma had become a tailoress(女裁缝) out of necessity. With four small children to clothes, he’d quickly learned how to sew almost everything they needed. For over 30 years, Grandma kept up with her sewing. She made matching Easter dresses for my sister and me and costumes for our school festivals. She was always in search of a new project, whether it was teaching our neighbors or sewing dresses for the homeless. But for the last several years of her life, dementia(痴呆) had left a shy and silent woman in place of the strong opinionated loving grandmother I’d known.

To honor Grandma’s memory, I wanted a project to help people the way she had. With the stay-at-home order in place because of Covid-19, I certainly had the time. So I dug out Grandma’s machine to sew masks, and read up on how to sew. I turned on my computer to research how to get the machine going again. After hours of digging through old black-and-white handbooks and sewing lessons online, I operated the machine on more time. I held my breath and pressed down on the pedal. Hurrah! It worked! In no time, my fingers were flying, steadily moving material under the very cooperative needle. When I sewed enough masks for my family, I kept going. I delivered nearly 500 masks to a hard-hit hospital in the area. Quite a big job for an old sewing machine.

A staff member met me outside to receive the donation. “Thank you,” she said, not knowing that any thanks for my efforts belonged to Grandma, who provided the inspiration.

4 . While I tried hard to fight against my terrible cancer, my husband passed away due to a heart attack. I was so sad. My mother came to stay with me. I wondered what I'd do with my 86-year-old mother.

A week after she arrived, I asked, “Mom, why don't you crochet (用钩针编织) anymore?" She said she didn't know what she could make. I advised, "How about flowers? We can share them with others." Mom nodded. While she worked, I offered assistance. Before long, Mom crocheted many flowers and we sent them to friends and cancer patients. In the next few weeks, several thank-you notes arrived in our maillbox.

Later, Mom wanted to crochet the butterfly. She created one and sent it to my friend Yvonne. She loved it and attached it to her hairclip. One day, she called, "Some volunteers were sent to Haiti to help with the disaster there. Could you send me another butterfly? I wanted some volunteers to bring the butterfly to a girl in Haiti to offer her warmth and hope." Then we sent another one to Yvonne and she again attached it to a hairclip. The hairclip was later brought to a girl in Haiti. The girl, called Mary, had felt sad and hopeless after suffering from the disaster. But when she received and wore the butterfly hairclip, her face brightened. And her bright eyes showed more hope for the future.

I was excited to know that Mom's creativity was encouraging people like this girl. But some people who didn't know us well thought it was a waste of time crocheting these things. Surely, I couldn't see eye to eye with these people on my mom's efforts of crocheting. Her project was meaningful. It made my mother have a purpose in life. And helping her carry out her project, I felt I led a richer and more hopeful life myself.