For the rest of my life， whenever I saw any of the Jensens， or split a block of wood， I remembered， and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night， he had given me the best Christmas of my life.
1881年的平安夜，我15岁，觉得自己的整个世界都塌陷了，因为家里没有钱给我买那支步枪作为圣诞礼物，出于某种原因，那天傍晚，我们很早就做完了家务；我只是认为爸爸想多点时间给我们一起读《圣经》。
但爸爸并没有拿《圣经》，而是再次穿戴严实，出门去了；我简直弄不明白，我们已经做完了所有的家务；而我没有心思去管这个，因为我正沉溺在过度的自怜里面。
很快，爸爸回来了；那是个清冷的夜，爸爸的胡子上沾满了雪；“快点，马特，”他叫道；“穿暖和点，今晚外面很冷；”我真的很心烦意乱；但我知道爸爸叫人做什么的时候，对磨磨蹭蹭的人不是很有耐性，于是我站起来，穿回靴子；戴上帽子；穿上外套，并戴好手套；当我打开门出门时，妈妈冲我神秘地笑了笑。一定有什么事，但我不知道那是什么。
到屋外，我变得更沮丧了。房子前是一队雪橇犬，已经拴好在大雪橇上了；爸爸已经坐好了，手里拉着缰绳；我不情愿地爬上去，挨着他坐；寒风刺骨，我很不高兴；我坐好后，爸爸驾着雪橇，绕过房子，停在柴棚前。他下了车，我也紧随其后。“我觉得我们该装上高的侧板，”他说道；“来，帮帮我。”
我们装完侧板后，爸爸走进柴棚，怀抱着木柴走了出来——那些木柴是我花了整个夏季从山里弄出来，整个秋天一块块锯出来；劈出来的；他在干嘛？最后，我说话了；“爸，”我问道，“你在做什么？”他反问道：“你最近有路过詹森寡妇家吗？”
寡妇詹森住在沿路两英里之外。她的丈夫约1年前去世了，留下了她和3个孩子，最大的才8岁；当然，我是有路过，但那又怎样呢？“是的，”我说，“怎么了？”爸爸说：“我今天刚坐雪橇经过，小杰基在外面的柴堆坪下面挖找碎木片，他们没有木柴了，马特。”
最终，爸爸停止了我们的搬运，然后，我们走进熏烤室，爸爸拿下一大块火腿和一块咸肉递给我，让我拿到雪橇上等着；
当他回来时，右肩上扛着一袋面粉，左手还拎着一小袋东西；“小袋子里是什么？”我问道；“鞋；他们已经没鞋可穿了；小杰基今早在外面的柴堆坪，只用粗麻布袋裹着自己的双脚；我还给孩子们带了点糖果；没有糖果，怎么算圣诞节呢？”
说真的，他为什么要做这些？詹森寡妇有比我们离得更近的邻居，这本不该是我们关心的；我们从詹森屋子背面走近，尽可能轻地卸下木材，然后我们拿着肉；面粉和鞋走到门口；敲门；门开了一条缝，一个怯怯的声音问道：“是谁呀？”“卢卡斯？迈尔斯，夫人，和我儿子，马特；我们能进来呆会儿吗？”
寡妇詹森开门让我们进来；她用毯子裹着自己的双肩。孩子们则裹着另一条毯子，围坐在壁炉前，里面的火苗已经小得没什么热气了；寡妇詹森最终摸索到一根火柴点着了灯。“夫人，我们给您带了些东西，”爸爸边说，边放下那袋面粉。我把肉放在桌上，然后爸爸亲手把装着鞋的袋子递给她。
她犹豫地打开，一双一双地拿出鞋子。有一双是给她的，孩子们也是一人一双——很结实的鞋子，最经穿的那种。我盯着她的一举一动；她紧咬着颤抖的下唇，泪水溢满双眼，顺着脸颊不断流下。她看着爸爸，欲言又止。“我们还带来了一堆木材，夫人，”爸爸说道。他转身对我说：“马特，去拿些够烧一会儿的木柴进来；让我们把火烧得旺点，让房子暖和点。”当我再到屋外取木材时，我已不是之前的我了。我喉咙哽咽，满眼泪水，尽管自己讨厌这样。我的脑袋里满是那3个孩子相拥在壁炉前的情景，他们的妈妈站在那儿，泪流满面，无限感激，却一句话也说不出来。我心潮澎湃，从未有过的快乐溢满整个身心。之前的圣诞节，我也曾多次给予，但从未像这次这般“雪中送炭”。
詹森寡妇显露出该是久违的笑容。终于她转向我们道：“愿上帝保佑你们；我知道是上帝派你们来的；我和孩子们都在祈祷他能派出一位天使来免除我们的苦难。”
当我们起身离去时，泪水再次滑落詹森寡妇的脸颊。爸爸依次把每个孩子抱进他宽大的怀中。他们对父亲依依不舍，不愿我们离去；我能看出他们想念自己的爸爸，我也很庆幸我的爸爸还在。
在户外的雪橇上，我感到一股暖流从心底涌出，丝毫不觉寒冷。走到半路，爸爸转过头对我说道：“马特，有件事我想让你知道；我和你妈妈一年来东拼西凑攒了点钱给你买那支步枪，但钱并不够，昨天一个欠我们一点钱多年的人的到来使事情得以圆满，我和你妈妈真是高兴，想着现在我们可以给你买步枪了，而且今早我就动身进城了，但路上，我看见小杰基脚裹粗麻布袋在柴堆坪里挑着拣着，我知道该做什么了，儿子，我拿钱买了鞋和糖果给孩子们；我希望你能够理解。”我理解，我的眼睛又湿润了。我非常理解，而且很高兴爸爸这么做了。现在步枪似乎不那么重要了，爸爸给了我多得多的东西。他给了我詹森寡妇那感激的表情和她3个孩子脸上灿烂的笑容，在我以后的岁月里，每当我看到詹森家的任何人，或劈木材时，我会记得，会回忆起那晚和爸爸驾雪橇回家时感受到的那种快乐。那晚爸爸给了我比步枪更好的东西，他给了我生命中最好的圣诞节。
Twilight Time
黄昏时分
Reflexively I reached to turn on my car radio， preset to KGBX， the soft-rock station I always listen to on my early-morning drives to my job at the post office. Then I glanced at my 14-year-old daughter in the passenger seat and thought I had better turn off it.
Liz wore a dress. That in itself bespoked the seriousness of the occasion. We were on our way to the Springfield， Missouri， districtwide music competition， where Liz would be playing a flute solo， her very first. I knew from my own competition days back in Minnesota that it messed with your concentration to hear any music besides the piece you were planning to play.
“Dad said he might come，” Liz said. Her father hadn’t been a big part of her life since our divorce 10 years earlier， and she sounded both excited and scared.
