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Unit1Summervacationsservemanypurposes,offeringtimeforeverythingfromsimplerelaxationtosightseeing,adventure,andeducation.Forsomevacationers,theresanotherrichpossibility:achancetotracefamilyrootsbyvisitingorrevisitingancestralhomes.Wanderingthroughroomsthatshelteredearliergenerationsofrelatives,descendantscanfeelnewconnectionsandaheightenedsenseofappreciationforthosewhohavegonebeforeInourfamily,thiskindofsentimentaljourneyinvolvesheadingtoPineRiver,Wis.,atinydotonthemap45minutesnorthwestofOshkosh.There,onahilloverlookingthemainstreet,standsanimposingwhiteColonialwheremymaternalgreat-grandparents,earlysettlershere,raisedfourchildrenandcarvedoutfulfillinglives.OnabrilliantsummerSaturday,asthecurrentownersgraciouslyleadusthroughtheseven-bedroomhouse,wetryhardtomemorizedetails.ThisisthediningroomwheretheextendedfamilygatheredforThanksgivingandChristmas.Thisisthelibrarywheremygreat-grandfather,anenthusiasticreader,kepthisbooks.Thisisthebackroomwherethehiredmensleptafterlongdaysofplantingorthreshingonthefamilyfarm.Andthisareaoffthekitcheniswheremygreat-grandfatherwroteinhisdiaryandissuedsternreminderstohisgrandchildrenDontslamthedoor!astheyraninandout.Thedcorhaschanged,ofcourse,butthesespacesstillconveyasenseofthepast.Youcanalmostfeelthepeopleandtheirpresence,saysmycousinaswethankourhostsandleave.Uptheroad,pasttheCongregationalchurchwhereourrelativesworshiped,asmallcemeterytellsotherstories.Pausingtoreadgravestonesdatingbacktothe1800s,theirnamesandinscriptionsdulledbytheelements,visitorscanfeelawedbythissilentcommunityofformerresidentswhoplayedvaryingrolesinshapingthistown.Sometimessuchpilgrimagesarebittersweet.OnewomaninNewYorkdescribeshersadnessindiscoveringthatafavoritecherrytreeinhergrandparentsformeryardisgone,andthathergrandfatherscarpentryshopinthebasementhasbeenturnedintoastudioapartment.AmaninNewJerseylamentsthelossofhisgrandfathersgarden,nowpavedinconcrete.Neglectcanalsotakeitstoll.MyfatherandIoncevisitedthebeautifullymaintainedhousewherehewasborn.Butourelationoveritspristineconditionturnedtosadnessatournextstop,thedairyfarmthatoncebelongedtohisgrandparents.Thehouseandbarnslookedderelict,badlyinneedofpaintandrepairs.Neveragain,wevowed,wouldwegoback.Somebelovedmemoriesarebestleftunchanged.Tracingfamilyrootsonpaper,throughdocuments,letters,anddiaries,bringsmanyrewards.Butactuallywalkinginthefootstepsofearliergenerationsaddsapowerfulnewdimensionasenseofplace.Thepastisaforeigncountry:Theydothingsdifferentlythere,observedtheBritishnovelistL.P.Hartley.Thosedifferencesmakeacaseforvisitingthepast.SeveralyearsagoChristineLouiseHohlbaum,anAmericanlivinginPaunzhausen,Germany,wentwithherfathertoLongIsland,N.Y.,toseeahouseonceownedbyhergreat-aunt.Astheywalkedthegrounds,shesays,shefeltanoverwhelmingsenseofhistory.ItwasasifIwereconveningwiththeessenceofourfamily.Thiswasarealliveplacewhereimportanteventshappened.Asothervacationersmakepilgrimagestotheirownlong-agorealliveplacesthissummer,somemightagreewithThomasWolfethatyoucantgohomeagain,atleastnotpermanently.Butyoucangobackforanhour,oreven15minutes.Andchancesaregoodthatyoullfeelthericherforit.Unit 2It had been a long long year-the last year of my son Adrians brief life. The journey up by train to Londons Waterloo Station had become almost routine. Then the 25-minute walk across Waterloo Bridge and on to The Hospital for Sick Children,Great Ormond Street. The walk to the hospital was not without enjoyment,for i was eager to see my son again and buoyed up by the somehow indestructible hope that today,by some miracle,he would be recovering.But the return to the railway station in the evening was devastating. Once again,no miracle. Some evenings it became,as the French say,insupportable.After putting my little son to bed in the ward,hearing his prayers and holding him in my arms while he fell asleep,i usually had plenty of time to make my way to the station. I frequently paused on the bridge spanning the River Thames to watch the broad river flowing along on its never-ending journey to the sea.One evening i gazed,hypnotized almost,into the black,oily water and was not immediately aware that a woman had joined me. I looked up and saw her;she was standing quite close. I had seen her before in the shadows on the opposite side of the street and had recognized,without giving the matter much thought,that she was,almost certainly,of the sisterhood euphemistically referred to as “ladies of the evening.”“Evenin ,Guv or,” she said.