Text 1

Fathers & Sons: the Bonding Process

by Bill Hanson

    Over the years, Bill Hanson has taken pictures of fathers and sons. Not until his father's death did he begin to appreciate that his father was his whole world. "The bond between fathers and sons", says Hanson, "can be celebrated, cursed, strained, ridiculed, and honored. However, it can not be broken." The following is a moving story told by Hanson about the father-son relationship.

    As far as I am concerned, my father was the finest man who ever lived. William Andrew Hanson II was my hero － John Wayne, Audie Murphy, and Joe DiMaggio all rolled into one. He was equal parts friends, mentor, and confidant. We spoke without words and loved without barriers.

    He grew up without a father, who died when Dad was only 10 years old. Life must have been lonely for a boy losing his father at such a young age, but Dad never wallowed in self-pity. He was independent and strong, a stubborn individualist. I don't know who taught him how to be a father, but he learned the lessons well.

    It wasn't easy for my parents to raise three boys. As I grew older, it was obvious that money wasn't plentiful, but Dad never lost his enthusiasm for living. Even our simplest conversations were painted with smiles. "Dad," I would say, about to ask to borrow his hammer or pose some mundane question, and he would look up from his work and say in his unique way, "Yessiree, Bob-tailed, Buffalo Bill, Leroy Hanson the Third."

    He had a real way with words and instilled in me an appreciation and knowledge for language. If you asked him the meaning of a word, he could tell you the complete etymology of it. Sometimes, lessons came when I least expected them. In high school, I brought a date home to meet my father. Trying to impress her, or just being a teenager, I was sneering and being insulting to just about everyone in the room. Dad finally said, "Bill, I want you to go over to my dictionary and tell me what the word ‘sarcasm’ means." He said it in such a commanding tone, I didn't resist. I flipped open the page and found the literal meaning － to rip flesh. In one single moment, he taught me the power of words. I haven't forgotten it.

    The day he died was the hardest day of my life. My world had hinged on him. No person had loved me the way he did － unconditionally. I began to appreciate how lonely he must have been when his own father died. Without Dad, I thought the hope in me had died as well. Our friendship spoke to my soul, and now the conversation was over.

    Becoming a father myself wasn't high on my list of things to do. I had a sense that someday it would happen, but not in the immediate future. Dirty diapers and responsibilities were not my idea of a good time. Almost a decade after my father died, an infant changed my mind. His name is Miles Christopher Hanson.

    When I think about my life today, I see it as before child and after child. Being a father means there are new challenges for me. I must be prepared to meet obstacles I never knew existed and keep one step ahead of my growing boy's needs.

    There was no school degree to prepare me for fatherhood. I went to the bookstores and scoured the shelves for something that would give me a recipe for being a good father. I found nothing. Here I was, endeavoring to take on the biggest commitment of my life, and I had no lines, no textbook, no videos to tell me what to do. It was a job with no description. People would say to me, "Just love him." Loving was the easy part. Being a father was not.

    I was terrified the first time I held this small, pink, wrinkled bundle in my arms, the first time I gave him a bath, the first time we were alone together. All I could do was remember my own childhood and realize that my father had been my world. It was the best advice I found. Slowly, I began to realize that I had been Miles' world. I just started taking my cues from him and we did okay together. In fact, now we are inseparable.

    If I am mowing the lawn, Miles mows the lawn. If I am reading the paper, Miles reads the paper. If I am thirsty, so is Miles. He is imitating my steps as I once copied my own father's. Here is the cycle of life. We learn from our fathers so we can teach our children.

    Miles taught me that the hope my father had in abundance did not die with him. When I look at Miles, I know what my father saw in me － hope for a better future. I wish there were a way to share with my father his precious grandson. Fate didn't see it that way. My mother married again, and now both Miles and I benefit from a caring stepfather. We have developed a father and son bond based on love, mutual admiration, and respect. My stepfather has been there for me as father, friend, and counselor. He also had taught me that fathers and sons don't necessarily have to share flesh and bones. A father is someone who is willing to claim a son as his own and take the responsibility of that relationship. I am fortunate to have his influence in my life.

    Being a father (parent) is － let's face it － a pretty thankless job. In today's media, the only fathers we see are the "deadbeat" dads. Where are the millions of men who toil day after day, sacrificing their own needs in order to fulfill the needs of their family? Those men are out there, but there are no rewards. Think about it, when the cameras pan the sidelines at a sporting event, do you hear "Hi, Dad?" No － moms get all the credit.