Ou， did I know that feeling -- wanting to impress your father and at the same time， being terrified of letting him down？ Suddenly I was 12 years old again， sitting onstage at the Minnesota state music competition， fingers poised on the keyboard of my shiny black PanItalia accordion. I looked out at the audience of proud parents. Then I saw him. My dad. He sat at the end of a row， arms folded， crew cut bristling. His piercing blue eyes narrowed behind his black-rimmed glasses and focused unwaveringly on me.
I completely choked. I’d practiced my contest piece for months until I knew it by heart， inside and out. But my fancy accordion might as well have been a cardboard box that afternoon. I forced out some semblance of a tune and fled the stage in tears.
No consolation came from my father， a World War II veteran who epitomized authority. He didn’t say a thing to me. He just took the wheel of our station wagon， his mouth a grim line as we set off on the 150-mile drive back to Duluth. I didn’t say anything either. What could I say， really， after what I’d done？ I knew how hard Dad worked to scrape together enough money for my accordion and lessons. But the one time he was able to come to a competition， I let him down.
The farther we drove， the more the silence in our station wagon grew until it stood like an impenetrable wall between Dad and me. It seemed an especially cruel punishment considering music had been our deepest connection.
By the time I came along， the last of five children， my father was worn out from the demands of supporting a large family. My brothers and sisters and I tiptoed around him when he came home from his shift at Jeno’s Pizza factory. But on Sunday afternoons， Dad would sit back in his recliner and ask me to play for him. He loved the music of the Big Band era， and none more than the song Twilight Time. I taught myself the tune from the sheet music， just for him. It didn’t seem to matter that my rendition was lacking in style. My father would hum along， his eyes closed， tears escaping from the corners as if I’d transported him to some magical， heavenly place.
Dad never said a word the entire way home， never again attended one of my competitions. I never got over the hurt of having disappointed the one person I’d most wanted to make proud. I’d lost more than my composure that afternoon. I felt as if I’d lost the key to my father’s heart， and he died before I could find it again.
Why did you let me fail my father？ I’d often wondered to God in the years since. Couldn’t you at least have given me a chance to make it up to him？ “Mom， this is it.” My daughter’s voice snapped me back to the present. I parked in the lot at Central High. “Good， I have time to warm up，” Liz said as we walked into the school.
In the practice room， Liz took her flute out of its case， unfolded her music and ran through her piece flawlessly. Just before we stepped into the recital hall， I gave her a hug. “Relax，” I said. “You’re going to do great.”