那天，我们种下希望,该文是那天方面函授毕业论文范文与那天和希望方面电大毕业论文范文.
那天论文参考文献：
八月一个宁静的下午,我们刚刚搬到法国,我和妻子南希正在收拾行李,忙着把租来的公寓布置成我们举家迁移后的安乐小窝.我们三岁的女儿克莱尔坐在我们脚边,迅速翻看着书籍.
“请念这个给我听”,她说道,把一本蓝色、薄薄的书伸向我.褪色的封面书脊上印着“趣味法语”几个字.在我还小的时候,我祖父把这本书给了我.
克莱尔指着其中一页,上面的一首法国老儿歌“你知道怎么种卷心菜吗？”的小节线下涂着些线条.有人用蓝色的墨水笔把“卷心菜”划掉,写上了“西瓜！”
“爸爸！这是你干的吗？”克莱尔问道,脸上一副震惊的表情,抬头看着我.我们最近才说服她不要在书上涂涂画画,然后突然证据出现了,她的父母却是说一套,做一套.我告诉她这是我爷爷写在上面的.
“爸爸！”她当下很困惑.“为什么你爷爷要这样做？”我坐下来讲起这个故事,思绪飘回到了魂牵梦萦的内布拉斯加州.
爷爷年轻时,前途无量.他是个农民,是位教师,是个畜牧业者,在他26岁时,还当上了内布拉斯加州的参议员.他的人生轨道一直平坦无阻——直到他44岁那年,一场严重的中风令其丧失灵便,困扰余生.然而,与死神擦肩而过的经历并没有使他对人生消极悲观,反而让他看到生命的宝贵价值.他对生活的热情使他成为了我和妹妹维姬互相争夺的玩伴.
每天早上,我们都会挤进爷爷驶向邮局的车里,沿路被他连续不断、毫不押韵的饶舌所逗乐：“你好,布朗太太,你为什么要进城？”
“我也要当一名农民”,我在一个下午骄傲地宣布,此时爷爷正坐在桌边玩单人纸牌游戏.
他把牌一张张叠起来,问道,“你打算种什么？”
突然,我想起了我最爱的一个消遣——把西瓜籽吐到最远.“种西瓜怎么样？”我问道.
“嗯,这是我从未种过的农作物！”爷爷棕色的眼睛闪闪发光,他把牌放到了一边.“但要快点儿播种.”
当时是八月中旬,白天变得越来越短.很快我们就要收拾行李,开车回去维吉尼亚州上学.我颤抖了一下,感受到了秋天别离的第一丝凉意.
“我们马上行动吧！”我说,从座位上跳了起来.“我们要做什么？”首先,爷爷说,我们需要种子.想起在玛丽阿姨冰箱里看到的那片西瓜,我冲出门口,穿过院子,去到了她家.不一会儿我就回来了,手上拿着五颗黑色的种子.爷爷提议在房子后面一块阳光充足的地方种下这些种子.但我希望种在一个抬头就能轻易观察到我植物的生长过程的地方.
我们走到屋外一棵高大的橡树的绿荫下.“就在这儿,爷爷.”我说.我可以背靠树干坐着,一边看漫画一边看西瓜生长.真是棒极了.
“去车库拿锄头”,这是爷爷唯一的反应.然后他向我演示了该怎么整土,并把种子撒在一个半圆形的洞里.“不要把它们挤作一堆”,他静静地说.“给它们一些生长的空间.”
“那现在该怎么做,爷爷？”
“现在困难的部分来了,”他说.“你得等待.” 整个下午,我都在等待.吃晚饭时,我问爷爷这要花多长时间.
“也许下个月,”他说,大笑起来.“也许更快.”
第二天早上,我懒洋洋地躺在床上看漫画.突然,我想起来了：那些种子！我快速地穿好衣服,跑了出去.
那是什么？我感到疑惑,在橡树下眯着眼睛看.然后我意识到——这是个西瓜！一个在凉爽的泥土里躺着的形状绝佳的大西瓜！我感到欢欣鼓舞.哇！我是个农民了！这是我见过的最大的西瓜,而且是我种出来的.
正当我意识到这西瓜并非由我所种之际,爷爷从房子里走了出来.“你选了个好位置,康拉德”,他吃吃地笑着.
