Last Thanksgiving， I was invited by my high school’s headmaster and his family， to a house in Upstate New York for a 10-day vacation. (My high school was in a little town in Pennsylvania) A place like this， of mountains and trees with almost no trace of human， with gray blurred sky and cold fresh air， is called “the middle of nowhere” according to my headmaster as well as those people in many American films and TV series. November in this place is just the time for hunting. I remembered many big tall guys in light orange hunting suits walked across the leafless trees. Hunting for lots of them was just a mean of chasing after fun， but some got luck now and then: During my staying， I saw many cars passing by with dead deer tied on their roofs. Headmaster was one of those hunting-addicted persons， who almost disappeared after getting off the car. His wife， 2 days later， arrived， with two dogs and two daughters and a son from Penn. And also her mother.

First time I saw Barbara， she was swinging one of her legs， from the co-driver seat she was getting off of. In a gray sweatshirt， black cotton pants and a pair of sneakers， she walks slowly toward the front door of the house (of where I stood) then stops for a sec， then continues the alternative of her movements. She went near me and I put on a polite smile right away. She had a small but plump face， rough skin with wrinkles from her cheeks to neck. She has gray short hair， no longer shiny， but she has a pair of shiny smiling eyes. Even though her eyes were as swollen as those of a goldfish， they impressed me with a friendly blink. I no longer remember her initial introduction of herself， all I can recall now is that her smile looked a little bit cunning.

Since her looking for the bathroom after she got off the car， her image became unexpectedly vivid to me. She liked to wear a pink pajama dress， the length of which was just above her knees， plunge herself into the leather-covered armchair， put her feet on the table and shake them carefree and leisurely. She always talked to herself， or repeated something over and over: “Was their someone turn the hits on last night… For some reason I suddenly didn’t feel that cold anymore.” Staring at the little yellow dog sleeping under her coach， “Let’s do not wake him”， she murmured slowly.

Often， I curled up in one end of the long coach with a book (to get ready for my last chance of SAT in December)， diagonally in front of Barbara， and then she always talked to me with a smile. Her voice was soft and swift. She spoke slowly as if the words she had said were being dragged upon the ground. As for her sound， I could not think of anything but a piece of torn silk. In the days of my staying， children ran here and there， adults busied in this and that， while seldom among them went to talk to Barbara. In China， the seniors are the center in a family as they sit in the principle seats at whatever family-gathered meal， and in weekends or vacations people get together in the olds’ places. But due to some cultural reasons， elder people in America follow the plans of the middle-aged men， just like Barbara drove herself from her house in North Carolina， first to Pennsylvania to meet her daughter， then join them to New York state for a vacation. The children were more carefree， always did some hem and haw or even screamed to their grandma， than ran away to some “wonderland” they discovered within the house. And Barbara’s eyes following the children’s staggering back figures until they disappeared in some corner of the stairs.

The little yellow dog was dragged to somewhere and played by the children. Barbara looked at the ignored old black dog lying by her feet， signed. “He is also a good boy. See how tender he is.”

As of me sitting by her side， despite the times being amused by her funny words (which was really often)， I sometimes sensed a unspeakable rising feeling between sympathy， and regret， or else. I was not clear of my thoughts， but when I saw her glittering eyes and hear her melodious talks， I felt happy and sad at the same time.

When she was young， as Barbara told me， she went to Wellesley College， a highly reputational and competitive women school even to put it in today. She told me about the time of top hats and cloaks， when the boys from Harvard always appeared by the lake of her campus and the girls thought all day of how to be a good wife. Barbara studies psychology， but she talked a lot about her dream of dancing.

She was blonde， small but swift as the clouds. I imagined her spinning on the dancing floor， attracting the whole crowed. She danced in a way between ballet and Latin， smiling with the blue waves in her eyes. Sometimes she did some thinking and cut the old-fashioned long dress of her mother in an arty way， tied a contrast color ribbon in her waist， and she was the star of the ball. And she sneaked to the back of the theater， tapped silently and mimicked the movements of the ballerina of the state. She talked to me then laughed.

When the headmaster couple took the children and the dogs out， Barbara stayed at home. Before saying goodbye to her， sometimes I wondered， what she would do when she was a lone? With a book held in her hands， would she feel lonely? Would she talk to her self about the times of youth?

One time Barbara took the eldest girl and me to a candy bar in the little town. She strolled in this colorful and flavorsome little room， extremely happily， put the candies she had carefully chosen to the different paper bags heading to different friends. She still walked in her trembling way， but I saw her， well maybe in a trance state， as walking around Waban Lake in a pair of ballet shoes. (Waban Lake is in Wellesley College Barbara used to attend)

Barbara is teaching writing at a community college in North Carolina. That is a special school: the children there (for Barbara， people of different ages are all children) have all undergone some misery and unable to get good education. She does not get paid， but she enjoys the work. “I can write very well. And all the children are improving. If you decide to apply for Wellesley， I can write them a letter for you.”

We were out for Thanksgiving dinner. Around the table， while people were talking about education， the land someone just bought， or some dog stories when they were run out of topics， Barbara listened carefully. Everyone at the table was younger than her but she was still politely smiling. Sometimes I blamed myself: Why I kept sighing inside myself when I see her bright smiling face? Maybe she was really happy. All of my pessimistic thoughts were just immature and redundant. But how open-minded a person could be， to accept a role for herself， from the dream world as a dancing princess to the reality place of cold windy New York? Suddenly I found myself laughably na?ve or even pretentious. While facing a respectable， positive and life-loving senior， the 20-year-old me was not qualified to even sigh.

She sat next to me (I sat in the most insignificant seat. Note where Chinese old people should sit during dinner) and told me patiently about all the manners on the table in western culture. She talked slowly as usual， and she had no time for her own dessert at the end. She packed her pie (with a piece of ice cream at top). When we got home， I quietly put her box to the fridge because Barbara forgot there was also a big piece of ice cream with her dessert.

Before I left them， the eldest girl was skyping her friend and her mother asked her to stop and took something at the car for Barbara. This 14-year-old girl lost her temper and screamed and cried. In this child-like act， Barbara blinked gently. Maybe there was something went across her wrinkled face really fast. Maybe there wasn’t. She leaned against her reading chair， crossing and shaking her feet， so comfortably as if she could sing out loud at any moment. And on the cover of that thick book she was holding and had almost finished， a young ballerina was dancing， lost herself at the perfect move.