Every Christmas Eve, a small white envelope is stuck among the branches of our Christmas tree. It has been there for the past ten years or so. There is a story behind such a special tradition.

It all began because my husband Justin hated Christmas—oh, not the true meaning of Christmas. Overspending was one thing, but compared to the difficult experience of choosing gifts—running around at the last minute to get a tie for Uncle Harry and a pair of gloves for Grandma…., spending money is nothing. I felt too tired to think of any special gifts.

Knowing Justin felt the same way, I decided one year not to buy the usual shirts, sweaters, ties and so on. I had an intention that I should reach for something special just for Justin. But it was really hard for me to decide what to do.

The inspiration came in an unusual way. Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the junior level at the school which he studied in and shortly before Christmas, there was a match against a team which was sponsored by an inner-city church. These youngsters were dressed in such worn-out shoes that shoe strings seemed to be the only thing holding them together. They even didn’t have their own team uniform while our boys were in their blue and gold uniforms and new wrestling shoes. Despite these facts, they seemed eager to win their medals and their eyes were full of self-confidence. But before the match, I seemed to have expected the result of the match.

As the match began, I was shocked to see that the other team was wrestling without wearing helmets (头盔) to protect their ears. Nothing was unexpected, our boys ended up defeating them. Our son’s team took every weight class.

Justin, seated beside me, shook his head sadly.

Soon the Christmas Eve came that year.

It was a Saturday afternoon. The color of the sky was changing, first light gray, then dark gray, and finally dark and dense. The wind was blowing heavily, and the trees were swaying in the strong wind. It began to rain cats and dogs. Soon, the road was filled with puddles from the rain.

On such a stormy afternoon, my mother took my five­year­old brother, Christopher, and me to a new big toy store she had read about in the newspaper. “So many toys，” the advertisement had shouted in full and flashy color, “that we had to get a huge warehouse to fit them all！”

Christopher and I couldn't have been more excited. We ran across the parking lot, through the cold and biting rain, as fast as our little legs could carry us. We left our mother outside to battle with the frustrating umbrella, which never worked when she wanted it to. “Christine! Take care of your young brother！” Mother shouted at the top of her voice.

“Christine! I'm going to find the Lego section (乐高积木区)! There's a new pirate ship I want, and I have four dollars! Maybe I can buy it！” Christopher exclaimed and ran off excitedly. I only half heard him. I took a right turn and, to my wide­eyed delight, found myself in the midst of the Barbie (芭比) World.

I was studying a Barbie and doing some simple math in my head when suddenly an earthshaking clap of thunder roared from the storm outside. I jumped at the noise, dropping the doll to the floor. The lights flickered (闪烁) once and died, covering everything in a blanket of blackness. Thunder continued to shake the sky and lightning illuminated the store for seconds, casting frightening shadows on my mind.

“Oh no，” I thought, “Where's Christopher？”

“Christine, I'm here.”

We were in our late 20s with a child when my husband, Ralph, finally graduated from college.

“OK, now I deserve a piano,” I blurted out when he sat down for lunch just before the graduation ceremony. A look of surprise crossed his face.

“We could never afford a piano. After so many years of hard work, we got you through school. Now I deserve a piano,” I repeated.

Several months later, Ralph, with help, moved the upright piano we bought for $ 100 into our cottage’s tiny arched dining room. It smelled a little musty, but had great tone.

Ralph started graduate school, leaving no money for private piano lessons. The first thing that came to my mind was Santa Monica City College—maybe it offered piano lessons. Skimming the catalog, I danced around the room when I found a class at the same time the boys were at preschool.

Practicing, however, was not so easy. Four-year old redheaded Denny crawled out of bed in the evening on a regular basis. That was my time to practice. He’d pad out of the bedroom in his sleeper and climb up on the bench with me. Soon he began plinking (发出叮铃声) on the high keys. I tried to ignore him. He listened to the echoes of the keys and plinked some more. Doing all I could do to keep focused on my own practicing, I continued to ignore him.

This practice pattern became an evening routine. After a while, I didn’t even hear him anymore. Ralph studied. Denny plinked on the high keys, and I focused on my piece for the end-of-the-term recital (独奏会).

That evening came. However, Ralph said he was busy preparing for the midterms and couldn’t watch Denny.

Pacing back and forth, I shook my head trying to figure out what to do. Time was running out. I bundled up Denny—with his sleeper on—and drove off to the recital with him.

“We’ll sit in the front row, Denny,” I whispered. “You have to be very quiet and listen when I am playing.” He nodded, said “Uh-huh,” and we sat down.

Denny held my hand, but then my turn came.

A small body climbed onto the piano bench next to me.