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       In an era in which grandparents’ love is often measur…

       In an era in which grandparents’ love is often measured by their generosity, it seems incredible to recall that my loving grandmother, known to all the grandchildren as “Mow-mow,” never presented me with a gift. On my birthday and at Christmas, I received gifts in pretty paper tied up with colorful ribbons, but none with a tag that read “From Mow-mow.” Even as a child, though, I never felt slighted, for my grandmother gave me so many other gifts that only as an adult did I realize that the usual kind of gift giving was not her custom.        The first gift Mow-mow gave me was respect. She gave me respect of her full attention and never laughed at anything I said. With her I felt safe from ridicule and worthy of being taken seriously.        Another gift was that of holding my speech to the highest standards. Her own grammar was impeccable, and even though I was a child, she expected mine to be also. Even the most innocuous slang, such as darn and gosh, was forbidden. I remember the battles we fought over these and other words I regarded as entirely harmless and over such issues as the proper pronunciation of the word forehead. I never won these battles. Mow-mow patiently heard me out but never surrendered. These discussions caused me to become sensitive to language and the effects of words. I learned that how something was said was as important as what was said.        Slang words were not the only forbidden words in Mow-mow’s house. Can’t was an anathema to her. “The difficult we do immediately; the impossible takes a little longer” was a quote she had adopted as one of her favorite maxims. She read to me over and over the story of the “Little Engine that Could.” I can still hear the lilt in her voice as she repeated the words of the little engine making his way up the steep grade, “I think I can. I think I can.” Thus as a small child, I learned a great lesson: we are limited mostly by our own imaginations.        Mow-mow showed me that what makes an occasion memorable is not elegant food or ornate decorations but the spirit of the people present. I have a vivid image of my grandmother happily carrying a large metal tray into her backyard where I was playing with other children from her neighborhood. On that tray were four tall glasses filled with cold milk and pieces of cornbread, still warm from the oven. Simple fare, indeed, but a party to be remembered forever because of the love of my grandmother and her desire to make our afternoon pleasurable.        No, I do not recall a gift bearing a tag that said “From Mow-mow.” Her gifts, nonetheless, were many and priceless, and I will have them with me always.   Which sentence best states the main idea of the passage?

       When you think about people-watching, you usually env…

       When you think about people-watching, you usually envision the crowds at a mall or at a park, but most of the strangers you see who parade by you each day are not on foot. They’re in their cars. Although you can guess a lot about other people whom you see walking by—from observing their clothes, their behavior, or even their bearing—it is by their cars that you can tell the most about people that you’ve never seen.        Economic status can be accurately divined from the expense of the vehicle that people drive. That smooth gliding, huge new Towncar must have someone successful behind the wheel. That sporty utility vehicle, new but inexpensive, most likely is being driven by a college student. And that white, smoke belching, rusted-out jalopy you quickly pass to avoid asphyxiation—undoubtedly that driver can ill afford replacing the old junker and will soon have no wheels at all.        Political beliefs and community involvement often show up on bumper stickers, as do philosophies and religious affiliations, not to mention attitudes towards free speech and boundaries of good taste. Window decals and rearview mirror danglings denote cultural subgroups, while “Baby on Board” or “Caution” Show Dog” signs delineate the drivers’ personal commitments.        Momentary vehicular encounters can provide opportunities for psychoanalyzing drivers. The Type A sort who tailgates you or passes you dangerously close to the double line is either chronically late or running on caffeine or competitive aggression. The oh-so-polite people who wave everyone in ahead of you un bumper-to-bumper traffic must be similarly attentive to the needs of others in their lives. The chatty cell phone drivers must not be able to live very long in isolation without social interaction, gossip, or business dealings. And the oh-so-slow Sunday driver must be functioning on a different plane of meditation than the rest of us who proceed at the usual hasty pace.        External attachments can reveal hobbies and leisure interests—from bike racks to boat trailer hitches; if the drivers tote equipment, you can gauge how they spend their weekends and their disposable cash. But the easiest clue as to the driver’s identity comes in the form of an audio rather than a visual cue. If you’re waiting at a stoplight, and you feel the vibrations of the bass stereo from behind you, the driver is most likely under thirty years of age.        Some argue that the automobile has increased our sense of anonymity, our feeling that we are all alike—anonymous humanoids driving like robots in identical comfort capsules. Not me. As long as people can use their personal chariots as extensions of themselves and as billboards of self-expression, the driving experiences of our lives can tell us a lot about who else is out there, where they’re coming from—and even where everyone is going.   According to the passage, what can you learn about other drivers from bumper stickers and decals?