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Billy Corgan（Smashing Pumpkins): Smashing Pumpkins是20世纪90年代影响很大的美国乐队? Billy Corgan是其主将。
One day I heard Anthony’s long, giraffe1-legs propelling him up the 12 stairs from the cellar. One, two, three, four, five. It was during those “trying” years. Trying to parent a child who seemed to have come from someone else’s womb. My 16-year-old son rounded the corner and spurted2 into the kitchen where I was preparing lunch. I looked up warily. Lately each encounter was a potential dam burst3. Which issue would it be now? Music? Friends? Body piercing? Late-night hours? I was running out of fingers to stick in the dyke4.
“Mum, Billy Corgan has silver pants. I want a pair.”
“Why?”
He gaped5 at me.
“Mo-THER...Billy Corgan is the lead singer in the Smashing Pumpkins.”
Scarcely a day passed without a disagreement about the bands Anthony worshipped.I read the lyrics of each CD he brought home, pointing out every line I had a problem with. Most of them. I wasn’t tuning in to this episode of hero worship.
Anthony wheedled6. He badgered7. He pouted.
“Where would you get them?” I said. “There’s probably none in the whole city.”
“I will make them then. At least lend me the money.”
“Forget it. You’d wear them once.” So what’s the big deal, Kathleen? Said a little voice. They’re just pants. But I hitched my refusal to a post of stubbornness. No silver pants. Not on my tab.
When he came home later with a big white bag and flung it on the table, I knew the battle was lost. “Six-ninety-eight a meter,” he said. “I borrowed the money.” For the first time in days he was smiling, standing almost up to his 190 centimeters-pretty much the same height as Billy Corgan, he reminded me often.
The shop assistant hadn’t missed a thing. Pins, pattern, interfacing, zipper, and metres of glimmering fabric with tiny, quilted squares. “The lady even measured me, Mum,” he said, “now how do I do this?”
Luckily, I had taught Anthony to sew when he was 13, when he still respected me. He’d made a vest, a shirt and the pants that were in vogue, with the crotch cut to the knees.
“Just get me started.” His green eyes arrested mine, challenging... pleading? Reluctantly, I spread the glowing length of fabric on the old oak dining table, and we laid out the pieces of the jeans pattern. It was designed for an experienced sewer.
“I want the zipper teeth to show ----- no flap,” he said.
“I don’t know how,” I sulked. “You’re on your own for that.”
The next day I was overseeing the pocket installation when something returned to me. A bit of softness crept into my battle-scabbed heart. “Anthony, remember that cedar waxwing baby you found and hid in your pocket when you were little?” He looked surprised, then grinned.
“The one you killed when you fed it worms instead of berries?”
“I didn’t know,” I protested. We chuckled. Spontaneous laughter had been so long absentfrom our relationship that it felt strange.
Stitch by stitch, the Pumpkins worshipper and the managing mother were reconnecting. Seam by seam, fastening up the ragged edges of our relationship.
For four days we were at ease. He folded his body over my clattering sewing machine; I listened to his chatter, instructed where needed and watched his slender hands patiently rip out seams. I began remembering the son I'd given birth to. How he’d loved dressing up as a child. The day he’d played so hard that he fell asleep at dinner and landed face first in his spaghetti. The first dollar he’d earned----- at three----- collecting shingles thrown down by the roofers8. How gifted he was with sketching pencils and his guitar. What a loyal friend he was. How no-one could make me laugh as hard.
I remembered what it felt like to hope: to see beyond the stage we were at, whether breast-feeding, toilet training or this latest rebellion. I remembered what tender love felt like.
He was wearing the silver pants before the week was out. He wore them a lot. So did his friends. One even offered me money for a pair. “Anthony made them,” I told her, smiling.
My son and I didn’t connect like that again for years. It would be easy to look back and rue the wasted moments. Instead, I think of that oasis of time at our dining table then I remember that my son is, above all, a child of my heart, as well as my womb.
Thanks, Billy Corgan.
