I grew up in a small town where elementary school was a ten-minute walk from my house and in an age, not so long ago, when we children could go home for lunch and find our mothers waiting. At the time, I didn’t consider this to be so important, although today it certainly would be. Actually, our lunch time together in the past years had had a great influence on my life before I realized it.

Our lunch time when I was in the third grade will stay with me always. I had been picked to be the princess in the school play, and for weeks my mother had painstakingly practised my lines with me. But no matter how easily I delivered them at home, as soon as I stepped onstage, every word disappeared from my head. Finally, my teacher took me aside. She explained patiently that she needed a narrator and had written a narrator’s part to the play, and asked me to switch roles. Her words, kindly delivered, still hurt me, especially when I saw my part go to another girl.

I didn’t tell my mother what had happened when I went home for lunch that day. But she sensed my unease, and instead of suggesting we practice my lines, she asked if I wanted to walk in the yard. It was a lovely spring day and the rose vine (藤) was turning green. Under the huge trees, we could see yellow dandelions (蒲公英) appearing unexpectedly through the grass in bunches, as if a painter had touched our landscape with small amounts of gold. I watched my mother casually bend down by one of the bushes. “I think I’m going to dig up all these weeds,” she said, pulling a blossom up by all its roots. “From now on, we’ll have roses in this garden.” I immediately protested, “But I like dandelions. All flowers are beautiful—even dandelions.”

“Do you mean that every flower has its own beauty?” asked my mother thoughtfully.

“But you will be a beautiful narrator,” Mom said.

Thirteen is a beautiful age, and can also be a challenging age. Not only did I have to adapt to my changing body, I also had to deal with my parents ‘ being out of job, and the upsetting move from my country home to a crowded suburb.

When we moved, my beloved companion, a small brown dog, had to be sold. Feeling helpless and alone, I couldn’t eat or sleep, and I cried all of the time. I missed my friends, my teachers and my puppy. Finally, my father, realizing how much I missed my pet, purchased an old red dog for me at a local market.

My dog, Baxi, was without doubt the ugliest dog in the world. He was pigeon-pawed and knock-kneed. But I didn’t care about his faults. I loved him beyond all reasons. Every afternoon I walked it in the forest nearby my home. Although small and ugly, it ran very fast. To keep pace with him, I often had to run, out of breath. Gradually, I loved running and ran like a wind.

I joined the running club in my school and faced rude comments and mean snickers about my looks. Yes, looking so thin and short and weak, I was an ugly ducking, just like Baxi. Though I never let on how I felt, but deep down inside, my heart was breaking.

When I entered for the running race where a player is judged on appearance, I was quickly out of the game. I finally realized that my only chance to compete would be in the timed-speed event. I chose the short-distance racing, an event in which a player attempts to complete a short run in the fastest time.

One girl named Becky took part in the race event, too. She always won the blue ribbons. Needless to say, she didn’t feel threatened when I competed against her at the next show. She didn’t need to. She thought I came in next to last.

The bitter memory of Becky’s smirks (得意的笑) made me determined to beat her. For the whole next month, I woke up early every day and run five miles to the arena (运动场地). I practiced for hours in the hot sun. On the way home I would be so tired; those five miles seemed twice as long.

Finally came the day and the running race began.

No cheers were heard until the first audience gave.

It was a summer afternoon a long time ago. I was a little boy watching my favourite rerun(重播) on our tiny little television set. All that was about to change, however. CRACK! BOOM! The lightening and thunder sounded. I was so frightened that I sat up on the sofa immediately. There was a line of snow flashing across the TV screen.

Suddenly my mum ran into the living room, unhooked the antenna(天线) wire and dropped the metal claws(钳子) into a glass jar by the TV. Seeing this, I started to complain but knew that Mum wasn’t going to risk lightening hitting our antenna, running through the wire, and blowing up our only TV set. Since there was no way she was going to let me go outside and play either, I settled into my chair and reread a book for the tenth time while she placed empty coffee cans under the leaks in the roof which my dad hadn’t had a chance to fix yet.

After a while, my mum walked to me and asked me if I could play cards with her. As I had no natural interest in the game of bridge, I refused her without hesitation. She looked at me with her imploring(恳求的) eyes. But I said nothing and buried my head in the book again even though there was no other attractions to me in it. She walked away quietly with a sigh(叹息).

Later after the lightening and thunder had passed and only a gently falling rain remained, I saw my mum walk out onto our back porch(门廊), sit down on our old porch swing and watch the rain. She loved watching it water the flowers, forests and gardens. She enjoyed seeing it swell(使膨胀) the river down the hill from our house. She knew it would be providing water to drink and wash and clean and live. She had told me all this many times too, but my young mind was too selfish then to take all in. All I knew was that rainstorms meant no TV and no playing outside.

This time, though, I took the time to watch it fall.

The next time it rains, I’ll turn off my TV, computer, and phone.