登录注册
社区应用 最新帖子 精华区 社区服务 会员列表 统计排行
主题 : 湾区的心灵鸡汤
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
楼主  发表于: 2006-10-28   

湾区的心灵鸡汤

经常收到一些温馨小文。 借此宝地和大家分享。
评价一下你浏览此帖子的感受

精彩

感动

搞笑

开心

愤怒

无聊

灌水
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
15楼  发表于: 2007-02-15   
Start Living Your ‘Perfect Life’ Today

Some days are tougher than others, it’s true, but if you suffer from a general feeling that your life isn’t quite what you had hoped it would be, you may benefit from sitting down and reflecting for a while.

Get a pen and pad of paper and think about what your perfect day would be
like. Let your imagination loose and don’t hold back ideas as they come, even if they seem far-fetched. After you’ve finished your perfect day, then take it a step further and write what your perfect life would be like. Again, let your imagination run wild and write whatever comes to mind. After you’ve finished look back at what you’ve written and ask yourself if there is a big gap between how you would like your life to be and how it is.

Then after you have established what seems to be missing from your life, see what you can do, realistically, to take your life just one step closer to your ideals. Don’t try to jump from your life where you struggle to just pay the bills to traveling the globe. Possibly if traveling the globe is in your “perfect life” vision, you might be able to introduce some adventure into your life by visiting a museum that is nearby. Especially if you’ve always meant to visit it but haven’t been able to find the time.

Try to instill the values of what your “perfect” visions tell you are important within the framework of the life you have. You are likely to expand your experience and enjoyment of things that are within reach now—not someday when you finally have enough money (which might take a while to accomplish.)
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
14楼  发表于: 2006-11-13   
Two Words That Change Everything
Sure, you‘ve got regrets. But you can move on if you apply this magic phrase..
By Arthur Gordon


Nothing in life is more exciting and rewarding than the sudden flash of insight that leaves you a changed person—not only changed but changed for the better. Such moments are rare, certainly, but they come to all of us. Sometimes from a book, a sermon, a line of poetry. Sometimes from a friend…

That wintry afternoon in Manhattan, waiting in the little French restaurant, I was feeling frustrated and depressed. Because of several miscalculations on my part, a project of considerable importance in my life had fallen through. Even the prospect of seeing a dear friend (the Old Man, as I privately and affectionately thought of him) failed to cheer me as it usually did. I sat there frowning at the checkered tablecloth, chewing the bitter cud of hindsight.

He came across the street, finally, muffled in his ancient overcoat, shapeless felt hat pulled down over his bald head, looking more like an energetic gnome than an eminent psychiatrist. His offices were nearby; I knew he had just left his last patient of the day. He was close to eighty but he still carried a full caseload, still acted as director of a large foundation, still loved to escape to the golf course whenever he could.

By the time he came over and sat beside me, the waiter had brought his invariable bottle of ale. I had not seen him for several months, but he seemed as indestructible as ever. "Well, young man,” he said without preliminary, “what’s troubling you?”

I had long since ceased to be surprised at his perceptiveness. So I proceeded to tell him, at some length, just what was bothering me. With a kind of melancholy pride, I tried to be very honest. I blamed no one else for my disappointment, only myself. I analyzed the whole thing, all the bad judgments, the false moves. I went on for perhaps fifteen minutes, while the Old Man sipped his ale in silence.

When I finished, he put down his glass. "Come on," he said. "Let’s go back to my office."

"Your office? Did you forget something?'

"No," he said mildly. "I want your reaction to something. That’s all."

A chill rain was beginning to fall outside, but his office was warm and comfortable and familiar; book-lined walls, long leather couch, signed photograph of Sigmund Freud, tape recorder by the window. His secretary had gone home. We were alone.

The Old Man took a tape from a flat cardboard box and fitted it into the machine. "On this tape," he said, "are three short recordings made by three persons who came to me for help. They are not identified, of course. I want you to listen to the recordings and see if you can pick out the two-word phrase that is the common denominator in all three cases." He smiled. "Don’t look so puzzled. I have my reasons."

