Question

When I was four months old, my mother died. I had no brothers or sisters. So all my boyhood, from the age of four months, there were just two of us, my father and me. We lived in an old gypsy caravan. My father owned the filling station and the caravan, that was about all he owned in the world. It was a very small filling station on a small country road with fields and woody hills around it. While I was still a baby, my father washed me and fed me, pushed me in my pram to the doctor and did all the millions of other things a mother normally does for her child. That is not an easy task for a man, especially when he has to earn his living at the same time. But my father was a cheerful man. I thinks that he gave me all the live he had felt for my mother when she was alive. We were very close. During my early years, I never had a moments unhappiness, and here I am on my fifth birthday. I was a little boy as you can see, with dirt and oil all over me, but that was because I spent all day in the workshop helping my father with the cars. The workshop was stone building. My father built that himself with loving care. We are engineers, you and I, he said to me. We earn our living by repairing engines and we can’t do good work in a bad workshop. It was a fine workshop, big enough to take one car comfortably. The caravan was our house and our home. My father said it was at least one hundred and fifty years old. Many gipsy children, he said, he been born in it and had grown up within its wooden walls. Different people had knocked at its doors, different people had lived in it. But now its best years were over. There was only one room in the caravan, and it wasn’t much bigger than a modern bathroom. Although we had electric lights in the workshop, we were not allowed to have them in the caravan as it was dangerous. So we got our heat and light in the same way as the gypsies had done years ago. There was a wood-burning stove that kept us warm in winter and there were candles in candlesticks. I think that the stew cooked by my father is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. One plate was never enough. For furniture, we had two narrow beds, two chairs and a small table covered with a tablecloth and some bowls, plates, cups, forks and spoons on it. Those were all the home comforts we had. They were all we needed. I really lived living in that gypsy caravan. I lived the evenings when I was in my bed and my father was telling stories. I was happy because I was sure that when I went to sleep my father would still be there, very close to me, sitting in his chair by the fire. My father, without any doubt, was the most wonderful and exciting father any boy ever had. Here is a picture of him. You may think, if you don’t know him well, that he was a serous man. He wasn’t. He was actually full of fun. What made him look so serious and sometimes sad was the fact that he nevr smiled with his mouth. He did it all with his eyes. He had bright blue eyes and when he thought of something funny, you could see a golden light dancing in the middle of each eye. But the mouth never moved. My father was not what you would call an educated man. I doubt he had read many books in his life. But he was an excellent storyteller. He promised to make up a bedtime story for me every time I asked him. He always kept his promise. The best stories were turned into serials and went on many nights running. Вам нужно написать краткое содержание текста по английски (5-8 предложений).

Answer 1

When he was 4 months, his mother died. He left together with his father, living in the caravan. They had a workshop, repairing the engines. Although his father didn't have a good aduction, he was the best father in the world. He always kept his promise and told very funny and long fairy stories.

Answer 2

remained serious. It's like he had two different smiles - one with his eyes and the other with his mouth.

My father didn't talk much about my mother. I think it was too painful for him. But sometimes, on special occasions, he would tell me stories about her, and I could see how much he loved her. He kept a small box of her belongings, and he would take them out from time to time to show me, keeping her memory alive.

As I grew older, I became more and more involved in helping my father in the workshop. I learned how to repair engines, change tires, and take care of the cars that came in for service. My father taught me everything he knew, and I loved every moment of it. We were not just father and son; we were a team, working together to make a living and build a life.

Life in the caravan was simple but fulfilling. We didn't have many material possessions, but we had each other, and that was enough. The caravan was our cozy sanctuary, filled with warmth from the wood-burning stove and the love between us.

I had friends at school, but my best friend was always my father. We would go on adventures together, exploring the fields and woods around our home. He would tell me stories of his own childhood and the dreams he had for our future.

As I entered my teenage years, my father's health started to decline. The years of hard work and exposure to the elements took a toll on him. I did my best to take care of him, just as he had cared for me all those years ago.

One day, as I was working on a car in the workshop, my father called me over. He had a serious look in his eyes, but this time there was no glimmer of humor. He told me that he was proud of me, that he loved me, and that I had to be strong when he was gone. His words pierced my heart, and tears welled up in my eyes. I couldn't imagine a world without him.

A few months later, my father passed away peacefully in his sleep. I was devastated, but I remembered his words - to be strong. I knew he would want me to carry on, to continue living and making him proud.

After his passing, I kept the workshop running for a while, but it was never the same without him. Eventually, I had to sell the filling station and the caravan, as I couldn't manage them alone. It was a bittersweet moment, letting go of the physical reminders of my childhood, but I knew that my father's love and teachings would always be with me.

Now, as I look back on those years spent with my father, I feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Despite the hardships and challenges we faced, we had something special - a bond that transcended any material possessions. He taught me not just how to repair engines but how to embrace life with a cheerful spirit, to find joy in the simplest of things.

Even though he's no longer physically with me, I carry his love, his laughter, and his golden-eyed smiles in my heart, cherishing the memories of our time together in that old gypsy caravan.