父爱的英语文章3篇
父爱的英语文章1
All say that love is great and selfless, in fact, fatherly love is express volumes.
My father is a carpenter, a black and a white hair, a pair of one's eyes brimming with radiating vigour eyes, big nose is a lovely catfish mouth. This is my ordinary father.
My father is a real redneck, usually not much words, silent as a mountain. But the simple, honest, can not cover up the elegant temperament, he always pay attention to their words, in their own words and deeds to tell me the truth in life.
Once, my father took a wooden work, nor let the father on the door to do color pretty, red. My father came home for dinner, thinking of this, watch TV and thinking about it. I couldn't help, complained: " Dad, you still think which! You play nice, people do not give you money, play is not pretty, and they will not give you the money, but also so much, why old miss! "
Father says: " no no, play beautiful even though he does not give me money, but I the performance obtained his approval, he will be looking for me to do the work, not to give me that money is a matter? " Father smiled, " if I don't do well, don't just give me your name was bad? Even if he can't find me working, we are a friend, I do not lose. "
From the mouth to spit out the catfish such beautiful words! Looked at his father's smiling eyes, my long time of taste of the beautiful words.
The lush mountain never abandon every blade of grass, a towering mountain never give up a stone. My father is a mountain, he bit by bit and caress me grow up healthy, in my eyes, this mountain, more and more high. Father's love!
父爱的英语文章2
After Mom died,I began visiting Dad every morning before I went to work.He was frail and moved slowly,but he always had a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the kitchen table for me,along with an unsigned note reading,“Drink your juice.”Such a gesture,I knew,was as far as Dad had ever been able to go in expressing his love.In fact,I remember,as a kid I had questioned Mom“Why doesn't Dad love me!”Mom frowned.“Who said he doesn't love you!”“Well,he never tells me,”I complained.“He never tells me either,”she said,smiling.“But look how hard he works to take care of us,to buy us food and clothes,and to pay for this house.That's how your father tells us he loves us.”Then Mom held me by the shoulders and asked,“Do you understand!”
I nodded slowly.I understood in my head,but not in my heart.I still wanted my father to put his arms around me and tell me he loved me.Dad owned and operated a small scrap.metall business,and after school I often hung around while he worked.I always hoped he'd ask me to help and then praise me for what I did.He never asked.His tasks were too dangerous for a young boy to attempt,and Mom was already worried enough that he'd hurt himself.Dad hand fed scrap steel into a device that chopped it as cleanly as a butcher chops a rack of ribs.The machine looked like a giant pair of scissors,with blades thicker than my father's body.If he didn't feed those terrifying blades just right,he risked serious injury.
“Why don't you hire someone to do that for you!”Mom asked Dad one night as she bent over him and rubbed his aching shoulders with a strong smelling liniment.“Why don't you hire a cook!”Dad asked,giving her one of his rare smiles.Mom straig htened and put her hands on her hips.“What's the matter,Ike!Don't you like my cooking!”“Sure I like your cooking But if I could afford a helper,then you could afford a cook”Dad laughed,and for the first time I realized that my father had a sense of humor.The chopping machine wasn't the only hazard in his business.He had an acetylene torch for cutting thick steel plates and beams.To my ears the torch hissed louder than a steam locomotive,and when he used it to cut through steel,it blew off thousands of tiny pieces of molten metal that swarmed around him like angry fireflies.
Many years later,during my first daily visit,after drinking the juice my father had squeezed for me,I walked over,hugged him and said,“I love you,Dad.”From then on I did this every morning.My father never told me how he felt about my hugs,and there was never any expression on his face when I gave them.Then one morning,pressed for time,I drank my juice and made for the door.
Dad stepped in front of me and asked,“Well!”“Well what!”I asked,knowing exactly what.“Well!”he repeated,crossing his arms and looking everywhere but at me.I hugged him extra hard.Now was the right time to say what I'd always wanted to.“I'm fifty years old,Dad,and you've never told me you love me.”My father stepped away from me.He picked up the empty juice glass,washed it and put it away.“You've told other people you love me.”I said,“but I've never heard it from you.”Dad looked uncomfortable.Very uncomfortable.I moved closer to him.“Dad,I want you to tell me you love me.”Dad took a step back,his lips pressed together.He seemed about to speak,then shook his head.“Tell me”I shouted. “All right I love you”Dad finally blurted,his hands fluttering like wounded birds.And in that instant something occurred that I had never seen happen in my life.His eyes glistened,then overflowed.
