The Fire in My Fathers Hands Essay Example for Free

The Fire in My Fathers Hands Essay When I was a kid, about 5 to 8 years old, my hands would always get cold whenever the surrounding air is chilly. My dad would always tell me to rub them together, like you would in order to make fire. And so I did it. I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. My fingers grind against each other from the tips of my little fingers to the base of my palm, but none of this worked. My hands still are cold, stone cold. Then my dad said after watching me rub for a whole 3 minutes: You can stop rubbing your hands when they are warm again, as rubbing would make your skin raw. I replied: But theyre still cold. Then he told me to hold out my hand and he started rubbing warmth into my hands; his strong, rough hands massaging my palms, my fingers, then suddenly my hands are warm again. After a while, I wondered: will my hands ever become tough and strong like my fathers? Practice Till You Get Tired of It My Mom is my role model. I guess this is due to the fact that I used to scarcely see my Dad because he comes home really late; he still does, though not as late, while my Mother took care of me ever since she quit the job as the General Manager when I was in 2nd grade. She is the one who is there for me whenever I have a problem, like a robot on standby, but she is also a harsh whip with her discipline though she never hit me. My most notable memory of my Mom is when I sucked at math in 3rd grade. I dont know how to do a problem so naturally, I asked her. However, after she taught the same problem 4 times, I still didnt get it. I was afraid she would get mad, but she didnt and in the end when I finally got it, I asked her why she is so patient. She simply replied practice makes perfect, an old adage I hear very often to this day. The Playful Shadow Everyone in my family has different hair. My fathers, a hair like a bush or a vigilant meerkat or a comb. A comb with black and white bristles because my father is slowly aging. It stands tall and mighty nevertheless, and doesnt ever change no matter how many times you run your hand through the mass of black and white. Other times my father applies hair gel to his hair, though I dont see a point. After all, crew cuts dont have a lot of potential for shaping. In contrast though, my hair is like a playful shadow, flexible and could be shaped into anything. Its of medium length, though sometimes when I am too lazy or busy I dont pester my mother to take me to the hair salon in a nearby department store. Speaking of her, my mother has the smoothest hair in the family. Its silky and sleek almost all the time, and has a certain shine to it whenever light falls on her hair, like twinkling stars on a silent, dark night. Not The Usual It was around my mid-summer vacation. I went to my grandmothers in Taipei, but I stayed for a long time, about 2 weeks or so. I came back home eventually, but before the moment when I stepped through onto the white marble floor, I never realized the beautiful house that I considered as mundane was indeed quite nice. I immediately noticed the sunlight streaming through the tall windows that cover up a side of the spacious living room, as opposed to my grandmothers artificially lit house and the tiny space one is allowed to move in. You really have to pick your way carefully in order to not trip over something. Although this is mean for me to put it like this, especially since I have been accepting their hospitality for an extended period of time but after this time I learned to appreciate the place I live in. The next day, my mother started her usual sermons, Why dont you start doing your grammar workbook. Then I replied, But mother, its summer. Even if I finish it you wont give me any free time. Fine, you can have free time after you finish 5 pages in the workbook. Yes. I exclaimed. Then I thought to myself. Well, this is rare, mother is giving me free time. Home Ruler In German my name means home ruler. It means king. It is like the wind; strong, yet soothing. An energizing gust that one would welcome on a hot sunny day. It is like the symphonies that Beethoven conducted, vivid, strong symphonies. Henry was my fathers name and now I have it. Before that my fathers name is Eric, then he changed it to Chief during college years. But now he is Henry, and I am Henry Jr. On that lazy afternoon when he told me that he changed his name twice, I asked him why he wanted to be called Henry. He replied Because I like the sound of it. What?! You chose your name and my name only because you like the sound of it? Isnt there some kind of symbolism behind it like Chinese names do? I pressed. But he just simply said Nope. Personally though, I do not dislike my name. Its alright, though it could be confusing