How do you understand the father's evaluation of his son?

Mr Dooley's death on the balcony was a heavy blow to his father. Mr. Dooley is a business traveler. His two sons live in Dominica. He owns a car, so he is a few miles ahead of us socially, but he has no false pride. Mr dooley is an intellectual. Like all intellectuals, his favorite thing is talking. In his own limited way, his father is a well-read man who can appreciate a clever speaker. Mr dooley is very clever. Between business acquaintances and staff, he hardly knows what is happening in this city. Night after night, he crossed the street and came to our gate to explain the news behind the news to his father. His voice is deep and his face is full of laughter, and he knows it. His father would listen in surprise, give him guidance and talk from time to time, and then walk up to his mother with a red face and pride and ask, "Do you know what happened after Mr. Dooley told me?" After that, when someone gave me some undisclosed information, I found myself asking, "Did Mr. Dooley tell you that?" "

I didn't take his death report seriously until I actually saw him lying in a brown shroud, with beads wrapped around his waxy fingers. Even then, I think there must be something to do. One summer night, Mr. Dooley will definitely appear at our door and reveal the secrets of another world to us. But my father is very unhappy, on the one hand, because Mr. Dooley is almost one year older than himself and always makes the death of another person very personal; On the other hand, because now he has no one to tell him what is behind the recent scene of the company. You can count by hand how many people in Britney Lane read newspapers like Mr. Dooley. These people will never ignore that their father is just a hard worker. Even Carpenter Sullivan, a nobody, thinks he is better than his father. This is indeed a solemn thing.

"Arrive in Klag at 2: 30," my father said thoughtfully, putting down the newspaper.

"But don't you want to go to the funeral?" Mother asked in horror.

"This is expected," my father said, sniffing out the voice of opposition. "I don't want to tell them."

"I think," my mother said, suppressing her emotions, "if you go to church with him, it will be what everyone expects."

("going to church" is of course one thing, because the body was removed after work, but going to the funeral means losing half a day's salary. )

"People hardly know us," she added.

"God bless us and all the injuries," my father replied with dignity. "If it's our turn, we will be very happy."

In order to repay his father, he is always prepared to lose half a day for an old neighbor. Rather than enjoying funerals, he is a conscientious person who does what he wants. Nothing can comfort his own death prospect more than ensuring a decent funeral. Moreover, in order to give my mother what she deserves, she doesn't stint on half a day's salary, because we can afford it.

You see, drinking is my father's greatest weakness He can remain stable for months or even years, and when he does, he is as energetic as gold. He got up for the first time in the morning, brought a cup of tea to his mother lying in bed, and stayed at home and read the newspaper at night. I saved money to buy myself a new blue serge suit and a bowler hat. He laughed at the foolish behavior of those who gave hard-earned money to the bartender every week; Sometimes, in order to pass his leisure time, he will take a pencil and paper and accurately calculate how much money he can save as a bartender every week. As a natural optimist, he sometimes runs this calculation through the whole process of his future life, and the whole process is amazing. He was worth hundreds of dollars when he died.

If I knew, it would be a bad sign; There are signs that he is mentally proud and imagines that he is better than his neighbors. Spiritual pride will grow sooner or later until some form of celebration is needed. Then, he drank a drink, of course, not whisky, not that kind of thing, just a harmless drink, such as light beer. This is the end of my father. When he ate his first cup, he realized that he had made a fool of himself. He forgot this in the second cup, forgot what he couldn't forget in the third cup, and finally he went home drunk. From this beginning, it is "the progress of drunkards", just like moral prints. The next day, he stayed at home after work and his head was ill, while his mother went to the factory to make excuses for him. In less than two weeks, he became poor, savage and depressed again. Once he started drinking, he drank until the kitchen clock. My mother and I know all the stages and are afraid of all the dangers. Funeral is one of them.

"I have to work at Dunphy's house for half a day," Edith's mother said.

"Who will take care of Larry?"

"I'll take care of Larry," my father said kindly. "Walking is good for him."

There is nothing to say. Although we all know that I don't need anyone to take care of me, I could have stayed at home to take care of Sonny, but I was a party member and acted as a brake for my father. As a brake, I have never achieved anything, but my mother is still full of confidence in me.

