As a child, I usually spent the mornings at the house. The house, where I grew
up, was big, and it was surrounded with big trees. It had two massive columns on the
both sides with a heavy wooden door between them. Above the front door was a big and
spacious balcony with a decorative, metal enclosure around it. There were also two
smaller balconies on the both sides of the house. The windows were big, too, and they
were covered with snow-white lace curtains from the inside. The house looked a little
intimidating from the outside; however, it was very cozy inside. The house was filled with
music and books. My father, who passed away 6 years ago, loved to listen to classical
music and read books. Therefore, I grew up with that music and those books around me.
I still remember when we all used to sit down together in the living room and listen to
music. I used to think that it was just music, but my father explained to us that each song
is like a story that the instruments are telling us. He explained to us that instruments are
like people and that they have their own language, and if we will listen carefully, we will
start to understand that language and love it, which we did. He also shared with us his
passion for reading. He showed us that the world of books is an interminable series of
adventures where we always can experience something new and exciting. My father and
my mother created an environment for me and my sister that was truly wonderful. I will
always appreciate their work and dedication.
Even though my house was a pleasant place to be, in the afternoon, I still liked to
escape from there to another wonderland of experiences, the town library. As a child, I
spent many cold, rainy afternoons in the library searching for new and exciting stories. I
still remember that old wooden building with the big, brown doors that creaked when
they were opened. The rain would be glistening on its dark red roof. The library was
always very quiet, with the exception of the sound of...