срочно нужен перевод! Заранее спасибо
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.
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.
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Когда мне было 4 месяца, умерла моя мама. У меня не было ни братьев, ни сестер. Так что все мое детство, с четырехмесячного возраста, нас было только двое - мой отец и я. Мы жили в старом вагончике. Мой отец владел бензоколонкой и вагончиком, и это все, что у него было. Бензоколонка была очень маленькой и находилась на небольшой проселочной дороге, окруженная полями и лесистыми холмами.
Когда я был еще ребенком, мой отец купал и кормил меня, возил меня на коляске к доктору и делал миллионы других вещей, которые обычно делает мама для своего ребенка. Это непростая задача для мужчины, особенно когда ему одновременно приходится зарабатывать себе на жизнь.
Но мой отец был веселым человеком. Я думаю, что он мне дарил всю любовь, которую он испытывал к моей матери, когда она была жива. Мы были очень близки. Во времена моего детства у меня не было несчастливых моментов, и вот наступил мой 5-ый день рожденья.
Я был маленьким мальчиком, как вы видите, весь грязный и в масле, но это потому что я провел весь день в мастерской, помогая отцу с машинами. Мастерская была каменным зданием. Мой отец построил ее сам с любовью и заботой. «Мы инженеры, ты и я», - сказал он мне, - "Мы зарабатываем на хлеб, ремонтируя двигатели, и мы не можем хорошо работать в плохой мастерской". Это была прекрасная мастерская, достаточно большая, чтобы вместить одну машину.
Вагон был нашим домом и жилищем. Мой отец говорил, что ему было, по крайней мере, 150 лет. Как и много цыганские дети, он рассказывал, он родился и вырос в пределах этих деревянных стен. Разные люди стучали в его двери, разные люди жили в нем. Но сейчас его лучшие годы остались позади. В вагончике была только одна комната, которая была не намного больше, чем современная ванная комната.
Хотя у нас был электрический свет в мастерской, нам не разрешили подключить его в вагончике, потому что это было опасно. Поэтому мы получали тепло и свет также, как и цыгане много лет назад. Там стояла дровяная печь, которая давала нам зимой тепло, там также были свечи в подсвечниках. Я думаю, что рагу, приготовленное моим отцом, это лучшее, что я когда-либо кушал. Одной тарелки было недостаточно.
Из мебели у нас были две узкие кровати, два стула и небольшой стол, покрытый скатертью, на котором стояли несколько мисок, тарелок, чашек, вилок и ложек. Это были все домашние удобства, которые мы имели. Это было все, что нам было нужно.
Я действительно жил, живя в вагончике. Я жил вечерами, когда я лежал в своей постели и мой отец рассказывал истории. Я был счастлив, потому что был уверен, что когда я сплю, мой отец по-прежнему здесь, рядом со мной, сидит в своем кресле у огня.
Мой отец, без всякого сомнения, был самым прекрасным и замечательным отцом, который когда-либо был у какого-нибудь мальчика. Вот его фотография.
Вы можете подумать, не зная его достаточно хорошо, что он был серозный человека. Нет, не был. На самом деле он был полон веселья. Тот факт, что он никогда не улыбался, делал его таким серьезным и иногда грустным. Он делал это своими глазами. Он имел ярко-голубые глаза и когда он вспоминал что-то смешное, можно было увидеть, как золотой свет танцует в его глазах. Но рот никогда не двигался. Моего отца вряд ли можно было назвать образованным человеком. Я сомневаюсь, что он прочитал в своей жизни много книг. Но он был превосходным рассказчиком. Он обещал мне, что придумает для меня сказку на ночь каждый раз, когда я просил его. Он всегда держал свое обещание. Лучшие рассказы превращались в несколько истории и продолжались много ночей подряд.