I was four months old when my mother died. I was an only child in the family and there were just my father and I. We lived in a gypsy caravan, which my father owned. He washed me and took care of me like any mother would do with her son. I never was unhappy.
I helped my father in the workshop. His workshop was a stone-made building that he had built by himself.
We earned for living by repairing engines in our workshop. It was a fine workshop, enough big to repair one machine.
We had a wood-burning stove and we used to make stew with it. We had all the furniture and all comforts we needed.
I really liked to live in that caravan. I really liked father's stories. And no doubt, my father was the best father any boy ever had.
If you don't know my father well, you may think he was serious. But he wasn't. He actually had a lot of fun. But he never smiled with his mouth. 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. I can't say my father was an educated, I doubt he had read many books in his life, but he was an excellent storyteller. He always told me bedtime stories. The best stories were turned into serials and went on many nights running.