“噢,爷爷！”我说道.然后我们很快合谋要作弄别人.吃完早餐后,我们把西瓜装进爷爷的后车厢,带到城里.爷爷把他孙子种的这个“*奇迹”带给他城里的好友们看——他们令我相信他们信以为真了.
当月晚些时候,我和维姬闷闷不乐地坐进了驶回东部的旅行车后座.爷爷从车窗伸进一本书.“上学用的”,他郑重地说.数小时后,我打开,看到他写上“西瓜”的地方,大笑了起来——为了爷爷的又一个玩笑.
拿着很久前那天爷爷赠予我的那本书,克莱尔静静地听着这个故事.接着她问道：“爸爸,我也可以种些种子吗？”南茜看着我,我们共同扫视了堆积如山的有待拆开的箱子.正想要说出“我们明天再种”时,我意识到我从未听过爷爷说过这样的话.我们动身前往市场.有一家小店的金属货架上摆满了一包包的种子,在这里,克莱尔选了一包保证会种出鲜红色花朵的种子,而我则添上一袋子盆栽土.
在走回家的路上,我想到了我当年种下的那些种子.我第一次意识到,爷爷本可用一大串枯燥乏味、令人失望的事实回应我的童心稚趣——西瓜在内布拉斯加州种不好；无论如何现在种西瓜已经太晚了；在浓密的树荫下种西瓜毫无意义.但是,他没有用作物种植操作方法来让我感到烦闷,相反,他确保我首先尝到成功的惊喜.
克莱尔跑上了通往我们公寓的三段楼梯.片刻,她就站在了厨房水槽边的椅子上,把泥土装进一个白瓷花盆里.当我把种子撒在她张开的手掌上时,我第一次体会到爷爷所做的努力.那个八月的下午,他偷偷地回到城里,在市场上买了个最大的西瓜.那天夜里,趁我睡着后,他笨拙地把西瓜从车上搬下来,然后痛苦地弯下身子,准确无误地放在我撒下种子的地方.
“弄好了,爸爸.”克莱尔打断了我的思绪.“现在,长大吧！”她发出命令.
过了些日子,一声“它们在长大”唤醒了我们,接着克莱尔领着我们去厨房看一盆小小的绿芽,“妈妈”,她自豪地说,“我是个农民了！”
我一直以为那个“*奇迹”不过是爷爷的又一个恶作剧.如今我认识到这是他赠与我的众多礼物之一.他摆脱身体不灵便的妨碍,种下了一些时间和距离都无法拔除的东西——全力抓住生活带来的快乐,以及傲然蔑视人生路上的任何颠簸.
克莱尔在一边满足地微笑,我看着爷爷的欢乐再次植根在她的人生中.而这就是最大的奇迹.
We had just moved to France, and my wife Nancy and I were unpacking on a quiet August afternoon, busy making the rental apartment into a home for our uprooted family. At our feet our three-year-old, Claire, sat leafing through books.
“Please read this,” she said, thrusting a thin blue book in my direction. It’s Fun to Speak French was stenciled on the spine of the faded cover. My grandfather had given me the book when I was a child.
Claire pointed to a page with line drawings below the bars of an old French children’s song：“Do you know how to plant cabbages？” In blue ink, someone had crossed out cabbages and written “Watermelons！”
“Daddy！ Did you do that？” Claire asked, looking up with an expression of shock. We had only recently convinced her not to write in books, and suddenly here was proof that her parents weren’t practicing what they preached. I told her my grandfather had written in the book.
“Daddy！” Now she was confused. “Why did your grandfather do that？” As I sat down to tell the story, my thoughts treled a well-worn road back to Nebraska.
As a young man, Grandad had been a comer： a farmer, teacher, stockman and, at age 26, a Nebraska state senator. The trajectory of his life was straight up—until a massive stroke felled him at age 44 and crippled him for life. However, his scrape with death had convinced him not how awful life is, but how precious. His zest for living made him a playmate my sister Vicky and I fought over.
Each morning we pressed into Grandad’s car for the drive to the post office, entertained along the way by the incessant patter of his nonsensical rhymes：“Hello, Mrs. Brown. Why are you going to town？”
“I’m going to be a farmer too,” I announced proudly one afternoon as Grandad sat playing solitaire at his desk.
Laying card upon card, he asked, “What are you going to grow？”
Suddenly I thought of a forite pastime—spitting watermelon seeds as far as possible. “How about watermelons？” I asked.