一天，我听见安东尼那双细长的腿从地下室踏上12级的楼梯。一，二，三，四，五。那正是“备受煎熬” 的时期，就好像孩子是别人生的，而我却得给他当母亲。当我16岁的儿子拐过墙角，冲进厨房的时候，我正在做午饭。我警惕地抬起头。最近我们每次碰面气氛都很紧张，就像水坝要决堤。这次又会是什么问题？音乐？朋友？在身上穿洞？夜生活？我觉得我快撑不住了。
“妈妈，比利·寇根有条银色的裤子，我也要一条。”
“为什么？”
他瞪大眼睛看着我。
“妈——妈……比利·寇根是‘碎南瓜’乐队的主唱。”
几乎每天我俩都会为安东尼崇拜的乐队争吵。我看了他带回家的每张CD的歌词，指出每一个我觉得不满的句子。实际上我对绝大部分歌词都有意见。我搞不懂他的这种追星行为。
安东尼开始花言巧语，继而纠缠不休，最后撅起了嘴。
“你到哪儿去买？”我说，“可能全城都没有。”
“那我就自己做，起码借我点儿钱。”
“别想了，你大概只会穿一次。”有什么大不了的，凯瑟琳？脑子里一个细细的声音说道，就一条裤子呗。但我近乎顽固地拒绝了，什么银色裤子，反正我是不会付钱的。
但是当他提着一个白色的大包回家，把它扔到桌子上时，我知道这场斗争我算是输了。“一米布六美元九十八美分，”他说，“我借钱买的。”几天来他第一次笑了，快一米九的大个子站在那儿——与比利·寇根的身高相当接近，他常这样提醒我。
做衣服的材料，布店售货员一件也没落下。别针、纸样、衬布、拉链，还有几米闪闪发亮的布料，上面带有拼补起来的小方格。“那位女士还给我量了尺寸，妈妈。”他说，“我该怎么做呢？”
所幸在安东尼13岁时我已经教过他缝纫，那时他还挺尊重我。他自己做过一件背心、一件衬衫和一条当时流行的裤子——裤档差不多落到膝盖那儿。
“告诉我怎样开始就行了。”他用忌妒的眼神盯着我，好像在挑战……又或是恳求?我不情愿地在旧橡木餐桌上铺开了那块闪闪发亮的布料, 我们一起摊开那几张纸样。这是给有经验的裁缝设计的。
“我想把拉链齿露在外面——不要盖儿，”他说。
“我不知道该怎么做，”我没好气地说，“你自己想办法吧。”
第二天，看着他上裤兜的时候，我回忆起了一些事。 一丝温柔悄悄地潜入了我已结了战争痂的心。“安东尼，你还记得小时候发现一只小雪松太平鸟，把它藏在裤兜里的事吗？”他不由得一愣，然后咧嘴笑了。
“那只被你喂虫子，没喂浆果而害死的鸟吗？”
“我不知道（它不吃虫子），”我抗议道。我们咯咯地笑了。我俩已经很久没有这样不约而同地笑了，以至于听起来有些陌生。
一针一针，“碎南瓜”乐队的崇拜者和他爱管闲事儿的妈妈正在重新联络感情；一线一线，我们在修补我们关系的裂痕。
四天来我们一直相处得很融洽。他躬身在我咔哒作响的缝纫机上做活；我听着他的喋喋不休，并适时加以指导，看他那细长的手耐心地裁剪缝口。我开始记起这个我给予生命的儿子。孩提时代的他是多么热衷打扮。那天他玩得太累了，在饭桌上睡着了，一头栽进了意大利面条中。他赚的第一个美元——三岁时吧——是靠收集屋面工扔下来的木瓦挣来的。他对铅笔素描和弹吉他是多么有天分。他曾是我多么忠实的一个朋友，没人能像他那样让我开怀大笑。
我记起希望是种什么感觉：超越了我们所处的阶段，不论是给他哺乳、训练他上厕所还是最近这段叛逆期，我重温了温柔的爱的感觉。
他在周末前就穿上了那条银色的裤子。他常常穿，他的朋友们也是。他的一个朋友甚至出钱要我帮着做一条。我微笑着告诉她：“那是安东尼自己做的。”
以后有好几年我和我的儿子没像那样沟通过。人们总是容易回忆过去，懊悔浪费的光阴。而每次想到在旧餐桌上度过的那段美好的时光，我就会记起，我的儿子始终是我心灵的寄托，也是我的亲生骨肉。
谢谢了，比利·寇根。
任长秀 摘自English Learning
One day I heard Anthony’s long, giraffe1-legs propelling him up the 12 stairs from the cellar. One, two, three, four, five. It was during those “trying” years. Trying to parent a child who seemed to have come from someone else’s womb. My 16-year-old son rounded the corner and spurted2 into the kitchen where I was preparing lunch. I looked up warily. Lately each encounter was a potential dam burst3. Which issue would it be now? Music? Friends? Body piercing? Late-night hours? I was running out of fingers to stick in the dyke4.