“Good evening,” i replied,a little discomfited by her presence and unsure for her intentions.She looked away from me and gazed into the Thames. “You been to the Children s ,” she said. It was a statement rather than a question.“Yes,i have,” i told her,a bit bewildered by her interest. “My little son is a patient here.”“Bad,aint he?” she said.“Yes, i m afraid he is,” i replied. And again,as much to myself as to her,”i m very much afraid he is.”She reached out and touched my arm. I could see tears in her eyes. “I m sorry,Guv,” she said softly. Then she withdrew her hand quickly,turned and walked away. I thought about the encounter all the way home and felt strangely heartened by it.Foe the next few months, i regularly made my way to and from the hospital,my emotions alternating wildly between unreasoning hope and complete despair. Often she would join me on the bridge.“Ow is e,then?” she would enquire. “Anything different?E s in Mr. Punch ward,aint e?”“He is,” i agreed,wondering how she knew. “There s no change.”She never asked my name but invited me to call her Rosie. “Thats what my friends call me.”“My sons name is Adrian,Rosie,” i told her. “Hes quite blond with grey eyes,and hes almost four years old.”She nodded and said nothing.I came to rely on these encounters to a remarkable degree and one evening gave her a small picture of Adrian,a duplicate of one i carried in my wallet. I wrote on the back of it: “Thank you ,Rosie.” She looked at it for a long moment before wrapping it in her handkerchief and putting it carefully in her handbag.Then,finally,the telephone call came from the hospital: “I think you had better come at once.”He looked so small lying there,hie grey eyes fixed earnestly on mine. I leaned over and wiped the perspiration from his forehead.“Daddy,why are you crying? Daddy,i m frightened. Oh ,Daddy,is it going to be all right?”“Yes,darling,Daddys here. Its going to be all right.”The tiny hand clasped in mine relaxed its grip.When it was over,the two compassionate nurse put their arms round my shoulders and led me away. I went out into the London streets-and it was night.The following evening,after taking care of necessary business at the hospital,i stopped on the bridge and leaned over the railings,gazing,unseeing,into the water,trying to get a grip on myself. When i turned,Rosie was standing beside me. She touched me gently on the arm,just as she had the first time we met.“Ere,” she said,proffering me something wrapped in tissue paper. “Theyre for him. Youll put them on his grave for me,wont you?” Thrusting a tiny bouquet of lily of the valley into my hand,she made a sort of choking sound,turned and ran.A mass of wreaths covered the grave. In the centre of the profusion of floral tributes the tiny bunch of lily of the valley contrasted sharply with the vivid roses,daffodils,tulips and anemones that surrounded it.I timed my return from my final visits to the hospital vicinity so that i would pass by Waterloo Bridge rather late in the evening. I wanted to tell Rosie that i have delivered her flowers. But i saw nothing of her. I could not imagine what had happened to her.Summoning up my courage,i made my way to the nearest police station,not many blocks distant. With the unfailing courtesy and genuine helpfulness of the British policeman,an officer listened to my story of looking for a friend. He eyed me a bit quizzically.“Yes,sir,i am almost sure i know to whom you refer,” he assured me. “She was regularly in the vicinity of Waterloo Bridge. Her regular beat, you might say. Her name was Rosie,wasnt it?”“Yes,yes,” i said. “Thats the person i m looking for .”“I m sorry,sir,” he told me quietly. “The person in question is dead. We found her in the street several nights ago. Apparently a heart attack.”“Did she have any relatives,any family?” i asked.“No,sir,i m sorry,” the policeman said. “We went through her handbag,but there was no identification of any kind. Cosmetics,matches,cigarettes,handkerchief,a couple of pictures. That was all.”“Do you still have her handbag?” I asked. “Would it be possible for me to see it-to look into it?”The officer hesitated. “Well,sir,thats rather an unusual request.”“Look constable,” i continued,taking out my wallet and withdrawing the picture of my son from it. “This is my son. If the person you found is really the one i am looking for,there will be an identical picture in her handbag.”“Just a moment,sir,” the officer said and retreated to an inner office. Within minutes he returned,carrying a brown handbag with a large card attached,evidently a listing of the contents. He looked a little a little excited.