What the owners of the voices on the tape had in common, it seemed to me, was unhappiness. The man who spoke first evidently had suffered some kind of business loss or failure; he berated himself for not having worked harder, for not having looked ahead. The woman who spoke next had never married because of a sense of obligation to her widowed mother; she recalled bitterly all the marital chances she had let go by. The third voice belonged to a mother whose teenage son was in trouble with the police; she blamed herself endlessly.

The Old Man switched off the machine and leaned back in his chair. "Six times in those recordings a phrase is used that’s full of a subtle poison. Did you spot it? No? Well, perhaps that’s because you used it three times yourself down in the restaurant a little while ago." He picked up the box that had held the tape and tossed it over to me. "There they are, right on the label. The two saddest words in any language."

I looked down. Printed neatly in red ink were the words: IF ONLY.

"You'd be amazed,” said the Old Man, "If you knew how many thousands of times I’ve sat in this chair and listened to woeful sentences beginning with those two words. ‘If only,’ they say to me, ‘I had done it differently—or not done it at all. If only I hadn’t lost my temper, said that cruel thing, made that dishonest move, told that foolish lie. If only I had been wiser, or more unselfish, or more self-controlled.’ They go on and on until I stop them. Sometimes I make them listen to the recordings you just heard. ‘If only,’ I say to them, ‘you’d stop saying if only, we might begin to get somewhere!'"

The Old Man stretched out his legs. "The trouble with if only," he said, "is that it doesn’t change anything. It keeps the person facing the wrong way—backward instead of forward. It wastes time. In the end, if you let it become a habit, it can become a real roadblock—an excuse for not trying anymore.

“Now take your own case: Your plans didn’t work out. Why? Because you made certain mistakes. Well, that’s all right: Everyone makes mistakes. Mistakes are what we learn from. But when you were telling me about them, lamenting this, regretting that, you weren’t really learning from them."

"How do you know?" I said, a bit defensively.



"Because,"said the Old Man, "you never got out of the past tense. Not once did you mention the future. And in a way—be honest, now!—you were enjoying it. There’s a perverse streak in all of us that makes us like to hash over old mistakes. After all, when you relate the story of some disaster or disappointment that has happened to you, you’re still the chief character, still in the center of the stage."

I shook my head ruefully. "Well, what’s the remedy?"
"Shift the focus," said the Old Man promptly. "Change the key words and substitute a phrase that supplies lift instead of creating drag."

"Do you have such a phrase to recommend?"

"Certainly. Strike out the words ‘if only’; substitute the phrase next time."

"Next time?"

"That’s right. I’ve seen it work minor miracles right here in this room. As long as a patient keeps saying if only to me, he’s in trouble. But when he looks me in the eye and says next time, I know he’s on his way to overcoming his problem. It means he has decided to apply the lessons he has learned from his experience, however grim or painful it may have been. It means he’s going to push aside the roadblock of regret, move forward, take action, resume living. Try it yourself. You’ll see."

My old friend stopped speaking. Outside, I could hear the rain whispering against the windowpane. I tried sliding one phrase out of my mind and replacing it with the other. It was fanciful, of course, but I could hear the new words lock into place with an audible click.

"One last thing," the Old Man said. "Apply this little trick to things that can still be remedied." From the bookcase behind him, he pulled out something that looked like a diary. "Here’s a journal kept a generation ago by a woman who was a schoolteacher in my hometown. Her husband was a kind of amiable ne’er-do-well, charming but totally inadequate as a provider. This woman had to raise the children, pay the bills, keep the family together. Her diary is full of angry references to Jonathan’s weaknesses, Jonathan’s shortcomings, Jonathan’s inadequacies.

"Then Jonathan died, and all the entries ceased except for one—years later. Here it is: Today I was made superintendent of schools, and I suppose I should be very proud. But if I knew that Jonathan was out there somewhere beyond the stars, and if I knew how to manage it, I would go to him tonight."

The Old Man closed the book gently. “You see? What she’s saying is, if only; if only I had accepted him, faults and all; if only I had loved him while I could.” He put the book back on the shelf. "That’s when those sad words are the saddest of all: when it’s too late to retrieve anything."

He stood up a bit stiffly. "Well, class dismissed. It has been good to see you, young man. Always is. Now, if you will help me find a taxi, I probably should be getting on home."

We came out of the building into the rainy night. I spotted a cruising cab and ran toward it, but another pedestrian was quicker.