    Over the years, I have taken pictures to salute the men who are raising the next generation of fathers. They are redefining what it is to be a father. I consider the relationship between mother and child equally significant. In fact, Miles has a great relationship with his mother, as I do with mine. Nevertheless, the photos are designed to encompass the relationship between father and son. As fathers, old expectations were to protect, discipline, and provide for their offspring. Today, society expects and needs men to be more involved. The question is how.

    Each father and son team I have portrayed has found common ground in their relationship. Some fathers are in the wonderment phase － seeing the world through the eyes of their growing sons. Others are watching their sons cope with the demons of today. One or two fathers are discovering their sons. Some sons are fatherless, and some fathers are sonless. There are fathers who have watched their sons combat a fatal disease, others who have watched their sons grow into successful businessmen. Some of the fathers have been primary caregivers to their sons, while others have felt the pain of seeing their offspring grow up in a distant city because of divorce. One of the fathers talks of sharing the moment of winning a world championship title with his son, and another writes of reading Goose Bumps to his sons each evening. Fathers talk about newborns entering the world and about coaching Little League, of sons marrying and having their own sons, and of the passing of tradition. Each has taught by example and each has loved unconditionally.

    I hope that, through my photos, you will see men who are doing their best for their sons. You'll also see sons who are making their fathers proud － not because they are presidents, star athletes, millionaires, or celebrities, but because, at one point in history, a man had a son, and that son had a father who became his whole world. They learned from each other, laughed with each other, argued with each other, and loved. The bond between fathers and sons is unbreakable. It can be celebrated, cursed, strained, ridiculed, and honored. However, it can not be broken.

    (1 330 words) TOP

课文一

父与子：亲情纽带

比尔•汉森

    过去数年间，比尔•汉森拍 摄了许多父子合影。直到他的父亲去世，他才意识到父亲是他生活的全部。“父子间的亲情纽带，”汉森说，“可以歌颂，诅咒，变得紧张，受到嘲笑，得到敬重。但 纽带不会断。”下面是汉森讲述的一个父子情深的感人故事。

    对我而言，我的父亲是世界上最好的人。威廉•安德鲁•汉森二世是我崇拜的英雄——他集约翰•韦恩，奥迪•墨菲和乔•迪玛吉奥于一身。他是我的朋友，我的良师，我的知已。我们的交流无需言语，我们的爱没有阻碍。

    父亲10岁那年，爷爷就过世了，他在没有父亲的关爱下长大。对一个年幼丧父的孩子来讲，他的生活一定是孤单寂寞的，但父亲从不沉湎于自怜。他是个自立、坚强而又固执的人。我不知道是谁教会他做父亲的，但他做得很棒。

    父母养育我们3个孩子不容易。随着我的年龄增长，家里的钱显然不够用了。但父亲从未对生活失去热情，就连我们最简单的对话都带着笑意。要向他借锤子或者提一些傻问题的时候，我会说：“爸爸，”他就停下手中的活，抬起头，用他那独特的方式说：“是，先生，短尾巴水牛比尔，勒罗伊•汉森三世。”

    他非常有语言天赋，并逐步教我欣赏和了解语言。你要是问他一个词的意思，他把这个词的词源全告诉你。有时，他会冷不丁地给我教诲。高中时，我把女朋友带回家见父亲。可能想给她留下一个好印象，也可能是年少无知的缘故，我嘲笑了房间里的每个人，那样子够侮辱人的。最后，爸爸说:“比尔，我要你去查一下我的字典，告诉我‘sarcasm’是什么意思。”他说话时，带着一种命令的口气，我没有反抗，很快翻到那一页，找到这个词的原义——撕肉。顷刻间，他教会了我语言的力量，至今我仍未忘记。

    父亲走的那天是我一生中最痛苦的日子。我的世界一直依赖他，没有一个人象他那样爱我——无条件地爱。我开始懂得他的父亲去世后，他是多么孤独。没有了爸爸，希望也随之而去。我们的友谊和我的心灵说话，现在这种对话结束了。

    成为一名父亲，并不是我近期计划要做的事情中最要紧的。我觉得，总有一天我会成为父亲，但却不是近期内。脏兮兮的尿布和种种责任，不是我所认为的快乐时光。父亲去世后差不多十年，一个婴儿的诞生改变了我的看法。他就是迈尔斯•克里斯托弗•汉森。

