For a city dweller, spending a vacation in the countryside is great! It’s even better when this vacation will be remembered for a lifetime. This humorous story, a very funny village story, more like an anecdote, making both children and adults laugh, recorded from the words of Ekaterina Solnechnaya.
This happened not so long ago, last year, when the whole family went to visit my grandmother in the village. I, my husband Yura and two small children: little son Vanechka and one-year-old daughter Alinochka have long wanted to visit my grandmother and, accordingly, relax in the lap of nature. For the places in the village were fabulous, not like in the noisy and dusty city.
My husband and I took vacations and decided to rush to the village for the whole of July, and at the same time help our grandmother, because she is already old, no joke - eighty-six years old! In addition, she also had her own vegetable garden and household: Geese and chickens were her weakness.
Granny, although old, was very lively for her age. She greeted us, as always, with tears of joy, baked pies, and ran to show me her considerable chicken farm.
- Look, my Glashka bred fifteen of them last summer! Just look - what beauties! They've already started rushing! - the grandmother said excitedly, clearly proud of her pets. As I understand it, Glashka is a chicken, also of advanced age by chicken standards, which nearby was intensively trying to dig something up in the ground.
Indeed, granny’s chickens were real beauties: gray, speckled and black with a blue tint, Russian corydalis. Their heads were adorned with a thick tuft of feathers that fell directly into their eyes. The chickens swarmed in the ground, not paying any attention to us. And at the head of this entire chicken society, in the middle of the yard stood a handsome rooster, watching over his entire numerous harem.
It must be said that he apparently knew his worth, his Napoleon stance gave it away: he proudly raised his head, his black and red feathers shining in the sun, and turned in front of his harem, showing off his lush rooster tail - the pride of a real rooster. Even the cats passing through the yard tried to avoid this proud, handsome man, not wanting to get involved with him.
We went to bed late, talked about everything: about relatives, and about acquaintances, and about acquaintances. I was lulled to sleep with his purring by a young black cat, so affectionate and funny that even during the day he followed me on my heels and rubbed against my legs at every opportunity.
I woke up quite late, my husband had already left to mow the grass, and my grandmother was busy doing housework, having already kneaded the dough and lit the oven. I even felt ashamed: here is Sonya, she came to help, and I myself sleep until lunch! I hurriedly got dressed, fed the children and sent them out for a walk, and I myself asked the grandmother how to help her.
- You don’t need anything, honey, rest! I've already done everything. Now I’ll just finish cooking lunch, we’ll call Yura and sit down at the table. This morning I poured my wine into bottles, so let’s take a sample,” then, after thinking a little, she added: “Well, maybe feed the chickens.”
I went out into the village yard. “So, what do they feed the chickens?” I used to live in a village, but that was when I was very young. I remember that they peck at grain and various waste from the kitchen. There was more than enough grain in the chicken feeder, and I decided to see if there was any tasty waste in the hallway, I knew where my grandmother usually puts it.
In the corridor there was a pot with some berries, they looked like they were made from compote. Having taken this pan, I decided to treat the chickens with berries, in case they liked them! Having sprinkled some berries into the feeder, I realized that the chickens really liked this delicacy, so I sprinkled more... The chickens hurriedly pecked at the berries, trying to grab as many as possible, and the rooster, busily scattering them, also did not lag behind. I poured out all the berries for them, watching with a smile as they hastily pecked them. “Now the chickens will definitely be full.”
I washed the pan and went into the house, where the granny was already setting the table. After chatting a little about life, the grandmother took a bottle from the cupboard and put it on the table.
- Well, I made the wine myself from serviceberry, now we’ll take the first sample. I went to get Yura, and you take the borscht out of the oven.
Grandma winked at me and went out into the corridor, and I reached into the oven for a pan. Then I heard a wild scream, gradually turning into a plaintive moan and lamentation. Grandmother! The pan flew out of my hands, and the borscht began to hiss and spread across the hot stove. Without paying attention to this, I ran out like a scalded person after my grandmother, imagining various terrible pictures of what had happened as I ran.
But what I saw just didn’t fit in my head: my grandmother was standing in the middle of the lawn, and chickens were lying all over the yard... dead. The grandmother, with tears and lamentations, picked up one chicken: she did not move, her eyes were covered with a cloudy film, her tongue fell out of her beak.