"My, my," said the Old Man slyly. “If only we had come down ten seconds sooner, we’d have caught that cab, wouldn’t we?”

I laughed and picked up the cue. “Next time I’ll run faster.”

"That’s it," cried the Old Man, puffing his absurd hat down around his ears. "That’s it exactly!"

Another taxi slowed. I opened the door for him. He smiled and waved as it moved away. I never saw him again. A month later, he died of a sudden heart attack, in full stride, so to speak.

More than a year has passed since that rainy afternoon in Manhattan. But to this day, whenever I find myself thinking if only, I change it to next time. Then I wait for that almost-perceptible mental click. And when I hear it, I think of the Old Man.

A small fragment of immortality, to be sure. But it’s the kind he would have wanted.
我随你
麦芽儿 离线
级别: 军长
显示用户信息 
13楼  发表于: 2006-10-30   
我忍
水做的鱼 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
12楼  发表于: 2006-10-29   
没有人是一座孤岛,可以自全。每个人都是大陆的一片,整体的一部分,……任何人的死亡都是我的损失,因为我是人类的一员。因此,不要问丧钟为谁而鸣,它就为你而鸣。
renée 离线
级别: 论坛版主
显示用户信息 
11楼  发表于: 2006-10-29   
一半是冰水,一半是火柴
Ling1984 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
10楼  发表于: 2006-10-29   
You are what you believe. Totally agree with the following:
A goal, a love and a dream give you total control over your body and your life.
Thanks for sharing Lotus!
Wen Wen 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
9楼  发表于: 2006-10-29   
Really delicious and nutritious!

Thanks lotus
Troublemaker 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
8楼  发表于: 2006-10-28   
I believe all what you shared!!!

Thanks, my sister Lotus!

小平 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
7楼  发表于: 2006-10-28   
those are very nice, thanx
http://blog.sina.com.cn/xiaopingart
That I exist is a perpetual surprise which is life.
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
6楼  发表于: 2006-10-28   
HAPPINESS IS A WAY OF TRAVELING, NOT A DESTINATION
by Dr. Tony Alessandra

The only advantage of being a pessimist is that all your surprises are pleasant. But that's pretty small change compared to the big payoff that comes from projecting positive expectations.
Much of our happiness or unhappiness is caused, of course, not by what happens, but how we look at what happens. In other words, by our thinking habits. And habits can be changed.

George Walther, in his book Power Talking, shows how you can foster the mind-set that interprets setbacks as positive opportunities. He believes this is a skill that you can develop-one word, one phrase, one sentence at a time.

For starters, purge the words "I failed..." from your vocabulary, Walther urges. Replace them with "I learned..." to help your mind focus on the lessons involved.

Similarly, you might want to get in the habit of using "challenge" when others would say "problem," "I'll be glad to" instead of "I'll have to," and "I'm getting better at ..." rather than "I'm no good at ..."