“Mum, Billy Corgan has silver pants. I want a pair.”
“Why?”
He gaped5 at me.
“Mo-THER...Billy Corgan is the lead singer in the Smashing Pumpkins.”
Scarcely a day passed without a disagreement about the bands Anthony worshipped.I read the lyrics of each CD he brought home, pointing out every line I had a problem with. Most of them. I wasn’t tuning in to this episode of hero worship.
Anthony wheedled6. He badgered7. He pouted.
“Where would you get them?” I said. “There’s probably none in the whole city.”
“I will make them then. At least lend me the money.”
“Forget it. You’d wear them once.” So what’s the big deal, Kathleen? Said a little voice. They’re just pants. But I hitched my refusal to a post of stubbornness. No silver pants. Not on my tab.
When he came home later with a big white bag and flung it on the table, I knew the battle was lost. “Six-ninety-eight a meter,” he said. “I borrowed the money.” For the first time in days he was smiling, standing almost up to his 190 centimeters-pretty much the same height as Billy Corgan, he reminded me often.
The shop assistant hadn’t missed a thing. Pins, pattern, interfacing, zipper, and metres of glimmering fabric with tiny, quilted squares. “The lady even measured me, Mum,” he said, “now how do I do this?”
Luckily, I had taught Anthony to sew when he was 13, when he still respected me. He’d made a vest, a shirt and the pants that were in vogue, with the crotch cut to the knees.
“Just get me started.” His green eyes arrested mine, challenging... pleading? Reluctantly, I spread the glowing length of fabric on the old oak dining table, and we laid out the pieces of the jeans pattern. It was designed for an experienced sewer.
“I want the zipper teeth to show ----- no flap,” he said.
“I don’t know how,” I sulked. “You’re on your own for that.”
The next day I was overseeing the pocket installation when something returned to me. A bit of softness crept into my battle-scabbed heart. “Anthony, remember that cedar waxwing baby you found and hid in your pocket when you were little?” He looked surprised, then grinned.
“The one you killed when you fed it worms instead of berries?”
“I didn’t know,” I protested. We chuckled. Spontaneous laughter had been so long absentfrom our relationship that it felt strange.
Stitch by stitch, the Pumpkins worshipper and the managing mother were reconnecting. Seam by seam, fastening up the ragged edges of our relationship.
For four days we were at ease. He folded his body over my clattering sewing machine; I listened to his chatter, instructed where needed and watched his slender hands patiently rip out seams. I began remembering the son I'd given birth to. How he’d loved dressing up as a child. The day he’d played so hard that he fell asleep at dinner and landed face first in his spaghetti. The first dollar he’d earned----- at three----- collecting shingles thrown down by the roofers8. How gifted he was with sketching pencils and his guitar. What a loyal friend he was. How no-one could make me laugh as hard.
I remembered what it felt like to hope: to see beyond the stage we were at, whether breast-feeding, toilet training or this latest rebellion. I remembered what tender love felt like.
He was wearing the silver pants before the week was out. He wore them a lot. So did his friends. One even offered me money for a pair. “Anthony made them,” I told her, smiling.
My son and I didn’t connect like that again for years. It would be easy to look back and rue the wasted moments. Instead, I think of that oasis of time at our dining table then I remember that my son is, above all, a child of my heart, as well as my womb.
Thanks, Billy Corgan.
