trolley bag trolley luggage laptop bag There was a rich merchant who had 4 wives. He loved the 4th wife the most and adorned her with rich robes and treated her to delicacies. He took great care of her and gave her nothing but the best.
He also loved the 3rd wife very much. He’s very proud of her and always wanted to show off her to his friends. However, the merchant is always in great fear that she might run away with some other men.
He too, loved his 2nd wife. She is a very considerate person, always patient and in fact is the merchant’s confidante（知己）. Whenever the merchant faced some problems, he always turned to his 2nd wife and she would always help him out and tide him through difficult times.
Now, the merchant’s 1st wife is a very loyal partner and has made great contributions in maintaining his wealth and business as well as taking care of the household. However, the merchant did not love the first wife and although she loved him deeply, he hardly took notice of her.
One day, the merchant fell ill. Before long, he knew that he was going to die soon. He thought of his luxurious life and told himself, “Now I have 4 wives with me. But when I die, I’ll be alone. How lonely I’ll be!”
Thus, he asked the 4th wife, “I loved you most, endowed you with the finest clothing and showered great care over you. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No way!” replied the 4th wife and she walked away without another word.
The answer cut like a sharp knife right into the merchant’s heart. The sad merchant then asked the 3rd wife, “I have loved you so much for all my life. Now that I’m dying, will you follow me and keep me company?” “No!” replied the 3rd wife. “Life is so good over here! I’m going to remarry when you die!” The merchant’s heart sank and turned cold.
He then asked the 2nd wife, “I always turned to you for help and you’ve always helped me out. Now I need your help again. When I die, will you follow me and keep me company?” “I’m sorry, I can’t help you out this time!” replied the 2nd wife. “At the very most, I can only send you to your grave.” The answer came like a bolt of thunder and the merchant was devastated.
Then a voice called out: “I’ll leave with you. I’ll follow you no matter where you go.” The merchant looked up and there was his first wife. She was so skinny, almost like she suffered from malnutrition （营养不良）. Greatly grieved, the merchant said, “I should have taken much better care of you while I could have!”
Actually, we all have 4 wives in our lives
The 4th wife is our body. No matter how much time and effort we lavish in making it look good, it’ll leave us when we die.
Our 3rd wife is our possessions, status and wealth. When we die, they all go to others.
The 2nd wife is our family and friends. No matter how close they had been there for us when we’re alive, the furthest they can stay by us is up to the grave.
The 1st wife is in fact our soul, often neglected in our pursuit of material, wealth and sensual pleasure.
Guess what? It is actually the only thing that follows us wherever we go. Perhaps it’s a good idea to cultivate and strengthen it now rather than to wait until we’re on our deathbed to lament
2008年11月25日星期二
Never Give Up, trolley bag
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Never give up,Never lose hope. Always have faith,It allows you to cope.Trying times will pass,As they always do.Just have patience,Your dreams will come true.So put on a smile,You'll live through your pain.Know it will pass,And strength you will gain
Never give up,Never lose hope. Always have faith,It allows you to cope.Trying times will pass,As they always do.Just have patience,Your dreams will come true.So put on a smile,You'll live through your pain.Know it will pass,And strength you will gain
My Miraculous Family - trolley bag
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I never considered myself unique, but people are constantly telling me, "you are a miracle." To me, I was just an ordinary "guy" with realistic goals and big dreams. I was a 19-year-old student at the University of Texas and well on my way toward fulfilling my "big dream" of one day becoming an 1)orthopedic surgeon.
On the night of February 17, 1981 I was studying for an 2)Organic Chemistry test at the library with Sharon, my girlfriend of three years. Sharon had asked me to drive her back to her dormitory as it was getting quite late. We got into my car, not realizing that just getting into a car would never quite be the same for me again. I quickly noticed that my gas 3)gauge was registered on empty so I pulled into a nearby convenience store to buy $2.00 worth of gas. "I'll be back in two minutes," I yelled at Sharon as I closed the door. But instead, those two minutes changed my life forever.
Entering the convenience store was like entering the 4)twilight zone. On the outside I was a healthy, athletic, pre-med student, but on the inside I was just another statistic of a violent crime. I thought I was entering an empty store, but suddenly I realized it was not empty at all. Three robbers were in the process of committing a robbery and my entrance into the store caught them by surprise. One of the criminals immediately 5)shoved a .38 6)caliber handgun to my head, ordered me to the cooler, pushed me down on the floor, and pumped a bullet into the back of my head - execution style. He obviously thought I was dead because he did not shoot me again. The 7) trio of thieves finished robbing the store and left calmly.
Meanwhile, Sharon wondered why I had not returned. After seeing the three men leave the store she really began to worry as I was the last person she saw entering the store. She quickly went inside to look for me, but saw no one-only an almost empty cash register containing one check and several pennies. Quickly she ran down each aisle shouting, "Mike, Mike!"
Just then the 8) attendant appeared from the back of the store shouting, "Lady, get down on the floor. I've just been robbed and shot at!"
Sharon quickly dropped to the floor screaming, "Have you seen my boyfriend? He has 9)auburn hair." The man did not reply but went back to the cooler where he found me choking on my vomit. The attendant quickly cleaned my mouth and then called for the police and an ambulance.
Sharon was in shock. She was beginning to understand that I was hurt, but she could not begin to comprehend or imagine the severity of my injury.
When the police arrived they immediately called the 10)homicide division as they did not think I would survive and the 11)paramedic reported that she had never seen a person so severely wounded survive. At 1:30 a.m. my parents who lived in Houston, were awakened by a telephone call from Brackenridge Hospital advising them to come to Austin as soon as possible for they feared I would not make it through the night.
But I did make it through the night and early in the morning the 12)neurosurgeon decided to operate. However, he quickly informed my family and Sharon that my chances of surviving the surgery were only 40/60. If this were not bad enough, the neurosurgeon further shocked my family by telling them what life would be like for me if I 13)beat the odds and survived. He said I probably would never walk, talk, or be able to understand even simple commands.
My family was hoping and praying to hear even the slightest bit of encouragement from that doctor. Instead, his pessimistic words gave my family no reason to believe that I would ever again be a productive member of society. But once again I beat the odds and survived the three and a half hours of surgery.