    当我今天回顾我的人生，我把它看成有孩子前和有孩子后两种。成为一名父亲意味着要面对许多新的挑战。我必须准备面对意料不到的种种困难。事先想到正在成长的孩子的各种需求。
　

    没有学校授予学位，好让我准备当父亲。我去书店，找遍所有书架，希望找到做个好父亲的良方，可是一无所获。现在，我正努力承担起我生活中最大的责任。没有相关的文章，没有书籍，也没有录像带教我怎么做。这是一件无章可循的工作。人们会告诉我：“就是爱他”。爱是那容易做到的部分。但成为父亲却不是。

    第一次抱起这个小小的，粉红的，满是皱纹的襁袍时，第一次给他洗澡时，第一次我们俩独处时，我真吓坏了。我能做的就是记起自己的童年，意识到父亲曾是我的世界。这是我找到的最好忠告。渐渐地，我开始意识到，我已是迈尔斯的世界。我开始从迈尔斯那里得到暗示，我们俩相处得不错。事实上，现在我俩 无法分开。

    如果我在除草，迈尔斯也会来除草。如果我在读报，迈尔斯也会拿起报纸。如果我渴了，他也要喝水。他模仿我走路的样子，宛如当初我学父亲走路的样子。这就是生命的轮回。我们向父辈学习，这样就能教我们的孩子。

    迈尔斯让我明白，我父亲的许多希望并没有随他而逝。我看着迈尔斯时，懂得了我父亲在我身上看到的东西——对美好未来的希望。我真希望有一种办法能让父亲和我一起分享他的宝贝孙子。但是命运不这么看。我的母亲再婚了，现在，迈尔斯和我都得到继父的关爱。我们彼此间在爱、钦慕和尊重的基础上建立起了深厚的父子情。继父对我来说，既是父亲，朋友，又是 顾问。他让我明白了，父子不一定要有血缘关系。父亲就是一位愿意声称儿子是他自己的，并愿意承担这种关系所包含的责任。我庆幸在自己的一生中受到了他的影响。

    做父亲（家长）是——让我们面对这个事实——一件毫无回报的工作。在今天的媒体中，我们仅看到那些“失业而穷困潦倒”的父亲。那些任劳任怨，为了家庭牺牲自我的成千上万的男人在哪儿？他们在尽职，但毫无回报。想一想，运动会上，当摄像机对着场外拍摄时，你可听到“嗨，爸爸？”不——妈妈得到了所有的赞扬。

    这么多年来，我已拍下了众多照片，以表示对那些培育下一代父亲的男子汉们的敬意。它们重新诠释了“父亲”这两个字的真正含义。我认为母子间的关系也同样重要。事实上，迈尔斯和他母亲的关系很好，与我和我母亲的关系一样。但是，这些照片是围绕着父子关系的主题设计的。以前，父亲的责任是保护、教育和抚养他们的后代；今天，社会期待男人们，也需要男人们有更多的参与。问题是如何参与。

    我拍摄的每一对父子都有共同点。有些父亲处在一个惊奇的阶段——通过他们成长中的儿子的眼睛看世界。其他父亲看着儿子与高手较量。也有一、两个父亲正在了解儿子。有些儿子没有父亲。有些父亲没有儿子。有些父亲看着儿子与致命的疾病作斗争。其他的父亲则看着儿子成为成功的商人。有些父亲一直对儿子百般呵护，而另外一些因为离婚 ，不能看到儿子在自己身边长大，非常痛苦。有位父亲谈起与儿子分享赢得世界冠军时的喜悦。另一位则写每晚读《巴姆鹅》给儿子听的事。父亲们在一块谈论孩子刚刚出生的情景，谈到指导“少年棒球联合会”，谈到儿子结婚，又有了他们自己的儿子，谈到了传统的消失。每一位父亲都言传身教。每一位父亲都无条件地爱着自己的儿子。

    我希望，通过我的这些照片，你能看到男人们正为了他们的儿子全力以赴。你也会看到儿子们正让他们的父亲骄傲 -- 并非因为他们是总统、体育明星、百万富翁、著名人士，而是因为在历史长河中的某一瞬，一个男人有了一个儿子，那个儿子有一个成为他全部世界的父亲。他们互相学习，一起欢笑，彼此争论，相互爱着。父子间的情感纽带不会断。它可以被歌颂，被诅咒，遭损害，受揶揄，可以得到敬重，但是，不会中断。

（1330个单词） 返回

Text 2 　

My Father's Music

by Wayne Kalyn

    I remember the day Dad first lugged the heavy accordion up our front stoop, taxing his small frame. He gathered my mother and me in the living room and opened the case as if it were a treasure chest. "Here it is," he said. "Once you learn to play, it'll stay with you for life."

