That if so timid air is firm,Under his eyes would stir and squirm.
Dooms of love. This seemed to so perfectly describe that vast,cold, and lonely wilderness that my father would traverse andengage with in a battle of wills. But as I got older and grew toknow him better, I learned that what my father saw when heentered that harsh landscape
a barren wasteland like Ithought, but rather, was to him a wondrous temple in which tocelebrate the beauty and honesty of nature and the hard-wonsatisfaction of self-reliance.For many years, I tried to understand my father through the lettershe would send me at college and during my first years as a bill-paying adult living on my own. He and I had not had an easy timewhen I was growing up. If men are from Mars and women fromVenus, then my father was from Pluto and I from Nebulon 7. I wasnot the kind of son he had imagined he would ever have, and hewas not the kind of father that a kid like me was going to havemuch in common with. But my father
himself learn to seeme in my own right, and to judge me not against what he wanted,but by what I wanted for myself. And when he stood back andlooked at what I had become, he was filled with an almostastonished pride. The reason I know this is because of hiswonderful letters--written in that unique, urgent style of quotationmarks and double underlines and triple exclamation points—lettersthat were like multi-vitamins of encouragement and praise when Ineeded it. As a result, I will never be a man who wonders if he