Granted, I still could not talk, my entire right side was paralyzed and many people thought I could not understand, but at least I was stable. After one week in a private room the doctors felt I had improved enough to be transferred by jet ambulance to Del Oro 14)Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston.
My 15)hallucinations, coupled with my physical problems, made my 16)prognosis still very bleak. However, as time passed my mind began to clear and approximately six weeks later my right leg began to move ever so slightly. Within seven weeks my right arm slowly began to move and at eight weeks I uttered my first few words.
My speech was extremely difficult and slow in the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. I was starting to look forward to each new day to see how far I would progress. But just as I thought my life was finally looking brighter I was tested by the hospital europsychologist. She explained to me that judging from my test results she believed that I should not focus on returning to college but that it would be better to set more "realistic goals."
Upon hearing her evaluation I became furious for I thought, "Who is she to tell me what I can or cannot do. She does not even know me. I am a very determined and stubborn person!" I believe it was at that very moment that I decided I would somehow, someday return to college.
It took me a long time and a lot of hard work but I finally returned to the University of Texas in the fall of 1983 - a year and a half after almost dying. The next few years in Austin were very difficult for me, but I truly believe that in order to see beauty in life you have to experience some unpleasantness. Maybe I have experienced too much unpleasantness, but I believe in living each day to the fullest, and doing the very best I can.
And each new day was very busy and very full, for besides attending classes at the University I underwent therapy three to five days each week at Brackenridge Hospital. If this were not enough I flew to Houston every other weekend to work with Tom Williams, a trainer and executive who had worked for many colleges and professional teams and also had helped many injured athletes, such as Earl Campbell and Eric Dickerson. Through Tom I learned: "Nothing is impossible and never, never give up or quit."
Early, during my therapy, my father kept repeating to me one of his favorite sayings. I have repeated it almost every day since being hurt: "Mile by mile it's a trial; yard by yard it's hard; but inch by inch it's a cinch."
I thought of those words, and I thought of Tom, my family and Sharon who believed so strongly in me as I climbed the steps to receive my diploma from the Dean of Liberal Arts at the University of Texas on that bright sunny afternoon in June of 1986. Excitement and pride filled my heart as I heard the dean announce that I had graduated with "highest honors", been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, and been chosen as one of 12 Dean's Distinguished Graduates out of 1600 in the College of Liberal Arts.
The overwhelming emotions and feelings that I experienced at that very moment, when most of the audience gave me a standing 17)ovation, I felt would never again be matched in my life-not even when I graduated with a masters degree in social work and not even when I became employed full time at the Texas Pain and Stress Center. But I was wrong!
On May 24, 1987, I realized that nothing could ever match the joy I felt as Sharon and I were married. Sharon, my high school sweetheart of nine years, had always stood by me, through good and bad times. To me, Sharon is my miracle, my diamond in a world filled with problems, hurt, and pain. It was Sharon who dropped out of school when I was hurt so that she could constantly be at my side. She never wavered or gave up on me.
It was her faith and love that pulled me through so many dark days. While other nineteen year old girls were going to parties and enjoying life, Sharon devoted her life to my recovery. That, to me, is the true definition of love.
After our beautiful wedding I continued working part time at the Pain Center and completed my work for a masters degree. We were extremely happy, but even happier when we learned Sharon was pregnant.
On July 11, 1990 at 12:15 a.m. Sharon woke me with the news: "We need to go to the hospital… my water just broke." I couldn't help but think how ironic it was that my life almost ended in a convenience store and now on the date "7-11" we were about to bring a new life into this world. This time it was my turn to help Sharon as she had helped me over those past years.
She was in labor for 15 hours. At 3:10 p.m. Sharon and I experienced the birth of our beautiful daughter, Shawn Elyse Segal!
Tears of joy and happiness came to my eyes as our healthy, alert, wonderful daughter entered this world. We anxiously counted her 10 fingers and her 10 toes and watched her wide eyes take in the world about her. It was truly a beautiful picture that was 18)etched in my mind forever as she lie in her mother's waiting arms, just minutes after her birth. At that moment I thanked God for blessing us with the greatest miracle of all-Shawn Elyse Segal.
I never considered myself unique, but people are constantly telling me, "you are a miracle." To me, I was just an ordinary "guy" with realistic goals and big dreams. I was a 19-year-old student at the University of Texas and well on my way toward fulfilling my "big dream" of one day becoming an 1)orthopedic surgeon.
On the night of February 17, 1981 I was studying for an 2)Organic Chemistry test at the library with Sharon, my girlfriend of three years. Sharon had asked me to drive her back to her dormitory as it was getting quite late. We got into my car, not realizing that just getting into a car would never quite be the same for me again. I quickly noticed that my gas 3)gauge was registered on empty so I pulled into a nearby convenience store to buy $2.00 worth of gas. "I'll be back in two minutes," I yelled at Sharon as I closed the door. But instead, those two minutes changed my life forever.
Entering the convenience store was like entering the 4)twilight zone. On the outside I was a healthy, athletic, pre-med student, but on the inside I was just another statistic of a violent crime. I thought I was entering an empty store, but suddenly I realized it was not empty at all. Three robbers were in the process of committing a robbery and my entrance into the store caught them by surprise. One of the criminals immediately 5)shoved a .38 6)caliber handgun to my head, ordered me to the cooler, pushed me down on the floor, and pumped a bullet into the back of my head - execution style. He obviously thought I was dead because he did not shoot me again. The 7) trio of thieves finished robbing the store and left calmly.
Meanwhile, Sharon wondered why I had not returned. After seeing the three men leave the store she really began to worry as I was the last person she saw entering the store. She quickly went inside to look for me, but saw no one-only an almost empty cash register containing one check and several pennies. Quickly she ran down each aisle shouting, "Mike, Mike!"
Just then the 8) attendant appeared from the back of the store shouting, "Lady, get down on the floor. I've just been robbed and shot at!"
Sharon quickly dropped to the floor screaming, "Have you seen my boyfriend? He has 9)auburn hair." The man did not reply but went back to the cooler where he found me choking on my vomit. The attendant quickly cleaned my mouth and then called for the police and an ambulance.
Sharon was in shock. She was beginning to understand that I was hurt, but she could not begin to comprehend or imagine the severity of my injury.