“Hmm, there’s a crop I hen’t tried！”Brown eyes sparkling, he put his cards aside. “Better get your seeds in the ground quick though.”
It was mid-August, and the days were growing shorter. Soon we would pack up for the drive back to Virginia—and school. I shuddered, feeling the first chill of autumn separation.
“Let’s do it now！” I said, leaping out of my seat.“What do we do？” First, Grandad said, we needed seeds. Remembering the slice of watermelon I’d seen in Aunt Mary’s refrigerator, I raced out the door and across the yard to her house. In a flash I was back, five black seeds in my hand. Grandad suggested a sunny spot in back of the house to plant the seeds. But I wanted a place where I could easily watch my plants’ progress skyward.
We walked outside into the shade of a huge oak. “Right here, Grandad,”I said. I could sit with my back against the tree, reading comic books as the watermelons grew. It was perfect.
“Go to the garage and get the hoe,” was Grandad’s only reaction. Then he showed me how to prepare the ground and plant the seeds in a semicircle. “Don’t crowd them,”he said quietly. “Give them plenty of room to grow.”
“Now what, Grandad？”
“Now comes the hard part,” he said. “You wait.” And for a whole afternoon, I did. At the dinner table, I asked Grandad how long it would take.
“Maybe next month,” he said, laughing. “Maybe sooner.”
The next morning I lay lazily in bed, reading a comic book. Suddenly, I remembered： the seeds！ Dressing quickly, I ran outside.
What’s that？ I wondered, peering under the oak. Then I realized—it’s a watermelon！ A huge, perfectly shaped fruit lay nesting in the cool mud. I felt triumphant. Wow！ I’m a farmer！ It was the biggest melon I’d ever seen, and I’d grown it.
Just as I realized I hadn’t, Grandad came out of the house. “You picked a great spot, Conrad,”he chuckled.
“Oh, Grandad！” I said. Then we quickly conspired to play the joke on others. After breakfast we loaded the melon into Grandad’s trunk and took it to town, where he showed his cronies the “midnight miracle” his grandson had grown—and they let me believe they believed it.
Later that month Vicky and I got into the back seat of the station wagon for the glum ride back east. Grandad passed a book through the window. “For school,” he said seriously. Hours later, I opened it to where he’d written“watermelons”—and laughed at another of Grandad’s jokes.
Holding the book Grandad had given me that day long ago, Claire listened quietly to the story. Then she asked, “Daddy, can I plant seeds too？” Nancy looked at me； together we surveyed the mountain of boxes waiting to be unpacked. About to say, “We’ll do it tomorrow,” I realized I had never heard Grandad say that. We took off for the market. At a all shop with a metal rack filled with seed packs, Claire picked one that promised bright red flowers, and I added a sack of potting soil.
On the walk home, I thought about those seeds I’d planted. For the first time I realized that Grandad could he met my childish enthusia with a litany of disappointing facts： that watermelons don’t grow well in Nebraska； that it was too late to plant them anyway； that it was pointless to try growing them in the deep shade. But instead of boring me with the how of growing things, he made sure I first experienced the “wow.”
Claire charged up the three flights of stairs to our apartment, and in a few minutes she was standing on a chair at the kitchen sink, filling a white porcelain pot with soil. As I sprinkled seeds into her open palm, I felt for the first time the pains Grandad had taken. He had stolen back into town that August afternoon and bought the biggest melon in the market. That night, after I was asleep, he had awkwardly unloaded it and, with a painful bend, placed it exactly above my seeds.
“Done, Daddy,” Claire broke into my reverie. “Now grow！” she commanded.
A few days later, shouts of “They’re growing！” woke us, and Claire led us to the kitchen to see a pot of all green shoots,“Mommy,” she said proudly, “I’m a farmer！”
I had always thought the midnight miracle was just another of Grandad’s pranks. Now I realized it was one of his many gifts to me. In his refusal to let his crippling hinder him, he had planted something that neither time nor distance could uproot： a full-throttle grasping at the happiness life offers—and a disdain for whatever bumps get in the way.
As Claire beamed with satiaction, I watched my grandfather’s joy take fresh root in her life. And that was the biggest miracle of all.
上文总结，此文是一篇关于那天和希望方面的相关大学硕士和那天本科毕业论文以及相关那天论文开题报告范文和职称论文写作参考文献资料.
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