    If my thin smile didn't match his full-fledged grin, it was because I had prayed for a guitar or a piano. For the next two weeks, the accordion was stored in the hall closet. Then one evening Dad announced that I would start lessons the following week. In disbelief I shot my eyes toward Mom for support. The firm set of her jaw told me I was out of luck.

    Spending $300 for an accordion and $5 per lesson was out of character for my father. He was practical always － something he learned growing up on a Pennsylvania farm. Clothes, heat and sometimes even food were scarce.

    Dad was a supervisor in a company that serviced jet engines. Weekends, he tinkered in the cellar, turning scraps of plywood into a utility cabinet or fixing a broken toy with spare parts. Quiet and shy, he was never more comfortable than when at his workbench.

    Only music carried Dad away from his world of tools and projects. On a Sunday drive, he turned the radio on immediately. At red lights, I'd notice his foot tapping in time. He seemed to hang on every note.
    Still, I wasn't prepared when, rummaging in a closet, I found a case that looked to me like a tiny guitar's. Opening it, I saw the polished glow of a beautiful violin. "It's your father's," Mom said. "His parents bought it for him. I guess he got too busy on the farm to ever learn to play it." I tried to imagine Dad's rough hands on this delicate instrument － and couldn't.
    Shortly after, my lessons began with Mr. Zelli. On my first day, with straps straining my shoulders, I felt clumsy in every way. "How did he do?" my father asked when it was over. "Fine for the first lesson," said Mr. Zelli. Dad glowed with hope.

    I was ordered to practice half an hour every day, and every day I tried to get out of it. My future seemed to be outside playing ball, not in the house mastering songs I would soon forget. But my parents hounded me to practice.

    Gradually, to my surprise, I was able to string notes together and coordinate my hands to play simple songs. Often, after supper, my father would request a tune or two. As he sat in his easy chair, I would fumble through "Lady of Spain" and "Beer Barrel Polka."

    "Very nice, better than last week," he'd say. Then I would follow into a medley of his favorites, "Red River Valley" and "Home on the Range," and he would drift off to sleep, the newspaper folded on his lap. I took it as a compliment that he could relax under the spell of my playing.

    One July evening I was giving an almost flawless rendition of "Come Back to Sorrento," and my parents called me to an open window. An elderly neighbor, rarely seen outside her house, was leaning against our car humming dreamily to the tune. When I finished, she smiled broadly and called out, "I remember that song as a child in Italy. Beautiful, just beautiful."

    Throughout the summer, Mr. Zelli's lessons grew more difficult. It took me a week and a half to master them now. All the while I could hear my buddies outside playing heated games of stickball. I'd also hear an occasional taunt; "Hey, where's your monkey and cup?"

    Such humiliation paled, though, beside the impending fall recital. I would have to play a solo on a local movie theater's stage. I wanted to skip the whole thing. Emotions boiled over in the car one Sunday afternoon.
    "I don't want to play a solo." I said.

    "You have to," replied my father.

    "Why?" I shouted. "Because you didn't get to play your violin when you were a kid? Why should I have to play this stupid instrument when you never had to play yours?"
    Dad pulled the car over and pointed at me.
    "Because you can bring people joy. You can touch their hearts. That's a gift I won't let you throw away." He added softly, "Someday you'll have the chance I never had: you'll play beautiful music for your family. And you'll understand why you've worked so hard."
    I was speechless. I had rarely heard Dad speak with such feeling about anything, much less the accordion. From then on, I practiced without my parents’ making me.

    The evening of the concert Mom wore glittery earrings and more makeup than I could remember. Dad got out of work early, put on a suit and tie, and slicked down his hair with Vitalis. They were ready an hour early, so we sat in the living room chatting nervously. I got the unspoken message that playing this one song was a dream come true for them.

    At the theater nervousness overtook me as I realized how much I wanted to make my parents proud. Finally, it was my turn. I walked to the lone chair on stage and performed "Are You Lonesome Tonight?" without a mistake. The applause spilled out, with a few hands still clapping after others had stopped. I was lightheaded, glad my ordeal was over.

    After the concert Mom and Dad came backstage. The way they walked － heads high, faces flushed － I knew they were pleased. My mother gave me a big hug. Dad slipped an arm around me and held me close. "You were just great," he said. Then he shook my hand and was slow to let it go.