When the police arrived they immediately called the 10)homicide division as they did not think I would survive and the 11)paramedic reported that she had never seen a person so severely wounded survive. At 1:30 a.m. my parents who lived in Houston, were awakened by a telephone call from Brackenridge Hospital advising them to come to Austin as soon as possible for they feared I would not make it through the night.
But I did make it through the night and early in the morning the 12)neurosurgeon decided to operate. However, he quickly informed my family and Sharon that my chances of surviving the surgery were only 40/60. If this were not bad enough, the neurosurgeon further shocked my family by telling them what life would be like for me if I 13)beat the odds and survived. He said I probably would never walk, talk, or be able to understand even simple commands.
My family was hoping and praying to hear even the slightest bit of encouragement from that doctor. Instead, his pessimistic words gave my family no reason to believe that I would ever again be a productive member of society. But once again I beat the odds and survived the three and a half hours of surgery.
Granted, I still could not talk, my entire right side was paralyzed and many people thought I could not understand, but at least I was stable. After one week in a private room the doctors felt I had improved enough to be transferred by jet ambulance to Del Oro 14)Rehabilitation Hospital in Houston.
My 15)hallucinations, coupled with my physical problems, made my 16)prognosis still very bleak. However, as time passed my mind began to clear and approximately six weeks later my right leg began to move ever so slightly. Within seven weeks my right arm slowly began to move and at eight weeks I uttered my first few words.
My speech was extremely difficult and slow in the beginning, but at least it was a beginning. I was starting to look forward to each new day to see how far I would progress. But just as I thought my life was finally looking brighter I was tested by the hospital europsychologist. She explained to me that judging from my test results she believed that I should not focus on returning to college but that it would be better to set more "realistic goals."
Upon hearing her evaluation I became furious for I thought, "Who is she to tell me what I can or cannot do. She does not even know me. I am a very determined and stubborn person!" I believe it was at that very moment that I decided I would somehow, someday return to college.
It took me a long time and a lot of hard work but I finally returned to the University of Texas in the fall of 1983 - a year and a half after almost dying. The next few years in Austin were very difficult for me, but I truly believe that in order to see beauty in life you have to experience some unpleasantness. Maybe I have experienced too much unpleasantness, but I believe in living each day to the fullest, and doing the very best I can.
And each new day was very busy and very full, for besides attending classes at the University I underwent therapy three to five days each week at Brackenridge Hospital. If this were not enough I flew to Houston every other weekend to work with Tom Williams, a trainer and executive who had worked for many colleges and professional teams and also had helped many injured athletes, such as Earl Campbell and Eric Dickerson. Through Tom I learned: "Nothing is impossible and never, never give up or quit."
Early, during my therapy, my father kept repeating to me one of his favorite sayings. I have repeated it almost every day since being hurt: "Mile by mile it's a trial; yard by yard it's hard; but inch by inch it's a cinch."
I thought of those words, and I thought of Tom, my family and Sharon who believed so strongly in me as I climbed the steps to receive my diploma from the Dean of Liberal Arts at the University of Texas on that bright sunny afternoon in June of 1986. Excitement and pride filled my heart as I heard the dean announce that I had graduated with "highest honors", been elected to Phi Beta Kappa, and been chosen as one of 12 Dean's Distinguished Graduates out of 1600 in the College of Liberal Arts.
The overwhelming emotions and feelings that I experienced at that very moment, when most of the audience gave me a standing 17)ovation, I felt would never again be matched in my life-not even when I graduated with a masters degree in social work and not even when I became employed full time at the Texas Pain and Stress Center. But I was wrong!
On May 24, 1987, I realized that nothing could ever match the joy I felt as Sharon and I were married. Sharon, my high school sweetheart of nine years, had always stood by me, through good and bad times. To me, Sharon is my miracle, my diamond in a world filled with problems, hurt, and pain. It was Sharon who dropped out of school when I was hurt so that she could constantly be at my side. She never wavered or gave up on me.
It was her faith and love that pulled me through so many dark days. While other nineteen year old girls were going to parties and enjoying life, Sharon devoted her life to my recovery. That, to me, is the true definition of love.
After our beautiful wedding I continued working part time at the Pain Center and completed my work for a masters degree. We were extremely happy, but even happier when we learned Sharon was pregnant.
On July 11, 1990 at 12:15 a.m. Sharon woke me with the news: "We need to go to the hospital… my water just broke." I couldn't help but think how ironic it was that my life almost ended in a convenience store and now on the date "7-11" we were about to bring a new life into this world. This time it was my turn to help Sharon as she had helped me over those past years.
She was in labor for 15 hours. At 3:10 p.m. Sharon and I experienced the birth of our beautiful daughter, Shawn Elyse Segal!
Tears of joy and happiness came to my eyes as our healthy, alert, wonderful daughter entered this world. We anxiously counted her 10 fingers and her 10 toes and watched her wide eyes take in the world about her. It was truly a beautiful picture that was 18)etched in my mind forever as she lie in her mother's waiting arms, just minutes after her birth. At that moment I thanked God for blessing us with the greatest miracle of all-Shawn Elyse Segal.
