粗品文戴：My Father, My Son, My Self
文/Walt Harrington 译/何向阳
My father still looks remarkably like I remember him when I was growing up: hair full, body trim, face tanned, eyes sharp. What’s different is his gentleness and patience. I had remembered neither as a boy, and I wondered which of us had changed.
My son Matthew and I had flown to Arizona for a visit, and his 67-year-old grandfather was tuning up his guitar to play for the boy. “You know ‘Oh, Give Me a Home Where the Buffalo Roam’?” my father asked.
All the while, four-year-old Matthew was bouncing on the couch, furtively strumming the guitar he wasn’t supposed to touch and talking incessantly.
My father and I were once at great odds. We went through all the classic resentful and rebellious teen stuff: shouting matches, my weird friends, clothes and beliefs. I still vividly recall the revelation that finally came to me one day that I was not my father, and that I could stop trying to prove I wasn’t.
When I was a boy, my father wasn’t around much. He worked seven days a week as a milkman. But even at work he was the task-master in absentia. Infractions were added up, and at night he dispensed punishment, though rarely beyond a threatening voice or a scolding finger.
I believed that manhood required that I stand up to him, even if it meant fists. One day some friends and I buried our high school’s parking-lot barriers under the woodpile for the annual home-coming bonfire.
We hated the things because they kept us from leaving school in our cars until after the buses had left. I thought the prank was pretty funny, and I mentioned it to my father. He didn’t think it was funny, and he ordered me to go with him to dig the barriers out.
Can you imagine anything more humiliating at age 16? I refused, and we stood toe to toe. Dad was in a rage, and I thought for an instant that the test had come.
But then he shook his head and calmly walked away. The next day my friends told me that they had seen him at the bonfire celebration. He’d climbed into the woodpile in front of hundreds of kids, pulled out the barriers and left. He never mentioned it to me. He still hasn’t.
Despite our father-son struggles, I never doubted my father’s love, which was our lifeline through some pretty rough times. There are plenty of warm memories – he and I on the couch watching TV together, walking a gravel road in Crete, Ill. , as dusk, riding home in a car, singing “Red River Valley.”
He had this way of smiling at me, this way of tossing a backhanded compliment, letting me know he was prod of me and my achievements. He was a rugged teaser, and it was during his teasing that I always sensed his great, unspoken love. When I was older, I would understand that this is how many men show affection without acknowledging vulnerability. And I imitated his way of saying “I love you” by telling him his nose was too big or his ties too ugly.
But I can’t recall a time my father hugged or hissed me or said he loved me. I remember snuggling next to him on Sunday mornings. I remember the strong, warm feeling of dozing off in his arms. But men, even little men, did not kiss or hug; they shook hands.
There were times much later when I would be going back to college, times when I wanted so badly to hug him. But the muscles wouldn’t move with the emotion. I hugged my mother. I shook hands with my father.
“It’s not what a man says, but what he does that counts,” he would say. Words and emotions were suspect. He went to work every day, he protected me, he taught me right from wrong, he made me tough in mind and spirit. It was our bond. It was our barrier.
I’ve tried not to repeat what I saw as my father’s mistake. Matthew and I cuddle and kiss good-bye. This is the new masculinity, and it’s as common today as the old masculinity of my father’s day. But, honestly, I don’t believe that in the end the new masculinity will prevent the growing-up conflicts between fathers and sons. All I hope is that Matthew and I build some repository of unconscious joy so that it will remain a lifeline between us through the rough times ahead.
It was only after having a boy of my own that I began to think a lot about the relationship between fathers and sons and to see – and to understand – my own father with remarkable clarity.
If there is a universal complaint from men about their fathers, it is that their dads lacked patience. I remember one rainy day when I was about six and my father was putting a new roof on his mother’s house, a dangerous job when it’s dry, much less wet. I wanted to help. He was impatient and said no. I made a scene and got the only spanking I can recall. He had chuckled at that memory many times over the years, but I never saw the humor.