The subliminal effect of changing even a few words, Walther says, can prompt your mind to come up with creative solutions rather than dreading or fleeing the problem.
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
5楼  发表于: 2006-10-28   
A Writer's Real Worth Is Inside
By Howard Fast
  How did I become a writer? That can be answered in one line - the back of my seat to the seat of the chair. Why did I become a writer? That's a little more complex. I became a writer because I was a writer, because wherever I looked there was a story I had to tell. Sometimes, I think it started in the womb, but that's a bit too far back for me to remember. I began to tell stories by the time I was three, and I suppose it drove my poor mother crazy. Her recourse was to teach me to read, and by the time I was five, I was reading quite fluently.
  I had two brothers and a sister. My sister was the oldest, and she informed me that my stories were lies. I responded that they were stories. It didn't matter that things had not happened; the point was that they could have happened.
  When I started school at age six, I encountered my first and most daunting difficulty: I was and am left-handed. My teacher, as with all teachers then, insisted that I write with my right hand, and since I was not at an age where protest by a six-year-old mattered, I attempted to do as she said. The result was my handwriting, which, at best, would be marked deplorable. To this day, almost eighty years later, I still write with my right hand - if I use my left, it does mirror writing - and reading back what I have written is very difficult.
  I must say at this point that one day, many years later, I encountered Norman Corwin, who gave form and meaning to radio drama, sitting on a bench in Central Park, with a large pad on his lap and a pencil in his hand. He was writing.
  "Norman," I said, "you are doing what I always dreamed of."
  "Which is what?" he asked me.
  "Sitting in the shade on a spring day and writing with a pencil on a yellow pad."
  Ah well, such were my dreams.
  At that time, not when I met Corwin in the park, but when I was a six-year-old, engaged in the very difficult business of growing up, we were poor. My father, with six mouths to feed, when he was working and not laid off, brought home between thirty and forty dollars a week. Then my mother passed away when I was eight years old, and my sister took over. And then the Great Depression came. It was very difficult, and it is almost impossible today to comprehend what "poor" meant in the thirties.
  At eleven, I got my first after-school job, delivering the Bronx Home News; and between then and the time I was married, in 1937, I always managed to find some kind of job: delivery boy, library page, road work, cement work, factory worker. Perhaps because of these jobs, I came to the conclusion that I had only one way out - I had to be a writer who was paid for his work.
  I began the process at age twelve. I read magazines in the New York Public Library, and I wrote stories and sent them to various magazines. I wrote in pencil on notebook pages, but of course, even the most charitable of editors could not read them. I wrote about everything; all was grist for my mill, and at long last, I received a note from an editor: "Listen, kid, get a typewriter."
  I was fifteen by then and earning five dollars a week. Good money, considering the times, but never enough. We had too many hungry mouths. Nevertheless, the future called, and I went to the typewriter shop and asked what a used Underwood Upright cost.
  "Twelve dollars, kid."
  Out of the question - way beyond my horizon. Twelve dollars - we could live on that for a week, and often enough we lived on less.
  I knew about my handwriting. I knew that I would never sit in the park and write on a yellow pad - still a dream today.
  "Do you rent them?" I asked.
  "Fifty cents a month."
I had exactly fifty-five cents in my pocket, and I plunged, signed all the papers, and lugged that big Underwood home. I couldn't wait to sit down in front of it and try that beautiful, wonderful machine that translated my dreams into proper words that anyone could read; and here I must say something about the Underwood Upright. Not only was it the most wonderful endurable machine on earth, but like the Deacon's One Horse Shay, it ran nearly forever. When I married in 1937, I bought a new Underwood out of our wedding money. In 1981, I retired it - because typewriter shops could no longer cannibalize parts. Meanwhile, I had turned out at least eighty books, at least one hundred short stories and newspaper columns beyond numbering.
  But, to get back to my story. How did I find time for school, after-school jobs, and the Underwood? The answer is that I have no idea, but I did, and the stories poured out. For the next two years, I sold nothing, but I kept on writing, and then, at age seventeen, I sold my first story to Amazing Story Magazine, for thirty-seven dollars. By God, I was a writer!
  No, it's not as simple as that. I had to learn how to write, to punctuate, to understand the shape of a story. I had to learn an art - one of the most difficult arts known to man; and I had to learn it well enough to consider it a profession - and not have to haul bricks and cement to stay alive.
  I came to understand that art and creation is not simply another profession, but a reason for being alive on this earth. I had to listen to people and learn all the subtleties of language, the cadence and rhythm that distinguishes one from another. This is a process I am still engaged with, and that will be for the rest of my life.
  Today, I am eighty-five years old, and I still write. A day without writing, for me, is a day lost, tossed away.
  So if I were asked the question, "What must I do to be a successful writer?" I would answer that you must want it more than you want anything else. Whether you write for a magazine or a newspaper or as a novelist or playwright.
  Most writers do not make much money, and in this world where money is the measure of everything, or I should say almost anything, you must find another measure. There are writers who make millions, and there are other writers who earn a mere pittance, but that is no measure of worth. The real worth is inside of you and can only be measured by your understanding of the human condition. Learn to think clearly, understand your medium and understand people.
  I might add one thing to this. Read the writers you admire most, unravel the net of words that they spin, and let them be your teachers. You can learn a great deal about the mechanism of writing in school, but the real picture lies in your understanding of the human heart. No school can teach you that. Only your own ears and eyes.
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
地下室  发表于: 2006-10-28   
Love Is Stronger . . .
By John Wayne Schlatter