The Blanket - trolley bag
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Floyd Dell, born June 28, 1887, Barry, Ill., U.S. died July 23, 1969, Bethesda, Md. novelist and radical journalist whose fiction examined the changing mores in sex and politics among American bohemians before and after World War I. A precocious poet, Dell grew up in an impoverished family and left high school at age 16 to work in a factory. Moving to Chicago in 1908, he worked as a newspaperman and soon was a leader of the city's advanced literary movement. He became assistant editor of the Friday Literary Review of the Evening Post in 1909 and editor in 1911, making it one of the most noted American literary supplements. As a critic, he furthered the careers of Sherwood Anderson and Theodore Dreiser. A socialist since his youth, he moved to New York in 1914 and was associate editor of the left-wing The Masses until 1917. Dell was on the staff of The Liberator, which succeeded The Masses, from 1918 to 1924. His first and best novel, the largely autobiographical Moon-Calf, appeared in 1920, and its sequel, The Briary-Bush, in 1921. Homecoming, an autobiography taking him to his 35th year, was published in 1933. His other novels on life among the unconventional include Janet March (1923), Runaway (1925), and Love in Greenwich Village (1926). His nonfiction includes Were You Ever a Child? (1919), on child-rearing; the biography Upton Sinclair: A Study in Social Protest (1927); and Love in the Machine Age (1930), which presented his views on sex. Little Accident, a play written with Thomas Mitchell and based on Dell's novel An Unmarried Father (1927), was successfully produced in 1928. Dell joined the Federal Writers Project and moved to Washington, D.C., in the late 1930s as an official for the project. He continued in government work after the project ended, until his retirement in 1947.Petey hadn’t really believed that Dad would be doing It — sending Granddad away. “Away” was what they were calling it.Not until now could he believe it of his father.But here was the blanket that Dad had bought for Granddad, and in the morning he’d be going away. This was the last evening they’d be having together. Dad was off seeing that girl he was to marry. He would not be back till late, so Petey and Granddad could sit up and talk.It was a fine September night, with a silver moon riding high. They washed up the supper dishes and then took their chairs out onto the porch. “I’ll get my fiddle,” said the old man, “and play you some of the old tunes.”But instead of the fiddle he brought out the blanket. It was a big double blanket, red with black stripes.“Now, isn’t that a fine blanket!” said the old man, smoothing it over his knees. “And isn’t your father a kind man to be giving the old fellow a blanket like that to go away with? It cost something, it did—look at the wool of it! There’ll be few blankets there the equal of this one!”It was like Granddad to be saying that. He was trying to make it easier. He had pretended all along that he wanted to go away to the great brick building—the government place. There he’d be with so many other old fellows, having the best of everything. . . . But Petey hadn’t believed Dad would really do it, not until this night when he brought home the blanket.“Oh, yes, it’s a fine blanket,” said Petey. He got up and went into the house. He wasn’t the kind to cry and, besides, he was too old for that. He’d just gone in to fetch Granddad’s fiddle.The blanket slid to the floor as the old man took the fiddle and stood up. He tuned up for a minute, and then said, “This is one you’ll like to remember.”Petey sat and looked out over the gully. Dad would marry that girl. Yes, that girl who had kissed Petey and fussed over him, saying she’d try to be a good mother to him, and all. . . .The tune stopped suddenly. Granddad said, “It’s a fine girl your father’s going to marry. He’ll be feeling young again with a pretty wife like that. And what would an old fellow like me be doing around their house, getting in the way? An old nuisance, what with my talks of aches and pains. It’s best that I go away, like I’m doing. One more tune or two, and then we’ll be going to sleep. I’ll pack up my blanket in the morning.”They didn’t hear the two people coming down the path. Dad had one arm around the girl, whose bright face was like a doll’s. But they heard her when she laughed, right close by the porch. Dad didn’t say anything, but the girl came forward and spoke to Granddad prettily: “I won’t be here when you leave in the morning, so I came over to say good-bye.”“It’s kind of you,” said Granddad, with his eyes cast down. Then, seeing the blanket at his feet, he stooped to pick it up. “And will you look at this,” he said. “The fine blanket my son has given me to go away with.”“Yes,” she said. “It’s a fine blanket.” She felt the wool and repeated in surprise, “A fine blanket—I’ll say it is!” She turned to Dad and said to him coldly, “That blanket really cost something.”Dad cleared his throat and said, “I wanted him to have the best. . . .”“It’s double, too,” she said, as if accusing Dad.“Yes,” said Granddad, “it’s double—a fine blanket for an old fellow to be going away with.”17 The boy went suddenly into the house. He was looking for something. He could hear that girl scolding Dad. She realized how much of Dad’s money—her money, really—had gone for the blanket. Dad became angry in his slow way. And now she was suddenly going away in a huff. . . .As Petey came out, she turned and called back, “All the same, he doesn’t need a double blanket!” And she ran off up the path. Dad was looking after her as if he wasn’t sure what he ought to do.“Oh, she’s right,” Petey said. “Here, Dad”—and he held out a pair of scissors. “Cut the blanket in two.”Both of them stared at the boy, startled. “Cut it in two, I tell you, Dad!” he cried out. “And keep the other half.”“That’s not a bad idea,” said Granddad gently. “I don’t need so much of a blanket.”“Yes,” the boy said harshly, “a single blanket’s enough for an old man when he’s sent away. We’ll save the other half, Dad. It’ll come in handy later.”“Now what do you mean by that?” asked Dad.“I mean,” said the boy slowly, “that I’ll give it to you, Dad— when you’re old and I’m sending you—away.”There was a silence. Then Dad went over to Granddad and stood before him, not speaking. But Granddad understood. He put out a hand and laid it on Dad’s shoulder. And he heard Granddad whisper, “It’s all right, son. I knew you didn’t mean it. . . .” And then Petey cried.But it didn’t matter—because they were all crying together.
