At the beginning of every school year, I feared coming home with the heavy homework of the first day after a summer of fun.  And I feared getting another teacher who had a long list of rules and a stare that could kill a cat.

But there was always one part of beginning a new school year that I enjoyed.  I always liked going to the store to arm myself with new school supplies-even if I didn’t need them.

Sure, my pencils, erasers and notebooks from the previous school year may have had some life left in them.  But this didn’t matter.  Every year, Dad would pile us into the car, take us to Wal-Mart and let us buy the newest and coolest pencils, rainbow-colored erasers and spiral notebooks.

Besides school supplies, many parents also take their kids on annual shopping spree for new clothes and book bags just in time for school.  During the whole process, children are in high spirits, buying a lot of stuff and are back home exhausted.

Every year, most of my classmates and I show up to school on the first day with something smelling like a new car.  We’d put our new stationery on top of the desks, just to make sure others see them.

Leftover supplies from past years were always stuffed into the living room desk.  Used clothes that had lost their appeal were sent to second-hand shops, where they would be sold for 50 cents a piece.

However, all of the new stuff could only make us excited about going to school for one week, after which the usual boredom and fear come back.

65. What is NOT TRUE about the author at the beginning of a new school year in the passage?

       A. He often has to face a new teacher. 

       B. He doesn’t enjoy the load of work from school.

       C. He doesn’t appreciate strict teachers

       D. He obtains new school supplies from the school.

66. Why do the students look forward to getting new pencils every year?

       A. Because the old ones are used up.

       B. Because new pencils help them to study better.

       C. Because they want to show their new stuff off.

       D. Because it’s required by the school.

67. The underlined word “spree” in the passage probably means ______.

       A. competition              B. considerable embarrassment

       C. wild celebration        D. emotional pain

68. How are the old supplies dealt with?

       A. They are put aside and forgotten.     B. They are given to poorer children.

       C. They are sold online. D. They are treasured by the students.

I sit at my kitchen table, while my daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother. On the wall hangs a photo of my father.

    “When is Rick going to be here?” My mother asks, referring to my husband. 

    “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.”

    I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question. 

    While my mother and daughter play, I busy myself making a salad. 

“Don't put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”

“Yes, Mom,” I answer. 

I scrub(洗擦) off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces.

 “Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”

This time I can’t answer. 

My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has

been, just a bit forgetful.

I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it to take away the bitterness. Cut and rub. This

 is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, 

dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. 

And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid. 

    So why am I afraid now? 

I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink.

Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my 

youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. 

Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten 

meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears 

off her face. 

I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is

locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same

kiss to Anna. 

Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.

Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits. 

Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same

question too many times? 

I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter. 

“Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that

instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers. 

“He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 

What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?

A. She is very old.           B. She suffers forgetfulness.

C. She is absent-minded.      D. She is eager to see Rick.

What can we learn about the writer’s father according to the passage?

  A. He might have passed away for years.

 B. He goes out for a walk by himself.

C. He is out doing something with Rick.

D. He loves the writer’s mother deeply.

The underlined sentence “I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my youth” probably means that ______. 

A. Mother’s hands witnessed my growth as a youth

B. Mother’s hands are similar to mine as a youth

C. I like to feel mother’s hands when she was young

D. I realize her hands were exactly like those in her youth

Which of the following words best describe the writer’s mood towards her mother?

  A. Content.    B. Disappointed.     C. Loving.    D. Considerate.

The best title for the passage would be ______.

  A. Mother’s beauty           B. My father hates onion 

C. Hard-working mother       D. Mother’s hands

I sit at my kitchen table, while my daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother. On the wall hangs a photo of my father.
“When is Rick going to be here?” My mother asks, referring to my husband. 
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.”
I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question. 
While my mother and daughter play, I busy myself making a salad. 
“Don't put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”
“Yes, Mom,” I answer. 
I scrub(洗擦) off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces.
“Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”
This time I can’t answer. 
My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has
been, just a bit forgetful.
I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it to take away the bitterness. Cut and rub. This
is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, 
dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. 
And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid. 
So why am I afraid now? 
I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink.
Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my 
youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. 
Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten 
meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears 
off her face. 
I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is
locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same
kiss to Anna. 
Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.
Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits. 
Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same
question too many times? 
I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter. 
“Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that
instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers. 
“He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 
【小题1】What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?

I sit at my kitchen table, while my daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother. On the wall hangs a photo of my father.

    “When is Rick going to be here?” My mother asks, referring to my husband. 

    “I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.”

    I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question. 

    While my mother and daughter play, I busy myself making a salad. 

“Don't put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”

“Yes, Mom,” I answer. 

I scrub(洗擦) off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces.

 “Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”

This time I can’t answer. 

