It was a fine summer morning, perfect to be outdoors. Two sisters had been out mushroom picking, and were on their way home with heavy baskets full of mushrooms. They sang songs on the way, and played with each other.

Soon they reached a point where they had to cross a railway track. They did not think twice about crossing it since there was no train coming, and they could not hear any whistle. They slowly climbed the steep railway embankment, taking care not to drop the baskets. They were very near the track and the little sister Mary was about to cross it first when a train whistled in the distance.

Hearing the train coming, Rose the elder sister quickly ran down. She thought that the young one was following her. But as she turned back, she was shocked to see her little sister still up there crossing the track. “Come back here! Run back fast!” she shouted.

Mary seemed not to hear the whistle nor her sister’s cry as she was concentrating on stepping over the track with her little feet, and holding on to the basket. Then she tripped and fell on the track, scattering her mushrooms around.

The engine driver panicked on seeing a girl between the tracks who was on her hands and knees and he blew the horn with all his strength. Poor Mary, who was frightened by the coming danger, froze and didn’t know what to do. When Rose saw the scene, she screamed at the top of her voice for Mary’s attention. Mary noticed that her sister was not around and cried for help.

With the train drawing near, the engine driver grew extremely anxious. As hard as he could, he kept blowing the whistle and started reducing speed. Yet it was not possible for him to stop the heavy train within such a short distance.

Rose wouldn’t watch the tragedy happen before her eyes.

The train rolled over and finally stopped.

From the time I started playing basketball at six years old, my father never missed a game. He would stand beside the basketball field from the beginning to the end and cheer for me and my team. When I was on the team at Trinity College, he would leave work and drive two hours from Massachusetts to the Connecticut campus to see me play. He always stuck around after the game (no matter how long the coach kept us in the locker room) and then turned around and headed home to start his shift at his second job.

Growing up, I played every sport, but basketball really connected me to my father. He was raised in a rough-and-tumble household with four older brothers and one older sister, and playing basketball with them was something he looked forward to. To this day, he still holds basketball records at the high school we both went to. My dad was the person I could ask for feedback on how I played, and the one I could practice with on the little half-court in our backyard.

When I joined a co-ed AAU (Amateur Athletic Union) team at the age of twelve, it was the first time I remember him giving me inspiring talks and telling me that I could hang with the boys and not to be afraid of being small. As I got older, I was always the workhorse of the team and the player who did the dirty work—I had to wear knee pads during my games because I’d scramble(争夺)so hard for the ball—which earned me a role as captain.

The day came soon when I would compete again.

After the game, as usual, I told my father about the game.

In our home, there are two coins apparently pressed by something heavy. One is in my father’s hand, the other mine. Both of them remind us of the history…

Doing things with my father was always fun due to his rich imagination. I don’t recall a time when Dad stood across my path; he always walked beside me, guiding me with his own steps. When, at 10, I announced that I was going to Africa to bring back wild animals, my mother and sisters pointed out my age, the problems of transportation and all such ordinary and unimportant facts.

But not Dad. He brought home books about Africa, train and boat schedules, and even some iron bars which we used to build cages for the animals I was to bring back. When the departure day was approaching and I was becoming anxious, my father brought home a newspaper that told of an accident on the railroad that was to take me to Baltimore. This postponed my trip and, by the time the train tracks were repaired, he and I were off on a new and more exciting project.

When a neighbor’s dog killed my dog Bounce, I was determined to kill that dog. I thought about it day after day, almost making myself ill. “Let’s get it done,” my father stated unexpectedly in a whisper one evening. I followed him, to discover that he had tied the dog. He gave me a gun, and then stepped back for me to do the work. The dog and I looked at each other. He shook his tail to express friendship. Suddenly the gun was too heavy for me to hold and it dropped to the ground. The dog came up and kissed my hand. The three of us walked home together, the dog jumping in front. No word was ever said about what had happened. None was needed.

When President Harding died, the funeral train was scheduled to pass through a town about 20 miles from ours. I wanted desperately to go and see this train, but Mother pointed out that there would be school the next day and that it would be a long trip. That ended the discussion.

But when the day arrived, Dad did not forget.

Dad put two pennies into my hand and asked me to put them on the rails.