Floyd Dell, born June 28, 1887, Barry, Ill., U.S. died July 23, 1969, Bethesda, Md. novelist and radical journalist whose fiction examined the changing mores in sex and politics among American bohemians before and after World War I. A precocious poet, Dell grew up in an impoverished family and left high school at age 16 to work in a factory. Moving to Chicago in 1908, he worked as a newspaperman and soon was a leader of the city's advanced literary movement. He became assistant editor of the Friday Literary Review of the Evening Post in 1909 and editor in 1911, making it one of the most noted American literary supplements. As a critic, he furthered the careers of Sherwood Anderson and Theodore Dreiser. A socialist since his youth, he moved to New York in 1914 and was associate editor of the left-wing The Masses until 1917. Dell was on the staff of The Liberator, which succeeded The Masses, from 1918 to 1924. His first and best novel, the largely autobiographical Moon-Calf, appeared in 1920, and its sequel, The Briary-Bush, in 1921. Homecoming, an autobiography taking him to his 35th year, was published in 1933. His other novels on life among the unconventional include Janet March (1923), Runaway (1925), and Love in Greenwich Village (1926). His nonfiction includes Were You Ever a Child? (1919), on child-rearing; the biography Upton Sinclair: A Study in Social Protest (1927); and Love in the Machine Age (1930), which presented his views on sex. Little Accident, a play written with Thomas Mitchell and based on Dell's novel An Unmarried Father (1927), was successfully produced in 1928. Dell joined the Federal Writers Project and moved to Washington, D.C., in the late 1930s as an official for the project. He continued in government work after the project ended, until his retirement in 1947.Petey hadn’t really believed that Dad would be doing It — sending Granddad away. “Away” was what they were calling it.Not until now could he believe it of his father.But here was the blanket that Dad had bought for Granddad, and in the morning he’d be going away. This was the last evening they’d be having together. Dad was off seeing that girl he was to marry. He would not be back till late, so Petey and Granddad could sit up and talk.It was a fine September night, with a silver moon riding high. They washed up the supper dishes and then took their chairs out onto the porch. “I’ll get my fiddle,” said the old man, “and play you some of the old tunes.”But instead of the fiddle he brought out the blanket. It was a big double blanket, red with black stripes.“Now, isn’t that a fine blanket!” said the old man, smoothing it over his knees. “And isn’t your father a kind man to be giving the old fellow a blanket like that to go away with? It cost something, it did—look at the wool of it! There’ll be few blankets there the equal of this one!”It was like Granddad to be saying that. He was trying to make it easier. He had pretended all along that he wanted to go away to the great brick building—the government place. There he’d be with so many other old fellows, having the best of everything. . . . But Petey hadn’t believed Dad would really do it, not until this night when he brought home the blanket.“Oh, yes, it’s a fine blanket,” said Petey. He got up and went into the house. He wasn’t the kind to cry and, besides, he was too old for that. He’d just gone in to fetch Granddad’s fiddle.The blanket slid to the floor as the old man took the fiddle and stood up. He tuned up for a minute, and then said, “This is one you’ll like to remember.”Petey sat and looked out over the gully. Dad would marry that girl. Yes, that girl who had kissed Petey and fussed over him, saying she’d try to be a good mother to him, and all. . . .The tune stopped suddenly. Granddad said, “It’s a fine girl your father’s going to marry. He’ll be feeling young again with a pretty wife like that. And what would an old fellow like me be doing around their house, getting in the way? An old nuisance, what with my talks of aches and pains. It’s best that I go away, like I’m doing. One more tune or two, and then we’ll be going to sleep. I’ll pack up my blanket in the morning.”They didn’t hear the two people coming down the path. Dad had one arm around the girl, whose bright face was like a doll’s. But they heard her when she laughed, right close by the porch. Dad didn’t say anything, but the girl came forward and spoke to Granddad prettily: “I won’t be here when you leave in the morning, so I came over to say good-bye.”“It’s kind of you,” said Granddad, with his eyes cast down. Then, seeing the blanket at his feet, he stooped to pick it up. “And will you look at this,” he said. “The fine blanket my son has given me to go away with.”“Yes,” she said. “It’s a fine blanket.” She felt the wool and repeated in surprise, “A fine blanket—I’ll say it is!” She turned to Dad and said to him coldly, “That blanket really cost something.”Dad cleared his throat and said, “I wanted him to have the best. . . .”“It’s double, too,” she said, as if accusing Dad.“Yes,” said Granddad, “it’s double—a fine blanket for an old fellow to be going away with.”17 The boy went suddenly into the house. He was looking for something. He could hear that girl scolding Dad. She realized how much of Dad’s money—her money, really—had gone for the blanket. Dad became angry in his slow way. And now she was suddenly going away in a huff. . . .As Petey came out, she turned and called back, “All the same, he doesn’t need a double blanket!” And she ran off up the path. Dad was looking after her as if he wasn’t sure what he ought to do.“Oh, she’s right,” Petey said. “Here, Dad”—and he held out a pair of scissors. “Cut the blanket in two.”Both of them stared at the boy, startled. “Cut it in two, I tell you, Dad!” he cried out. “And keep the other half.”“That’s not a bad idea,” said Granddad gently. “I don’t need so much of a blanket.”“Yes,” the boy said harshly, “a single blanket’s enough for an old man when he’s sent away. We’ll save the other half, Dad. It’ll come in handy later.”“Now what do you mean by that?” asked Dad.“I mean,” said the boy slowly, “that I’ll give it to you, Dad— when you’re old and I’m sending you—away.”There was a silence. Then Dad went over to Granddad and stood before him, not speaking. But Granddad understood. He put out a hand and laid it on Dad’s shoulder. And he heard Granddad whisper, “It’s all right, son. I knew you didn’t mean it. . . .” And then Petey cried.But it didn’t matter—because they were all crying together.
2008年11月21日星期五
The builder travel bag
travel bag duffel bag trolley bag An elderly carpenter was ready to retire. He told his employer of his plans to leave the house building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family1. He would miss the paycheck2, but he needed to retire. They could get by3. The employer was sorry to see his good worker go and asked if he could build just one more house as a personal favor. The carpenter said yes, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to4 shoddy5 workmanship6 and used inferior7 materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career. When the carpenter finished his work and the employer came to inspect the house and handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you." What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too8 well. So it is with us. We build our lives in a distracted9 way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up10 less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built. If we had realized, we would have done it differently. Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer11 a nail, place a board, or erect12 a wall. Build wisely. It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously13 and with dignity. The plaque14 on the wall says, "Life is a do-it-yourself project." Who could say it more clearly? Your life tomorrow will be the result of your attitudes and the choices you make today.
These Things I Wish for You travel bag
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We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I d know better. I d really like for them to know about hand-me-down clothes and home-made ice cream and leftover meatloaf. I really would.My cherished grandson, I hope you learn humility by surviving failure and that you learn to be honest even when no one is looking.I hope you learn to make your bed and mow the lawn and wash the car-and I hope nobody gives you a brand-new car when you are sixteen.It will be good if at least one time you can see a baby calf born, and you have a good friend to be with you if you ever have to put your old dog to sleep.I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother. And it is all right to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he s scared, I hope you ll let him.And when you want to see a Disney movie and your kid brother wants to tag along, I hope you take him.I hope you have to walk uphill with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.If you want a slingshot, I hope your father teaches you how to make one instead of buying one. I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books, and when you learn to use computers, you also learn how to add and subtract in your head.I hope you get razzed by friends when you have your first crush on a girl, and that when you talk back to your mother you learn what Ivory soap tastes like.May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on the stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.I hope you get sick when someone blows smoke in your face. I don t care if you try beer once, but I hope you won t like it. And if a friend offers you a joint or any drugs, I hope you are smart enough to realize that person is not your friend.I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your grandpa or go fishing with your uncle.I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through a neighbor s window, and that she hugs you and kisses you when you give her a plaster of pared mold of your hand.These things I wish for you-tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness.
