As a child, my parents were passionate about teaching me a language, gifting me a new dictionary at each new milestone in my learning process. The first dictionary I owned was a native language dictionary written for young children.
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When I was five years old, my father bought me a book when he saw that I started reading. But it was never used in practice – at least not for the right purpose.When I came across a new word, I was too lazy to look it up in a dictionary, and usually guessed its meaning and moved on. or if the word was too important to remain vague. Instead, I used a dictionary when I wanted the experience to feel like a thick book, inhaling the fresh smell of paper as I turned the pages.
Her second dictionary my parents gave me was my first English dictionary. I had started reading English, and one day my girlfriend's mother bought me an English-English dictionary for beginners. It had a beautiful pale blue cover with glowing letters and the paper smell was perfect.I liked the dictionary so I tried to study with it. At least I used it often enough until I could easily look up the word I needed.
Years later, when I was no longer a beginner, her mother wanted me to buy a real English-English dictionary. What she gave me was a thicker brown-covered dictionary in a light green box. I was very pleased and promised to make the most of it, but this beautiful dictionary received even less attention than its predecessor. I didn't. Most of the time, I would read a few articles from my textbook, and every time I came across a new word, I would ask my mother, who was sitting next to me, to check my work.
At that time, my family had a habit of going to a nearby hamburger shop to read a book every weekend. I took my book there and mixed a few pages with ginger ale and fries. Every time I came across a word I didn't understand, I asked my parents.
At first they didn't mind being asked, but as the frequency of my questions began to interfere with their own reading, they became grumpy.