（我的父亲，永远合格的军人）

我13岁那年，有一天我父亲把我叫到饭厅的餐桌旁。我父亲是一个军人，他希望他的孩子也像一个军人那样服从命令。我被告知，从现在起，我将负责把他的靴子擦得锃光闪亮，就像所有军人的靴子一样。他有一个术语来形容这种光泽，他称之为“唾液抛光法”，他并且认为，这是最高级别的靴子抛光法。
我坐在父亲的身旁，他向我演示擦鞋的程序：如何打开一盒鞋油，然后在鞋油盖里放进一点水，用一只手握住靴子，用另一只手拿着白色的擦鞋布，用拿着擦鞋布的手指抠出一点鞋油，蘸上一点点水，再然后将黑色的鞋油在皮靴上旋转擦拭，我能闻到鞋油在皮革上摩擦的味道。毫无疑问，这是一桩苦差事。
很快就有了更多需要被擦亮的靴子，但显然我干得并不好，我记得父亲不止一次的斥责我，他说我太笨了，说我无法胜任这项任务。我满心以为父亲不会再让我擦鞋，但是我错了。第二天，父亲回到家里，他仍然在我的卧室门口留下了一双靴子。于是我一边诅咒一边屏住呼吸一边继续着我的擦鞋工作。这真的是令人恶心，有时靴子仍然散发着热气，我甚至能闻到他的脚臭味，当脚臭味混合着鞋油的味道，那简直让人窒息。我很想把靴子扔到门外，告诉他我不想再干了，但是我不得不三思而后行。
我父亲身高6.3英尺，体重230磅，人高马大。他参加过二战，韩战并两次被派往越南打仗，他是个军人，完全不可能有自己的意愿，于是他总是对自己的孩子们大吼大叫。当他在家的时候，我们总是想办法避开他。千万不要幻想我们会得到父亲的一个拥抱，那绝对是一个不切实际的想法，往往我们得到的是一记耳光或者一顿狠揍。

（我和我的两个弟弟）

有一次父亲执行任务归来，我的弟弟兴奋不已，晚饭的时候，他把自己的椅子搬到我父亲的椅子旁想表示亲热，结果他被我父亲猛扇了一巴掌，仅仅是因为他吃饭时咀嚼发出了声音。第二天晚餐的时候，我弟弟知趣的将他的椅子搬到我的椅子旁，坐在餐桌另一边，远离父亲。
这些总令我想起我们的电视中那些令人生厌的广告片：快乐的士兵从战场归来，偷偷溜到孩子的学校，装成一个棒球手，突然出现在孩子眼前，然后是惊喜的拥抱和喜悦的泪水。这些都不是我们所经历过的真实场景，我们面对的总是违背人性的现实，我们的母亲总是因为父亲的离去绝望和沮丧，这并不是什么有趣的事情。
另外，我的母亲在父亲离开的时候总会养狗，而我们也会非常喜欢那些狗。但是当父亲回家的时候，他会要求我母亲把狗送走。因为他不希望当他揍孩子的时候，那只狗会冲过去咬他。
我父亲的所作所为，再加上他的酗酒，使得他看上去是一个不合情理而且很坏的人。但现在回过头来看，他当时所做的一切，都可以用一个医学名词“战争创伤心理综合症”（PTSD）来解释，然而当时的人们并不知道有这样一种心理疾病。
还是再回到擦鞋的故事吧。我每天都擦鞋，一开始我干得不好，但日积月累，我擦鞋越来越得心应手了，我甚至还得到过几次“干得好！”的赞赏。与此同时，我也开始打理自己的鞋子。当然我的鞋不能与父亲锃亮闪光的军靴相提并论，那只是一个中学生所能拥有的舒适而实用的便宜的鞋，对于一个中学生而言，买一双新鞋，价格总是越便宜越好。两条长裤，两件有纽扣的衬衫，这就是我一年的所有行头，尽管我个子不停的长高。有时我的裤子被磨破了，我不得不自己动手将破洞缝补好。随着时间的流逝，我的父亲又开始自己擦鞋了。
直到现在我才开始明白我的父亲。我在美国超市工作了45年，我的工作环境有时是潮湿而又阴冷的库房，我们要求穿防潮耐磨的工作靴，尽管如此，我还是会将我的工作靴擦得锃亮。我每天晚上都擦鞋，我甚至非常享受鞋油和鞋刷在鞋子上摩擦的那种感觉，我喜欢被擦得闪亮的皮鞋散发出的新鲜鞋油的味道，我的同事们和我的客户都由衷的赞叹我闪亮的皮鞋。于我而言，即使是我的上司，他如果不能将自己的鞋子打理得一丝不苟，那他也得不到我的认同。我非常钦佩那些将自己的鞋子擦得闪闪发亮而且皮鞋形状也保持良好的人。
现在我逐渐的老去，有时我感觉虚弱，不再有气力把我的皮鞋擦得锃亮，我经常穿着拖鞋，而拖鞋是不需要擦得闪闪发亮的。于是我将我所有的好皮鞋都擦得光可鉴人，然后将这些皮鞋送给了我的孙子，我希望他能把这些皮鞋一直打理得很好，保持它们的良好状态。他小时候经常坐在我身边看我擦鞋，当我离开人世时，我希望他能以这样的方式记住我。