My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has

been, just a bit forgetful.

I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it to take away the bitterness. Cut and rub. This

 is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, 

dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. 

And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid. 

    So why am I afraid now? 

I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink.

Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my 

youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. 

Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten 

meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears 

off her face. 

I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is

locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same

kiss to Anna. 

Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.

Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits. 

Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same

question too many times? 

I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter. 

“Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that

instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers. 

“He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 

1.What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?

A. She is very old.           B. She suffers forgetfulness.

C. She is absent-minded.      D. She is eager to see Rick.

2.What can we learn about the writer’s father according to the passage?

  A. He might have passed away for years.

 B. He goes out for a walk by himself.

C. He is out doing something with Rick.

D. He loves the writer’s mother deeply.

3.The underlined sentence “I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my youth” probably means that ______. 

A. Mother’s hands witnessed my growth as a youth

B. Mother’s hands are similar to mine as a youth

C. I like to feel mother’s hands when she was young

D. I realize her hands were exactly like those in her youth

4.Which of the following words best describe the writer’s mood towards her mother?

  A. Content.    B. Disappointed.     C. Loving.    D. Considerate.

5.The best title for the passage would be ______.

  A. Mother’s beauty           B. My father hates onion 

C. Hard-working mother       D. Mother’s hands

I sit at my kitchen table, while my daughter, Anna, sits next to my mother. On the wall hangs a photo of my father.
“When is Rick going to be here?” My mother asks, referring to my husband. 
“I don’t know, Mom,” I answer patiently. “He’ll be here for dinner.”
I sigh and get up from the table. This is at least the tenth time she has asked that question. 
While my mother and daughter play, I busy myself making a salad. 
“Don't put in any onions,” Mom says. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”
“Yes, Mom,” I answer. 
I scrub(洗擦) off a carrot and chop it into bite-size pieces.
“Don't put any onions in the salad,” she reminds me. “You know how Daddy hates onion.”
This time I can’t answer. 
My mother had been beautiful. She still is. In fact, my mother is still everything she has
been, just a bit forgetful.
I cut off the end of the cucumber and rub it to take away the bitterness. Cut and rub. This  is a trick I have learned from my mother, along with a trillion other things: cooking, sewing, 
dating, laughing, thinking. I learned how to grow up. 
And I learned that when my mother was around, I never had to be afraid. So why am I afraid now? 
I study my mother's hands. Her nails are no longer a bright red, but painted a light pink.。Almost no color at all. And as I stare at them, I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my 
youth. Hands that packed a thousand lunches and wiped a million tears off my cheeks. 
Now my hands have grown into those of my mother's. Hands that have cooked uneaten 
meals, held my own daughter's frightened fingers on the first day of school and dried tears 
off her face. 
I grow lighthearted. I can feel my mother kiss me goodnight, check to see if the window is
locked, then blow another kiss from the doorway. Then I am my mother, blowing that same
kiss to Anna. 
Outside everything is still. Shadows fall among the trees, shaped like pieces of a puzzle.
Someday my daughter will be standing in my place, and I will rest where my mother now sits. 
Will I remember then how it felt to be both mother and daughter? Will I ask the same
question too many times? 
I walk over and sit down between my mother and her granddaughter. 
“Where is Rick?” my mother asks, resting her hand on the table next to mine. And in that
instant I know she remembers. She may repeat herself a little too much. But she remembers. 
“He’ll be here,” I answer with a smile. 

1. 1.

   What’s wrong with the writer’s mother?

   1. A.
      She is very old.          
   2. B.
      She suffers forgetfulness.
   3. C.
      She is absent-minded.     
   4. D.
      She is eager to see Rick.
2. 2.

   What can we learn about the writer’s father according to the passage?
   

   1. A.
      He might have passed away for years.
   2. B.
      He goes out for a walk by himself.
   3. C.
      He is out doing something with Rick.
   4. D.
      He loves the writer’s mother deeply.
3. 3.

   The underlined sentence “I realize I am feeling them as they shaped my youth” probably means that ______. 

   1. A.
      Mother’s hands witnessed my growth as a youth
   2. B.
      Mother’s hands are similar to mine as a youth
   3. C.
      I like to feel mother’s hands when she was young
   4. D.
      I realize her hands were exactly like those in her youth
4. 4.

   Which of the following words best describe the writer’s mood towards her mother?
   

   1. A.
      Content.   
   2. B.
      Disappointed.    
   3. C.
      Loving.   
   4. D.
      Considerate.
5. 5.

   The best title for the passage would be ______.
   

   1. A.
      Mother’s beauty          
   2. B.
      My father hates onion 
   3. C.
      Hard-working mother      
   4. D.
      Mother’s hands