We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse. For my grandchildren, I d know better. I d really like for them to know about hand-me-down clothes and home-made ice cream and leftover meatloaf. I really would.My cherished grandson, I hope you learn humility by surviving failure and that you learn to be honest even when no one is looking.I hope you learn to make your bed and mow the lawn and wash the car-and I hope nobody gives you a brand-new car when you are sixteen.It will be good if at least one time you can see a baby calf born, and you have a good friend to be with you if you ever have to put your old dog to sleep.I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother. And it is all right to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he s scared, I hope you ll let him.And when you want to see a Disney movie and your kid brother wants to tag along, I hope you take him.I hope you have to walk uphill with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.If you want a slingshot, I hope your father teaches you how to make one instead of buying one. I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books, and when you learn to use computers, you also learn how to add and subtract in your head.I hope you get razzed by friends when you have your first crush on a girl, and that when you talk back to your mother you learn what Ivory soap tastes like.May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on the stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.I hope you get sick when someone blows smoke in your face. I don t care if you try beer once, but I hope you won t like it. And if a friend offers you a joint or any drugs, I hope you are smart enough to realize that person is not your friend.I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your grandpa or go fishing with your uncle.I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through a neighbor s window, and that she hugs you and kisses you when you give her a plaster of pared mold of your hand.These things I wish for you-tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness.
A Truly Outstanding Article travel bag
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The trend in everyday conversation is to use grandiose words. "Outstanding" is new "good," "amazing" is the new "OK," and "huge" is the new "big."I was in a restaurant in D.C. last weekend and everything I asked was answered in superlatives.Me: How s the salmon?Server: Fantastic!Me: Does it come with rice?Server: Absolutely!Would a "good" and a "yes" have been sufficient? Undeniably!At Starbucks, the smallest coffee you can order is a Tall. Tall would seem to indicate that there was also a short and medium, with Tall being the largest. But at Starbucks, Tall is small. Grande, which is both Italian and Spanish for large, is medium.Likewise, at your local 7-Eleven you cannot buy a small: Your choices are Big Gulp, Super Gulp and Extremely Big Gulp. OldBananaNavyGap also did away with the small. You cannot buy anything from the chain stores that is really a "small." My father is an average-sized man. He hasn t gained weight (or height, for that matter) for the past 30 years. Ergo, his size remains the same. But in the same amount of time, his T-shirt size has gone from small/medium to medium to large to extra large.Upon reflection, the reason for all this colossal-speak is clear: We are bored with our fantastic, wonderful lives. We want the next-next thing now. Now!And we also want others to think that we still care, that we can still be delighted, that we know that everything is just great. Even when deep inside we know it can t be. Everything can t be great. Hence, we live in a world where extreme is ordinary, where radical is quotidian; exceptional is pedestrian. And to not be overly delighted by the mundane is appalling. It s horrific. And, Dude, that s heinous.I m not scientist, and my methods of proof leave a little to be desired, or a lot to be desired, or an immensity. An to be honest, I guess I d rather live in a world where people were overly excited than depressed.But listen to the voices around you. Listen to your own voices. There is nothing on the news that is good or bad, only things that are wonderful or devastating. Even the weather is either beautiful or horrible.Listen the next time when someone asks you something and you agree, because when you could simply say "yes," instead you will say "absolutely" or "without doubt" or "Oh, yeah, unquestionably - absolutely without doubt."Have people forgotten what it is like to be OK? Simply OK with what they have and who they are?If everything is outstanding, if everything is the most amazing thing ever, is anything ever amazing at all?
The trend in everyday conversation is to use grandiose words. "Outstanding" is new "good," "amazing" is the new "OK," and "huge" is the new "big."I was in a restaurant in D.C. last weekend and everything I asked was answered in superlatives.Me: How s the salmon?Server: Fantastic!Me: Does it come with rice?Server: Absolutely!Would a "good" and a "yes" have been sufficient? Undeniably!At Starbucks, the smallest coffee you can order is a Tall. Tall would seem to indicate that there was also a short and medium, with Tall being the largest. But at Starbucks, Tall is small. Grande, which is both Italian and Spanish for large, is medium.Likewise, at your local 7-Eleven you cannot buy a small: Your choices are Big Gulp, Super Gulp and Extremely Big Gulp. OldBananaNavyGap also did away with the small. You cannot buy anything from the chain stores that is really a "small." My father is an average-sized man. He hasn t gained weight (or height, for that matter) for the past 30 years. Ergo, his size remains the same. But in the same amount of time, his T-shirt size has gone from small/medium to medium to large to extra large.Upon reflection, the reason for all this colossal-speak is clear: We are bored with our fantastic, wonderful lives. We want the next-next thing now. Now!And we also want others to think that we still care, that we can still be delighted, that we know that everything is just great. Even when deep inside we know it can t be. Everything can t be great. Hence, we live in a world where extreme is ordinary, where radical is quotidian; exceptional is pedestrian. And to not be overly delighted by the mundane is appalling. It s horrific. And, Dude, that s heinous.I m not scientist, and my methods of proof leave a little to be desired, or a lot to be desired, or an immensity. An to be honest, I guess I d rather live in a world where people were overly excited than depressed.But listen to the voices around you. Listen to your own voices. There is nothing on the news that is good or bad, only things that are wonderful or devastating. Even the weather is either beautiful or horrible.Listen the next time when someone asks you something and you agree, because when you could simply say "yes," instead you will say "absolutely" or "without doubt" or "Oh, yeah, unquestionably - absolutely without doubt."Have people forgotten what it is like to be OK? Simply OK with what they have and who they are?If everything is outstanding, if everything is the most amazing thing ever, is anything ever amazing at all?
