scaled-down
adj. less than before

scorching
adj. very hot

share
n. (BrE) ownership rights in companies 股份

speedboat
n. a small power-driven boat built to go fast

stopgap
n. sth. that fills a need for a short time until one can replace it with sth. better

summon
v. to call; to rouse
tap
v. to draw liquid from

teens
n. the period of one's life between 13 and 19

thriving
adj. Here: successful

trader
n. a person who buys and sells goods

veteran
adj. sb. who has had a lot of experience of a particular activity

vow
v. to make a serious promise

whiz
n. sb. who is very skilled or successful at sth.

wiring
n. the network of wires （电线） that form the electrical system in a building

yearn
v. to have a strong desire for sth.

Zaire
n. 扎伊尔（非洲国家名）

Proper Names

Auburn
奥伯恩

Bon
邦

Bownes
鲍恩斯

Charlotte
夏洛特

Clarence Jordan
克拉伦斯·乔丹

Emma Johnson
埃玛·约翰逊

Jonas
乔纳斯

Koinonia
科诺尼亚

Lillie Mae
利莉·玫

Lincoln
林肯

Linda Caldwell
琳达·考德威尔

Millard Fuller
米勒德·富勒

Text A

Blueprint for Success

Donald Dale Jackson

Read the text once for the main idea. Do not refer to the notes, dictionaries or the glossary yet.

He gave away his fortune for a hammer, a saw — and a dream.

As a boy, Millard Fuller was a whiz with money. He had a knack for turning a profit the way other kids had a knack for baseball. Starting with a pig his father gave him, Millard became a livestock trader during his teens, netting enough to pay his way through Auburn University.
Then he entered the University of Alabama law school in 1957. But he continued to make money. By age 29, Fuller was almost a millionaire, with a luxurious home, a vacation retreat, two speedboats, a Lincoln Continental and shares in three cattle ranches.
Several years earlier. Fuller had married Linda Caldwell, and for Millard Fuller, life was full.
Then one day Linda stunned Millard by announcing that she didn't think she loved him any longer. "I feel as if I don't have a husband," she told him. "You are always working," she said. "I'm going away for a while." The next day she left for New York to talk to a minister they knew.
How could I have miscalculated so badly? Millard wondered. Surely my family matters more than money.
For the next few days he tried to work, but couldn't concentrate. The business he had helped build was thriving — but what had it cost? His marriage? His health? Millard's neck bothered him lately, and he sometimes had trouble breathing, as if a weight were pressing on his chest.
When Linda called and agreed to his pleas to meet him in New York the following week, Millard asked his parents to stay with the children. The evening before he went to New York, he began idly watching a TV movie. A line in the film jolted him: "A planned life can only be endured."
A planned life! That was exactly what he was living. The plan was to make a fortune, to turn a million into ten million. But he realized now that he had left out everything that counted; he could no longer endure it.
Then and there he vowed to give his money away and find a more satisfying reason for living. Whatever he settled on, his new life would have to mean something, to have a positive effect on others.
When he reached New York, Linda told him she wanted to keep the marriage together. That evening, as they were drinking orange juice at Radio City Music Hall, Linda broke down and began sobbing.
They left the theater clutching each other and went for a walk. Finally, they began to talk, with a rush of feeling. Millard spoke of his idea to go home, give everything away and start afresh. What did she think? Linda nodded yes and embraced him. Whatever comes next, she thought, we'll face it together.
The Fullers returned to Alabama and sold Millard's share of the company. They put their houses on the market, sold the boats and distributed the proceeds among churches, colleges and charities. Millard was feeling better — breathing came easier, his chest pain was gone — but now he needed a job. As a stopgap measure, he became a New York-based fund-raiser for a small college in Mississippi.
The Fullers moved into an apartment over a gas station in New Jersey. Millard commuted to Manhattan by bus. Their tight budget was made even tighter by the birth of their third child. But they didn't mind their scaled-down life-style. Now they were a team.
Millard found his work satisfying, but he still yearned for a mission that would summon all his energy and idealism. When the fund drive ended a year later, he wrote to his minister friend Clarence Jordan and asked if he had any ideas. Maybe, replied Jordan. He invited Millard to Georgia.
Jordan had been thinking about the dilapidated shacks that lined the red-clay roads around Americus. They often lacked heat and plumbing, and the poor families who lived in them couldn't afford repairs. Banks wouldn't give them mortgages, so they had to keep on renting. They were trapped.
"These people don't need charity; they need a way to help themselves," Jordan told Millard. Together they decided to set up a corporation funded by donations. The capital would go for land and building materials. The corporation would erect simple, decent houses and sell them at cost. The buyers would make a minimal down payment and monthly interest-free mortgage payments that would go back into the fund for more houses.
The buyers themselves would be encouraged to put hundreds of hours of sweat equity into their own houses and to invest time in the construction of a neighbor's house.
Excited by the idea, Millard and Linda gathered up the children and moved to Jordan's Koinonia Farm. Building would start at the farm, on land it already owned. Millard laid out 42 half acre lots and began touring to raise money and recruit volunteers. Letters to Koinonia Farm supporters around the country brought in thousands of dollars.
Millard hired contractors to lay the foundations and install plumbing and wiring. The price of the first house, which included three bedrooms and a modern kitchen, was about $6,000. The buyers were Bon and Emma Johnson, who lived with their children in a nearby shack.
At last Millard was certain that he had found his calling. By 1972 his first 27 houses were up and occupied. Many of the families had never lived in a warm house with indoor plumbing.
Millard wondered if the idea blossoming in Georgia might flower elsewhere. So he accepted a three-year assignment from the Christian Church to launch the building of 114 houses in Zaire, Africa. Linda and the children accompanied him.
When they returned to Americus in 1976, Millard had a mental blueprint for an international assault on poverty housing. He called it Habitat for Humanity.
Like the Koinonia project, Habitat would be financed by donations and buyers' monthly payments without a penny of government funds.
Habitat began building houses in Americus for needy people who could handle a small down payment plus about $65 monthly. An elderly couple named Lillie Mae and Jonas Bownes watched from their shack as their new house rose across the street. Mrs. Bownes frequently got up after midnight and peeked to make sure the unfinished five-room dwelling was still there. "I never dreamed I'd have a place like this, " Mrs. Bownes says. "It makes us feel like people."
Habitat grew slowly at first. In 1981 there were 15 projects in the United States, 11 overseas. Last year the numbers ballooned to 241 in North America and 50 in 25 countries abroad. By 1996, if things go as planned, Habitat will be operating in 2,000 U.S. cities and 60 countries.
Volunteers apply for jobs at a rate of 40 a month. Habitat's generous philosophy seems to tap a reservoir of good will. "I was looking for a way to measure myself in terms other than money," says a staffer who gave up an engineering career to direct fund raising at Habitat.
It is ten o'clock on a scorching July morning in Charlotte, N.C. Millard Fuller is pounding nails into a roof on one of 14 houses rising simultaneously. Around him, 350 volunteer builders, many of them veteran Habitat workers bused in from out of town, are hammering, drilling, fitting windows — building a neighborhood.
"Who's paying for all this?" a passer-by asks.
"Nobody," Millard replies.
The man looks dubious. "Folks don't do this sort of thing for nothing."
"It's worse than that," Millard says cheerfully. "They paid to come."
"You get a sense of joy in this word," says Millard after a long day on the roof." The most dynamic people I know are concerned about something beyond themselves. We're doing something that makes a real difference. It won't fade away next week or next month. Every house is a permanent blessing — for builder and buyer both."