Let's discuss how love can make a person better. Is it possible for a person in love to change his charater for the best? Prove your point of view by giving specific examples? Is love a feeling received or given to others?
Love needs no words – short love story
Love needs no words
Rita and Patrick had known each other ever since they were in school. It was not something that their parents liked. Rita’s parents said his family background was not that great and she would have to suffer if she married him. His parents said the girl’s family thought too much of themselves, having come into money recently.
This often spoiled things between the couple and made them quarrel. Rita knew how much Patrick loved her, but even then she always asked him, “Pats how much do you love me?”
Since Patrick was not very articulate, Rita would be very upset as he never used high-sounding words to profess his love for her. What with studies and family pressure, Rita would end up venting all her anger on him. For his part, Patrick quietly endured it in silence.
When they finally graduated, Patrick decided to go abroad and study further to improve his status and impress his in-laws-to-be. The last day, they met before parting, he proposed to Rita, “Sweetheart, you know I’m not very good with words. All I know is that I love you above everything else. I want to take care of you for the rest of my life. As for your family, I’ll try my best to talk them round. Will you be mine forever?”
Nothing could have made Rita happier. Patrick indeed loved her. She agreed, and by dint of Patrick’s determination, her family finally gave in. Before he left, they got engaged in a grand party thrown by Rita’s folks.
Rita, who didn’t want to study any more, started teaching in a near-by school. Patrick, on the other hand, did very well in his MBA course. But he missed Rita terribly. The only thing that kept him going was his love for her. After all, whatever he was doing was for a better future for both of them.
They sent their love through e-mails and phone calls, which burnt a hole in both their pockets. Though it was hard, none of them ever thought of giving up.
One summer morning, while Rita was on her way to work, she was knocked down by a truck that had lost control. She was rushed to a near-by hospital by the passers-by. When she regained consciousness, she saw her parents beside her bed. She was hurting very badly, couldn’t even mode her arms and her throat seemed strange. She was badly injured.
Seeing her parents crying softly, she wanted to comfort them. She opened her mouth – and to her shock – she realised that all she could do was sigh. She couldn’t talk. She had lost it. She has lost her voice……
According to the doctors, the impact of the accident on her brain had led to the loss of her voice. Her parents did their best to comfort her, but nothing helped – she broke down.
All she could do was cry silently – silence accompanied her emotions. Since Patrick’s exams had been on, he never tried to get in touch with her – a blessing in disguise. Discharged from the hospital, she returned to her home. Everything seemed to be the same – at least her parents tried to give her that impression. Patrick’s parents came to see her, but she refused to meet them.
She knew she had to take a very important decision. She had to sever all tied with Patrick. The ringing tone of the phone pierced into her heart every time it rang. She did not want Patrick to know. She did not want to be a burden to him. She mailed him that it was not possible for her to wait any longer and she wanted to move on in life. She was with someone else and they were mad about each other. To Patrick’s parents, she said the same thing and begged them not to tell anything about her accident to their son.
She also sent her engagement ring back to him. All Patrick could do from so far, was send millions of mails, letter and countless phone calls…if only she would listen, if only she would care, if only she would give them a second chance….he was ready to come back too…if only she would say so…say at least something. As for Rita, all she could do was keep crying….
Rita’s parents decided to shift base elsewhere, hoping she would eventually forget everything and start a new life. They shifted to a hill station and in the new environment, Rita started learning sign language. Being a bright girl, she learnt quickly.
Day in and out, Rita chanted just one thing – she must forget him and let him get on with his life. One day, she learnt from her friend that Patrick was back and was looking for her. She requested her friend not to tell him anything about what had happened to her. That was the last time, she heard of Patrick. Since then, there wasn’t anymore news of him.
A year passed and Rita’s friend Rosy came with Patrick’s wedding card. Rita knew that this was what she had hoped for, that Patrick would fall in love again, but she was shattered – he would no longer be her’s.
Slowly she opened the envelope. And to her bewilderment, she saw her own name in the place of the bride. She was about to Rosy what it meant, when there was a knock on the door.
Rita opened the door, and who did she see – it was her Patrick – as handsome as ever – standing in front of her. It was exactly as she had dreamt every night, even when she never wanted him to ever come back to her.
To her amazement, he used sign language to tell her, “The only reason you never saw me last year though I was back was because I have been busy. I spent the whole year doing just one thing – learning sign language so that I could be with you for the rest of my life. I want you to know that I’ve not forgotten our promise. I will be your voice. I Love You.”
Rita didn’t know what to say. Even her parents were dumbstruck. With that, Patrick slipped his ring where it belonged – back into her slender finger. There was so much Rita wanted to say, alas, it was beyond her. All she did, was smiled – she had not smiled ever since Patrick had left for his studies. Her love was for keep…it had come back to her…it was truly hers.
Continuing our regular features of fathers and sons,this week we will talk about the importance of this bond .Any man can be a father, but it takes a special person to be a dad.
By Michael Hogan
Victoria, British Columbia
Before my dad died, Christmas was a bright, enchanted time in the long, dark winters of Bathurst, New Brunswick. The cold, blizzardy days would sometimes start as early as late September. Finally, the lights of Christmas would start to go up, and the anticipation would build. By Christmas Eve the ordinary evergreen tree that my father dragged in the door ten days earlier took on a magical, sparkling life of its own. With its marvellous brilliance, it single-handedly pushed back the darkness of winter.