A Lady Named Lill travel bag
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Lillian was a young French Canadian girl who grew up in the farming community3 of River Canard, Ontario. At the age of 16, her father thought “Lill has had enough schooling,”and she was forced to drop out4 of school to contribute to5 the family income. In 1922, with English as her second language and limited education and skills, the future didn't look bright for Lill. Her father, Eugene Bezaire, was a stern6 man who rarely took no for an answer and never accepted excuses. He demanded that Lill find a job. But her limitations left her with little confidence and low self-esteem7, and she didn't know what work she could do. With small hope of gaining employment, she would still ride the bus daily into the “big cities”of Windsor or Detroit. But she couldn't muster8 the courage to respond to a Help Wanted9 ad; she couldn't even bring herself to knock on a door. Each day she would just ride to the city, walk aimlessly about and at dusk return home. Her father would ask, “Any luck today, Lill?” “No ... no luck today, Dad,”she would respond meekly10. As the days passed, Lill continued to ride and her father continued to ask about her job-hunting. The questions became more demanding, and Lill knew she would soon have to knock on a door. On one of her trips, Lill saw a sign at the Carhartt Overall Company in downtown Detroit. “Help Wanted,”the sign said, “Secretarial11. Apply Within.”She walked up the long flight12 of stairs to the Carhartt Company offices. Cautiously, Lill knocked on her very first door. She was met by the office manager, Margaret Costello. In her broken English, Lill told her she was interested in the secretarial position, falsely stating that she was 19. Margaret knew something wasn't right, but decided to give the girl a chance. She guided Lill through the old business office of the Carhartt Company. With rows and rows of people seated at rows and rows of typewriters and adding machines, Lill felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at her. With her chin13 on her chest and her eyes staring down, the reluctant14 farm girl followed Margaret to the back of the somber room. Margaret sat her down at a typewriter and said, “Lill, let's see how good you really are.”She directed Lill to type a single letter, and then left. Lill looked at the clock and saw that it was 11:40 a.m. Everyone would be leaving for lunch at noon. She figured that she could slip away15 in the crowd then. But she knew she should at least attempt the letter. On her first try, she got through16 one line.It had five words, and she made four mistakes. She pulled the paper out and threw it away. The clock now read 11:45. “At noon,”she said to herself, “I'll move out with the crowd, and they will never see me again.” On her second attempt, Lill got through a full paragraph, but still made many mistakes. Again she pulled out the paper, threw it out and started over17. This time she completed the letter, but her work was still strewn18 with errors. She looked at the clock: 11:55 — five minutes to freedom. Just then, the door at one end of the office opened and Margaret walked in. She came directly over to Lill, putting one hand on the desk and the other on the girl's shoulder. She read the letter and paused. Then she said, “Lill, you're doing good work!” Lill was stunned19. She looked at the letter, then up at Margaret. With those simple words of encouragement, her desire to escape vanished20 and her confidence began to grow. She thought, “Well, if she thinks it's good, then it must be good. I think I'll stay!” Lill did stay at Carhartt Overall Company...for 51 years, through two world wars and a Depression, through 11 presidents and six prime ministers — all because someone had the insight to give a shy and uncertain young girl the gift of self-esteem when she knocked on the door.
Lillian was a young French Canadian girl who grew up in the farming community3 of River Canard, Ontario. At the age of 16, her father thought “Lill has had enough schooling,”and she was forced to drop out4 of school to contribute to5 the family income. In 1922, with English as her second language and limited education and skills, the future didn't look bright for Lill. Her father, Eugene Bezaire, was a stern6 man who rarely took no for an answer and never accepted excuses. He demanded that Lill find a job. But her limitations left her with little confidence and low self-esteem7, and she didn't know what work she could do. With small hope of gaining employment, she would still ride the bus daily into the “big cities”of Windsor or Detroit. But she couldn't muster8 the courage to respond to a Help Wanted9 ad; she couldn't even bring herself to knock on a door. Each day she would just ride to the city, walk aimlessly about and at dusk return home. Her father would ask, “Any luck today, Lill?” “No ... no luck today, Dad,”she would respond meekly10. As the days passed, Lill continued to ride and her father continued to ask about her job-hunting. The questions became more demanding, and Lill knew she would soon have to knock on a door. On one of her trips, Lill saw a sign at the Carhartt Overall Company in downtown Detroit. “Help Wanted,”the sign said, “Secretarial11. Apply Within.”She walked up the long flight12 of stairs to the Carhartt Company offices. Cautiously, Lill knocked on her very first door. She was met by the office manager, Margaret Costello. In her broken English, Lill told her she was interested in the secretarial position, falsely stating that she was 19. Margaret knew something wasn't right, but decided to give the girl a chance. She guided Lill through the old business office of the Carhartt Company. With rows and rows of people seated at rows and rows of typewriters and adding machines, Lill felt as if a hundred pairs of eyes were staring at her. With her chin13 on her chest and her eyes staring down, the reluctant14 farm girl followed Margaret to the back of the somber room. Margaret sat her down at a typewriter and said, “Lill, let's see how good you really are.”She directed Lill to type a single letter, and then left. Lill looked at the clock and saw that it was 11:40 a.m. Everyone would be leaving for lunch at noon. She figured that she could slip away15 in the crowd then. But she knew she should at least attempt the letter. On her first try, she got through16 one line.It had five words, and she made four mistakes. She pulled the paper out and threw it away. The clock now read 11:45. “At noon,”she said to herself, “I'll move out with the crowd, and they will never see me again.” On her second attempt, Lill got through a full paragraph, but still made many mistakes. Again she pulled out the paper, threw it out and started over17. This time she completed the letter, but her work was still strewn18 with errors. She looked at the clock: 11:55 — five minutes to freedom. Just then, the door at one end of the office opened and Margaret walked in. She came directly over to Lill, putting one hand on the desk and the other on the girl's shoulder. She read the letter and paused. Then she said, “Lill, you're doing good work!” Lill was stunned19. She looked at the letter, then up at Margaret. With those simple words of encouragement, her desire to escape vanished20 and her confidence began to grow. She thought, “Well, if she thinks it's good, then it must be good. I think I'll stay!” Lill did stay at Carhartt Overall Company...for 51 years, through two world wars and a Depression, through 11 presidents and six prime ministers — all because someone had the insight to give a shy and uncertain young girl the gift of self-esteem when she knocked on the door.
The Origin of the Rainbow travel bag
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Once upon a time the colors of the world started to quarrel. All claimed that they were the best.