Only now that I’ve struggled to find patience in myself when Matthew insists he help me paint the house or saw down dead trees in the back yard am I able to see that day through my father’s eyes. Who’d have guessed I’d be angry with my father for 30 years, until I relived similar experiences with my own son, who, I suppose, is angry now with me.
More surprisingly, contrary to my teen-age conviction that I wasn’t at all like my father, I have come to the greater realization. I am very much like him. We share the same sense of humor, same stubbornness, same voice even. Although I didn’t always see these similarities as desirable, I have grown into them, come to like them.
My father, for instance, has this way of answering the phone. “Hellll – o,” he says, putting a heavy accent on the first syllable and snapping the “o” short. Call me today and you’ll hear “Hellll – o,” just like the old an. Every time I hear myself say it, I feel good.
This new empathy for my father has led me to a startling insight: if I am still resolving my feelings about my father, then when I was a boy my father was still resolving his feelings about his father.
He raised me as a result of and as a reaction to his own dad, which links my son not only to me and my father, but to my father’s father and, I suspect, any number of Harrington fathers before. I imagine that if the phone had rung as the first Harrington stepped of the boat, he’d have answered by saying, “Hellll –o”.
For reasons to profound and too petty to tell, there was a time years ago when my father and I didn’t speak or see each other. I finally gave up my stubbornness and visited unexpectedly. For two days we talked, of everything and nothing. Neither mentioned that we hadn’t seen each other in five years.
I left as depressed as I’ve ever been, knowing that reconciliation was impossible. Two days later I got the only letter my father ever sent me. I’m the writer, he’s the milkman. But the letter’s tone and cadence, its emotion and simplicity might have been my own.
“I know that if I had it to do over again,” he wrote, “I would somehow find more time to spend with you. It seems we never realize this until it’s too late.”
It turned out that as he had watched me walk out the door after our visit – at the instant I was thinking we were hopelessly lost to each other – he was telling himself to stop me, to sit down and talk, that if we didn’t he might never see me again. “But I just let you go,” he wrote.
I realized that his muscles just hadn’t been able to move with the emotion, which is all I ever really needed to know.
Not long ago, Matthew asked me, “sons can grow up to be their daddies, right?” This was no small struggling for insight, and I was careful in my response. “No,” I said, “sons can grow up to be like their daddies in some ways, but they can’t be their daddies. They must be themselves.” Matthew would hear nothing of these subtleties.
