When I was in the third grade, we were asked to write a story about any family member. The choice fell on my grandfather, because from him I often heard some stunning stories from life and colorful material was enough. The task included five questions from the answers to which the story itself was subsequently built. I asked my grandfather who he was working for. Grandfather spoke about working in the circus, about how he trained elephants and giraffes. Giraffes walked the arena on their back legs. And the elephants balanced on the rope under the dome. He told a lot of interesting. I have never been so proud of myself. My story was the best! Who else can boast of something like this? Everybody listened with open mouths. One boy started laughing at me. He said I invented it. But I knew he was just jealous of me, because he wrote a boring story about my mother’s baker. I came home and began to talk about my triumph. Grandfather began to roast like not himself, grandmother began to mock him, but periodically crashed to laugh, like the mother who came later from work. He said he was joking.