英语沙龙：我的旅行车（在线收听）

My Wagon

Instead of an established home, my parents gave me something better：a gypsy wagon, so that I could make my home wherever I might be. My father built with boards of art, music, adventure, and deviation from the norms of society. My mother used boards of unfaltering support, philanthropy1), and appreciation of beauty. Between these supports were nailed planks from each generation of my ancestors2), allowing all of my history to mold me and stay with me. My Norwegian ancestors provided boards of great sturdiness, simplicity, and education；my ancestors from a mixture of European descent gave fanciful boards reflective of city society and grandeur.

The wagon is simplistic in style---no useless porticos, no shutters nailed to the outside. Its construction is expedient to all for which it is used；I am never weighed down with anything unwanted. The inner walls are painted a Norwegian blue, the outer with a chameleon3) sheen adaptable to its surroundings. The few choice furnishings have been acquired in my wanderings and there is still room for more―--always room for quality.

The mobility of my gypsy wagon is responsible for my adaptability. Though I might often caravan4), I am not afraid to go my way alone. I can sit around the fires of any group in society and because I am completely immersed in their environment, I am able to learn about them without preconceptions5) or prejudices. My understanding of them is then based on their environment and history；I don’t try to under stand them on my terms or make them fit to what I already know. I respect and admire that which is true unto itself, no matter how different it may appear. Because of this, I gravitate6) towards what is unique and unusual---be it a culture, an idea, a person, or a creation. I have often acted as a harbinger for my peers and even myself. I have laid tracks with something as simple as the clothes I wear, to my soy-rich diet, to the humanitarian, Taoist views I possess. Often what I discover on my own, about a year later, becomes an offbeat trend. I collect from different sources to construct my thoughts and actions；I don’t wait for someone else to do it for me.

Each summer my wagon returns to a square cottage in rural Minnesota：the spring of my youth. Without a television, or any modern conveniences added since the 1940’s, the secluded wooded lot on a small lake has retained its purity. The solace7) and free reign of my time has led me to find my creativity. I have been awed8) by nature by spending my days out in the woods and on the islands. At times I attempt to capture nature’s beauty on paper or old Ping-Pong paddles with paints and brushes. At other times I build dams in the stream or carve its course into the sandbar, but the stream always prevails and follows its natural course. On stormy days, I choose a musty book from the shelves and read it in my great-great aunt‘s rocking chair in front of the fireplace as I listen to a constant drip through the roof to the floor of the concrete stairwell. I reflect and contemplate at night as I lie in our hammock and watch the night sky turn, until familiar constellations are lost beneath the horizon. The repose of these days and nights fills my wagon with calmness.

My wagon often makes trips to the Black Hills of South Dakota to rest at the home of my father and stepmother. Together we hike the hills and partake in the events of the artist community. In my father’s shop, I learn the trade of fused glass；in the house, he often instructs me on the classical guitar. When the lessons are over, he plays for me his flamenco melodies and songs of Segovia. His music will fill the air of my gypsy wagon indeterminately.

Two summers ago I decided to come with my mother to Wisconsin, whereupon I set my wagon a top a wooded hill overlooking the city lights. In Eau Claire I have exposed myself to an array of9) new people and activities, and have begun to explore―in depth―the law, journalism, the Chinese language, and the interaction between community and youth. Faces contorted with pity always ask me how it was to“move”my junior year. For most, moving would be tearing up roots and trying to transplant them in new soil；I simply carved out another set of tracks to a new land.