Late on Christmas Eve, we would bundle up and go to midnight mass. The sound of the choir sent chills through my body, and when my older sister, a soloist, sang "Silent Night," my cheeks flushed with pride.
On Christmas morning I was always the first one up. I'd stumble out of bed and walk down the hall toward the glow from the living room. My eyes filled with sleep, I'd softly bounce off the walls a couple of times trying to keep a straight line. I'd round the corner and come face-to-face with the brilliance of Christmas. My unfocused, sleep-filled eyes created a halo around each light, amplifying and warming it. After a moment or two I'd rub my eyes and an endless expanse of ribbons and bows and a free-for-all of bright presents would come into focus.
I'll never forget the feeling of that first glimpse on Christmas morning. After a few minutes alone with the magic, I'd get my younger brother and sister, and we'd wake my parents.
One November night, about a month before Christmas, I was sitting at the dining room table playing solitaire. My mother was busy in the kitchen, but was drawn from time to time into the living room by one of her favourite radio shows. It was dark and cold outside, but warm inside. My father had promised that tonight we would play crazy eight's, but he had not yet returned from work and it was getting near my bedtime.
When I heard him at the kitchen door, I jumped up and brushed past my mother to meet him. He looked oddly preoccupied, staring past me at my mother. Still, when I ran up to him, he enfolded me in his arms. Hugging my father on a winter night was great. His cold winter coat pressed against my cheek and the smell of frost mingled with the smell of wool.
But this time was different. After the first few seconds of the familiar hug, his grip tightened. One arm pressed my shoulder while the hand on my head gripped my hair so tightly it was starting to hurt. I was a little frightened at the strangeness of this and relieved when my mother pried me out of his arms. I didn't know it at the time, but my dad was suffering a fatal heart attack.
Someone told me to take my younger brother and sister to play down in the recreation room. From the foot of the stairs, I saw the doctor and the priest arrive. I saw an ambulance crew enter and then leave with someone on a stretcher, covered in a red blanket. I didn't cry the night my father died, or even at his funeral. I wasn't holding back the tears; they just weren't there.
On Christmas morning, as usual, I was the first one up. But this year, something was different. Already, there was a hint of dawn in the sky. More rested and awake than usual, I walked down the hall toward the living room. There was definitely something wrong, but I didn't know what until I rounded the corner. Then, instead of being blinded by the warm lights, I could see everything in the dull room. Without my dad to make sure the lights on the tree were glowing, I could see the tree. I could see the presents. I could even see a little bit of the outside world through the window. The magic of my childhood Christmas dream was shattered.
The years passed. As a young man, I always volunteered to work the Christmas shifts. Christmas Day wasn't good, it wasn't bad; it was just another grey day in winter, and I could always get great overtime pay for working.
Eventually, I fell in love and married, and our son's first Christmas was the best one I'd had in twenty years. As he got older, Christmas got even better. By the time his sister arrived, we had a few family traditions of our own. With two kids, Christmas became a great time of year. It was fun getting ready for it, fun watching the children's excitement and most especially, fun spending Christmas day with my family.
On Christmas Eve I continued the tradition started by my dad and left the tree lights on for that one night, so that in the morning, my kids could have that wonderful experience.
When my son was nine years old, the same age I was when my father died, I fell asleep Christmas Eve in the recliner watching midnight mass on TV. The choir was singing beautifully, and the last thing I remember was wishing to hear my sister sing "Silent Night" again. I awoke in the early morning to the sound of my son bouncing off the walls as he came down the hallway toward the living room. He stopped and stared at the tree, his jaw slack.
Seeing him like that reminded me of myself so many years ago, and I knew. I knew how much my father must have loved me in exactly the same complete way I loved my son. I knew he had felt the same mixture of pride, joy and limitless love for me. And in that moment, I knew how angry I had been with my father for dying, and I knew how much love I had withheld throughout my life because of that anger.
In every way I felt like a little boy. Tears threatened to spill out and no words could express my immense sorrow and irrepressible joy. I rubbed my eyes with the back of my hands to clear them. Eyes moist and vision blurred, I looked at my son, who was now standing by the tree. Oh my, the glorious tree! It was the Christmas tree of my childhood!
Through my tears the tree lights radiated a brilliant, warm glow. Soft, shimmering yellows, greens, reds and blues enveloped my son and me. My father's death had stolen the lights and life out of Christmas. By loving my own son as much as my father had loved me, I could once more see the lights of Christmas. From that day forward, all the magic and joy of Christmas was mine again.
Comment on the quatation "Dad, your guiding hand on my shoulder will remain with me forever.", What have you taken from your father,what lesson he has taught that you will never forget.
Please read the first text and do all the task after reading and translating the new words.
You can practise Gerund and Infinitive on this site: http://www.perfect-english-grammar.com/gerunds-and-infinitives.html
Answer the following questions based on the reading passage and video presentation.
1 Do you like rural,urban,or suburban areas best? Why? What are the advantages and disadvantages?
2.How would you describe your country or region and the people who live there?
Please work with the following words: ideal,lively,surrounded by sth,handy,convenient,built-up, filthy,litter,graffiti,pavement, to install,up- to - date,modern,old-fashioned,out-of-date,to inhabit,to maintain,to promote,to focus. Use these words in your paragraphs.
You can watch these videos to get better result.
The Five Elements of Expository Writing