    As the years went by, the accordion drifted to the background of my life. Dad asked me to play at family occasions, but the lessons stopped. When I went to college, the accordion stayed behind in the hall closet next to my father's violin.

    A year after my graduation, my parents moved to a house in a nearby town. Dad, at 51, finally owned his own home. On moving day, I didn't have the heart to tell him that he could dispose of the accordion, so I brought it to my own home and put it in the attic.

    There it remained, a dusty memory, until one afternoon several years later when my two children discovered it by accident. Scott thought it was a secret treasure; Holly thought a ghost lived inside. They were both right.

    When I opened the case, they laughed and said, "Play it, play it." Reluctantly, I strapped on the accordion and played some simple songs. I was surprised my skills hadn't rusted away. Soon the kids were dancing in circles and giggling. Even my wife, Terri, was laughing and clapping to the beat. I was amazed at their unbridled glee.

    My father's words came back to me: "Someday you'll have the chance I never had, Then you'll understand."

    I finally knew what it meant to work hard and sacrifice for others. Dad had been right all along: the most precious gift is to touch the hearts of those you love.

    Later I phoned Dad to let him know that, at long last, I understood. Fumbling for the right words, I thanked him for the legacy it took almost 30 years to discover. "You're welcome," he said, his voice choked with emotion.

    Dad never learned to coax sweet sounds from his violin. Yet he was wrong to think he would never play for his family. On that wonderful evening, as my wife and children laughed and danced, they heard my accordion. But it was my father's music.

    (1 315 words) TOP

课文二　

父亲的音乐

韦恩•凯林

    记得有一天，身材瘦小的父亲背着一架沉重的手风琴，费力地走到前门廊。他把妈妈和我叫进厅里，打开了那只盒子，好象那是一个百宝箱似的。“就这个，”他说，“你一旦学会，它将伴随你一生。”

    如果说我勉强的微笑与他发自内心的笑容不和谐的话，那是因为我一直想要一把吉他或一架钢琴。随后的两个星期，那架手风琴一直放在大厅的橱子里。一天晚上，爸爸宣布下周我开始上琴课。疑惑中，我把视线急忙投向妈妈求助。她紧绷的下巴告诉我：我倒运了。

    花300元买一架手风琴，每次上课再花5美元，这可不像父亲的作风。他一直是很实际的 -- 这是他在宾夕法尼亚农场成长过程中学来的。那时候，衣服、暖气，有时甚至连食物都短缺。

    爸爸是一家为喷气式飞机引擎提供服务的公司的主管。周末，他在地下室里修修补补，把胶合板的边角料做成一个实用的小柜子，或者用一些零件把坏了的玩具修好。他不喜张扬，不爱说话。最让他感到舒服的，莫过于在工作台旁边。

    只有音乐会让爸爸远离他的工具和计划的世界。一个星期天驾车外出，一上车他就打开了收音机。遇到红灯时，我注意到他的脚在打着拍子，似乎能跟得上每一个节拍。

    然而，我还是没有思想准备，那是我在橱子里翻找东西时，发现一只像是装小吉它的盒子。打开一看，是一把锃亮的、漂亮的小提琴。“那是你爸爸的，”妈妈说。“他父母给他买的。我想他在农场里太忙了，没有时间学。”我试图想象爸爸粗糙的双手放在这精致的乐器上的情景——无法想象。

    不久，泽利先生开始教我拉手风琴。第一天，手风琴背带压着我的肩膀，我感到浑身不自在。“他学得怎么样？”结束时，父亲问。“第一堂课，这已经很不错。”泽利先生说。爸爸眼中闪着希望的光芒。

    爸爸命令我每天练半个小时，可每天我都想赖掉。我的将来似乎应在户外打球，而不是在屋内练那些很快就会忘掉的曲子。然而父母不断地督促我练习。

    渐渐地，让我吃惊的是，我竟然能把几个音符连起来了。手指的协调性也好点了，还能拉出几首简单的曲子。晚饭后，父亲常常会要我拉上一两个曲子。他躺在安乐椅里，我则笨拙地拉完“西班牙女郎”和“啤酒桶波尔卡”。

    他会说，“不错，比上星期好，”然后我会接着拉他喜欢的曲子“红河谷”和“山上的家”。听着听着，他慢慢睡着了，报纸叠在腿上。我把这看作是一种赞扬：他能在我美妙的演奏中放松。