- They died! - Grandma cried bitterly.
- It’s me... It’s my fault, I fed them berries from the pan...
- Which pan?
- The one who stood in the corridor.
“Irga, from wine,” the grandmother began to wail again. Her husband came running to her cry. When he found out what happened, he just looked at me and sighed. I felt so ashamed that I didn’t even know what to do. It was useless to calm my grandmother down.
“Okay, enough tears,” said Yura. - While they are still fresh, pluck them, at least there will be meat. They didn't die from illness. I quietly took a large basin and dragged myself to collect the poor chickens. The grandmother also came to her senses a little, her lamentations were replaced by quiet sobs. We settled down in the kitchen by the stove and began plucking the chickens. Our work lasted about two hours, the last was the rooster.
The grandmother herself decided to pluck him. Having plucked his tail and wings, she asked me to take out the feathers; there were already several buckets of them. Taking two buckets, I took them out into the corridor and placed them by the door, because I knew that my grandmother would decide to dry the feathers and then use them on pillows. And then I heard a wild scream again - my grandmother was screaming again. Rushing into the kitchen, I froze in place, gradually sliding down the wall to the floor: in the middle of the kitchen, a half-plucked rooster stood on unsteady legs and shook his head, naked chickens were swarming in the basin, trying to crawl out. My poor grandmother sat on the floor and, clutching her heart with her hand, moaned softly, watching this action with huge eyes.
O-come to life! - it seems that the grandmother was completely finished off by this whole situation. I couldn’t utter a word, I just stood up and turned over the basin with the chickens, which began to scatter throughout the kitchen. The rooster, seeing the naked chickens, apparently became more frightened than us, rushed to the door from the kitchen and collided with the cat. He, in turn, apparently had never seen half-naked roosters and did not know what to expect from them, rushed with a wild cry away from the rooster, and in one jump jumped out of the window, simultaneously dragging the entire curtain with him.
At this time, the husband appeared at the door. Seeing the rooster, he backed away, turning pale as if he had seen a ghost in front of him, then looked after the rooster for a long time and went into the kitchen. For about five minutes he watched with an indifferent gaze as naked chickens surrounded a bucket of water and drank greedily.
“Dry,” the husband said and laughed loudly. I kicked the poor chickens out into the yard and took care of my grandmother, calming her down by dripping valerian into a glass of water. At this time, Alinka began to cry in the yard. I ran out to her roar; she pointed her finger at the naked chickens, which were running around the yard like mad, not understanding what had happened to them, and she could not understand why the chicken legs suddenly began to walk.
Since that time, Alinka no longer goes into the yard alone - she is afraid of naked chickens, and she no longer looks into the refrigerator, because there is no, no, and there is some kind of leg or frozen chicken lying around.
The grandmother came to her senses, laughed a little with her husband, discussing this funny village story, the great drinking party and new outfit your pets, especially their haircuts; after all, we did not pluck the feathers from the very top of the head. But the whole village came for a long time to look at the naked chickens, people stood for hours at the fence, holding their stomachs and hiccupping.
The rooster spent most of the day sitting in the thick grass, afraid to appear in this form. Only occasionally did he go out to the feeding trough, avoiding encounters with his naked harem. Apparently the sight of naked chickens with a lush head of feathers on the top of their heads frightened him even more than his bare butt.
Since then, the question “How can I help you?” grandma answers:
- I’ll feed the chickens myself!
And every time I walk into the meat department of a store and see frozen chickens, I involuntarily hold back a smile, remembering the summer spent in the village.
So, my grandmother is a very superstitious person, she believes in brownies, goblins, etc. I remember that in the evenings my grandmother always spoiled us with village fables. And then one summer day, grandma told us a story about her meeting with a brownie. This happened winter evening, Granny, after a hard day in the village, finally went to rest, fell asleep instantly, and as she said, she woke up from a strange feeling: it seemed as if someone was looking at her from the darkness.
She looked around at no one, and then tried to fall asleep, but the presence of the gaze on herself did not disappear, on the contrary, it intensified. Granny opens her eyes, and in the aisle between the beds stands a tall creature, as she said, all covered with fur. (I still remember, I laughed so much, grandma thought it was my grandfather, she even called him, saying, “Kol, is that you?” But she didn’t hear an answer). So he stands there, looks and puts his hands to his throat, but strashno.com my fighting granny was not taken aback and screamed: “Go to hell!” And the creature stamped its foot, hooted and disappeared. Then the rooster crowed - it’s time to get up.
