When she looked around her house, Betty Margaret saw lots of electronics. Along with the usual things like her laptop and smart phone, there were all of her kids’ electronic devices: cell phones, video game devices and more! There seemed to be more than enough ways for her and her three children to be online all day, every day.

Ms Margaret worried that her kids were becoming too dependent on the Internet and electronics. Then she began to reread one of her favorite books, Henry Thoreau’s Walden, which gave Ms Margaret an idea. Thoreau spent 2 years in a simple cabin without running such luxuries as computers and electronic devices for a while.

Ms Margaret talked with her kids and explained that she wanted the family to try living for 6 months without Internet, cell phones, TV, and video games. Ms Margaret writes articles for a newspaper in Australia, and had written several books as well. She told her children that if they agreed, she would write a book about their experience and they could go on a trip abroad with the money from sales of the book. Her three children agreed, and “the experiment” as Ms Margaret called, began.

Over the course of the experiment, the Margaret’s children had different reactions to life without electronics. Before the experiment began, Anni, the eldest of the children, read books more than her younger brother and sister. She therefore had a relatively easy adjustment to the family’s new lifestyle. Anni could also use the library’s computer for her homework. Bill, who loved to play video games before the experiment began, had to find a way to spend all of his new free time. He started to spend more time practicing his saxophone (萨克斯管). Susan, the youngest child in the family, had the hardest time adjusting to life without electronics. She felt restless for the first weeks and later, influenced by her elder sister, gradually began to find interest in the novel experiences brought by various books.

Upon having their daily family gathering after dinner, Ms Margaret, wearing a mysterious smiles, announced the big news that they had come to the end of “the experiment”.

The vivid description of their true and funny experience toward the new lifestyle undeniably contributed to the hit of the book.

Growing up, I was always around my grandma Meredith. She was the one who originally inspired my love for cooking and my dream of becoming a chef. Yet, one day I received a text that would turn my whole life around, “Grandma is seriously ill,” the text read, “and we need your help in assisting with her care.”

Without a second of hesitation, I agreed to travel back home. Thankfully, my boss at the restaurant let me take unpaid leave for the next several months so I could come home to help out with Gran. After driving across several states, I finally got back to our family home in West Virginia. Yet, what I saw was really bard for me to bear. The Meredith I saw then was not the lively, joyful Meredith I had seen while I was growing up.

“Tony!” she called to me from her bed, “It’s so good to see you! "

“Gran,” I sighed, “I’m not Tony. That’s dad, your son. I’m Hank.”

This was the start of a months-long journey of helping out around the house-cooking, cleaning, and, most of all, keeping Gran in good health and good spirits.

Every day, I cooked delicious food to keep everyone’s spirits high. But, secretly, I hoped that cooking some dishes that we had made together in my childhood would somehow help get Gran’s memory of me back, if not just for a moment.

Stews (炖菜), chops (排骨), roasts—I served all of these to Gran and my parents around the clock. When I wasn’t taking Gran out for strolls (散步) in her wheelchair or changing her bed sheets, I was cooking. I had cooked for dignitaries (显要人物) and rock stars while at the restaurant in New York City, but never had I poured my heart out into my meals than I did then for Grandma Meredith.

When I was almost at my breaking point, I decided to make something simple.

After taking a few bites, Gran finally called out my name—my actual name.

The Day Mother Cried

Coming home from school that dark winter’s day so long ago, I was filled with anticipation. I had a new issue of my favorite sports magazine under my arm. Dad was at work, my sister was away, and Mother wouldn’t be home from her new job for an hour.

I was shocked into stillness by what I saw . Mother pulled into a tight ball with her face in her hands. She was crying. I had never seen her cry.

I approached cautiously and touched her shoulder. “Mother?” I said. “What’s happened?”

She took a long breath and managed a weak smile. “It’s nothing, really. I’m going to lose this new job. I can’t type fast enough.”

“But you’ve only been there three for days,” I said. “You’ll catch on.” I was repeating a line she had spoken to me a hundred times when I was having trouble learning or doing something important to me. She sobbed in silence .

I felt helpless and out of place. At the age of 16 I still assumed Mother could do anything. To provide enough income for my college two years later, Mother was crazy for ways to save money.

A few months ago, Mother arrived home with an old typewriter. It skipped between certain letters. “That’s all we can afford,” Mother said. “It’s good enough to learn on.” And from that day on, immediately after dinner, Mother would disappear into her sewing room to practice. The slow tap, tap, tap went on some nights until midnight. On Monday, she got a job as a typewriter at a radio station. I was not the least bit surprised but she was excited. But on Tuesday Mother looked drawn. I didn’t care honestly.

My shock and embarrassment at finding Mother in tears on Wednesday showed how little I understood the pressures on her. Sitting beside her on the couch, I began very slowly to understand.

“I guess we all have to fail sometimes,” Mother said quietly. I could sense her pain. I reached out and put my arms around her.

A week later Mother took a job selling dry goods at half the salary the radio station had offered. “It’s a job I can do,” she said simply.

But the evening practice routine on the old green typewriter continued.

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The old green typewriter sits in my office now, unrepaired.

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