“Yes,sir,” he assured me,running his finger down the list on the card. “There are two snapshots here.”He opened the handbag and passed me two photographs. One was a replica of the picture i held in my hand. I turned it over and read in my own handwriting: “Thank you,Rosie.” the other picture was of a small,dark-haired girl.I had one more place to go. The following day i took a train to London and made my way to the children s hospital. I recalled Rosie mentioning that she had a friend “Ben,” who was a porter at the hospital. I enquired at the porters lodge. A middle-aged man with a kindly face came forward.“Yes,indeed,” he assured me. “I knew Rosie. She used to call by regularly,you know,and enquire about your boy. I used to get a report for her from the ward about him.”“She wasnt always in the line of business she was in when you met her,you know,” Ben continued. “She used to be a waitress. It was after she lost her girl she went on the street. The little died in here,you know,six years old. It was about a year ago. Thats when i first met Rosie-she used to come here and visit Berda. That was the childs name. After the little one died,Rosie never went back to the waitress job.”“Ben,can you tell me where Rosie is buried?”“No,Guv,i cant. But i can tell you where the child lies. Rosie used to go there every Sunday afternoon and cut the grass and take flowers. I went with her a time or two.”I knelt beside the tiny mound. Lacking shears,i tried to pull the longest grass,growing lank and weedy now,with my hands. I filled the blue vase with water from the tap in the corner of the cemetery and replaced it on the grave.Unwrapping the tissue paper from the small bouquet i carried,i placed the lily of the valley in the vase,thrust the paper in the pocket in the pocket of my raincoat,rose from my knees and walked rapidly away.Unit 3The world is running out of oil, and energy experts believe that there could be serious shortage in ten years time. Not only is each individual using more oil than ever before,as the standard of living in industrialized countries rises,but the population explosion means that each year many more people will be using oil in some form or other. Until recently we took oil for granted:it seemed it never stop flowing. It was so cheap and plentiful that the whole generated from oil and power stations were fired by it. It founds its way into many of the products of light industry. Many people are surprised when they learn how many items in their homes contain oil.The increase in the price of oil has brought the world to its senses. Governments are searching for a suitable alternative,but so far in vain. They are considering how they can make better use of the two other major fuels,coal and nature gas,but they have found that neither can take the place of oil in their economies. In recent years there has been a growing concern for the environment and coal is not a popular fuel with environmentalists. Coal mines are ugly,and their development has a serious effect on the animal and plant life; coal itself is a heavy pollutant. Natural gas,the purest of three fuels,is also the most limited in supply.The answer would seem to lie in nuclear power stations. They need very little fuel to produce enormous amount of power and they do not pollute the atmosphere. Their dangers,however,are so great and the cost of building them is so high that some governments are unwilling to invest in them. Not only could one accident in a single nuclear power station spread as much radioactivity as a thousand Hiroshima atom bombs,but the radioactive waste from these stations is extremely dangerous-for one hundred thousand years. So is there no possible alternative to nuclear power?Well,there are several,but none of them seems likely to satisfy future world energy demands. Scientists have recently turned their attention to natural sources of energy:the sun,the sea,the wind and hot springs. Of these the sun seems the most promising source for the future. Houses have already been built which are heated entirely by solar energy. However,solar energy van only be collected during daylight hours,and in countries where the weather is unreliable,an alternative heating system has to be included.Experiments are being carried out at the University of Arizona on ways of storing energy on a large scale. To satisfy a large part of the energy needs of a country like America,huge power stations covering 5000 square miles would have to be built and one wonders whether this would be acceptable to environme
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