  Having a goal based on love is the greatest life insurance in the world.
  If you had asked my dad why he got up in the morning, you would have found his answer disarmingly simple: "To make my wife happy."
  Mom and Dad met when they were nine. Every day before school, they met on a park bench with their homework. Mom corrected Dad's English and he did the same with her math. Upon graduation, their teachers said that the two of them were the best "student" in the school. Note the singular!
  They took their time building their relationship, even though Dad always knew she was the girl for him. Their first kiss occurred when they were 17, and their romance continued to grow into their 80s.
  Just how much power their relationship created was brought to light in 1964. The doctor told Dad he had cancer and estimated that he had six months to one year left at the most.
  "Sorry to disagree with you, Doc," my father said. "But I'll tell you how long I have. One day longer than my wife. I love her too much to leave the planet without her."
  And so it was, to the amazement of everyone who didn't really know this love-matched pair, that Mom passed away at the age of 85 and Dad followed one year later when he was 86. Near the end, he told my brothers and me that those 17 years were the best six months he ever spent.
  To the wonderful doctors and nurses at the Department of Veterans' Affairs Medical Center at Long Beach, he was a walking miracle. They kept a loving watch on him and just couldn't understand how a body so riddled with cancer could continue to function so well.
  My dad's explanation was simple. He informed them that he had been a medic in World War I and saw amputated arms and legs, and he had noticed that none of them could think. So he decided he would tell his body how to behave. Once, as he stood up and it was evident he felt a stabbing pain, he looked down at his chest and shouted, "Shut up! We're having a party here."
  Two days before he left us he said, "Boys, I'll be with your mother very soon and someday, some place we'll all be together again. But take your time about joining us; your mother and I have a lot of catching up to do."
  It is said that love is stronger than prison walls. Dad proved it was a heck of a lot stronger than tiny cancer cells.

  Bob, George and I are still here, armed with Dad's final gift.

    A goal, a love and a dream give you total control over your body and your life.
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
地板  发表于: 2006-10-28   
The Greatest Gift
By Christine Many

  I’m five years old, and my mother is on her hands and knees, washing the kitchen floor. I’m telling her about a new girl in school, and she suddenly looks up at me and says, "Who are your two best friends?"
  I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been friends with Jill since I was three or so, and I really like Jaime, a friend in kindergarten.
  "Jill and Jaime."
  My mother stops scrubbing the floor and starts to take off her yellow rubber gloves. "Well, what about Karen and Cindy?"
  My sisters? "I don’t know who their best friends are," I say.
  "No," she says. "I’m saying, why aren’t they your best friends?"
  She seems upset, like I hurt her feelings. "But they’re my sisters."
  "Yes, but they can still be your best friends. Friends may come and go, but your sisters will always be there for you."
  At the time, the idea of my two sisters being my closest friends seemed strange to me. We fought all the time over toys, food, attention, what to watch on television - you name it, we bickered about it at some point. How could my sisters be my best friends? They weren’t the same age as I. We all had our own friends in school.
  But my mother never let the three of us forget it: Sisters are lifelong friends. Her wish - like most parents’ - was to give us something that she never had. Growing up an only child, she longed for siblings. When she gave birth to three daughters - separated by only four years - the fufillment of her dream had only just begun. She had given us each a gift - our sisters - and she wanted to make sure we did not take that gift for granted. She would frequently tell us how lucky we were. But there were other, more subtle ways that she encouraged us to grow closer. She never showed favoritism to one daughter over the other, as not to cause jealousy or bitterness between sisters. She constantly took us places together - skating, shopping, swimming - so we developed common interests. And when we were teenagers, Mom always punished us equally, giving us yet another bonding experience.
  We didn’t always get along beautifully and fought just like any other siblings. But somewhere in between Mom’s lectures, the family vacations and the shared memories, we realized that our mother was right. Today I share things with my sisters that I do with no one else. My sister Cindy and I ran the New York City Marathon together, side-by-side, even holding hands when we crossed the finish line. When my sister Karen got married, I was her maid of honor. Cindy and I traveled through Europe together and even shared an apartment for two years. The three of us trust each other with our greatest secrets.
  It was twenty-three years ago that my mother first asked me who my two best friends were. Today she doesn’t have to. She already knows.
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
板凳  发表于: 2006-10-28   
Speak No Evil
Why gossip is bad for your soul

By Lori Palatnik with Bob Burg

A nineteenth-century folktale tells about a man who went about town slandering the town's wise man. One day, he went to the wise man's home and asked for forgiveness. The wise man, realizing that this man had not internalized the gravity of his transgressions, told him that he would forgive him on one condition: that he go home, take a feather pillow from his house, cut it up, and scatter the feathers to the wind. After he had done so, he should then return to the wise man's house.

