父亲节英语美文

　　The Toaster

父亲节英语美文

　　Dads don’t need to be tall and broad-shouldered and handsome and clever. Love makes them so.

　　Pam Brown

　　When selecting gifts for others, a toaster probably tops the list of risky items. It’s fine for a cousin you barely remember or an inept bachelor who can’t master much more than bread and peanut butter; it’s definitely taboo for your wife on her birthday or your wedding anniversary. But the toaster my father bought for me was one of the most touching and memorable gifts I had ever received.

　　During my third year of university, I had gone home for the weekend to my parents’ farm where I had grown up. Most of the weekend had been spent catching up with my sisters, chatting with my mom and recounting stories about my classes, my roommates, my boyfriend of the moment. I had even brought home some photos of the cheap town house I had rented with two other students. My mom and sisters roared with laughter as they came upon a picture of me desperately fanning a smoke alarm with one hand and grasping a piece of black toast with the other (a temperamental secondhand toaster was an ongoing joke at our student house). My father, as usual, was on the fringe of this noisy female world.

　　On the last day of my weekend at home, I stood over the kitchen sink, my hands immersed in steaming, soapy water, and gazed out the window towards the shed where my father was working. He and his hired man were leaning over a manure spreader, examining axles and chains, tapping here and there with wrenches. As I watched the two of them, intent and purposeful, I recalled the times that I had joined my father in that shed, handing him tools, holding rusty fragments of farm equipment as requested, but mostly watching, as I was now, not really part of the picture. I was an outsider, a foreigner in this world of grease and dirt and steel. I wondered then what they talked about while they worked. The weather? The hockey game? Nothing at all? That secret male world of barnyard conversation seemed beyond my grasp. In truth, I imagined nothing more than essential grunts, orders, requests, curses, sighs of successes. It would be nothing like the endless chat sessions that my mother, my sisters and I enjoyed, sprawled across one of the farmhouse’s large beds.

　　On this particular day, during the last couple of hours before I would return to the city for school, I felt an overwhelming sense of loss as I watched my father in that world of his, which seemed so remote to me. I wondered if he preferred this seemingly voluntary isolation, or if he too longed to be part of a world that seemed equally remote and impossible for him to reach.

　　Having finished the lunch dishes, I went upstairs to do some final reading, pack my things and get ready for the hour-long drive back to university. I was to pick up my mother from work at two o’clock so that she could drive me back. I had heard my dad come in from the barn; I heard the shower and the electric razor and the noisy drawers of his dresser opening and closing. When he emerged from his room, I noticed his clean shirt and pants and wondered where he was heading for the afternoon. Thirty minutes later I descended the stairs, bags and books weighing me down as I headed for the car. Dad stood in the doorway to say good-bye as I hurriedly crammed my baggage into the back and got into the driver’s seat.

　　When I arrived at my mother’s workplace, she was surprised to see me alone in the car and asked where Dad was. She told me that he had been planning to come for the drive and finally see the house and the university where I had spent the past two and a half years. Immediately I realized why he had shaved and abandoned his usual pair of green coveralls. He had intended to come, but I made no signs of inviting him. I had no idea that he would have wanted to go with us. Shocked and ashamed, I hurried to a telephone booth to call home and tell Dad that we would be back in ten minutes to pick him up.

　　This time, Dad slid into the driver’s seat and I crawled into the back beside my pile of books and my suitcase. I couldn’t think of a word to say. The only thing on my mind was what I hadn’t said before. On our way back through my hometown, Dad pulled over on the main street and disappeared into the local hardware store. A few moments later, he got back into the car and handed me a small box containing a brand-new toaster.

　　“Sounds like your girls can use one of these,” was all he said.

　　I thanked him, though the words, I’m sure, were barely audible. With the toaster on my lap, clutched between my trembling hands, I stared at the back of my father’s head and his strong, straight shoulders. I thought of hugging him, even touching his arm and saying thanks again, but we had never been accustomed to physical gestures of that sort. So instead, I sat and stared at the shiny picture on the box. At the time, that toaster seemed to say enough for both of us.

　　Even now, on a calm quiet morning as I stare out of my own kitchen window and wait for the breakfast toast to pop out of my new silver toaster, I can still vividly recall that day, fifteen years ago. That day, when I had sat in the back seat of my parent’s car with another toaster on my lap, staring at my father’s head, tears running down my cheeks. Sometimes as parents and as children, we can’t always find a way to reach each other or find the right words to say. Sometimes there are no words to say, but a toaster still can warm my heart.

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