“Sons can grow up to be their daddies!” he said defiantly. “They can.” I didn’t argue. It made me feel good.
All morning I am anxious. Matthew and I are about to leave Arizona for home, and I am determined to do something I have never done.
There is a time in every son’s life when he resents the echoes reminding him that, for all his vaunted individuality, he is his father’s son. But thee should also come a time – as it had for me – when these echoes call out only the understanding that the generations have melded and blurred without threat.
So just before my son and I walk through the gate and onto our plane, I lean over, hug my father and say, “I want you to know that I love you. That I always have.”
父亲、儿子和我
（好）沃我特•哈林顿
父亲仍是我孩提记得的样子容貌：神色乌里透红，眼光炯炯有神。一头浓发更使他仪表堂堂。不外，他目前比曩昔平和耐烦多了。当初可不。也不知道是谁起了变更，是他照旧我？
我和儿子马建乘飞机往亚利桑那探访父亲，六十七岁的父亲调好凶他给孙枪弹奏。晓得“哦，我想有个个家，家牛在它四周散步”这尾歌吗？
那当儿，四岁的马修一向在沙发上蹦跳，偷偷治拨他不应碰的吉他，口里还絮絮不休个没完。
我和父亲曾心心相印，一触即发。那是发展期间的儿子与父亲常有的“敌对“。我们咋咋呼吸的竞赛、我们的穿着、我的信奉，以及我处的朋侪，都为父亲所不屑。而今我还明白地记得，孩提时，有一天我忽然意识到，我和父亲纷歧样，我也不用证实我们纷歧样。
孩提时父亲常不在家。他是个收奶工，每周事情七天。即使外出，他也是个缺席监工。我们在家犯的过错被逐一记取，早晨回家他再找我们清算计帐，但却很少遭叱骂或恫吓。
那时，我以为，做为男人汉，我得英勇地面临他，哪怕是吃拳头。有一次，我和多少个友人把黉舍泊车场的栅栏埋在柴堆里，筹备用去烧一年一度的篝水，庆贺放假。
我们恨这些栅栏，由于它挡着我们，只要等大众汽车走完以后，我们才干乘自己的车离校。我认为这开玩笑很好玩，就跟父亲提了此事。可他一点也不感到好玩，命我即时跟他一块去把栅栏扒出来。
你能设想，对十六岁的我，其时另有比这更争脸的吗？我固然不干，我们唇枪舌剑。父亲气极了，那一刻，我认识到考验的时辰到了。
可他却摇点头安静地走了。第二天伴侣告知我篝火庆贺会上看睹我的父亲了。他当着几百个孩子的里爬上柴堆，扒出埋在里面的栅栏后走了。他素来出跟我说起此事，至古不提过。
虽然我们�格难入，但我从不猜忌父亲很爱我，这就是衔接我们的纽带。当然也有很多温馨的影象----我们一起坐在沙发上看电视；一块在伊利诺洲克里特的碎石小讲上漫步；落日中一路唱着《白河谷》驱车回家。
父亲从不正面赞赏我；还经常对我冷言冷语，却从中流露着对我的骄傲和对我的胜利的喜悦。父亲粗暴、朴素。爱嘲谑人，可我从这把玩簸弄中感触到深沉的父爱。长大了些当前，我入手下手清楚这是男报酬防止懦弱而表白爱的方法。我也学着他的样，想说“我爱你“时，却说他的鼻子太大或发带太丢脸。
父亲仿佛从不搂抱我、亲吻我。可礼拜天凌晨挤进他的被窝，偎在他怀里睡着时的暖和觉得，我至尽历历在目。可是汉子，即使是小汉子也不搂搂抱抱。男人握手！
上年夜教时每次有家返校时，我特殊念拥抱父亲，但仍是克制住了。我拥抱母亲，而只取父亲握脚！
父亲常说，“男人主要的不在说而在做。“说话战情绪靠不住。他天天上班，他护着我，他教我分辨实真，他培育我动摇的信心，刚强我的性情。那即是咱们的契约，我们的樊篱。
有了儿子当前我尽力防止父亲的毛病，对马修很密切。这是须眉气势的簇新表示方法。现在亲擅的面孔已代替了父亲阿谁时期严格的面孔。可是，父子间的亲善其实不能制止成持久儿子与父亲之间的抵触。我只盼望我和儿子马修的密切与快活有助于我们在此后的艰苦岁月中尽力协同，共度易闭。
我是在有了儿子今后才开端思虑父子间的关联，起头深入理解了自己的父亲。
一切男人城市埋怨本身的父亲缺少耐烦。记得六岁时，一个阳雨天，父亲在给祖母盖屋顶。这活儿好天皆有危险，况且雨天？我想帮手，他却极不耐心地把我推到一边，我不干，成果屁股挨了一顿2。几年从前了，每想到此事他便暗笑，可我一面不觉有甚么可笑。
现在每当马修吵着要帮我刷墙，帮我锯后院的枯树，我拼命忍住性质时，才明确父亲当年眼睛吐露的含意。可我为此跟父亲呕了三十年气呢！有了相似阅历今后我才理解了父亲的苦心。现在，儿子兴许正由于此而死我的气呢。
十几岁时我以为自己和父亲判然不同，此刻才收现自己很像父亲：一样的风趣，一样的执拗，乃至一样的声音。我其实不认为这种类似后和满意，可我天生如斯。
比喻说父亲接德律风时老是口音很夸大第一个音节，吞失落了第两个音节。给我打电话，你会发明我也跟老爸一样，“哈……罗！”，对本人的心音借感到杰出。
与父亲的如斯设想使我受惊天意想到：假如我当初正在解析本身对父亲的豪情，那末昔时我仍是孩子时，父亲也必定在解析他对本人父亲的情感。
父亲像他父亲养育他那样地哺育了我，这不但接洽了儿子、我和父亲，并且联络了我父亲的父亲甚至全部哈利顿家属。我猜，第一名哈利顿下船登岸时，那时如有电话的话，他接电话时必然也是“哈……罗！”
几年前由于某些奥妙的起因，我和父亲一度不来往了。终极我战胜了自己的执拗，出人意料来访问父亲。我们谈了整整两天，好像什么都道了，又好像什么都没谈。谁都没谈我们五年都没会晤的事。
分开父亲时我很懊丧，我想，和洽如初是不行能的了。两天后我支到父亲给我写的独一一启信。我是作家，他是送奶工。但他写信的基调、节拍、感情与简练与我“一模一样”。
“如果生涯重来一次，我会博得更多的你留在我身旁的时光。我们老是在工作每法挽回时才看浑本相。”他疑上说。