附：英文原文
When I was 13 my Father called me down to the dining room table. He was a Marine and he expected his kids to obey him like his troops. He announced that from now on I would be responsible for keeping his shoes shined the Marine Corps way. The common term was “ Spit Shined “ or polished to a high degree.
So I sat there beside him as he showed me how to open the lid on the polish and get a little water in the lid. Then how to hold the shoe with one hand in the shoe and a white rag in the other. Swirling a little polish on the rag with one finger and the dipping the little finger into the water to apply one drop and then circle the black polish into the leather. I could smell the polish and the shoes and it didn’t seem like a great honor to be awarded this chore.

I was given the other shoe to work on and I wasn’t very good at it. I remember that he was very forceful in letting me know I was too stupid to shine shoes. I figured that he wouldn’t follow through with shoe thing after that , but I was wrong. The next evening when he got home he left his shoes at my bed room door. So with curse words under my breath I went to work. I was so grossed out. The shoes were still warm. I could smell his feet. The foot smell and polish smell combo with the warm leather was really too much. I wanted to throw the shoes right back out the door. But I had to think twice about that.
My father was 6’ 3” about 230 lbs. He served in WW2, Korea and twice in Vietnam. He really didn’t have an inside voice. He yelled at us kids all the time. We generally scattered when he came home. Getting within arms reach was a fatal mistake. Guaranteed the unaware to be slapped, hit or spanked. My brother once was so happy that my Dad had returned from a deployment he scooted his chair right next to his at the dinner table only to rewarded with a smack across the face for smacking his lips while eating. The next night he sat beside me at the other end of the table.
That brings up one ofmy pet peeves, the commercials that show the happy soldier surprising his kid at school or disguised as a baseball catcher to the soon to be crying from happiness kid. That was not our Reality. We were faced with all the transgressions that drove our mother crazy while he was gone. It was not fun.
Plus my mom would get a big dog while he was gone and we would fall in love with them. But my father would make her get rid of the dog before he would get home. He didn’t want the dog to attack him when he was whopping our ass. Now I know he sounds mean as hell and if you include all the drinking he did , he was. But just about everything he did could be explained with modern day PTSD Treatments. They just didn’t have that diagnosis back then.

Now back to the shoes. I worked on them every day. I was bad at first and then with time I got better. I even got a few “ good jobs “. I started doing my own shoes too. Not the mirror polish that my Dad required but a nicely buffed loafer. And these were not expensive shoes. For school. One new pair of shoes. Cheaper the better. Two pairs of long pants and two button down shirts. This was expected to last all year even if you grew some. Or spilled acid on my pants and it ate right through. I was expected to sew up the holes. As time went by my Dad started doing his own shoes again.
I know why now. For 45 years I worked in the Grocery Business and it was rough on shoes. The back rooms were messy and the coolers wet. But in the beginning we were expected to have shined shoes. So I shined my shoes every night. I fell in love with rhythm of polish and brush. The smell of a freshly shined pair of shoes. The comments of nice shoes from coworkers and customers. The feeling of superiority over a supervisor who’s shoes weren’t up to my standards. The admiration of those who kept their shoes shined and in good shape.
I have grown old and too weak to shine my shoes these days. Slippers don’t need a high polish. I gave all my good shoes to my grandson. They were all polished and buffed. I hope he keeps them that way. He used to sit with me when he was little while I polished my shoes. I hope he remembers me that way after I am gone.