There was something funny about my shoes. They were blacker than they had been since they were bought. But how could that be?

My first thought was, of course, magic because I knew that I hadn’t done anything to create that shine which was looking so wonderful from the far end of my legs. Then, I called out to my wife, Anita. “Honey, thanks for shining my shoes! They look great! I was thinking I needed to get some new black shoes, but now.” “I didn’t shine your black shoes.” Anita said. “I didn’t shine your brown shoes, either.” Wait a second. My brown shoes? I looked in the closet. A bright glow from the darkest corner confirmed Anita’s report. I paused for a second or two. “So really, thanks,” I said to Anita. “But I didn’t shine them,” she said.

I looked at her searching for any signs of telling lies. Anita certainly won’t lie, hut she will do a bit in the interest of sumething she considera a greater good — like a good joke, for example. Or a secret act of service. “So if you didn’t shine them,” I asked, “who did?” She smiled the confident, sel-satisfied smile.

So I immediately thought of Beth, my youngest daughter who lives close enough to be able to drop by when I wasn’t home to shine my shoes. But her response to my questions forced me to decide that it wasn’t Beth. Who was it?

To be honest, I still don’t know for sure. That’s the way it is with unknown acts of service. I love my shiny shoes. They are finally going to get dirty again. But the memory of those shiny shoes will remain with me, warming my heart forever, and inspiring me to fast acts of kindness of my own.

“Dad,” I say one day, “Let’s take a trip. Why don’t you fly and meet me?”

As a manager from IBM, my father’s job filled his day, his thought, his life. While he woke up and took a warm shower, I had fun under the Eiffel Tower. While he tied a tie and put on the same Swiss watch, I rowed a boat across Lake of the Ozarks.

My father sees me travelling without a purpose, nothing to show for my 33 years but a passport full of funny stamps. He wants me to settle down (安定下来), but now I want him to explore the world.

He agrees and we meet four weeks later in Rapid City.

“What is our first stop?” asks my father.

“What time is it?”

“Still don’t have a watch?”

Less than an hour away is Mount Rushmore. As he looks up at sculptures of the four Presidents in granite(花岗岩), his mouth and eyes open slowly, like those of little boy.

“Amazing,” he says, “How was this done?”

A film in the information center shows sculptor(雕塑家) Gutzon Borglum devoted 14 years to the sculptures.

We look up and I ask myself, “Can I devote my life to anything?”

No directions, no purpose. I always used to hear those words in my father’s voice. Now I hear them in my own.

The next day we’re at Yellowstone National Park, where we have a picnic.

“Did you ever travel with your dad?” I ask.

“Only once,” he says. “I never spoke much with my father. We loved each other---but never said it. Whatever he could give me, he gave.”

The last sentence---it’s probably the same thing I will say about my father. And what I want my child to say about me.

In Glacier National Park, my father says, “I’ve never seen water so blue.” I have, in several places of the world. I can keep traveling. I realize--- and maybe a fixed job won’t be as boring as I think.

Weeks after our trip, I call my father. “The photos from the trip are wonderful,” he says. “We have got to take another trip like that sometime.” I tell him I’ve decided to settle down and find a fixed job, and I’m wearing a watch.

Some of my earliest memories involve sitting with my dad in his study every night when he came home. Dad has a jade green comb. Every night, he would smile, hand me the comb and say: “Help Daddy clean it, OK?” At age five this task brought me such joy. I would excitedly turn the tap on, and then brush the comb with a used toothbrush as hard as I could. Satisfied with my job, I would proudly return it to Dad. He would smile at me, and place the comb on top of his wallet.

About two years later, Dad left his job and started his own business. That was when things started to change. Dad’s business wasn’t doing so well, and our stable life started getting shaky. He didn’t come home as much as he used to. And when he did, it was always late and I’d already be in bed. I started to get mad. Why didn’t he listen to Mum and just stick to his old job? Over the years, I stopped spending my nights with him.

Now 28, I’ve already got a job. Dad’s business has also started to be on track. Things are better. Yet the uncomfortable silence between us persisted.

Two days before my birthday last year, Dad came home early. As I helped him carry his bags into his study, he said. “Hey, would you like to help me clean my comb? It’s been a while: since I last cleaned it.” I looked at him a while, then took the comb and headed to the sink.

As I cleaned the comb, it hit me then: why, as a child, helping my dad clean his comb was such a joy. That routine meant my dad was home early to spend the evening with Mum and I. It meant he would watch TV with us or playa few videogames with me. It meant a happy and loving family.

I pass the clean comb back to Dad. He looks at it and smiles. But this time, I notice something different. My dad has aged. He has wrinkles next to his eyes when he smiles, yet his smile is still heartwarming. The smile of a father who just wants a good life for his family.

Dad carefully places his comb on top of his wallet. The same old jade green comb. I guess some things never change. And for that, I’m glad.