我要脱离父亲时----那一刻我感觉我们父子间的沉默已经是变本加厉----父亲心里不断嘀咕，留住他，让他坐下来再谈谈，不然他可能不会再来看我了。“可我照样让你走了。”父亲写道。
我发明父亲情感不善行表，我早该晓得的。
未几前马修问我：“儿子长大后跟爸爸一样，是吗？”儿子试图在洞察糊口。我警惕谨严地答复：“不，儿子长大后能够某些圆面象爸爸，但他们不成能跟爸爸截然不同。他们应当是他们自己。”马修必然没听出来此中的奥妙。
“儿子长大后就跟爸爸一样！就可以跟爸爸一样”。他辩论说。我没辩驳。他的刚强令我盗喜。
我和马修预备分开亚利桑那回家了。整整一个凌晨我古道热肠里心神不宁不克不及镇静。我决议做一件从已做过的事件。
儿子们生长中总有如许一段时代，只管他存在可吹捧的本性，但他的模拟照旧让他记起他只是父亲的儿子。这类仿照促使他们懂得了不靠要挟，两代人完整能够了解、相同。
带女子登机之前，我直下身子，搂着女亲道：“爸爸，我爱你，我始终很爱您。”
(何旭日，中国迷信技巧大学中语系）Walt Harrington
My father still looks remarkably like I remember him when I was growing up: hair full, body trim, face tanned, eyes sharp. What’s different is his gentleness and patience. I had remembered neither as a boy, and I wondered which of us had changed.
My son Matthew and I had flown to Arizona for a visit, and his 67-year-old grandfather was tuning up his guitar to play for the boy. “You know ‘Oh, Give Me a Home Where the Buffalo Roam’?” my father asked.
All the while, four-year-old Matthew was bouncing on the couch, furtively strumming the guitar he wasn’t supposed to touch and talking incessantly.
My father and I were once at great odds. We went through all the classic resentful and rebellious teen stuff: shouting matches, my weird friends, clothes and beliefs. I still vividly recall the revelation that finally came to me one day that I was not my father, and that I could stop trying to prove I wasn’t.
When I was a boy, my father wasn’t around much. He worked seven days a week as a milkman. But even at work he was the task-master in absentia. Infractions were added up, and at night he dispensed punishment, though rarely beyond a threatening voice or a scolding finger.
I believed that manhood required that I stand up to him, even if it meant fists. One day some friends and I buried our high school’s parking-lot barriers under the woodpile for the annual home-coming bonfire.
We hated the things because they kept us from leaving school in our cars until after the buses had left. I thought the prank was pretty funny, and I mentioned it to my father. He didn’t think it was funny, and he ordered me to go with him to dig the barriers out.
Can you imagine anything more humiliating at age 16? I refused, and we stood toe to toe. Dad was in a rage, and I thought for an instant that the test had come.
But then he shook his head and calmly walked away. The next day my friends told me that they had seen him at the bonfire celebration. He’d climbed into the woodpile in front of hundreds of kids, pulled out the barriers and left. He never mentioned it to me. He still hasn’t.
Despite our father-son struggles, I never doubted my father’s love, which was our lifeline through some pretty rough times. There are plenty of warm memories – he and I on the couch watching TV together, walking a gravel road in Crete, Ill. , as dusk, riding home in a car, singing “Red River Valley.”