    七月的一个傍晚，我正在拉“重回索联托”，拉得几乎完美无缺。父母突然把我叫到窗前。一位极少出门、上了年纪的老邻居，正靠在我们的车旁，跟着曲子沉醉地哼唱着。当我拉完时，她咧开嘴笑了，大声说:"小时候在意大利我听到过这首歌曲，我还记得。太棒了，真是棒极了。”

    整个夏天，泽利先生的课越来越难。现在要一个半星期才能掌握。练琴时，我总是听到伙伴们在外面玩棍球的嬉闹声。偶尔还听到奚落：“嗨，你的猴子和奖杯哪里去了？”

    不过，这种羞辱与即将来临的秋季演奏会相比，算不得什么。我得在当地一家影剧院舞台上独奏一曲。我想逃避这一切。一个星期天的下午，不满的情绪终于在车上爆发了。

    “我不想独奏，”我说。
    “你必须去，”父亲说。

    “为什么？”我叫了起来。“就因为你小时候没能拉上小提琴？你从来不用拉琴，我为什么必须拉那笨重的玩意？”

    爸爸把车开到路边，手指着我。

    “因为你能给人们带来快乐。你能拨动他们的心弦。我不会让你放弃这份才能。”爸爸又心平气和地说：“有一天你会有我从未有过的机会：你能为你的全家弹奏美妙的音乐。那时你会明白，如此努力到底是为什么。”

    我不吱声了。我很少听到爸爸如此语重心长地跟我谈事情，更不用说是为了拉手风琴的事。从那以后，我练琴再也不用父母盯着。

    音乐会那天晚上，妈妈戴上了亮闪闪的耳环，精心打扮一番；爸爸也早早下班回家，穿上西装，系上领带，头上抹了瓦特里斯，油亮亮的。他们提前一个小时就准备好了，我们就坐在厅里，紧张地谈论着。我感觉到，上台演奏这首曲子是他们要实现的一个梦想。 

    在剧场里，当我意识到我是多么想让父母感到骄傲时，我极为紧张。最后，终于轮到我了。我走向舞台中央的那张椅子，演奏了一曲“今晚你孤独吗？”，一个音符也没拉错。顿时，掌声四起，难以停息。我 头有点晕晕的，庆幸我的苦难终于结束。

    音乐会后，爸妈来到后台。他们走路的样子，昂着头，精神焕发——我知道他们很开心。妈妈紧紧地抱住我。爸爸伸出一只手臂，牢牢地搂住我：“你太棒了。”说完，他使劲地握着我的手，不愿松开。

    随着岁月的流逝，那架手风琴渐渐退至我生活的幕后。只有在家庭聚会上，爸爸还会让我拉上一曲。但是风琴课不再上了。我上大学时，那架手风琴放进厅里的壁橱，在爸爸的小提琴旁边。

    大学毕业后一年，父母搬到附近城镇的一栋房子。爸爸在他51岁那年终于拥有了自己的家。搬家那天，我不忍心告诉他，说他可以处理那架手风琴，于是我把它带回自己家，放在阁楼上。

     手风琴一直放在那里，成了尘封的记忆。直到几年后的一个下午，我的两个孩子偶然发现了它。斯科特认为这是一件秘密宝藏。霍莉则认为里面住着一个幽灵。他俩都对。

    我打开盒子时，他们笑了，叫道“拉一曲，拉一曲。”我不情愿地背上琴带，拉了几只简单的曲子。真没想到，我拉起来还是那么娴熟。很快，孩子们围成圈跳起来，咯咯地笑个不停。甚至连我妻子特丽也笑了，打着拍子。看着他们纵情欢笑 ，我感到惊异。

   我的耳边回响起父亲说过的话：“有一天你会有我从未有过的机会，那时你会明白的。”
    我终于明白，去努力，去为别人作出牺牲意味着什么。爸爸始终是对的：最珍贵的礼物莫过于打动你所爱的人的心。

    后来，我给爸爸去电话，告诉他我终于懂了。我笨嘴拙舌地找寻合适的词语，为他给我的宝贵财富表示感谢，这财富我花了差不多30年才发现。“不用谢，”他激动得说不出话来。

    爸爸从未学过从他的小提琴上拉出美妙的声音。但是他以为自己永远不会为家人弹奏音乐，这种想法是错的。那个美妙的夜晚，我的妻子、孩子欢歌笑舞，他们听到的是我的手风琴，但，那却是我父亲的音乐。

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