My father was always a good gardener. One of my earliest memories is standing without shoes in the freshly tilled (翻耕的) soil, my hands blackened from digging in the ground.

As a child, I loved following Dad around in the garden. I remember Dad pushing the tiller (耕作机) ahead in perfectly straight lines. Dad loved growing all sorts of things: yellow and green onions，watermelons almost as big as me, rows of yellow com, and our favorite—red tomatoes.

As I grew into a teenager, I didn’t get so excited about gardening with Dad. Instead of magical land of possibility, it had turned into some kind of prison. As Dad grew older, his love for gardening never disappeared. After all the kids were grown and had started families of their own, Dad turned to gardening like never before. Even when he was diagnosed with cancer, he still took care of his garden.

But then, the cancer, bit by bit, invaded his body. I had to do the things he used to do. What really convinced me that Dad was dying was the state of his garden that year. The rows and rows of multicolored vegetables were gone. Too tired to weed them, he simply let them be.

For the first few years after he died, I couldn’t even bear to look at anyone’s garden without having strong memories pour over me like cold water from a bucket. Three years ago, I decided to plant my own garden and started out with just a few tomatoes. That morning, after breaking up a fair amount of soil, something caught the comer of my eye and I had to smile. It was my eight-year-old son Nathan, happily playing in the freshly tilled soil.

When I was growing up, I was embarrassed to be seen with my father. He was badly crippled (跛脚), and when we would walk together, his hand on my arm for balance, people would stare, I would be ashamed of the unwanted attention.

It was difficult to walk together—and because of that, we didn’t say much as we went along. But as we started out, he always said, “You set the pace. I will try to follow you.”

Our usual walk was to or from the subway, which was how he got to work. He went to work sick, and even in bad weather. He almost never missed a day, and would make it to the office even if others could not. It was a matter of pride for him.

When snow or ice was on the ground, it was impossible for him to walk, even with help. At such times my sister or I would pull him through the streets of Brooklyn, N.Y., on a child’s sleigh to the subway entrance. Once there, he would try to grasp handrail until he reached the lower steps that the warmer tunnel air kept ice free. In Manhattan the subway station was the basement of his office building, and he would not have to go outside again until we met him in Brooklyn on his way home.

When I think of it now, I am surprised at how much courage it must have taken for a grown man to suffer from shame and disability. And I am also surprised at how he did it—without bitterness or complaint.

He never talked about himself as an object of pity, nor did he show any envy of the more fortunate or able. What he looked for in others was a “good heart”, and if he found one, the owner was good enough for him.

Now that I am older, I believe that is a proper standard by which to judge people, even though I still don’t know exactly what a “good heart” is. But I know the times I don’t have one myself.

He has been away for many years now, but I think of him often. I wonder if he sensed my reluctance to be seen with him during our walks. If he did, I am sorry I never told him how sorry I was, how unworthy I was, how I regretted it. I think of him when I complain about my troubles, when I am envious of another’s good fortune, when I don’t have a “good heart”．

When I was a kid, my family farmed 200 acres with mules (骡子), and the most naughty one was Tobe. It’d frequently jump out and run around. But when asked why he liked it, Dad would say, “When it comes to farm work, Tobe comes up to standard.”

Dad died when I was 11, and we had to sell the farm. Those were hard years, but Mom managed to give me my first music lesson. Before long our neighbors liked my songs so much that I decided to make a career in singing.

At 17 I left home for a radio station in Jackson and this job made me discover how inexperienced I was. I made up my mind that I would practice until I came up to standard. I took a job as a driver. With 8 hours spent in the car, I could spend the rest of the time practicing. Finally, when I was good enough, I began playing for audiences nationwide.

By now, I had two kids and I knew what a family was without a dad, so I quit the performances and entered the most depressing (令人消沉的) years of my life with all the clothing, homework, and duties around the house. That was when I thought about Tobe. It was self-willed, but in the field, where it mattered, Tobe came up to standard. So I started listening and made a discovery. My kids’ lifestyle may be different. But where standards are concerned (涉及) — for things like honesty and courage — they often do better than some of us.

Not long ago my son Dick told me he was going to apply for a job at a TV station. “ I know the general manager. I’ll put in a good word for you,” I said. “I’d rather go alone,” he replied. “If I’m not good enough yet to do the job, I shouldn’t get it.” Then I realized he wanted to be up to standard. I felt proud the minute he came home shouting, “ Dad, I got the job!”