My Father, My Son, My Self

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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

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My Father, My Son, My Self