Rustling Raspberries always

kuangye678

Stealing? Well, yes—I guess we were stealing, if you want to get all technical about it. But in our 13-year-old brains we thought it was nothing big deal.
The matter of ownership never occurred to us. We just knew that the Jordan’s had the best raspberries in the neighborhood, and that their bushes were always heavy with fruit. And suddenly that Friday night, a handful of freshly picked raspberries sounded good.
Maybe two handfuls.
So we snuck into[2] the Jordan’s backyard—which, come to think of it, should have been our first clue that we were doing something wrong: we “snuck.” Anytime sneaking is involved, it means you don’t want to get caught, which usually means you shouldn’t be doing it. But we snuck into their backyard and positioned ourselves carefully around the bushes and started harvesting their sweet, juicy berries.
Now, I’ve got to tell you, there isn’t anything that tastes better than vine-ripened raspberries, fresh off the bush. We were savoring every bite of ill-gotten berry when all of a sudden the Jordan’s backyard lights flicked on, and Mr. Jordan came charging outside.[3]
“What you boys doing out here?” he shouted as my friends scrambled[4] off in all directions, uneaten raspberries flying every which way.
He made a valiant[5] attempt to grab one or two as they dashed past him, but they were too quick for the older gentleman to catch, and within seconds the boys disappeared into the dark of the summer evening.
All except one. Uh, that would be me.
Speed was never my strength. I was tall. I was strong. But I wasn’t very fast. Fast was for the little quick guys. I was all about size and power, neither of which come into play[6] when you’re trapped in a backyard, your lips red with juice from a neighbors’ precious raspberries.
So I stood there, deer-in-the-headlights[7] style, and quickly considered my options. I could run, but I knew perfectly well that even as old as Mr. Jordan was, he could probably out-run me. I could lie, but I couldn’t come up with a believable story that would explain why I was in their backyard wearing a t-shirt stained with fresh raspberry juice. Or I could just stand there and accept whatever punishment would surely come my way from the Jordan’s and my parents.
To be honest, I didn’t like that last option, but I didn’t really have a choice. I took the tongue-lashing that Mr. Jordan gave me as he marched me down the block to my house, where my mother took over and escalated the harangue to new levels of righteous scolding.[8] My friends said they could hear every colorful[9] word she uttered from the darkness of our backyard, where they had gathered to celebrate their escape—and to observe my capture.
They teased me about it for days afterwards, while all I could do was to complain about how unfair it was that I had to pay the full price for doing the exact same thing all of them had done without any noticeable consequences.
After about a week, I complained to my father about the inequity of the situation.
“I don’t think it’s unfair at all,” Dad said. “You took raspberries without asking, and you got exactly the punishment you deserved.”
“But what about the other guys?” I asked. “They didn’t get punished at all!”
“That’s not my concern, nor should it be yours,” Dad said. “You can’t control what happens to other people. You can only deal with what happens to you. You made a bad choice that night, and you were punished for it. To me, that is completely fair.”
Back then I thought Dad just didn’t get it. But through the years I come to realize that, as usual, he knew what he was talking about.
We didn’t come to earth with a guarantee that life would treat us fairly. And it doesn’t. That’s why we can’t get bogged down comparing the various vicissitudes of our lives with the lives of others.[10] Like Dad said, that isn’t our concern.
The only thing we can actually deal with is what happens to us. How we choose to respond to what happens to us is truly the standard by which the quality of our lives will be measured. Whether or not we think it happens fairly.
偷？呃，是的——我想我们是在偷，如果非要严格来说的话。但是在我们这群13岁孩子看来，这没什么大不了的。
所有权的问题我们从未想过。我们只知道附近的乔丹家有最好的树莓，他们家的灌木上总是结满了累累果实。在那个周五的晚上，突然，来一把新摘的树莓的主意听起来很不错。
或者两把。
于是，我们溜进了乔丹家的后院——回头想想，这应该是让我们意识到自己正在做错事的第一个信号：我们是“偷溜了进去”。不管何时，如果需要偷溜，就意味着你不想被抓住，通常也意味着你不应该做那件事。但是我们溜进了他们家的后院，小心翼翼地藏在灌木周围，开始偷摘那些甜美多汁的浆果。
嘿，我得告诉你，没有什么比从枝条上新摘下来的熟透的树莓更美味的了。正当我们细细品尝着这些来路不正的浆果时，突然，乔丹家后院的灯亮了，乔丹先生冲了出来。
“你们这些毛小子在这里干什么呢？”他喊道，我的朋友们立刻作鸟兽散，还没来得及吃掉的树莓被扔得四处乱飞。
这些小坏蛋从他身边奔过时，他还竭力想要抓住一两个，可他们跑得太快，这位绅士上了年纪，压根追不上，几秒钟后，这些毛小子的身影就消失在夏夜的黑暗中了。
只有一个没有跑掉。呃，那就是我。
速度向来不是我的强项。我个子很高，身体也强壮。但是我的速度不够快。跑得快的通常是那些敏捷的小个子。我的长处在于块头和力量，然而，当你困在人家的后院，吃了邻居那些珍贵的树莓，嘴唇让果汁染红时，这两项长处都派不上用场。
于是我站在那里，惊惶失措，迅速考虑着自己的出路：我可以逃跑，但是我很清楚，虽然乔丹先生上了年纪，我也很可能会被他抓住；我可以撒谎，但是我想不出一个可信的故事，来解释我当时为什么在他家后院，身上还穿着一件沾着新鲜树莓汁的T恤衫；或者我可以听天由命，站在那里接受必然会来自乔丹家和我父母的任何惩罚。
老实说，我并不喜欢最后一个设想，但我确实没得选择。乔丹先生一边训斥我，一边穿过街区把我押回家，然后妈妈又接手将训斥升级到责骂。我的朋友们说，从我家漆黑的后院，他们可以听到我妈嘴里传出的每一个粗俗的字眼，当时他们聚集在我家后院，庆祝他们顺利逃脱——同时见证我的被捕。
之后许多天，他们一直取笑我，而我只能抱怨老天不公平：我只是做了和他们一样的事，却要为此承担全责，而他们却可以全身而退。
大约一周后，我对父亲抱怨这件事有多么不公平。
“我一点儿不觉得这不公平，”父亲说，“你未经允许摘人家的树莓，你也得到了应得的惩罚。”
“但是其他人呢？”我问道，“他们一点儿都没受惩罚。”
“这个我不关心，你也不应该在意。”爸爸说，“你不能掌控别人遇到什么事。你只能应对发生在自己身上的事。你那天晚上做了一个糟糕的选择，并为此受到了惩罚。在我看来，这是完全公平的。”
当时我认为爸爸根本不理解。但是多年后我逐渐意识到，他很清楚自己在说什么。
我们来到世界上，没有人向我们保证生活会公平地对待我们。生活确实也不会。这就是我们为什么不能因为把自己的坎坷与其他人比较而停顿不前。就像爸爸说的，那不是我们所要关心的。
我们唯一能应对的是发生在我们自己身上的事。而我们如何应对这些事，确实就成了衡量我们生活质量的标准，不管在我们眼里它们是否公平。