He had this way of smiling at me, this way of tossing a backhanded compliment, letting me know he was prod of me and my achievements. He was a rugged teaser, and it was during his teasing that I always sensed his great, unspoken love. When I was older, I would understand that this is how many men show affection without acknowledging vulnerability. And I imitated his way of saying “I love you” by telling him his nose was too big or his ties too ugly.
But I can’t recall a time my father hugged or hissed me or said he loved me. I remember snuggling next to him on Sunday mornings. I remember the strong, warm feeling of dozing off in his arms. But men, even little men, did not kiss or hug; they shook hands.
There were times much later when I would be going back to college, times when I wanted so badly to hug him. But the muscles wouldn’t move with the emotion. I hugged my mother. I shook hands with my father.
“It’s not what a man says, but what he does that counts,” he would say. Words and emotions were suspect. He went to work every day, he protected me, he taught me right from wrong, he made me tough in mind and spirit. It was our bond. It was our barrier.
I’ve tried not to repeat what I saw as my father’s mistake. Matthew and I cuddle and kiss good-bye. This is the new masculinity, and it’s as common today as the old masculinity of my father’s day. But, honestly, I don’t believe that in the end the new masculinity will prevent the growing-up conflicts between fathers and sons. All I hope is that Matthew and I build some repository of unconscious joy so that it will remain a lifeline between us through the rough times ahead.
It was only after having a boy of my own that I began to think a lot about the relationship between fathers and sons and to see – and to understand – my own father with remarkable clarity.
If there is a universal complaint from men about their fathers, it is that their dads lacked patience. I remember one rainy day when I was about six and my father was putting a new roof on his mother’s house, a dangerous job when it’s dry, much less wet. I wanted to help. He was impatient and said no. I made a scene and got the only spanking I can recall. He had chuckled at that memory many times over the years, but I never saw the humor.
Only now that I’ve struggled to find patience in myself when Matthew insists he help me paint the house or saw down dead trees in the back yard am I able to see that day through my father’s eyes. Who’d have guessed I’d be angry with my father for 30 years, until I relived similar experiences with my own son, who, I suppose, is angry now with me.
More surprisingly, contrary to my teen-age conviction that I wasn’t at all like my father, I have come to the greater realization. I am very much like him. We share the same sense of humor, same stubbornness, same voice even. Although I didn’t always see these similarities as desirable, I have grown into them, come to like them.
My father, for instance, has this way of answering the phone. “Hellll – o,” he says, putting a heavy accent on the first syllable and snapping the “o” short. Call me today and you’ll hear “Hellll – o,” just like the old an. Every time I hear myself say it, I feel good.
This new empathy for my father has led me to a startling insight: if I am still resolving my feelings about my father, then when I was a boy my father was still resolving his feelings about his father.
He raised me as a result of and as a reaction to his own dad, which links my son not only to me and my father, but to my father’s father and, I suspect, any number of Harrington fathers before. I imagine that if the phone had rung as the first Harrington stepped of the boat, he’d have answered by saying, “Hellll –o”.
For reasons to profound and too petty to tell, there was a time years ago when my father and I didn’t speak or see each other. I finally gave up my stubbornness and visited unexpectedly. For two days we talked, of everything and nothing. Neither mentioned that we hadn’t seen each other in five years.
I left as depressed as I’ve ever been, knowing that reconciliation was impossible. Two days later I got the only letter my father ever sent me. I’m the writer, he’s the milkman. But the letter’s tone and cadence, its emotion and simplicity might have been my own.
“I know that if I had it to do over again,” he wrote, “I would somehow find more time to spend with you. It seems we never realize this until it’s too late.”
It turned out that as he had watched me walk out the door after our visit – at the instant I was thinking we were hopelessly lost to each other – he was telling himself to stop me, to sit down and talk, that if we didn’t he might never see me again. “But I just let you go,” he wrote.
I realized that his muscles just hadn’t been able to move with the emotion, which is all I ever really needed to know.
