By Walt Harrington
本章内容导读
尽管我们父子之间常常格格不入，但我从未怀疑过父亲对我的爱，这便是连接我们之间的纽带，让我们一起度过了很多艰难的日子。
当然我们也拥有不少温馨的记忆：我们一同坐在沙发上看电视；黄昏时一块漫步于伊利诺洲克里特的碎石小道上；一起唱着《红河谷》，驱车回家。
My father still looks remarkably like I remember him when I was growing up：hair full，body trim，face tanned1，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 grand father 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 bouncing2 on the couch，furtively3 strumming4 the guitar he wasn't supposed to touch and talking incessantly5.
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 absentia6.Infractions were added up，and at night he dispensed7 punishment，though rarely beyond a threatening voice or a scolding finger.
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.at 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 proud 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 was 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.
'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 bond8.It was our barrier.
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 lack 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 spanking9 I could 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 I am 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 relived10 similar experiences with my own son，who，I suppose，is angry with me now.
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，and same voice even.Although I don't always see these similarities as desirable，I have grown into them，come to like them.