The next day, when I came home from school, my father made a cup of tea for us both in front of me. He is good at drinking tea, but his hands are too heavy to do anything else; The way he cuts bread is shocking. Later, we went down to the church. My father was wearing his best blue serge, and a bowler hat fell to the side of his head without mentioning any practical jokes. To his great joy, he found Peter Crowley among the mourners. Peter is another sign of danger. I know clearly from some experiences after Sunday morning mass: as my mother said, he is a despicable person who only goes to the funeral for free drinks. It turns out that he doesn't know Mr. Dooley at all! But my father has a contemptuous eye and thinks he is a stupid person, wasting their good money in public places when they can save. Peter Crowley seldom wastes his money!

In my father's view, it was a wonderful funeral. He studied everything carefully before we drove the hearse in the afternoon sun.

"Five carriages!" He cried. "Five cars, sixteen cars! There is a city councilor and two city councilors, and I know how many priests there are. I haven't seen such a funeral on the road since the death of bartender Willie Mike. "

"Ah, he's very likable," Crowe said in a gloomy voice.

"Oh my god, I don't know? Father snapped. Isn't that man my best friend? Two nights before he died-just two nights-he told me about the house contract. They are.

This company is a robber day and night. But even I didn't expect him to have such good connections. "

My father came out like a child, satisfied with everything: other mourners and a beautiful house by the well on Sunday. I know the signs of danger are fully displayed there: a sunny day, a beautiful funeral, and a group of outstanding priests and public officials are showing all the natural vanity and frivolity in my father's character. He was glad to see his old friend go down to the grave; He has a feeling of performing his duties, and happily realizes that no matter how much he misses poor Mr. Dooley, he misses him, not poor Mr. Dooley.

"We'll leave a trail before they part," he whispered to Crowley when the grave digger threw in the first shovel of dirt, and then he walked away and jumped from grass hill to grass hill like a goat. The driver is likely to be in a state with him. Although they haven't been celibate for months, they still look up hopefully.

"Are they almost finished, Mick?" One of them shouted.

"Now it's all over except the last prayer," my father blew in the tone of a man who brought great joy news.

The carriage sped a few hundred yards away from the guest house, and his father's feet caused him trouble in hot weather. He quickened his pace and looked back nervously to see if there was a figure of undertaker passing through the mountain. In such a crowd, someone may be waiting.

When we arrived at the pub, the carriage stopped outside. Solemn men wear black ties and carefully express their condolences to the mysterious woman. Their hands stretched out modestly from behind the shutters pulled by the carriage. There are only the driver and a few women in shawls in the bar. I felt that if I really wanted to act as a brake, now was the right time, so I pulled my father's coat and hat.

"Dad, can't we go home now?" I asked.

"Two minutes," he said with a deep smile. "Just a bottle of lemonade and we'll go home."

I know it's a bribe, but I've always been a weak child. Father ordered lemonade and two pints of beer. I was thirsty and swallowed my drink at once. But this is not the father's way. He has given up drinking for several months, and he once enjoyed endless happiness. He took out his pipe, blew it, put it on, lit it with a bang, and his eyes widened. After that, he deliberately turned his back on the side, leaned one elbow on the counter, assumed the appearance of someone who didn't know there was a side behind him, and deliberately brushed tobacco from his palm. He has settled down for the night. He is steadily completing all the important funerals he has attended. The carriage drove away and the little undertaker came in slowly until the bar was half full.

"Dad," I said, pulling his coat again, "can't we go home now?"

"Ah, your mother won't stay at home for long," he said kindly.

"Run to the street and play, will you?"

This makes me feel cool, just like adults think you can play alone on a strange road. I'm getting tired of it, because I was tired of it. I know my father has the ability to stay there until dark. I know I might take him home, get drunk, and then walk along Britney Lane. All the old ladies stood at the door and said, "Mick Delaney is here again." I know my mother will go crazy because of anxiety; Father stopped going out to work the next day; In less than the weekend, she will run to the pawnshop with a scarf and a clock. Without a clock, I can never overcome the loneliness in the kitchen.

I'm still thirsty. I found that if I stood on tiptoe, I could reach my father's cup. It suddenly occurred to me that it would be interesting to know what the contents were like. He went all out without even noticing. I took off my cup and took a sip. This is a terrible disappointment. I'm surprised that he can drink this kind of thing. It seems that he has never drunk lemonade.