Vocabulary: 1. rustle: 偷（一般指偷牲口）。 2. sneak into: 偷偷地进入，潜入。 3. flick on: 咯哒地一声打开(开关等)；charge: 猛冲。 4. scramble: 混乱、仓促地行动。 5. valiant: 英勇的，勇敢的。 6. come into play: 起作用。 7. deer-in-the-headlights: 僵立在车灯前的鹿，比喻不知所措的样子。 8. tongue-lashing: 斥责，训斥；escalate: 逐步升级；harangue: 训斥性的演说；righteous: 正当的，道义上无可指责的。 9. colorful: （言词）粗俗的。 10. bog down: 停滞不前；vicissitude: 变迁，世事变化。

Vocabulary: 1. rustle: 偷（一般指偷牲口）。 2. sneak into: 偷偷地进入，潜入。 3. flick on: 咯哒地一声打开(开关等)；charge: 猛冲。 4. scramble: 混乱、仓促地行动。 5. valiant: 英勇的，勇敢的。 6. come into play: 起作用。 7. deer-in-the-headlights: 僵立在车灯前的鹿，比喻不知所措的样子。 8. tongue-lashing: 斥责，训斥；escalate: 逐步升级；harangue: 训斥性的演说；righteous: 正当的，道义上无可指责的。 9. colorful: （言词）粗俗的。 10. bog down: 停滞不前；vicissitude: 变迁，世事变化。