I stood there listening to the stern words of my father.

“Which of you did this ?” he asked with a sharp voice. We all stared down at the floor containing the art of a child’s handwriting in chalk.

I stood there, trembling and hoped that no one else could see it. “Will he know it was me?” I secretly wondered. Scared, I said,“Not me, Dad.”

The others denied it as well. Of course, we knew that one of us must have done it. But I, being the youngest and smallest of us three, just couldn’t find the courage to tell the truth. I wasn’t a bad kid and lying was not normal for me. But the look on my dad’s face that evening frightened me and somehow I couldn’t bring myself to tell him.

Without saying a word, he disappeared for several minutes and came back with a piece of paper and a pencil, determined to find out who did it.

He asked each of us to write exactly what we saw on the floor. I wasn’t a stupid kid though. When my turn came, I deliberately wrote the words differently. So when my dad compared the handwriting, he still couldn’t tell which one of us did it. Frustrated, he took a step towards us and looked at his three small kids.

“I’m going to give you one more chance to admit.”

Not surprisingly, neither my brother nor my sister spoke up. Why should they?

I was the one who did it. “Should I say something? Is it too late? He will be mad.” Again, frightened, I held my tongue.

He took us all in the house as tears suddenly filled my eyes. “Since none of you seemed to have done it, then you will all get a spanking(打屁股).” What? Still I stood there and said nothing. The last thing I wanted was a spanking.

“I did it,” someone said and I was pretty sure it wasn’t me.

It was a secret we kept for many years.

We awoke on Thursday morning of a normal temperature of 31°F, but that was short before the temperature continued to drop. Our Channel 2 weatherman, P. J. Hoff, on his evening broadcast of Jan. 25 told us to expect freezing rain, but the snow started falling in the early morning hours of Thursday, Jan. 26. We were told to prepare for 4-8 inches of snow — not the 23 inches that would finally arrive.

The city was paralyzed by the snowstorm. Mayor Daley ordered the city workers to work around the clock to clear the streets, but the snow fell faster than they could plow (清扫). By Friday, the whole city was shut down.

No one at our house went to work or school. Ten feet of snow blocked our door. At first, it was fun to be free of school, but we soon learned we could be locked in our home. Little did we know that our snow day would grow into four days of being trapped inside our house.

After a good 24 hours of staying at home, my sister Jenny, brother Robert and I were all very bored and driving the adults in the house crazy. They suggested we take our shovels (铲) and go outside, challenging us to dig a way to the street.

We began digging, but not thinking ahead. We threw each shovel full of snow over our shoulders, filling the road behind us. When we reached the street, we turned to admire our work only to realize we had filled in the road back to the house. We would need to start traveling all over again.

It was then that Jenny and I realized we had lost little Robert.

Then suddenly we noticed a little hand rising up out of the snow.

I was a single mother in my 30s who lived down and out with my daughter Peggy in a small apartment struggling hard to make our ends meet (维持生计) .

It was a really cold winter day. Without a coat that is too expensive for me to afford, I headed to the downtown for an interview. I sat down in the streetcar, and there against those scats was a beautiful silk umbrella with a silver handle decorated with gold scrolls, among which there was a name carved.

On impulse (冲动) I determined to find the owner myself. I got off the streetcar and searched a telephone book for the name. I found it immediately and called it. waiting patiently, and then a lady answered.

“Yes,” she said in surprise, with extreme excitement. “It was my umbrella which had been stolen a year ago.”

So appealing was her pleasure that I forgot I was looking for a job and went directly to her small house. She took the umbrella with teary eyes, explaining with choking voice that the umbrella was given by her parents, now dead. She would like to offer me some reward as an expression of her gratitude. But I refused and left.

The following days were hard. I could only obtain temporary employment, for a small salary. What was worse, I had just lost my last job before Christmas, with only fifteen dollars left. Unless a miracle happened, I would be homeless in January, foodless and jobless.

The air was full of Christmas merriment, with the bells ringing and children shouting in the bitter dusk of the evening. But there should be no Christmas for me.

Thinking of this, I couldn’t control my tears on my way home, but I managed a smile so I could greet my little daughter. She opened the door for me and threw herself in my arms, dreaming joyously and demanding desirably for her Christmas gift. There I stood, frozen overwhelmed by sadness.

Suddenly, the doorbell rang and Peggy ran immediately to answer it, calling that it must be Santa Claus.

Just when I was doubting whether the package had been addressed to the wrong place, a note attached to it caught my eyes.