My dad,George,only had an eighth grade education. A quiet man,he didn’t understand my world of school activities. From age 14,he worked. And his dad,Albert,took the money my dad earned and used it to pay family expenses.

I didn’t really understand his world either：He was a livestock trucker,and I thought that I would surpass(超过)anything he had accomplished by the time I walked across the stage at high school graduation.

Summers in the mid-70s were spent at home shooting baskets,hitting a baseball,or throwing a football,preparing for my future as a quarterback on a football team. In poor weather,I read about sports or practiced my trombone(长号).

The summer before my eighth grade I was one of a group of boys that a neighboring farmer hired to work in his field. He explained our basic task,the tractor fired I up and we were off,riding down the field looking for weeds to spray with chemicals. After a short way,the farmer stopped and pointed at a weed which we missed. Then we began again. This happened over and over,but we soon learned to identify different grasses like cockleburs,lamb’s-quarters,foxtails,and the king of weeds, the pretty purple thistle. It was tiring work,but I looked forward to the pay,even though I wasn’t sure how much it would amount to.

At home,my dad said,“A job’s a big step to growing up. I’m glad you will be contributing to the household. ” My dad’s words made me realize that my earnings might not be mine to do with as I wished.

My labors lasted about two weeks, and the farmer said there might be more work,but I wasn’t interested. I decided it was not fair that I had to contribute my money.                            

I figured that I must take actions to change that.

After hearing what he had said,I felt embarrassed.

I was surprised to find that the busy traffic lines outside Layla’s primary school had remarkably disappeared—I easily found a parking space and, for once, I was on time. The school bell rang, and a group of children merrily made their way through the gate. However, something was different—the children were all squeezing (挤进) into cars in groups of three or four.

Before I could ask my daughter Layla, Mr. Trent, the head teacher, approached me. “Mrs. Pavis, didn’t you see our letter?” Letter? What letter? I had a habit of not paying attention to them and, in most cases, not reading them. “The letter? Of course. I didn’t notice that. I’ve been away for work.”

Now, at home, I examined through Layla’s messy school bag. Eventually, I found several letters, all about the problem of parking outside the school gates. Obviously, due to some parents parking improperly, the police were about to step in. “Why didn’t you give me these letters?” I demanded. Layla raised her shoulders. “I forgot.” I was about to give her a lecture when it occurred to me that I had always forgotten—I had forgotten to give Layla her money for the cooking class that morning and forgotten to hang out the kids’ washed clothes.

I calmed down and realized that they wanted parents to carpool (拼车). Over the next half hour, I called the parents of Layla’s friends, asking if they would like to carpool with us. Unfortunately, they had already made arrangements. It was my own fault—I should have read those letters long ago. “Um... I overheard others talking about it,” Layla said, “They said they didn’t know who would carpool with us because we’re always late.” I suddenly felt sorry. We were a disorganized family.

I made up my mind to change.

Mark Mancuso’s phone started ringing. He glanced at it. It was an alarm for the calendar, informing him that it was his mom’s birthday. His mom, Amelia, was two hundred miles from here, a bit of drive, but Mark had driven further to have dinner with a friend. It was just that he didn’t like his mom’s complaints. Then he went to a flower shop. With a smile, he had an idea.

Entering the flower shop, Mark said with a wide grin, “Can you arrange to have flowers delivered to Syracuse, N. Y.? It’s my mom’s 70th birthday, so I’d like to send her a bouquet.”

he flower shop owner replied, “Of course, I only need your mom’s name, phone number and address. Do you want me to help you write a birthday letter?”

“Yes,” Mike said as he read out those information. Then, he added, “Please write: Happy birthday to the most wonderful mom in the world. Your son, Mark.”

Mark went out with a sense of success, seeing a little girl in the corner, crying. Mike crouched (蹲) next to her. “Hi, honey, are you OK?”

“I’m Mandy, and I’d like to buy my mother a rose,” the little girl said as she sobbed.

“But I’m short of money! The flower shop owner told me that I could only get a daisy, but my mother loves red roses.”

“You just wait here,” Mark said and then went to the flower shop and bought Mandy a beautiful red rose. “This is for you,” he said, putting the rose into her hands. Mandy received the rose and looked up at Mike with a smile. “Thank you. But can you take me to my mother? It’s not too far, but I don’t suppose I can get there on my own.”

Mark nodded. Mandy led him along the road. A moment later Mandy took a left, and Mark saw with amazement that they were at the gate of a cemetery (墓地).

The girl lightly placed the rose on a grave.

Mark could feel his eyes filling with tears.