Rus Articles Journal

Sunday pastoral or what can be happy day?

As usual many of us spend days off? Wound off working week, full time, at the first bottles jerked for perimeter, on freedom and flashingly so sprysnut this most two-day freedom vodka, and beer did not forget to polirnut also in the sincere company that the soul was developed and again was curtailed. And home on horns, with joyful expression of eternally unhappy person and fell heavily in a bed to the accompaniment of the dissatisfied spouse that tomorrow with the person as a last year`s pickle, polsubbota to recover, under the same abstruse accompaniment again. And then again to jerk there, already for other perimeter, beer to drink there, - companions to meet friends … Is not present? Not you stood with a glass of beer in that big company what at “Manufactured goods“ last Friday that and on Saturday to continue the holiday begun on Friday?

Then you, of course, vigorously so jumped on Saturday morning, not that early, but soon after habitual. Accepted in a shower, have breakfast fried eggs with tomatoes and went to car service to repair the crankshaft. Or, for example, on the dacha to dig potatoes. Or to the mother-in-law, but not on pancakes, - as, will call you on pancakes, - and to drag the new refrigerator on the fifth floor. Or, maybe, did repair, beat a curtain, dug in garage. It is possible even as the exemplary husband, you directly helped the wife about the house, and by the evening terribly were tired.

One affairs are made, but behind them, right there, there are another matters, even more numerous and not less important. And as the responsible person, as the man of his word it is also long, you, of course, cannot neglect them. And so endlessly. So far you do not decide to arrange revolt in an own chamber with conveniences and will not send all to hell dog.

What, after the decision to lead full-fledged life of the law-abiding citizen and conscientious spouse, the decision to arrange small revolt against the lusciously correct and boring life, can be not less correct. At least for one day. To postpone “for later“ vseobyazatelny washing of ware or such important - prevazhny annual repair, or not to plant potato this year, to forget about sobutylnichayushchy friends - companions … And in general, to forget about all this mercantile world and to jerk from everything and all!

However, seemingly, that I give this advice to myself as all other world learned to relax correctly long ago and does not need councils. That, then I will also follow them …

Hardly the first beams still of as in summer bright August sun rush to me into the semi-gloomy room as I joyfully wake up, in even sleepy brain slowly starting lazy thoughts, but not about eternal, endlessly, affairs and problems that awake many of us on days off, it seems “it is necessary to buy this and it“, “it is necessary to repair so and so“, “it is necessary to descend there - and there -“, and about absolutely fine and joyful events which by all means expect me today and which have nothing in common with so obligatory affairs and such ordinary.

It is enough already one early sun hitting with the yellow fountain in even sleepy room, one important cock shout in the neighbour`s yard, uneasy chatter of birds into an open window leaf to feel in itself that, first mood which sets all day. And to rise from that leg.

I do not hurry on kitchen behind eternal coffee and sandwiches, and I do not turn on first of all the TV that since morning to stuff myself someone`s head with foreign life and others silly problems which people like to think out to themselves as I would make, be this usual Sunday. Instead, having quickly made toilet and having pulled on itself the old faded “Afghan“, having broken on the road couple of apples for breakfast, on pure dew and in shine of a rising sun as if young god, I go to the wood.

On the road to me vstrechayetsyamy the old acquaintance - old a konyaka, peacefully grazed in a dense grass. Which as soon as I appear from - for plum thickets, right there hitches up the head in my party though between us the distance is not less than hundred meters as if expects me. I do a hook aside to greet the old friend. (Quite recently when mother stayed with me, each siesta we indulged him fresh water-melon crusts which he ate with big pleasure, champing, as a pig, having absolutely forgotten about good manners). I get apples, I break them in half and from a palm I feed to it. His sad eyes brighten, it tychtsya by soft lips to me in a face as if thanks, and from it to me it becomes even more joyful.

A stitch curls through a wheat field. Couple more of steps, and I appear all as if in gold: sideways, on rising, everything grows stronger the August sun, warming me a side, and the field, gold to a stupor, stretches around. The feeling is almost surrealistic. To dizziness. Ears kept up, were poured and under own weight tend to the earth. Uneasy larks blow over bread. In air smells of the childhood …

In a minute I enter in redenky prilesok, I take one hundred steps on faded foliage and I enter the gloomy wood. He did not wake up yet. Thin, as if needles, sun beams only which - where begin to awaken it. On deflowered lilies of the valley dew gleams. Smells of dampness and mushrooms.

Aloud I say that mushrooms cannot be here. Such spell. That in a minute to come across family from three slippery jacks. Mushrooms clean, not worm-eaten. I put them in a package and I move further. Long ago it is noticed that should be told loudly and convincingly “There are no mushrooms here“ or, for example, “A will not be biting“ that the capricious nature did not fail to prove you the return.

I like to talk to the wood. It - as the wise, not contradicting listener. There, aloud, I am exempted from all the alarms and experiences, reserving everything told, on faded foliage, in a shadow of centenary pines. Pines squeak to me in reply, dry branches crack under legs, leaves rustle. I gradually calm down.

Here and there I will come across slippery jacks, aspen mushrooms, russulas … More and more. In the head the picture of mushroom coulibiac gradually appears. Ruddy, with a crisp crust. Plainly what is coulibiac, I do not know. And as it prepares. And whether happens mushroom. But I precisely know that I when I come back home, will surely make mushroom coulibiac.

Oxygen turns the head, legs become wadded, and I decide to come back. I do turn. Still. Also I understand that lost a reference point. Minutes ten, intoxicated with sudden fatigue, I make the way through young growth as it seems to me in the right direction that on the eleventh to understand that I got lost.

(Once, having got lost, I some inexplicably came to the opposite coast of Neman. As I got there, I still do not know). This time I quickly am guided by the sun and in twenty minutes I come to the road which conducts home.

Having arrived home, the thought of coulibiac gives me forces, and I as the artist, I create. I clean slippery jacks, I boil, I fry with onions, I cook dough, in a culinary rush I fertilize all kitchen a thin layer of flour. The layer is lower, the mushroom stuffing - yes is more, a layer top. And - in an oven.

Outside loads a rain. Mushroom. Or blind person. The sun and it is raining shines. Funny.

At gate pears ripened. And at a plum intake. And at the left, under burden, to the earth apple-trees were inclined. In one plate I gather pears. In another plums. I leave apples for later. Well unless it is not paradise?

Some household affairs all - take me some time. But I am not nervous any more, I am not angry. And even opposite, joyfully I indulge of

Sun droops, and day by the end. It seems, all my cares remained behind. I feel tired and updated as if the baby.

In the evening mother calls and complains of something. I share with it the pleasure, and mentally, about myself, I promise to take it with myself next time. That too grieves were reduced. And in ten minutes I fill up with the righteous person`s dream.