I should have advised him to drink lemonade, but he behaved very well. I heard him say that the band was the highlight of the funeral. He posed his arm as a man with a rifle on his back and hummed a few bars of Chopin's funeral March. Crowley nodded respectfully. I drank a large glass and began to realize that Potter might have its advantages. I am happy for loftiness and philosophy. Father hummed a few bars in Saul's March. This is a nice bar and funeral. I'm sure poor Mr Dooley will be very happy in heaven. In the meantime, I think they might give him a band. As my father said, the band is a good supplement.

But the wonderful thing about Potter is that it makes you stand aside, or float in the air like a little angel rolling in the clouds, watching your legs cross and leaning against the bar, instead of worrying about trivial things and thinking deeply, seriously and maturely about life and death. Looking at yourself like this, you can't help but feel how funny you look for a moment, and suddenly feel embarrassed and want to giggle. But when I finished a pint of wine, this stage passed; I find it difficult to put the cup back. The counter seems to be already very high. Depression has reappeared.

"Well," said the father respectfully, reaching behind him and taking a glass of wine, "may the poor man's soul rest in peace, no matter where he is.

Yes! "He stopped, looked at the glass first, and then looked at the people around him." "Hello," he said in a rather humorous tone, as if he was just going to treat it as a joke, even if it was a vulgar taste. Who did this? "

At this time, the bar owner and the old ladies first looked at their father, and then looked at his cup.

"Nobody did it, my good man," a woman said angrily. "Do you think we are robbers?"

"Oh, no one here would do that, Mick," the bartender said in shock. "Well, someone did it," my father said, and his smile began to fade.

"If that's the case, it's those who are closer to it," the woman said darkly, giving me a dirty look; At the same time, my father began to understand the truth. I think I may look a little dazzled. He bent down and shook me.

"Are you okay, Larry?" He asked in horror.

Peter Crowley looked down at me and grinned.

"Can you beat it?" He shouted in a hoarse voice.

I can. I have no difficulty. I began to get sick. Father was afraid that I would break his beautiful clothes, so he jumped back and opened the back door.

"run! Run! Run! " He shouted.

I saw ivy hanging on the sunny wall outside and ran away. My intention was good, but it was a bit exaggerated, because my head hit the wall and I was hurt, just as I thought. I am always polite and say "I'm sorry" before the second round. When I was sick, my father was still very concerned about his clothes. He came behind me and held me carefully.

"What a good boy!" He said it was inspiring. "It is great to stand up."

Berg, I'm not great! Grand is my final goal. He took me back to the bar and sat me on a bench near my shawl. I let out a pitiless cry. They stood up angrily, still sad about the statement that they had drunk a pint of his wine.

"God bless us!" One looked at me piteously and moaned, "Aren't they all dads?"

"Mick," the bar owner said in panic, scattering sawdust on my footprints, "that child shouldn't be here at all. You'd better take him home quickly in case Bobby sees him. "

"merciful god!" Father sobbed, looked up at the sky and clapped his hands silently, as if he were just in a hurry. "What misfortune happened to me? Or what his mother would say. . . If only women could stop and take care of their children at home! "

For the benefit of the nimesulide family, he yelled again. "Are all those carriages gone, Bill?"

"The carriage has been repaired, Mick," replied the bartender.

"I want to take him home," my father said in despair. . . . "I will never take you out again," he threatened me. "Well," he said, handing me a clean handkerchief in his chest pocket, "put it over your eyes."

The blood on the handkerchief was the first sign that I was cut. My temple immediately began to throb, and I began to howl again.

"Shh, shh, shh!" My father said angrily and pushed me out of the door. "Some people will think that you were killed. That's nothing. We will wash it when we get home. "

"Steady, old boy scout! Crowley said, sit on my other side. " You will be all right soon. "

I have never met two people who know little about the influence of drinking. The first breath of fresh air and warm sunshine made me more sleepy than ever. I tossed and turned between the wind and the tide until my father began to sob again.

