1 . In our family, the presents we gave one another were almost always homemade. I thought that was the definition of a gift: something you made for someone else. We made all our Christmas gifts: piggy banks from old bottles, and puppets from retired socks. It didn’t seem like a hardship to me; it was something special.

My father loves wild strawberries, so for Father’s Day my mother would almost always make him strawberry cakes. While we kids were responsible for the berries, we each got an old jar and spent the Saturday before the celebration in the fields, filling it as more ended up in our mouths. Finally, we returned home and poured them out on the kitchen table to sort out the bugs. I’m sure we missed some, but Dad never mentioned the extra protein.

In fact, he thought that was the best possible present, or so he had us convinced. It was a gift that could never be bought. As children raised by strawberries, we were probably unaware that the gift of berries was from the fields themselves, not from us. Our gift was time, attention, care and “red” fingers.

Gifts from the earth or from each other establish a particular relationship, a duty of sorts to give, to receive, and to exchange. The field gave to us, we gave to my dad, and we tried to give back to the strawberries. When the berry season was done, the plants would send out its red runners to make new plants. So I would weed out little fields of ground where the runners touched down. Sure enough, tiny little roots would emerge from the runner and by the end of the season there were even more plants, ready to bloom under the next strawberry season. No person taught us this — the strawberries showed us. Because they had given us a gift, an ongoing relationship opened between us.

4 . As ninety approached, many things had changed for Mom except one: She wanted a big birthday party. But because of a fractured (断裂的) hip just 3 weeks before, we could only arrange a small one at the rehab (康复中心) instead of giving her a big celebration in a restaurant.

Mom’s husband, Fred, was also in the facility, admitted to the dementia (痴呆) unit prior to her admission. Mom visited him a few times each week, but these visits distressed her because he was usually asleep and did not respond to her. She often left in tears and was sad for days.

On the day of the party, we decorated the dining room with balloons, and a sheet cake was decorated in her favorite colour. Surrounded by her loved ones, Mom was overwhelmed with happiness. Only one other person could have made this day happier: Fred, her husband of thirty years. Because the party was held in the nursing facility, we had taken him to the party, too. When an attendant brought him into the room, Mom shouted with joy. We positioned them side by-side in their wheelchairs. He sat there with his eyes closed, unresponsive, and the party went on.

A short time later, there was a buzz in the room: “Fred’s awake!” And he was! Mom spoke to him, and he responded. He said, “I love you.” He ate the birthday cake and ice cream. He stayed for the rest of the party. After I sent him back to his nursing unit, the remaining guests were still talking about Fred and his miraculous awakening, just in time to share his wife’s ninetieth birthday. Mom was very happy, crying that his presence was the best gift of all.

God works in strange ways. We were able to give Mom a lovely celebration after all, and with her husband at her side, a happy birthday indeed.

7 . Holly, my wife,cannot cook. She is capable of the process of cooking, but she cannot cook in the same way that an octopus (章鱼) cannot ride a bike.

One time, I walked into the kitchen to find Holly making toast. I generally feel safe eating toast that Holly has made because it boasts nothing but few steps. But this toast was a bit thin and tough.

“It’s a bit thin and tough,” I said. “What bread is this?”

“It’s the same bread we always have,” Holly said, pointing to the bag.

“Oh, my God!” I cried. “It has a best-by date of January 2009.”

“It was in the freezer,”Holly said. “The best-by date doesn’t count if the product is frozen.”

“But still there is a limit for frozen food,” I responded, holding up a slice of bread which felt like a stone.

“No, there isn’t,” she replied. “I once saw a show where scientists found a rare animal frozen in ice for millions of years. They melted it, cooked it, and ate it.”

“That is why it is called a show,” I cried.

“You never appreciate anything I do,” replied Holly.

“That’s not true,” I said. “I appreciate everything you do. You’re a beautiful, kind, thoughtful person. But if I ordered a hamburger at McDonald’s and they handed it to me, saying, ‘Sorry, it was a bit tough because the bread had been stored for nearly 10 years,’ I would assume there was something wrong with the restaurant staff.”

“It would probably be good with me,” responded Holly, holding out her hands.“But you would never know whether the guy at McDonald’s spent an hour in the kitchen making it for you and burned his thumb on a pan.”

“Fine,” I sighed, raising it to my mouth. “I’ll taste it.” Taking the brown and yellow bread, I had a strong burning feeling like having a mouthful ofred ants. I swallowed with effort as my eyes began to water.

“Yes,” said Holly. “We were out of cream, so I used pepper from Sichuan, China instead.”

8 . Sarah was not an early riser. But what made the annoying early morning hours bearable was the comforting smell of fresh coffee floating in the air. Her favorite coffee shop was just a few minutes away from her apartment.

One sunny morning, Sarah rushed to get dressed. Having a job interview, she felt anxious, afraid to be late. She grabbed her car key, dashed out of the door and made her way to her familiar coffee shop as usual. As she joined the line of cars at the drive-through, the smell of roasted coffee beans and the thought of the first taste of coffee were her little daily luxury. The line inched forward, and soon, Sarah found herself at the drive-through window. She reached for her purse to pay, but before she could hand over her credit card, the coffee shop assistant smiled and said, “Your coffee has been covered by the car ahead of you.” Sarah was taken aback. “Really?” she asked, feeling astonished and grateful. The assistant nodded. The unexpected act of kindness put a smile on her face, making her upcoming interview feel a little relaxing.

As she exited the drive-through, Sarah glanced in her rear view mirror (后视镜) at the next car approaching the coffee shop window. An idea began to come into her mind. Maybe she could do the same and brighten someone else’s morning. She decided to return to the coffee shop. Inside, she approached the cashier and said, “I’d like to pay for the coffee of the person in the car behind me.” The assistant smiled and nodded again.

As Sarah eventually left the coffee shop, Sarah couldn’t help but wonder how the next driver would react. A wave of satisfaction washed over Sarah as she witnessed the continuation of the coffee chain. She knew she had just initiated a chain of generosity and kindness.

10 . When I woke up, I made myself breakfast, sat and listened to the traffic. Some of my friends asked me how I could stand living somewhere so noisy. It’s true that there’s always some kinds of noise in my neighborhood, but to me, these are the sounds of life.

It was Saturday morning, so I decided to go to the park. The taxi was the fastest way to go but I took the bus instead.

When you ride the bus, you get to see so much more of the city. It can be kind of loud on the bus, with some people talking on their phones, some people chatting with their friends, and others playing music. It’s just like the traffic’s sounds, though the noise on the bus represents people working, relaxing and living.

Once I got to the park, I picked a bench over near the play area where kids played while their parents sat nearby. I could see and hear almost everything from there. People­watching is one of my favorite things to do. However, I like listening even better. The only problem is that there’s so much to see and hear in the park!

Usually, I like to close my eyes. That way, I can pay more attention to the sounds and not get distracted by what I see. With my eyes closed, I could pick out parts of two old men’s conversation. One of them was telling the other about something his grandson said. I couldn’t hear the rest, but it must be hilarious because his friend’s laugh was so loud.

When I’m old, I hope that I will also have a friend who will sit in the park with me, and who will enjoy listening to the sounds of the city as much as I do.