I’ve just got to talk about this problem I’m having with my postman. It all began a year ago, after the birth of his first child. Not wanting to appear rude, I asked him about the baby. The next week, not wanting him to think I had asked out of mere politeness the week before, I asked all about the baby again. Now I can’t break the habit. I freeze whenever I see him coming. The words “How’s the baby?” come out on their own. It holds me up. It holds him up. So why can’t I stop it? The answer is that I want him to like me. Come to think of it, I want everyone to like me.

What about at work? Richard Lawton, a management trainer, warns: “Those managers who are actually liked by most of their staff (员工)are always those who are honest with staff, treating them as human beings and following common politeness like saying hello in the morning.” To explain the point, Richard told the story of the company chairman who especially wanted to be liked. One day, after making one of his employees fired, the employee replied: “If you were that sorry, I wouldn’t be leaving.” The lesson is that if you try too hard to be liked, people won’t like you.

The experts say it all starts in childhood. “If children feel they can only get love from their parents by being good,” says Zelda West-Meads, a marriage adviser, “they develop low self-confidence.” But is there anything wrong in being a giver? Anne Cousins believes there is. “Sometimes giving becomes unhealthy,” she says. “It comes when you do things for others but feel bad about it.”

I am now trying hard to say to people “I feel uncomfortable about saying this, but…” and tell myself “Refusal of a request does not mean Refusal of a person” and I find I can say almost anything to almost anyone.

It all started because Lynn and her two teenage children needed to get from Georgia to Alaska, where Lynn’s husband, an American officer, is stationed (驻扎). Lynn packed up all their belongings, bought a 4x4 truck, and started a cross-country family adventure. The first 3,000 miles of the trip went well.

The farther north they traveled, the worse the weather got. Lynn, who was raised in the South, met her first winter white-out conditions. Then she used up windscreen wiping fluid. Slush (雪泥) covered her windows and she couldn’t see to drive. Even scarier — her tires seemed to be sliding on the ground.

After changing the summer tires at a tire store, Lynn decided to give up driving. She phoned her husband and asked if he could just come and get them where they were. Her husband was worried but he wasn’t legally able to get them himself. Then the family had to find a motel and went to bed. That’s when the kind people there put out a request on Facebook for someone to drive them the last 1,056 miles to the border.

Gary Bath was at home when he saw his friend’s post about the trapped family. After watching the post for a while and seeing no one was able to help, he and his wife made the decision that he would drive them the whole way to the border.

Both families met over the Internet, and when they decided they were all comfortable with the plan, the Baths drove to meet the family at the motel. It took Gary two days to drive them to a border checkpoint (边防关卡) where the family was greeted by Lynn’s husband and the new friends parted ways.

Mrs. Strickland did not talk much, but she had a pleasant gift for keeping the conversation general; and when there was a pause she threw in just the right remark to set it going once more.

“Why do nice women marry dull men?”

“Because intelligent men won’t marry nice women.”

Mrs. Strickland had the gift of sympathy.

There was another thing I liked in Mrs. Strickland. She managed her surroundings with elegance. Her flat was always neat and cheerful with flowers. The meals in the little dining room were pleasant; the table looked nice; the food was well cooked. It was impossible not to see that Mrs. Strickland was an excellent housekeeper. And you felt sure that she was an admirable mother. There were photographs in the drawing room of her son and daughter. The son — his name was Robert — was a boy of sixteen at Rugby. He had his mother’s fine eyes. He looked clean, healthy, and normal.

“I don’t know that he’s very clever,” she said one day, when I was looking at the photograph, “but I know he’s good. He has a charming character.”

The daughter was fourteen. Her hair, thick and dark like her mother’s, fell over her shoulders, and she had the same kindly expression and untroubled eyes.

“They both look like you,” I said.

“Yes, I think they are more like me than their father.”

“Why have you never let me meet him?” I asked.

“Would you like to?” she smiled and her smile was really very sweet.

“You know, he’s not at all literary,” she said. “He has no interest in literature.”

“He’s on the Stock Exchange, and he’s a typical broker. I think he’d bore you to death.”

“Does he bore you?” I asked.

“You see, I happen to be his wife. I’m very fond of him.” She smiled to cover her shyness, and her eyes grew tender.

“He doesn’t pretend to be a talent. He doesn’t even make much money on the Stock Exchange. But he’s awfully good and kind.”

“I think I should like him very much.”

“I’ll ask you to dine with us quietly some time, but mind, you come at your own risk; don’t blame me if you have a very dull evening.”