Green said: "Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for grass, trees and leaves. Look over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority."
Blue interrupted: "You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is the water that is the basis of life. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace, you would all be nothing."
Yellow chuckled: " The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower, the whole world starts to smile. Without me there would be no fun."
Orange started next: "I carry the most important vitamins. Think of carrots, oranges and mangoes. When I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you."
Red could stand it no longer so he shouted out: "I am the ruler of all of you. I am blood一 life's blood! I bring fire into the blood. I am the color of passion and love."
Purple was very tall and spoke with great pomp: "I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, chiefs and bishops have always chosen me for I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me! They listen and obey."
Finally Indigo spoke, much more quietly than all the others, but with just as much determination: "Think of me. I am the color of silence. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep water. You need me for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace."
And so the colors went on quarreling, each convinced of his or her own superiority. Suddenly there was a startling flash of bright lightening, and thunder rolled. Rain started to pour down.
Rain began to speak: "You foolish colors. Don't you know that you were each made for a special purpose? Join hands with one another and come to me."
Doing as they were told, the colors joined hands and united.
Rain continued: "From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. The rainbow is a sign of hope for tomorrow."
Once upon a time the colors of the world started to quarrel. All claimed that they were the best.
Green said: "Clearly I am the most important. I am the sign of life and of hope. I was chosen for grass, trees and leaves. Look over the countryside and you will see that I am in the majority."
Blue interrupted: "You only think about the earth, but consider the sky and the sea. It is the water that is the basis of life. The sky gives space and peace and serenity. Without my peace, you would all be nothing."
Yellow chuckled: " The sun is yellow, the moon is yellow, the stars are yellow. Every time you look at a sunflower, the whole world starts to smile. Without me there would be no fun."
Orange started next: "I carry the most important vitamins. Think of carrots, oranges and mangoes. When I fill the sky at sunrise or sunset, my beauty is so striking that no one gives another thought to any of you."
Red could stand it no longer so he shouted out: "I am the ruler of all of you. I am blood一 life's blood! I bring fire into the blood. I am the color of passion and love."
Purple was very tall and spoke with great pomp: "I am the color of royalty and power. Kings, chiefs and bishops have always chosen me for I am the sign of authority and wisdom. People do not question me! They listen and obey."
Finally Indigo spoke, much more quietly than all the others, but with just as much determination: "Think of me. I am the color of silence. I represent thought and reflection, twilight and deep water. You need me for balance and contrast, for prayer and inner peace."
And so the colors went on quarreling, each convinced of his or her own superiority. Suddenly there was a startling flash of bright lightening, and thunder rolled. Rain started to pour down.
Rain began to speak: "You foolish colors. Don't you know that you were each made for a special purpose? Join hands with one another and come to me."
Doing as they were told, the colors joined hands and united.
Rain continued: "From now on, when it rains, each of you will stretch across the sky in a great bow of color as a reminder that you can all live in peace. The rainbow is a sign of hope for tomorrow."
clouds travel bag
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I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves—clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
I've opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbor's trees resembles Jimmy Durante's nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow, big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping.
The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds, too, of green leaves—clouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins.
And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Don't I put out tentative mists here and there? Don't I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Don't I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion?
If clouds are beings, and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to drift, to feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine?
Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. One in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our roots in the spirit.
2008年11月13日星期四
Happiness and Wealth
Living standards have soared during the twentieth century, and economists expect them to continue rising in the decades ahead. Does that mean that we humans can look forward to increasing happiness? Not necessarily, warns Richard A. Easterlin, an economist at the University of Southern California, in his new book, Growth Triumphant: The Twenty-first Century in Historical Perspective. Easterlin concedes that richer people are more likely to report themselves as being happy than poorer people are. But steady improvements in the American economy have not been accompanied by steady increases in people's self-assessments of their own happiness. "There has been not improvement in average happiness in the United States over almost a half century----a period in which real GDP per capita more than doubled," Easterlin reports.The explanation for this paradox may be that people become less satisfied over time with a given level of income. In Easterlin's word: "As incomes rise, the aspiration level does too, and the effect of this increase in aspirations is to vitiate the expected growth in happiness due to higher income." Money can buy happiness, Easterlin seems to be saying, but only if one's amounts get bigger and other people aren't getting more. His analysis helps to explain sociologist Lee Rainwater's finding that Americans' perception of the income "necessary to get along" rose between 1950 and 1986 in the same proportion as actual per capita income. We feel rich if we have more than our neighbors, poor if we have less, and feeling relatively well off is equated with being happy.Easterlin's findings, challenge psychologist Abraham Maslow's "hierarchy of wants" as a reliable guide to future human motivation. Maslow suggested that as people's basic material wants are satisfied they seek to achieve nonmaterial or spiritual goals. But Easterlin's evidence points to the persistence of materialism."Despite a general level of affluence never before realized in the history of the world." Easterlin observes, "Material concerns in the wealthiest nations today are as pressing as ever and the pursuit of material need as intense." The evidence suggests there is no evolution toward higher order goals. Rather, each step upward on the ladder of economic development merely stimulates new economic desires that lead the chase ever onward. Economists are accustomed to deflating the money value of national income by the average level of prices to obtain "real" income. The process here is similar----real income is being deflated by rising material aspiration, in this case to yield essentially constant subjective economic well-being. While it would be pleasant to envisage a world free from the pressure of material want, a more realistic projection, based on the evidence, is of a world in which generation after generation thinks it needs only another 10% to 20% more income to be perfectly happy.Needs are limited, but not greeds. Science has developed no cure for envy, so our wealth boosts our happiness only briefly while shrinking that of our neighbors. Thus the outlook for the future is gloomy in Easterlin's view."The future, then, to which the epoch of modern economic growth is leading is one of never ending economic growth, a world in which ever growing abundance is matched by ever rising aspirations, a world in which cultural difference is leveled in the constant race to achieve the goods life of material plenty, it is a world founded on belief in science and the power of rational inquiry and in the ultimate capacity of humanity to shape its own destiny. The irony is that in this last respect the lesson of history appears to be otherwise: that there is no choice. In the end, the triumph of economic growth is not a triumph of humanity over material wants; rather, it is the triumph of material wants over humanity."
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