"Almighty god, and the whole road! My misfortune doesn't stop at work! Can't you just walk straight? "

I don't know. I can clearly see that under the influence of sunshine, every woman, child and old man in Blaine Lane is leaning against half a door or sitting on the doorstep. Two sober middle-aged people brought home a drunken boy with an eye injury. They all stopped chattering and were dumbfounded. My father shamelessly wanted to send me home as soon as possible, and he also wanted to explain to his neighbors that it was not his fault. Finally, he stopped in front of Mrs. Roche's house. There are a group of old women outside a door across the street. I didn't like their looks from the beginning. They seem too interested in me. I put my hands in my pockets and leaned against the wall of Mrs. Rush's cabin, thinking sadly of poor Mr. Dooley, who was lying in the cold grave by the Cora River and could no longer walk on the road. With great feelings, I began to sing one of my father's favorite songs.

Although he lost Mogna and his cold grave, he never returned to Jin Kela.

"Visa, poor child! Mrs. Roche said. He is not a lovely voice, God bless him! "

I thought so myself, so when my father said, "Shh!" Raise a threatening finger at me. He didn't seem to realize the appropriateness of this song, so I sang louder than before.

"Whistler, I'll tell you!" He snapped, and then tried to make a smile for the benefit of Mrs. Roche. "We're almost home. I will take you the rest of the way. "

But, although I was drunk, I knew I shouldn't be taken home like that.

"Now," I said sternly, "can't you stay away from me? I can walk very well. " Just my head. I just want to have a rest. "

"But you can stay at home and rest in bed," he said viciously, trying to pick me up. I knew from the blush on his face that he was upset.

"Ah, Yasu," I said angrily, "what am I going home for? Why can't you leave me alone? "

For some reason, the old ladies across the street thought it was very interesting. They almost parted ways for this. I am furious at the thought that a person can't even drink a drop of water and let people around him play tricks on him.

"Who are you laughing at?" I shouted, clenching my fist before them. "If you don't let me pass, I'll let you laugh at your other side."

They seem to find it more interesting; I have never seen such a rude person. "Go away, you fucking bitch!" I said.

"Shh, shh, shh, I'll tell you!" My father growled, gave up all the disguises in the entertainment circle and took my hand to follow him. Women's screams drive me crazy. I was angered by my father's bullying. I tried to wear high heels, but they were too strong for me, so I had to look back at those women.

"Be careful, or I'll come back and show you!" I shouted. "I want to teach you to let decent people pass." Let you stop at home and wash your dirty face. "

"I am everywhere on the road," sobbed my father. "Never again, never again, if I live to be a thousand years old!"

To this day, I still don't know whether he abandoned me or that glass of wine. When he dragged me home, I shouted "the boys of Wexford" with a song suitable for my heroism. Crowley knew he was not safe and left. My father took off my clothes and put me on the bed. I can't sleep because my head is spinning. Very unhappy, I'm sick again. Father came in with a wet cloth and swept the floor behind me. I lay with a high fever and listened to him chop wood and make a fire. I heard him set the table after that.

Suddenly, the front door slammed open and mother rushed in with Sonny in her arms. This is not her usual gentle and timid self, but a wild and irritable woman. Obviously, she heard all this from her neighbors.

"Mick Delaney," she cried hysterically, "what have you done to my son?"

"Shh, woman, shh, shh!" He hissed and jumped from one foot to the other. "Do you want to hear the whole road?"

"Ah," she said with a terrible smile, "this road knows everything now. This road knows how you give your unfortunate innocent child wine and make him play jokes on your rotten, dirty animals. "

"But I didn't give him anything to drink," he cried, shocked by the terrible explanation that his neighbor had brought him misfortune. "He took it when I turned around. What do you think I am? "

"Ah," she replied painfully, "now everyone knows what kind of person you are. God forgives you for wasting our hard-earned money on drinking and training your children to be alcoholics like you. "

Then she rushed into the bedroom and knelt by the bed. She groaned when she saw the cut on my eye. In the kitchen, Sonny shouted to himself. After a while, his father appeared at the door of the bedroom wearing a hat with a strong expression of self-pity.

"After all I've been through, it's a good way to talk to me," he complained. "That's a good accusation. I have been drinking. I haven't drunk a drop of wine all day. He drank it all. How is that possible? I am a person who should be pitied. My day was ruined by me, after I was screwed up by the performance of the whole road. "

But the next morning, when he got up and quietly went out to work with a rice basket, my mother threw herself on the bed and kissed me. It seems that I am doing all this. I'm on vacation until my eyes get better.

"My brave little fellow!" She said, her eyes shining. "God did it, and you were there. You are his guardian angel. "