When Papa was growing up at the turn of the century in a very small village in rural northern Italy, education was for the rich. Papa was the son of a poor farmer. He dropped out of school when he was in the fifth grade. He went to work in a factory. For Papa, the world became his school. He was interested in everything. He read all the books, magazines and newspapers he could lay his hands on. Papa's great respect for learning and his sense of wonder about the outside world were carried aeross the sea with him and later passed on to his family.

"There is so much to learn," he'd remind us. "Though we're born stupid, only the stupid remain that way."

To ensure that none of his children ever fell into the trap of self-satisfaction, he insisted that we learm at least one new thing each day. He felt that there could be no fact too insignificant, and that each bit of learning made us more of a person and insured us against boredom and stagnation (停滞不前).

So Papa made a rule. Dinner time was the perfect time for sharing new things we had learned that day. It would never have occurred to us to refuse Papa a request. So when my brother and sisters and I gathered in the bathroom to clean up for dinner, the unavoidable question was, "What did you learn today?" If the answer was nothing, we didn't dare sit at the table without first finding a fact in our much-used encyclopedia (百科全书). "The population of Nepal..." etc.

Now, thoroughly clean and armed with our fact for the day, we were ready for dinner. It was also a time to review the activities of the day. The events we stated, no matter how insignificant, were never taken lightly. Mama and Papa always listened carefully and were ready with some comments, often deep and right to the point. One dialogue ended, and immediately another began. Papa's attention would settle upon one of us.

As a child, when my family took a vacation, we wrote postcards from the Great Smoky Mountains or the Lincoln Memorial to show our friends the new places we had explored. I considered postcards as simply a way to share travels until I came across my grandmother's postcard album.

My three cousins and I unearthed the dark gray leather album with black paper pages. Some of the postcard designs showed pine branches with red bows and announced Merry Christmas, and numerous hearts decorated other cards proclaiming (宣告) Happy Valentine's Day. But most of the postcards had pictures of flowers or birds or had scenes that did not reflect a holiday or a travel destination.

My cousins and I slipped them from the album. The postmarks on the back were from Chicago, where my grandmother had grown up. She later settled in Michigan. Instead of telling about a holiday in Maine, the notes-written in flowing penmanship-were invitations to come to a dinner party or go for a walk the next day. “Why do these postcards ask you to come to tea?” I asked my grandmother.

“Because this is how we communicated before we had a telephone,” she said. “I would send a postcard in the morning mail, and a friend would receive it that afternoon. Then she’d post a reply that arrived in my mail the next morning. ”

“You got mail twice a day？”I said.

“Yes. Remember, we had no phone.”

My cousins and I stared at each other. Connecting by postcards seemed as strange as using a carrier pigeon(信鸽).

I had forgotten about my grandmother's postcards until lockdowns (封城) restricted our trips to see our three granddaughters who live several hours away. While I sent them texts, such messages seemed unreal to me. I wanted to give them something tactile (触觉的) to remind them of my love during the lockdowns.

Remembering my grandmother's postcard album, I bought several sets of cards featuring fun facts about animals and American history. Every few weeks, I’d write notes and mail them. The girls occasionally responded with brief thank-you texts.

Then one day I opened my mailbox and found three hand-addressed envelopes.

I’ll treasure these letters showing the girls’ states of mind and continue to write to them.

My life is a juggling act. I’m a single mother of two sons. I’ve got a busy work schedule and limited resources. But there is one thing I don’t worry about: when I come home at night, dinner is already started. A typical weeknight at my house looks like this:

My youngest child is snapping (咬) the ends off the green beans. My eldest is mixing his secret salad dressing. The babysitter is working on the shopping list for tomorrow’s dinner-the kids want to make roasted noodles. I throw on an apron, send the babysitter home and join my kids in the dinner preparations.

Sounds too far-fetched for your home? It doesn’t have to be. If my family can do it. Any family can. Our meals weren’t always such happy group efforts. Seven years ago, my life was ruined by divorce, leaving me with a six-month-old baby and a very angry seven-year-old. I had no family nearby and very little money. The burden of rebuilding my career as a food writer and publicist while single-parenting my children on my own seemed difficult.

While I did my best to work during my youngest’s nap times, by day’s end I was physically and emotionally exhausted. Typically, I shooed(嘘)the boys out of the kitchen so I could perform yet another chore: making dinner. When I got the meal on the table, I left them to eat alone so I could have five minutes’ peace. Going back to my bedroom, I collapsed onto my bed and cried. I felt horrible about my family life and helpless to change it.

A year passed, but not much improved. At the end of my rope, one evening I gave some vegetable leaves at my youngest, who was then eighteen months old, so he’d leave me alone. It was incredible! He spent ten minutes happily tearing the leaves into little pieces. I was shocked at how he stayed on the task without saying a word.

Suddenly, I saw an opportunity. He wanted to help me, and I surely needed help.

Why not let them cook with me?

I stopped worrying about the mess and we started to laugh a lot.