Rus Articles Journal

And how is your grandmother?

From what age I remember the grandmother? Even I do not know though it, almost like and mother, was always near. Whether there was it when is happy? Whether to it it was joyful on this cold earth? And nobody knew. It seems, even she did not know because she did not ask such “selfish“ questions - it was not accepted to think and tell it about himself. The vein to itself, survived, as well as all others.

From what age I remember the grandmother? Even I do not know. Well I remember the mother of years so from four as something self-evident and constant in my life as part of, the organism. As the hand or a leg which always are which you just use and which you just do not notice.

Vaguely I remember the father who, on the contrary, stopped being part of my organism of years in seven, having left in it some vague incomprehensibilities already later created same vague, offenses. And here even I do not remember the grandmother from what age I remember. Years from five? To seven? To ten? Even I do not know though it, almost like and mother, was always near.

What life my grandmother lived? What life other grandmothers lived? The innocent little girl in war, without the slightest self-pity remembering how they starving ate an orach and a nettle... The barefoot collective farmer after war (“and with future husband, your grandfather, began to meet because presented shoes“), after - the accountant on career, or as then spoke to a thicket, “accountant“, in one city, then in another where she together with the husband, my grandfather, moved. Then the husband, my grandfather, left to another, then did not think up anything the best at all how to die, having fallen short of seventy … Then disintegration of the country, inflation, stagnation, dashing 90 - e when the pension was not enough for payment of housing, without speaking about all the rest. However, all her life, as those 90 - e, as one disorder.

Whether there was it when is happy? Whether it was sweet? Whether to it it was joyful on this cold earth? And nobody knew. It seems, even she did not know because she did not ask such “selfish“ questions - it was not accepted to think and tell it about himself. The vein to itself, survived, as well as all others. Pulled the workdays, days. In rather safe “stagnant“ managed to go to the Soviet Crimea. Batumi, with Sukhumi to watch. Once even to the neighboring Romania and Bulgaria for three days according to the permit got …

the Grandmother for me always was on the second if not on the third, stable plan, at the same time vaguely and firmly appearing against my nursery, korotkopamyatny life. It was as the house in which you live. You live in it, come and leave, sometimes somewhere leave, and and do not notice it. I do not even remember how it then looked - more and more according to photos. I do not remember what spoke about, thought what dreamed of.

I “made out“ it already only in years thirty when incidentally arrived with short visit on a visit: arrived for a week, and remained to live for four months. As yesterday, I remember April cold of yet not settled late spring, the village fence broken in impassable dirt on which I almost to the touch, in full uncertainty, reached late evening there where there lived my grandmother. I remember a dim lamp only all around, with a scratch, on - cine shaking on cold wind, and then and her, my native old woman whom I did not see many years, small, shrunk and in an ancient kerchief, but same native, as always.

Especially to me daily campaigns “on the city“, on the rented by it, the semi-poor old woman, three pieces of the earth scattered in a radius of kilometers of five where it daily as for work, went to dig, put, weed and water were remembered.

She lived then, despite all ruin 90 - x and its already respectable age, both it is vigorous, and is cheerful. Got up early, did exercises and if there were no more important issues, went “to the city“. Well, and I together with it though nobody to it forced me.

Somehow we put cabbage on a site of one of her girlfriends, together with girlfriends. I dragged water a bucket full of holes from a nearby ditch, and the granny, with laughter and humourous catchphrases as if it was not on seventy, and on twenty, stuck gentle seedling to the crude earth. One was “Maryya - Igarok“ - red and freckled, on reprimand the Belarusian. Another - as if from Gogol`s stories, lanky, with the same long nose and a small knot of rare hair on the top. The third, on the contrary, small and tolstenky - that in height that in width, as Kolobok. It was terribly cheerful and is somehow vital. Healthy physical work in the fresh air, mutual assistance and mutual aid when nobody from anybody took money and was sincerely glad to help, the genuine hospitality and hospitality of rural people - and on heart became easy and joyful.

When there came the summer and works on kitchen gardens increased (“bugs should be sbirat from a kartopla“, to weed to water), my interest podugas. To me it was far to my grandmother able for hours without rest and without extension to stand in one pose, “a bottom to the sky“ and to move ahead persistently and fatally slowly. In an hour two I began to groan, groan and even more often to do pauses, impatiently glancing there where the dusty road conducted back, to the house. And still, when also I “tore out not a weed, and the culture“ or a chopper was damaged by a sprout and to me the remark became, at all it became boring for me, I did a break, took a sip from the taken bottle still of cold spring water and, having stretched hands, fell in a grass, pensively looking in the high sky.

Closer by a lunch we finished “the first act of the Marlezonsky ballet“ and went home. The sun by that o`clock already usually hanged highly over the head, the sand path raised dust under legs or from wind, thoughts melted. On the way home I opened for myself a remarkable vegetable marrow where sold excellent cold beer, and I, having taken a bottle - another, hurried home where we were waited by red borsch with “cutting torch“ - the huge size garlic with black “wet“ bread... Or the kartoshechka baked in a grubka (a small oven) with the fat herring floating in crude sunflower oil and in onions rings as in laces, or still what not original, but unique and awfully tasty dish for lunch.

After a lunch we had a quiet time. After-dinner rest, in especially hot summer, was obligatory grandmother`s ritual. First I bessonno turned one or one and a half hours with the book in impatience when the siesta ends, but later so got used to it, every time falling into sweet is unclear from where the undertaken sleepiness that began to wake up hardly to hours to five when the grandmother in the field already danced “the second act of the Marlezonsky ballet“.

My energy already then of the seventy-five-year-old grandmother, without exaggeration, could envy. Except for a two-hour siesta, it was standing all the time, in a day managing to bypass three fields in the different ends, to dig up, vspolot, to water, etc. to visit the girlfriend - another, to come into shop and to make a lunch or a dinner, and only by the evening, hours to nine, to take seat quietly in a chair in front of the TV, because of weak hearing that “to scent that in the world occurs“. Energy and was in full swing from it - she was even in time me “on - grandmother`s“ to be jealous of some girlfriend whom I paid slightly more than the put attention …

Well, and today to my grandmother eighty eight and it is similar to a helpless old bird who flew in the most blue skies still yesterday, and today cannot and come off on meter the earth. Also she looks at me the eyes of the wounded child full got down, and only does not tell anything. I very much want to console her, to calm, promise that everything will be good. Only I am a bad comforter and both of us already perfectly know that “everything“ will not be good.

And I only think more and more that it is advisable to visit my grandmother. Again and again. Once again and once again. To take it by a hand. It is awkward to enclose in it a denyuzhka. To look in its muddy, with povoloky at eyes. To comprehend what to comprehend there was no time. And to keep silent not to lie …