Is there a realistic chronological essay?500 words!

Father's love is like a song. In my life's journey, my father sprinkled a string of love notes for me.

Or when I was very young, when my father often carried a wooden "toolbox" made of running around, young me often followed. My father was nicknamed a mason, and when people called him a mason, he used to have an indescribable smile on his face. You can also contribute

My father was very hard, every day and the team uncles, uncles together, before dawn to the mountains to hit the stone, at noon to eat their own bring salted rice, has to work until dark to come back. The first thing I did when I got home was to ask me to do my homework, and then I dragged my tired body to chop hogweed. As I did my homework, I listened to the sound of my father chopping hogweed. I don't know why my father never let me do these chores.

My father was strict with me. Whenever I saw my companions hopscotching and fighting in the yard, I was so envious that I secretly walked out to play, and sometimes when my father saw me, I got a good beating on my butt.

My father could not read or write, but every night when I did my homework, he finished his chores and was always with me. I saw him several times to wash his face, and advised him to go to sleep. But he always insisted on accompanying me to sleep together after I finished, he said that even if he did not understand, but also for me to be brave.

I found that my father every day to turn over my workbook, if the red hook more, he will be very happy, if the red fork more, he only said: "how wrong so much?" Look at me with my head down and he said nothing. The whole elementary school father so spent with me.

We have a rule in the mountains: the occupation of playing stone, the age of work shall not exceed 20 years, if more than 20 years, will fall into a disease. And my father learned to play stone with the people, successively retired to the second line, some find another way out; only my father and a group of young people every day to and from the mountains of the goat's back road. Among my peers, I was the only one who entered the district middle school 30 miles away with my father's support. The first time I saw this was when I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley, and the second time I was a student at the University of California, Berkeley.

Later, my father suffered a foot injury in an accident, and since then, his right foot has been limping a bit, but in order to provide me with the cost of studying, my father still traveled back and forth on the path to the mountains.

My father did not have more words for me, no more confessions, but he used his practical actions to write a song of fatherly love for me.