My Father, The Machine
"Those Winter Sundays," a poem written by Robert Hayden speaks directly to the heart. This is a poem about a son who took his father for granted. Through all of his childhood years in life, he never appreciated the small things his father did for him and his family. I think many people can relate to this poem one way or the other because most children have a tendency to take parents for granted. This poem speaks specifically of a father and son; conversely, I believe that this poem could be written about any kind of gender. Hayden tells of incidents that are similar to mine in which both of us took our father for granted and it took only age and maturity to apprehend how much we appreciate them. When reading this poem, a common asked question is what does Hayden really mean when he titles his poem, "Those Winter Sundays?" Sunday is generally regarded as a day of rest to everyone and is also respected as a holy day. However, for Robert Hayden's father, this just meant another work day and getting up early. Hayden creates this image when he writes, "Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blue black cold." Hayden could recall his dad starting his day early in the mornin
My father would wake up at the crack of dawn, put some clothes on in the blue black cold, only to go to the wood stove and provide heat for us. There was one thing I lacked as a kid and it sure was not any kind of material thing because, believe me, I had everything a little kid would die for. His real job as an insurance adjuster at American Family, is really only the start of a tiring day. If I could rewind my film strip and tell my father "thank you for all that he's done," I could avoid the same fate as Robert Hayden. " Hayden recalls "speaking indifferently to him," fearing he might say the wrong thing to cause an argument. The extreme cold lingered around the house about an hour before the heat started to circulate. He literally glued the cracks in his hands together just so they wouldn't affect his work. The words, the actions, the materials: this poem speaks to me as if it were on a film strip going through the years of my early stages of life. Is this an act of love, or is this just something a father does for his son? Hayden concludes, in my opinion, that this is all an act of love, realizing it because he has now grown in maturity and age. Looking back, I can see my father waking up at 4:00 in the morning on Saturdays and Sundays, starting the stove heater, drinking his black coffee, just to start repairing friends and families cars to earn a little extra money around the house. At the same time, Hayden also thinks that this is the man "who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. All of this leads up to one thing: the regret of never saying a genuine thank you. g, "with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made baked fires blaze. " I can remember waking in the cold, rolled up in my blankets unable to move a single joint in my body. " Hayden remembers being warm in his bed and fearing to get out: "When the rooms were warm, he'd call and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house.
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Acceptance Essays