when people just say Henry when both Yu and I are present. Thats pretty much it, after all names arent good material for bullying anyways. All Alone On lazy days when Im bored, I daydream a lot. Just staring into space or look at the sky and the clouds or whatever that catches my intrest. I imagine various things, from the future, to the past. Sometimes I think of of the possibility of having a brother or sister since I am the only child in my house. I think of other people and their relationships with their siblings and sometimes I feel forlorn, because I never really had a person I can relate to at home. But other times when I see siblings fight I wonder if I would do the same. Chances are I would fight, be the peacemaker, or just let them go all over me. Perhaps I would try to maintain peace between me and my sibling. I suppose things get lively, crazy, and out of control sometimes when you have a sibling, but the more, the merrier right? Stop Judging! Shun is my old, old classmate, a classmate I had in 4th grade. He was a boy who had eyes that stare daggers and a posture or a physique that suggested he can fight well. I always took care to avoid him, for I am afraid of what he might do, especially since he got in a fight with my best friend, Kevin. The fight exploded suddenly with Kevin beaten down pretty badly. But in a strange twist of fate, I had to take the late bus with him, not to mention the small bus is very, very crowded. Time passed and passed, and eventually I had to go on the bus. It turns out that he isnt much of a bad person. I was apprehensive at first, but after a while I got the courage to ask him a few questions and we started talking. It was then I realized the true meaning of the saying dont judge a book by its cover. Party Pooper Rain, rain, go away. Go away so i can play I hate rainy days. The way it brings cool, humid air, and the way it forces me to stay indoors. The way it makes the skies dark, gloomy, and sometimes filled the air with static. It came when I went to Hualien the first time I went there. There wasnt much to do except to roam the department stores that was packed with refugees of the rain, just like my family and me. The rain prevented us from exploring Hualien Ocean Park, the amusement park I was so excited to go to, but the trip prematurely ended. We did stay in Hualien for an extra day though to compensate for the missing day, but that doesnt cover up the fact that the rain ruined half of my vacation. Just as it ruined the bicycling trip my dad and I planned to go on. And the trip to the Sun-Moon Lake. Oh, how I hate the rain. Different Things, Deep Meanings My mother tells me a lot of things. Family values, information, something about maintaing discipline, and many others. However, I find her small tales most intruguing. She once told me about a story about a kid and his mother. The story begins when the child was hit by his mother because he did something bad. Throughout his life, the child was always hit by his mother when he did something wrong. The strange thing is, the child never cried, not once when he was hit hard. He just held the tears in as the mother began her rentless attack, at least thats what I think she said, after all its been 3, 4 years. Anyway, the story goes on with the child finally reaches manhood, and the mother became an old lady, her hair streaked with dull gray, her hands and face wrinkly and her hands dont stop shaking. Then the child, now a man, did something to upset the mother again and of course the mother reaches to hit him as she did throughout her sons life. But this time when the blow landed, the son finally cried. Why? Because his mothers punch did not hurt, while in the past it hurt really bad. To this day, I still dont get the meaning of this little story. Work, Save, Relax I have a dream. A dream to be able to do anything i want. I feel tired studying for tests and doing homework all day. To go to school, back home like a an endless cycle which will likely change to go to company, return home when I get a job. Someday, Id like to travel to various countries, taste gorment food, and maybe even sip on wine. I want to see new things, experience them, and try them. Someday I will make this happen. When my dream turns to reality, this may be when my hair is all gone, streaked with whitish gray strands, and arms that are weakened by time, but I would be happy, happy that my dream is fulfilled. Being free of the bounds of duty, responsibility, and just be able to do anything I want is my lifetime goal. I have a dream. A dream to be able to do anything I want. I feel tired after studying and doing homework all day, and just doing work all day. Someday, Id like to just relax and enjoy, perhaps when I retire. I would travel to far-off coutries and taste gorment food.