My Father's Son

Lesson 39

              Text A

         My Father's Son
    It's hard being an astronaut's son. I mean, everybody expects you to be special or perfect, and I'm just an average elevenyear-old kid. I'm an average student, and I'm average, too, when it comes to basketball, football, soccer, and baseball.
    I often wonder how my father ever had a son like me. I mean he's so special and so good at everything he does. In high school he was captain of the football team, class president, and editor of the school newspaper.

    Well, to tell you the truth,I do have a little talent that nobody knows about. I write poems and stories and keep them in a red notebook in my bottom desk drawer.
    Nowadays I dream about being a famous writer, but I used to dream about doing something spectacular to impress my father and make him proud of me-something like rescuing a child from a burning building or chasing a robber away from an old lady.

    I was daydreaming in school one morning ( which I do often). I was daydreaming about being some kind of hero, like discovering an instant cure for cancer or a shot for mental illness, when I heard my English teacher announce a Father's Day essay contest for the whole school.
    "I hope we have a winner right here in my English class,

she said. "The PTA has donated three cash prizes- one hundred dollars for first prize, fifty dollars for second, and twenty-five dollars for third prize. "
    After school I walked home, thinking about the essay I would write. My father is an astronaut, I would start out. No, I decided. I wouldn't do that. The whole country and maybe even the whole world saw my father as an astronaut , but that wasn't the way I saw him.

    When Igot home, I kissed my mom quickly. Then I went upstairs to my room and sat down with a pen and a pad of paper. I started to think about what I would write.
    How did I see my father. Hmm.
    I saw him sitting with me in the dark23 when I was a little kid and had a nightmare.
    I saw him teaching me how to use a bat and how to throw a baseball.
    I remembered how he hugged me for hours when my dog Spotty was hit and killed by a car.

    And I remembered how he surprised me with a new puppy at my eighth birthday party. When I started to cry, he told all the kids that I had a bad allergy. "David's allergy bothers him a lot this time of year," Dad said.
    And I remembered how he sat and tried to explain death to me when Grandpa Bob died.
    These were the things I was going to write about my dad. To me, he wasn't just a world-famous astronaut. He was my dad.

    I wrote about all these memories and put them in my essay. I handed it in the next day and was surprised to find out that the winning essays would be read in the auditorium on Thursday night. A11 the parents and students were invited.
    My parents and I went to school Thursday night. One of our neighbours said, "I bet you'll win the contest, David. I bet you wrote what it's like to be the son of an astronaut, and you're the only one in town who could write about that. "

    My dad looked at me, and I shrugged. I hadn't sliown him the essay, and now I almost hoped Lwouldn't win. I didn't want; to win just because my father was an astronaut.
When third prize was announced and it wasn't me, I was relieved and disappointed at the same time, Ellen Gordon won third prize, and she read her essay. Ellen. is adopted, and she wrote a.bout her "better than real" father. When she got to the end,I heard people in the audience sniffing and blowing their noses. My mother sniffed, and my father cleared his throat.

    The second-prize winner was announced next. It was me.
    I went up to the stage, my knees shaking. I read my essay and wondered if my voice was shaking, too. It was scary standing up in front of all those people. I called my essay "My Father's Son. " I watched my parents as I read. When I finished reading, the audience applauded. I saw my father blowing his nose. Tears were running down my mother's face. I went back
to my seat.

    "I see you have an allergy , too , Dad , " I tried to joke.
Dad nodded, cleared his throat, and put his hand on my shoulder. "Son, this is the proudest moment of my life," he said.
    It was the proudest moment of my life, too. Maybe I'll never be a great hero or win a Nobel Prize, but just then, it was enough just to be my father's son.
 
              Text B

                          The Wrong Sex or the Wrong Clothes?
　

    Sylvia and Larry both work for a big company in London. They work in different departments. They are having lunch in the canteen. SYLVIA:   We've got a new manager in our department.
LARRY:   Oh? You hoped to get that job, didn't you?
SYLVIA:   Yes, I did.
LARRY:   I'm sorry. That's too bad. Who is it? Who got the job, I mean?
SYLVIA:   Someone called Drexler. Carl Drexler. He's been with the company only
   two years. I've been here longer. And I know more about the job , too
LARRY:   Hmm. Why do you think they gave it to him and not to you?
SYLVIA:   Because I'm the wrong sex , of course !
LARRY:   You mean you didn't get the job because you're a woman?
SYLVIA:   Yes, that was probably it! It isn't fair.
LARRY:   What sort of clothes does he wear?
SYLVTA:   A dark suit. White shirt. A tie. Why?
LARRY:   Perhaps that had something to do with it.
SYLVIA:   You mean you think I didn't get the job because I come to work in jeans
   and a sweater?
LARRY:   It's possible, isn't it?
SYLVIA:   Do you really think I should wear different clothes?
LARRY:   Well. . . perhaps you should think about it.
SYLVTA:   Why should I wear a skirt? Or a dress?
LARRY:   I'm not saying you should. I'm saying you should think about it. That's all!
SYLVIA:   Why should I do that? I'm good at my job! That's the only important thing !
LARRY:   Hmm. Perhaps it should be the only important thing. But it isn't. Not in
   this company.

　
 
   Questions on Text B

7. Read the following passage once. Underline the key words while reading and retell the story to your partner.

    The Clever Servant
    A long time ago, there was a rich old man who loved wine and
food above everything else. And he had a servant who loved drinking and eating as much as his master did.
    Each time the rich old man went out, he had to hide his wine and food away. Bot each time the servant found them and he helped himself to the bottles of wine and all the nice food. Of course, the rich old man knew who did it and was displeased. But he could do neth:ag about it, because he had never caught his servant drinking his wine or eating his food.

    One day the old man was invited to dinner at the home of one of his friends. He did not know what to de with the wine, meat and chicken he had just bought. Certainly he could not leave them to the servant. Then he had an idea. He called up the servant and said to him:

    "I'll be away for the whole evening, and I'll leave you to look after the house. In the cupboard there are two bottles filled with poison. Be careful about it. You'll be killed if you take even a drop of it. There is also some meat and chicken in the cupboard. Take care of them. " With these words the rich old man left home.

    As soon as the master turned his back, the servant opened the cupboard and began to enjoy all the nice things in it. He emptied the two bottles and ate up the meat, the chicken and everything else he found in the cupboard. He was satisfied and soon fell asleep.At mid-night
the rich old man returned home. He looked into the cupboard and, to his great surprise, all his wine and food were gone. He was mad with anger and called the servant up.

    "Oh, Master," the servant began before the old man could open his mouth. "While you were away, the neighbour's black cat stole into our kitchen and ate up everything in the cupboard. I knew you would be very angry with me. I was so afraid that I drank the two bottles of poison to kill myself. " There were even tears in the servant's eyes. "Oh, Master," he continued. "Please don't get angry with a dying man. I'll soon be dead. "
    The rich old man, of course, did not believe a word of his story. But again, he muld do nothing about it.