1 . I never knew anyone who’d grown up in Jackson without being afraid of Mrs. Calloway our librarian. She ran Jackson’s Carnegie Library absolutely by herself. SILENCE in big black letters was on signs hung everywhere. If she thought you were dressed improperly, she sent you straight back home to change your clothes. I was willing;I would do anything to read.

My mother was not afraid of Mrs. Calloway. She wished me to have my own library card to check out books for myself, She took me in to introduce me. “Eudora is nine years old and has my permission to read any book she wants from the shelves, children or adults,” Mother said.

Mrs. Calloway made her own rules about books. You could not take back a book to the library on the same day you`d taken it out;it made no difference to her that you’d read every word in it and needed another to start. You could take out two books at a time and two only. So two by two, I read library books as fast as I could go, rushing them home in the basket of my bicycle. From the minute I reached our house, I started to read. I knew this was extreme happiness, knew it at the time.

My mother shared this feeling of mine. Now, I think of her as reading so much of the time while doing something else. I remember her reading a magazine while taking the part of the Wolf in a game of “Little Red Riding Hood” with my brother’s two daughters. She’d just look up at the right time, long enough to answer– in character –“The better to eat you with, my dear,” and go back to her place in the magazine article.

2 . I never knew anyone who’d grown up in Jackson without being afraid of Mrs. Calloway our librarian. She ran Jackson’s Carnegie Library absolutely by herself. SILENCE in big black letters was on signs hung everywhere. If she thought you were dressed improperly, she sent you straight back home to change your clothes. I was willing;I would do anything to read.

My mother was not afraid of Mrs. Calloway. She wished me to have my own library card to check out books for myself, She took me in to introduce me. “Eudora is nine years old and has my permission to read any book she wants from the shelves, children or adults,” Mother said.

Mrs. Calloway made her own rules about books. You could not take back a book to the library on the same day you`d taken it out;it made no difference to her that you’d read every word in it and needed another to start. You could take out two books at a time and two only. So two by two, I read library books as fast as I could go, rushing them home in the basket of my bicycle. From the minute I reached our house, I started to read. I knew this was extreme happiness, knew it at the time.

My mother shared this feeling of mine. Now, I think of her as reading so much of the time while doing something else. I remember her reading a magazine while taking the part of the Wolf in a game of “Little Red Riding Hood” with my brother’s two daughters. She’d just look up at the right time, long enough to answer– in character –“The better to eat you with, my dear,” and go back to her place in the magazine article.

3 . I never knew anyone who’d grown up in Jackson without being afraid of Mrs. Calloway our librarian. She ran Jackson’s Carnegie Library absolutely by herself. SILENCE in big black letters was on signs hung everywhere. If she thought you were dressed improperly, she sent you straight back home to change your clothes. I was willing;I would do anything to read.

My mother was not afraid of Mrs. Calloway. She wished me to have my own library card to check out books for myself, She took me in to introduce me. “Eudora is nine years old and has my permission to read any book she wants from the shelves, children or adults,” Mother said.

Mrs. Calloway made her own rules about books. You could not take back a book to the library on the same day you`d taken it out;it made no difference to her that you’d read every word in it and needed another to start. You could take out two books at a time and two only. So two by two, I read library books as fast as I could go, rushing them home in the basket of my bicycle. From the minute I reached our house, I started to read. I knew this was extreme happiness, knew it at the time.

My mother shared this feeling of mine. Now, I think of her as reading so much of the time while doing something else. I remember her reading a magazine while taking the part of the Wolf in a game of “Little Red Riding Hood” with my brother’s two daughters. She’d just look up at the right time, long enough to answer — in character — “The better to eat you with, my dear,” and go back to her place in the magazine article.

THE STONE IN THE ROAD

Once upon a time there was a king who often thought, “Nothing good can come to a nation whose people only complain and expect others to solve their problems.” One day, he had an idea.

Early one morning, the king disguised himself and went to a local village. He placed a large stone in the middle of the main street and hid gold coins under the stone. Then he hid behind a huge maple tree and watched.

The first person down the street was a milkman with his cart. He crashed into the stone, spilling the milk everywhere. “What fool put this stone here?” he shouted. He picked himself up and angrily went away.

After a while, a group of women came along, each balancing a pot of water on her head. One woman tripped over the stone and her water pot went crashing to the ground. She picked herself up and limped away in tears. Neither she nor her friends thought about moving the stone out of the road.

The king watched all day as many people complained about the stone, but he found nobody making an attempt to move it. The king was in despair. “Is there no one in this village who feels any responsibility to keep their neighbours from harm?”

Just then, the king saw a young girl coming along. She was the daughter of a local farmer. She had been working all day and was very tired. But when she saw the stone, she said to herself, “This stone is a danger to anyone who comes down the street after dark. I’ll move it out of the way.”

The girl pushed the stone with all her might. After a great deal of effort, she finally succeeded in moving it to the side of the street. Imagine her surprise when she saw the gold coins where the stone had been!

Just then, the king stepped out from behind the tree. “Oh sir,” the girl said, “does this gold belong to you? If not, we surely must find the owner, for he will certainly miss it.”

The king said, “My dear, the gold is mine. I put it in the road and moved the stone over it. Now the gold is yours, because you are the only person who has learnt the lesson I wanted to teach my people.”