Though puzzled by this strange request, the man was happy to be let off with so easy a penance. He quickly cut up the pillow, scattered the feathers, and returned to the house.
"Am I now forgiven?" he asked.

"Just one more thing," the wise man said. "Go now and gather up all the feathers."

"But that's impossible. The wind has already scattered them."

"Precisely," he answered. "And though you may truly wish to correct the evil you have done, it is as impossible to repair the damage done by your words as it is to recover the feathers. Your words are out there in the marketplace, spreading hate, even as we speak."

How interesting it is that we, as human beings, so quick to believe the bad that others say about someone, so accepting of the "news" contained in print and television tabloids, and so ready to assume the worst regarding another's actions, actually allow ourselves to believe that the evil we spread about someone won't really matter. Incredible that we can't seem to immediately and resolutely accept the fact that the gossip we speak can--and often does--significant damage to that person.....
[ 此贴被lotus在10-28-2006 19:05重新编辑 ]
我随你
lotus 离线
级别: 论坛版主

显示用户信息 
沙发  发表于: 2006-10-28   
One More Task
By Marian Lewis


    Eve Jesson could have been bitter, but an inner strength—and her faith—sustained her. She had been widowed at seventy, after forty-three busy years as a minister's wife. Then she had a stroke at age seventy-four, which affected her entire left side: Her left hand and arm were weak, and she walked haltingly with a four-pronged cane. Nevertheless, her mental ability was sharp, and her independent spirit was strong.
    Her daughter urged Mrs. Jesson to join their household, but she gently refused. "I don't think it works out for the best," she said, "but I'd love to visit you often." She sold her home, distributed her most precious possessions among family members and moved into a nursing home where I was a caregiver. She soon became a joy to all of us on the staff. She was fastidious, thoughtful and friendly. She took part in activities, helped arrange flowers and did a bit of "mothering" here and there.
    It was difficult for us to find her a suitable companion to share the two-person bedroom. Many of our residents had severe health or personality problems, or were mentally infirm. With a quiet, gentle manner and the ability to do things for herself, Margaret Gravelle seemed like a more suitable roommate than many others. While Margaret's memory was vague, she knew she was ninety years old and had spent her life in nursing. Her only relative was her great-nephew.
    Although Mrs. Jesson made few complaints about it, we knew Margaret woke her several times in the night when she was confused about sounds or the bathroom location. Mrs. Jesson had to remind Margaret of mealtimes and guide her to the dining room. Margaret could not grasp the notion that only one of the closets was hers and the other was for her roommate. One day a nurse aide brought Margaret back into their room to change her blouse from the one of Mrs. Jesson's she was wearing, to one of her own.
    "Well, she does have good taste," Mrs. Jesson said wryly. "That is my new silk blouse I got for my birthday."
    A day came when we had arranged for the admission of a lady we thought would be a better companion for Mrs. Jesson. "I think we can provide a more suitable roommate for you in a couple days," I told her. "We just have to arrange to move Margaret to a different room."
    Later in the day, Mrs. Jesson came down to my desk. "Don't move Margaret," she said. "She really needs someone to look after her. She gets anxious in the night. She has no family and she is used to my being there.
    "You know, I asked God many times why I had to go on living. When John died, I felt as if my life was finished too. But family, friends and faith all helped me. Then I had my stroke and I thought, Why damage me so and let me go on living? Well, maybe he had work for me yet. Maybe I'm meant to look out for Margaret. I can give her some of the comfort my family gives me. Leave her in my room. It won't take that much effort to watch over her a bit."
    Leaning on her cane, that gracious lady started back down the hall to her room to carry out the last loving task he had given her.
[ 此贴被lotus在10-28-2006 19:05重新编辑 ]
我随你
描述
快速回复

验证问题:
3 * 6 = ? 正确答案:18
按"Ctrl+Enter"直接提交