My parents moved to Vermont when I was still a baby. A soft-spoken man, my father settled quietly into his medical practice. Soon the local people accepted him as one of their own. Around town the neighbors greeted my father as “Doc Eppley”. And I would always be known as “Doctor Eppley’s son”. “If you’re anything like your father, you’ll be a smart boy,” my first-grade teacher said. I couldn’t stop beaming.
Initially, I was never tired of letting others know that my father was one of the town’s most respected people. Somewhere in my teenage years, however, something changed. I was sixteen years old and I grew impatient whenever I heard my neighbors still calling me “Doctor Eppley’s son”. My father’s name now seemed like an ugly shadow that followed me wherever I went. And so when strangers asked me if I was Doctor Eppley’s son, I would reply loudly, “My name is Harold.” As an act of rebellion (叛逆), I began to call my father by his first name, Sam. “Why are you acting so rude lately?” my father questioned me one day. “Well, Sam,” I replied, “I suppose that bothers you. You know it hurts me when you call me Sam,” my father shouted.” Well, it hurts me when everybody expects me to be just like you. I want to be myself. Let me take it out for a drive, “I said, pointing to my father’s new car. My father agreed, but not without his usual warning,” Be careful. Keys are in the kitchen. “I glared at him,” Sam, I’m sick of being treated like a child. I’m in college now. “I jumped into the car and headed down the road, enjoying the beauty of the countryside. My mind was wandering when I hit the car right in front of mine before I knew it. The woman in the car jumped out screaming: “You idiot! What were you looking at?” I surveyed the damage. Both cars had suffered serious dents (凹痕).
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I sat there like a guilty child as the woman continued swearing.
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An hour later, I drove my father’s broken new car back home.
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