一天，我听见安东尼那双细长的腿从地下室踏上12级的楼梯。一，二，三，四，五。那正是“备受煎熬” 的时期，就好像孩子是别人生的，而我却得给他当母亲。当我16岁的儿子拐过墙角，冲进厨房的时候，我正在做午饭。我警惕地抬起头。最近我们每次碰面气氛都很紧张，就像水坝要决堤。这次又会是什么问题？音乐？朋友？在身上穿洞？夜生活？我觉得我快撑不住了。
“妈妈，比利·寇根有条银色的裤子，我也要一条。”
“为什么？”
他瞪大眼睛看着我。
“妈——妈……比利·寇根是‘碎南瓜’乐队的主唱。”
几乎每天我俩都会为安东尼崇拜的乐队争吵。我看了他带回家的每张CD的歌词，指出每一个我觉得不满的句子。实际上我对绝大部分歌词都有意见。我搞不懂他的这种追星行为。
安东尼开始花言巧语，继而纠缠不休，最后撅起了嘴。
“你到哪儿去买？”我说，“可能全城都没有。”
“那我就自己做，起码借我点儿钱。”
“别想了，你大概只会穿一次。”有什么大不了的，凯瑟琳？脑子里一个细细的声音说道，就一条裤子呗。但我近乎顽固地拒绝了，什么银色裤子，反正我是不会付钱的。
但是当他提着一个白色的大包回家，把它扔到桌子上时，我知道这场斗争我算是输了。“一米布六美元九十八美分，”他说，“我借钱买的。”几天来他第一次笑了，快一米九的大个子站在那儿——与比利·寇根的身高相当接近，他常这样提醒我。
做衣服的材料，布店售货员一件也没落下。别针、纸样、衬布、拉链，还有几米闪闪发亮的布料，上面带有拼补起来的小方格。“那位女士还给我量了尺寸，妈妈。”他说，“我该怎么做呢？”
所幸在安东尼13岁时我已经教过他缝纫，那时他还挺尊重我。他自己做过一件背心、一件衬衫和一条当时流行的裤子——裤档差不多落到膝盖那儿。
“告诉我怎样开始就行了。”他用忌妒的眼神盯着我，好像在挑战……又或是恳求?我不情愿地在旧橡木餐桌上铺开了那块闪闪发亮的布料, 我们一起摊开那几张纸样。这是给有经验的裁缝设计的。
“我想把拉链齿露在外面——不要盖儿，”他说。
“我不知道该怎么做，”我没好气地说，“你自己想办法吧。”
第二天，看着他上裤兜的时候，我回忆起了一些事。 一丝温柔悄悄地潜入了我已结了战争痂的心。“安东尼，你还记得小时候发现一只小雪松太平鸟，把它藏在裤兜里的事吗？”他不由得一愣，然后咧嘴笑了。
“那只被你喂虫子，没喂浆果而害死的鸟吗？”
“我不知道（它不吃虫子），”我抗议道。我们咯咯地笑了。我俩已经很久没有这样不约而同地笑了，以至于听起来有些陌生。
一针一针，“碎南瓜”乐队的崇拜者和他爱管闲事儿的妈妈正在重新联络感情；一线一线，我们在修补我们关系的裂痕。
四天来我们一直相处得很融洽。他躬身在我咔哒作响的缝纫机上做活；我听着他的喋喋不休，并适时加以指导，看他那细长的手耐心地裁剪缝口。我开始记起这个我给予生命的儿子。孩提时代的他是多么热衷打扮。那天他玩得太累了，在饭桌上睡着了，一头栽进了意大利面条中。他赚的第一个美元——三岁时吧——是靠收集屋面工扔下来的木瓦挣来的。他对铅笔素描和弹吉他是多么有天分。他曾是我多么忠实的一个朋友，没人能像他那样让我开怀大笑。
我记起希望是种什么感觉：超越了我们所处的阶段，不论是给他哺乳、训练他上厕所还是最近这段叛逆期，我重温了温柔的爱的感觉。
他在周末前就穿上了那条银色的裤子。他常常穿，他的朋友们也是。他的一个朋友甚至出钱要我帮着做一条。我微笑着告诉她：“那是安东尼自己做的。”
以后有好几年我和我的儿子没像那样沟通过。人们总是容易回忆过去，懊悔浪费的光阴。而每次想到在旧餐桌上度过的那段美好的时光，我就会记起，我的儿子始终是我心灵的寄托，也是我的亲生骨肉。
谢谢了，比利·寇根。
任长秀 摘自English Learning