Not long ago, Matthew asked me, “sons can grow up to be their daddies, right?” This was no small struggling for insight, and I was careful in my response. “No,” I said, “sons can grow up to be like their daddies in some ways, but they can’t be their daddies. They must be themselves.” Matthew would hear nothing of these subtleties.
“Sons can grow up to be their daddies!” he said defiantly. “They can.” I didn’t argue. It made me feel good.
All morning I am anxious. Matthew and I are about to leave Arizona for home, and I am determined to do something I have never done.
There is a time in every son’s life when he resents the echoes reminding him that, for all his vaunted individuality, he is his father’s son. But thee should also come a time – as it had for me – when these echoes call out only the understanding that the generations have melded and blurred without threat.
So just before my son and I walk through the gate and onto our plane, I lean over, hug my father and say, “I want you to know that I love you. That I always have.”
父亲、儿子和我
（好）沃我特•哈林顿
父亲仍是我孩提记得的样子容貌：神色乌里透红，眼光炯炯有神。一头浓发更使他仪表堂堂。不外，他目前比曩昔平和耐烦多了。当初可不。也不知道是谁起了变更，是他照旧我？
我和儿子马建乘飞机往亚利桑那探访父亲，六十七岁的父亲调好凶他给孙枪弹奏。晓得“哦，我想有个个家，家牛在它四周散步”这尾歌吗？
那当儿，四岁的马修一向在沙发上蹦跳，偷偷治拨他不应碰的吉他，口里还絮絮不休个没完。
我和父亲曾心心相印，一触即发。那是发展期间的儿子与父亲常有的“敌对“。我们咋咋呼吸的竞赛、我们的穿着、我的信奉，以及我处的朋侪，都为父亲所不屑。而今我还明白地记得，孩提时，有一天我忽然意识到，我和父亲纷歧样，我也不用证实我们纷歧样。
孩提时父亲常不在家。他是个收奶工，每周事情七天。即使外出，他也是个缺席监工。我们在家犯的过错被逐一记取，早晨回家他再找我们清算计帐，但却很少遭叱骂或恫吓。
那时，我以为，做为男人汉，我得英勇地面临他，哪怕是吃拳头。有一次，我和多少个友人把黉舍泊车场的栅栏埋在柴堆里，筹备用去烧一年一度的篝水，庆贺放假。
我们恨这些栅栏，由于它挡着我们，只要等大众汽车走完以后，我们才干乘自己的车离校。我认为这开玩笑很好玩，就跟父亲提了此事。可他一点也不感到好玩，命我即时跟他一块去把栅栏扒出来。
你能设想，对十六岁的我，其时另有比这更争脸的吗？我固然不干，我们唇枪舌剑。父亲气极了，那一刻，我认识到考验的时辰到了。
可他却摇点头安静地走了。第二天伴侣告知我篝火庆贺会上看睹我的父亲了。他当着几百个孩子的里爬上柴堆，扒出埋在里面的栅栏后走了。他素来出跟我说起此事，至古不提过。