I stood before him,stunned and silent.Finally,after all these years,my heart joined my head in understanding.My father loved me so much that just saying so made him weep,which was something he never,ever wanted to do,least of all in front of family.Mom had been right.Every day of my life Dad had told me how much he loved me by what he did and what he gave.“I know,Dad,”I said.“I know.”And now at last I did.
父爱的英语文章3
My father was a self-taught mandolin player. He was one of the best string instrument players in our town. He could not read music, but if he heard a tune a few times, he could play it. When he was younger, he was a member of a small country music band. They would play at local dances and on a few occasions would play for the local radio station. He often told us how he had auditioned and earned a position in a band that featured Patsy Cline as their lead singer. He told the family that after he was hired he never went back. Dad was a very religious man. He stated that there was a lot of drinking and cursing the day of his audition and he did not want to be around that type of environment.
Occasionally, Dad would get out his mandolin and play for the family. We three children: Trisha, Monte and I, George Jr., would often sing along. Songs such as the Tennessee Waltz, Harbor Lights and around Christmas time, the well-known rendition of Silver Bells. "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, its Christmas time in the city" would ring throughout the house. One of Dad's favorite hymns was "The Old Rugged Cross". We learned the words to the hymn when we were very young, and would sing it with Dad when he would play and sing. Another song that was often shared in our house was a song that accompanied the Walt Disney series: Davey Crockett. Dad only had to hear the song twice before he learned it well enough to play it. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier" was a favorite song for the family. He knew we enjoyed the song and the program and would often get out the mandolin after the program was over. I could never get over how he could play the songs so well after only hearing them a few times. I loved to sing, but I never learned how to play the mandolin. This is something I regret to this day.
Dad loved to play the mandolin for his family he knew we enjoyed singing, and hearing him play. He was like that. If he could give pleasure to others, he would, especially his family. He was always there, sacrificing his time and efforts to see that his family had enough in their life. I had to mature into a man and have children of my own before I realized how much he had sacrificed.
I joined the United States Air Force in January of 1962. Whenever I would come home on leave, I would ask Dad to play the mandolin. Nobody played the mandolin like my father. He could touch your soul with the tones that came out of that old mandolin. He seemed to shine when he was playing. You could see his pride in his ability to play so well for his family.
When Dad was younger, he worked for his father on the farm. His father was a farmer and sharecropped a farm for the man who owned the property. In 1950, our family moved from the farm. Dad had gained employment at the local limestone quarry. When the quarry closed in August of 1957, he had to seek other employment. He worked for Owens Yacht Company in Dundalk, Maryland and for Todd Steel in Point of Rocks, Maryland. While working at Todd Steel, he was involved in an accident. His job was to roll angle iron onto a conveyor so that the welders farther up the production line would have it to complete their job. On this particular day Dad got the third index finger of his left hand mashed between two pieces of steel. The doctor who operated on the finger could not save it, and Dad ended up having the tip of the finger amputated. He didn't lose enough of the finger where it would stop him picking up anything, but it did impact his ability to play the mandolin.
After the accident, Dad was reluctant to play the mandolin. He felt that he could not play as well as he had before the accident. When I came home on leave and asked him to play he would make excuses for why he couldn't play. Eventually, we would wear him down and he would say "Okay, but remember, I can't hold down on the strings the way I used to" or "Since the accident to this finger I can't play as good". For the family it didn't make any difference that Dad couldn't play as well. We were just glad that he would play. When he played the old mandolin it would carry us back to a cheerful, happier time in our lives. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier", would again be heard in the little town of Bakerton, West Virginia.
In August of 1993 my father was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He chose not to receive chemotherapy treatments so that he could live out the rest of his life in dignity. About a week before his death, we asked Dad if he would play the mandolin for us. He made excuses but said "okay". He knew it would probably be the last time he would play for us. He tuned up the old mandolin and played a few notes. When I looked around, there was not a dry eye in the family. We saw before us a quiet humble man with an inner strength that comes from knowing God, and living with him in one's life. Dad would never play the mandolin for us again. We felt at the time that he wouldn't have enough strength to play, and that makes the memory of that day even stronger. Dad was doing something he had done all his life, giving. As sick as he was, he was still pleasing others. Dad sure could play that Mandolin!
