When I was a child, our dining room had two kinds of chairs—two large ones with arm rests and four small ones without. The larger ones stood at the ends of the table, the smaller ones on the sides. Mom and Dad sat in the big chairs, except when one of us was away; then Mom would sit in one of the smaller chairs. Dad always sat at the end, at the “head” of the table. Sitting where he did, Dad was framed by the window through which the yard could be seen with its trees and grass. His chair was not just a place for him at the table; it was a place in which he was situated against the yard and trees. It was the holy (神圣的) and protected place that was his, and ours through him.
After Dad retired, he and Mom moved out into a small flat. When they came to visit me at their old house. Dad still sat at the end of the table though the table was no longer his but mine. Only with my marriage to Barbara, did I hear a voice questioning the arrangement. She requested, gently but firmly, that I sit at the head of the table in our home. I realized then that I was head of the family, but I also felt unwilling to introduce such a change. How would I feel sitting in that “head” place in my Dad’s presence? And how would he handle it? I was to find out on the occasion of our youngest child’s first birthday.
Mom and Dad arrived for lunch, and went into the dining room. Dad moved toward his usual seat in front of the window. Before he could get around the side of the table, I took a deep breath and said, “Dad, this is going to be your place, next to Mom, on the side.” He stopped, looked at me and then sat down. I felt sad, and angry at Barbara for pushing me to do this. It would have been easy to say, “My mistake, Dad. Sit where you always sit.” But I didn’t.
When he and Mom were seated, Barbara and I took our places. I don’t know how Dad felt. I do know that, though removed from his usual place, he continued to share his best self with us, telling stories of his childhood and youth to the delight of his grandchildren. As I served the food, our lives experienced a change, which we continue to live with.
It wasn’t easy, but I sense that there is also something good in the change which has occurred. I am beginning to learn that “honoring one’s father” is more than the question of which place to occupy at the dining table. It also means listening, wherever we sit and whatever positions we own, to the stories Dad longs to tell. We may then, during these magical moments, even be able to forget about whose chair is whose.
Where did the writer’s mother sit when one of the children was away?

A．She didn’t change her chair.

B．She moved her own chair next Dad’s.

C．She moved to an empty chair on the side.

D．She sat opposite to Dad.

How did the writer feel when he told his father to sit on the side?

A．He didn’t feel bad because his father was going to sit there anyway.

B．He felt happy at having carried out the difficult task.

C．He was thoroughly satisfied with the new seating arrangement.

D．He regretted what he had done and wanted to blame his wife.

What happened during the meal after the family had all taken their new seats?

A．The writer’s children removed their grandfather from his usual place.

B．The writer’s father didn’t appear to mind where he sat.

C．The writer’s father shared his favorite dishes with the grandchildren.

D．They became tense and nervous about their future as a family.

What did the writer learn about “honoring one’s father”?

A．Fathers always long to tell stories about their early years.

B．Providing the fight chair is the only way to honor one’s father.

C．Respect for one’s father doesn’t depend only on where he sits.

D．The family should dine together at the same table as often as possible.