虽然我们�格难入，但我从不猜忌父亲很爱我，这就是衔接我们的纽带。当然也有很多温馨的影象----我们一起坐在沙发上看电视；一块在伊利诺洲克里特的碎石小讲上漫步；落日中一路唱着《白河谷》驱车回家。
父亲从不正面赞赏我；还经常对我冷言冷语，却从中流露着对我的骄傲和对我的胜利的喜悦。父亲粗暴、朴素。爱嘲谑人，可我从这把玩簸弄中感触到深沉的父爱。长大了些当前，我入手下手清楚这是男报酬防止懦弱而表白爱的方法。我也学着他的样，想说“我爱你“时，却说他的鼻子太大或发带太丢脸。
父亲仿佛从不搂抱我、亲吻我。可礼拜天凌晨挤进他的被窝，偎在他怀里睡着时的暖和觉得，我至尽历历在目。可是汉子，即使是小汉子也不搂搂抱抱。男人握手！
上年夜教时每次有家返校时，我特殊念拥抱父亲，但仍是克制住了。我拥抱母亲，而只取父亲握脚！
父亲常说，“男人主要的不在说而在做。“说话战情绪靠不住。他天天上班，他护着我，他教我分辨实真，他培育我动摇的信心，刚强我的性情。那即是咱们的契约，我们的樊篱。
有了儿子当前我尽力防止父亲的毛病，对马修很密切。这是须眉气势的簇新表示方法。现在亲擅的面孔已代替了父亲阿谁时期严格的面孔。可是，父子间的亲善其实不能制止成持久儿子与父亲之间的抵触。我只盼望我和儿子马修的密切与快活有助于我们在此后的艰苦岁月中尽力协同，共度易闭。
我是在有了儿子今后才开端思虑父子间的关联，起头深入理解了自己的父亲。
一切男人城市埋怨本身的父亲缺少耐烦。记得六岁时，一个阳雨天，父亲在给祖母盖屋顶。这活儿好天皆有危险，况且雨天？我想帮手，他却极不耐心地把我推到一边，我不干，成果屁股挨了一顿2。几年从前了，每想到此事他便暗笑，可我一面不觉有甚么可笑。
现在每当马修吵着要帮我刷墙，帮我锯后院的枯树，我拼命忍住性质时，才明确父亲当年眼睛吐露的含意。可我为此跟父亲呕了三十年气呢！有了相似阅历今后我才理解了父亲的苦心。现在，儿子兴许正由于此而死我的气呢。
十几岁时我以为自己和父亲判然不同，此刻才收现自己很像父亲：一样的风趣，一样的执拗，乃至一样的声音。我其实不认为这种类似后和满意，可我天生如斯。
比喻说父亲接德律风时老是口音很夸大第一个音节，吞失落了第两个音节。给我打电话，你会发明我也跟老爸一样，“哈……罗！”，对本人的心音借感到杰出。
与父亲的如斯设想使我受惊天意想到：假如我当初正在解析本身对父亲的豪情，那末昔时我仍是孩子时，父亲也必定在解析他对本人父亲的情感。
父亲像他父亲养育他那样地哺育了我，这不但接洽了儿子、我和父亲，并且联络了我父亲的父亲甚至全部哈利顿家属。我猜，第一名哈利顿下船登岸时，那时如有电话的话，他接电话时必然也是“哈……罗！”
几年前由于某些奥妙的起因，我和父亲一度不来往了。终极我战胜了自己的执拗，出人意料来访问父亲。我们谈了整整两天，好像什么都道了，又好像什么都没谈。谁都没谈我们五年都没会晤的事。
分开父亲时我很懊丧，我想，和洽如初是不行能的了。两天后我支到父亲给我写的独一一启信。我是作家，他是送奶工。但他写信的基调、节拍、感情与简练与我“一模一样”。
“如果生涯重来一次，我会博得更多的你留在我身旁的时光。我们老是在工作每法挽回时才看浑本相。”他疑上说。
我要脱离父亲时----那一刻我感觉我们父子间的沉默已经是变本加厉----父亲心里不断嘀咕，留住他，让他坐下来再谈谈，不然他可能不会再来看我了。“可我照样让你走了。”父亲写道。
我发明父亲情感不善行表，我早该晓得的。
未几前马修问我：“儿子长大后跟爸爸一样，是吗？”儿子试图在洞察糊口。我警惕谨严地答复：“不，儿子长大后能够某些圆面象爸爸，但他们不成能跟爸爸截然不同。他们应当是他们自己。”马修必然没听出来此中的奥妙。
“儿子长大后就跟爸爸一样！就可以跟爸爸一样”。他辩论说。我没辩驳。他的刚强令我盗喜。
我和马修预备分开亚利桑那回家了。整整一个凌晨我古道热肠里心神不宁不克不及镇静。我决议做一件从已做过的事件。
儿子们生长中总有如许一段时代，只管他存在可吹捧的本性，但他的模拟照旧让他记起他只是父亲的儿子。这类仿照促使他们懂得了不靠要挟，两代人完整能够了解、相同。
带女子登机之前，我直下身子，搂着女亲道：“爸爸，我爱你，我始终很爱您。”
(何旭日，中国迷信技巧大学中语系）Walt Harrington