我父亲 2012年第4期.docVIP

我父亲 2012年第4期 　　 My Dad 　　 　　The first memory I have of him―of anything, really―is his strength. It was in the late afternoon in a house under construction near ours. The unfinished wood floor had large, terrifying holes whose darkness I knew led to nowhere good. His powerful hands, then age 33, wrapped all the way around my tiny arms, then age 4, and easily swung me up to his shoulders to command all I surveyed. 　　The relationship between a son and his father changes over time. It may grow and flourish in mutual maturity.1 It may sour in dependence or independence.2 With many children living in single-parent homes today, it may not even exist. 　　But to a little boy right after World War II, a father seemed a god with strange strengths and uncanny powers enabling him to do and know things that no mortal could do or know.3 Amazing things, like putting a bicycle chain back on, just like that. Or building a hamster cage, or guiding a jigsaw so it forms the letter F.4 　　There were, of course, rules to learn. First came the handshake. None of those fishy little finger grips, but a good firm squeeze accompanied by an equally strong gaze into the other’s eyes.5 “The first thing anyone knows about you is your handshake,” he would say. And we’d practice it each night on his return from work, the serious toddler6 running up to the giant father to shake hands again and again until it was firm enough. 　　As time passed, there were other rules to learn. “Always do your best.”“Do it now.” “Never lie!” And most importantly, “You can do whatever you have to do.” By my teens, he wasn’t telling me what to do anymore, which was scary and heady at the same time.7 He provided perspective, not telling me what was around the great corner8 of life but letting me know there was a lot more than just today and the next, which I hadn’t thought of. 　　One day, I realize now, there was a change. I wasn’t trying to please him so much as I was trying to impress him. I never asked him to com