MyFather， MySon， Myself
沃特·哈林顿 / WaltHarrington
MyfatherstilllooksremarkablylikeIrememberhimwhenIwasgrowingup： hairfull， bodytrim， facetanned， ’， andIwonderedwhichofushadchanged.
MysonMatthewandIhadflowntoArisonaforavisit， andhis67-year-oldgrandfatherwastuninguphisguitartoplayfortheboy.“Youknow ‘Oh， GiveMeaHomeWheretheBuffaloRoam’？” myfatherasked.
Allthewhile， four-year-oldMatthewwasbouncingonthecouch， furtivelystrummingtheguitarhewasn’tsupposedtotouchandtalkingincessantly.
WhenIwasaboy， myfatherwasn’， andatnighthedispensedpunishment， thoughrarelybeyondathreateningvoiceorascoldingfinger.
Despiteourfathersonstruggles， Ineverdoubtedmyfather’slove， —heandIonthecouchwatchingTVtogether， walkingagravelroadinCrete， Ill.， atdusk， ridinghomeinacar， singing “RedRiverValley”.
Hehadthiswayofsmilingatme， thiswayoftossingabackhandedcompliment， ， ， “Iloveyou” bytellinghimhisnosewastoobigorhistiestoougly.
“It’snotwhatamansays， butwhathedoesthatcounts.” ， heprotectedme， hetaughtmerightfromwrong， .
ItwasonlyafterhavingaboyofmyownthatIbegantothinkalotabouttherelationshipbetweenfathersandsonsandtosee—andtounderstand—myownfatherwithremarkableclarity.
Ifthereisauniversalcomplaintfrommenabouttheirfathers， ’shouse， adangerousjobwhenit’sdry， ， butIneversawthehumor.
OnlynowthatI’vestruggledtofindpatienceinmyselfwhenMatthewinsistshehelpmepaintthehouseorsawdowndeadtreesinthebackyardamIabletoseethatdaythrough， myfather’’dhaveguessedI’dbeangrywithmyfatherfor30years， untilIrelivedsimilarexperienceswithmyownson， who， Isuppose， isangrynowatme.
Moresurprisingly， contrarytomyteenageconvictionthatIwasn’tatalllikemyfather， ， samestubbornness， ’talwaysseethesesimilaritiesasdesirable， Ihavegrownintothem， cometolikethem.
