I worked from the time when I was four and raised seven children, all of them college graduates. It seemed I'd done everything I'd ever wanted to do in my life, but I had one regret. I was born in 1898, the oldest of five kids. Papa couldn't spare me to go to school, so I worked in the fields with him till I was 21 years old.
Everywhere I went, I learned some hard lessons about what happens to a man who even can't read the alphabet. People cheat you out of wages. They sell you a ticket to one city, take your money and hand you a ticket to somewhere else.
By 1928, I'd been wandering for nine years. I met a woman named Elzenia. We fell in love, married and moved to Dallas, where I got work fixing roads for the city. When Amelia, the oldest of our seven children, first went to school, I took my wife aside. "Elzenia," I said. "I don't want the kids to know I can't read or write."
In 1938, one day my boss called me in. "George," he said. "No one knows those machines like you do. I'd like to promote you." But my thrill and surprise were cut short when he said, "Fill out this application and we'll get you a raise." I couldn't admit the truth. I thanked him and walked out of his office. I did stay right where I was, until I turned 65 and my boss made me retire. But I didn't stop working. For the next 25 years, I lived a happy life, but it still seemed to me like something was missing.
A young fellow handed me a piece of paper. It's information about adult education classes. People can learn to read and write. Now I'm 98. I thought of my friends and neighbours and what they might think if they found out I couldn't read. After all these years, my secret would be out. But all my life I've wanted to read. It was high time for action.
Paragraph 1：
Theyoungmandrovemetoa huge building
Paragraph 2：
I'mstillgoingtoschool.