6 . Ever since her childhood, Ginni, now 71, has had a deep love for travel. Throughout her career (职业) as a professional dancer, she toured in the UK, but always longed to explore further When she retired from dancing and her sons eventually flew the nest, she decided it was time to take the plunge.

7 . Every time I stare at the rows of jars filled with my parents’ homemade tomato sauce, I wonder: “Should I really use one?”

I have been keeping these jars like precious treasures. No matter how hard I try to find alternatives, nothing compares. Store-bought sauce? It just doesn’t taste right. Even if I try to recreate it, it will never taste the same.

While growing up, I hated the tomato season. My parents would use the basement to ripen the tomatoes they had collected locally in September. Like the other Italian families in the area, we would then take them to the garage when they were ripe enough. There they were cleaned and boiled.

This tradition was hard to carry on when my father got ill. After being diagnosed with cancer in 2019, he spent most of his time in hospital. In September that year he came home, and on the weekend we decided to continue the tradition. I have glorious memories of that day as we once again made the sauce. It was a beautiful but short-lived moment. My father died soon after.

8 . Rachael Blackmore walked along the track the evening before the Grand National. The jockey (赛马师) was determined, and she would fight to the last bit of her strength to win.

But the way for her to be a jockey was not easy. She grew up a farmer’s daughter. “Being a professional jockey was something I had never thought of,” she said. She studied science at university. But through all that time she was riding because “I just love riding. And I love winning too.” When finishing college at 25, she assumed her riding days were over because “I had to get a real job.”

On the day of the Grand National, she thought her horse, Minella, would take well to the fences. But the race was dominated by Jett at first. Rachael did not give up. It was with the last two fences to jump when Jett was fading. “I was beside him and Minella seemed to grab the opportunity.”

9 . When reading, my mother likes to slice a paragraph or a sentence out and attach it to the wall of her kitchen. She picks boring sentences that puzzle me. But I prefer copying favorite bright lines into a journal in soft, gray No. 2 pencil, word by word.

She doesn’t know any of this. There’s nothing shocking: for our chatting. We seldom begin certain conversations though we talk on the phone weekly, sometimes making each other laugh so hard that I choke and she cries. But what we don’t say could fill up rooms. Fights with my father. Small failures in school. Anything that really upsets us.

My mother has never told me “I love you, Lisa.” — as if the four-word absence explains who I am — so I carry it with me, like a label on me. The last time she almost spoke the words was two years ago, when she called to tell me a friend had been in hospital. I said, “I love you, Mom.” She stopped for a while and then said, “Thank you.” I haven’t said it since, but I’ve wondered why my mother doesn’t until I’ve found a poem that supplies words for the blank spaces I try to understand in our conversations:

Don’t fill up on bread. I say absent-mindedly. The servings here are huge.

My son, middle-aged, says: Did you really just say that to me?

What he doesn’t know is that when we’re walking together, I desire to reach for his hand.

It’s humble, yet heartbreaking. After copying it down in my journal, I emailed it to mom, adding “This poem makes me think of you.” My mother doesn’t read poetry — or at least, she doesn’t tell me, and I felt nervous clicking “Send”.

She never mentioned the poem. But the next time I went home for vacation, I noticed something new in the kitchen fixed to an antique board: the poem. The board hung above the heater, the warmest spot in the kitchen. The poem still hangs there. Neither my mother nor I have ever spoken about it.

10 . World War II had started, and British ships were always watching for German submarines called U-boats. The ship Ben Lomond had left Cape Town, South Africa, with a crew of 55, including a young officer named Poon Lim. On November 23, 1942, Ben Lomond was attacked by a U-boat. Within minutes the ship was sinking. Poon Lim grabbed a life jacket and leaped over the side. He swam rapidly away from the ship in case it exploded. Sure enough, it let out a large boom and sank beneath the waves.

Poon Lim struggled in the water for two hours. Then he saw an empty raft (筏), swam to it, and climbed aboard. He found a few cans of crackers, a water jug, some flares, and a flashlight, which could be enough supplies for about a month. Day after day Poon Lim had his few crackers and a couple of sips of water. He searched the horizon for ships. Twice he leaped up to shout and wave when he saw help coming. Once he saw a freight ship. It passed him. At a later time, he saw a United States Navy plane. It flew low over the raft but then disappeared. Still later a U-boat spotted him but for some reason left him alone. Poon Lim knew he needed to stay strong. He couldn’t get much exercise on an eight-foot-square raft, but he could swim circling the raft, a couple of times a day. Soon his food and water ran low. He knew that drinking seawater would make him sick, so he tore off the canvas cover on his life jacket and set it out to catch rainwater. Then he took apart the flashlight and used a wire inside to make a fishhook.

For months Poon Lim drifted, catching fish and sometimes birds. One time he even caught a shark. Finally, after 133 days, he saw a boat. Three sailors in a small sailboat picked him up and took him to Belém, a city on the coast of Brazil. Poon Lim had crossed the Atlantic Ocean. No one ever had survived longer on a raft at sea. Poon Lim received many honors, including Britain’s highest award. A booklet of his survival methods was put into every British life raft. But when Poon was interviewed, he said “I hope no one will ever have to break that record.”