My wagon, simple yet expedient, is the confluence of all my experience, knowledge, and ideas, and is therefore my home. I wasn’t just given a house that I could look back upon with fond memories, but a sturdy gypsy wagon that will house me wherever I choose to voyage.

by Andrea Johnson

我的旅行车

（美国大学生作文选）

父母并没有给我一个固定的家, 但他们给了我更好的东西：一部吉卜赛式的旅行车, 我于是得以四海为家, 浪迹天涯。父亲搭的木板富有艺术感和音乐感, 新奇独特, 不落俗套。母亲搭的木板坚实可靠, 象征仁慈和美感。支柱之间的钉板都是家传之物, 于是历史在我身上打下烙印, 并得以继承。挪威先人传下来的木板质地坚固, 线条简洁, 富有启迪意义；欧洲混合血统的先人传下来的木板则式样华丽, 折射出都市的繁华气息。

旅行车式样以简单为原则, 没有无用的门廊, 外边没有钉百叶窗。其构造一切以方便实用为上, 绝没有多余的虚饰。车内四壁涂着挪威蓝, 外面是一层变色光泽, 色彩随周围的景色而变动。仅有的几件精美的装饰品是我在流浪途中收集的, 车内仍然留有余地--永远都为高品位留有空间。

车载着我奔走四方, 铸就了我的适应性。虽然我可以常常结队而行, 却并不怕孤身上路。我可以围着篝火坐在任何一群人当中, 由于我完全融入了他们的环境, 我可以不带成见与偏见地了解他们。基于他们的环境和历史, 我理解他们。我不企图按照我的要求来理解他们或要他们符合我的认识。我敬仰忠实于自己的东西, 不论它显得如何个色。正因如此, 我趋向于独特不凡的东西--无论它是一种文化、一种观念、一个人, 还是一件艺术品。我常常为我的同辈、甚至我自己充当先行者的角色。我通过简单的途径, 像我穿的衣服那样简单, 达到了大豆膳食, 达到了人道主义的道家观点。常常是, 我有了一个新发现, 一年之后, 它就成为一种非正统的时尚。我集思广益、博采众长, 从而形成自己的思想和行为方式；我不会坐等别人为我做这些。

每年夏天我的车子都要返回明尼苏达州的一家农舍, 那是我青春的源泉。小木屋倚湖而立, 林木掩映, 幽深宁静。屋内的现代设施自20世纪40年代以来便没有任何增添, 就连电视机也没有, 因此保持了它的单纯。无拘无束的自由时光激发了我的创造力。如梦如幻的湖光山色培育了我对大自然的敬意。我有时在纸上或旧乒乓球拍上涂画, 试图捕捉大自然的美丽。我有时在山溪中筑坝, 或在沙洲上划出一条小道, 让山溪流过, 但溪水总不就范, 还是重回原路。遇到狂风暴雨, 我便从书架上抽出一本发霉的旧书, 坐在壁炉前高祖姨母用过的摇椅上, 边读边听那屋顶上的雨点滴滴答答地打在楼梯井里。晚上, 我躺在吊床上静观夜空的变幻, 幽思默想, 直到熟悉的星座一一隐入天际。这种宁静的日子给我的旅行车注入了一种从容坦荡的气度。

我的车子常常载着我来到南达科他州的布莱克丘陵, 到我父亲和继母家中稍作休息。我们一起走过山坡, 一起参加社区的艺术活动。在父亲的商店里, 我学到了熔凝玻璃的手艺；在家里, 他常常教我弹古典吉他。课后, 他为我演奏弗拉曼柯舞曲和塞戈维亚乐曲。乐声飘渺, 在我吉卜赛式的旅行车中缭绕。

两年前我决定随母亲迁往威斯康星州。我把车停放在林木葱郁的山坡上, 俯瞰着城市的灯火。在奥克勒耳城我置身于新人新事之中, 开始探索--深入地探索--法律、新闻、中文, 以及社区与青年之间的相互作用。总有一些人带着怜悯的表情问我年少时“迁徙”的滋味如何。对于大多数人来说, 迁移就是把根拔掉, 然后重新植入新的土地；对我却是辟出一条新路, 通往新的土地。

我那简朴方便的旅行车凝聚了我所有的经历、知识和理想, 因此是我的家。我得到的不但是一所令人回味无穷的房子, 而且是可以载我闯荡天涯的坚固的吉卜赛式的旅行车。