Grandma told grandfather everything, but he only twisted it at his temple.
The day passed calmly with household chores, everything seemed to be forgotten. We sat down to dinner. The lights in the village are often turned off and this evening was no exception. Granny set the table and went into the kitchen to get salt. While she was pouring salt into the salt shaker, she heard wheezing. I called out to my grandfather - silence. She runs into the dining room, and grandfather is all blue, barely breathing - he has choked. Grandma, let’s save him, she stuck her hand down his throat, grandfather began to bite his hand involuntarily, the pain was hellish, as she said. He then bit her hand right through, so she barely managed to get a piece of meat and saved her grandfather. The strangest thing is that when the grandfather began to breathe, the grandmother said - the breeze blew strashno.com and the door slammed, and in the light of a candle on the door she saw a shadow... with a scythe. Apparently death came for him, but his grandmother did not let him be taken away.
The grandmother immediately remembered that night creature, apparently it came to warn the grandmother that grandfather was in danger.
My grandmother on my mother’s side, Anastasia Fedorovna, was born in 1947 in the village of Zhuravkino, Zubovo-Polyansky district of Mordovia. The village was located on the territory Mordovian Moksha, which have their own dialect, unlike Erzya, where Mordovian speech is slightly different. Speaking of language, Dutch words remind my mother of Mordovian. Of course, the differences between Moksha and Erzya were not only in speech, but also, for example, in clothing, but this will be discussed later.
Grandmother had 4 brothers and one sister - large families were commonplace at that time. Talking about life in the village, the grandmother said that they used soda and ash for washing, salt for brushing their teeth (they brushed with their fingers), and washed their hair with scented milk, the one that was left over from the production of cream. Grandma says that she washed her hair once a week and her hair was silky, and she did not use any face creams. Neither my grandmother nor her mother used cosmetics. Although my grandmother said that there was one girl in the village who loved to preen herself - she painted her face with starch, her cheeks with beets, and her eyebrows with soot. However, I did not specify whether men liked that girl. There was also cologne in the village - well-known to everyone: “Carnation”, “Chypre” and “Triple”. The women's version of the perfume was “Red Poppy”.
In the village, not all products could be bought, and what was possible to buy was made with their own hands in order to save money. For example, felt boots were made by ourselves, although they were sold on the market. Usually, felt felters went from house to house and asked who needed felt boots. Then they stayed in one house in the village and everyone brought orders there. You could also buy clothes at the market, although my grandmother’s mother knew how to sew and sewed not only for her family, but also to order for her neighbors.
New Year was not so popular in the village. Christmas and Easter were especially celebrated. Epiphany and patronal feasts were also celebrated - those designated by the village church. In Kovylkino, such temple holidays were celebrated on November 21, December 22, as well as on the 6th day of Easter - the “life-giving source”.
In winter, at Epiphany, all the women went out with their children in the morning, and the men sprinkled them with snow. Grandma said that they could have “sprinkled snow with shovels.” It’s hard for me to imagine this, but the granny continued with a smile: “Two men used to lead a woman from both sides, and with the snow, she didn’t want to go, but they dragged her.”
Trinity, which is celebrated in the summer and always on Sunday, began to be celebrated on Saturday. The girls gathered, broke thin birch trees and made gates out of them, this was done in a clearing, and festivities took place there. On Monday, the “tenants” came out, also made gates from birch trees, took tables out into the street, moonshine, wine, food - whoever had what, and celebrated. Grandmother said that there were only women (yes, wine and moonshine are only for women), because the Trinity is women's holiday. “But of course,” said the grandmother.
It was not by chance that Angelo came to this Kenyan village. He had been traveling around the country for ten days, - according to national parks, nature reserves and cities - however, we were only able to see wild animals up close. Smiling employees of hotels, campsites, security guards and drivers tried to protect the white tourist from the locals, driving beggars away from the car in the city, and curious children in the villages. Angelo wanted an exciting adventure: to live real life Kenyans, meet street punks, maybe go hunting with a Maasai warrior, chat in a night bar with cheerful girls. But, instead, he breathed the cool air in a locked car, looking at the bustling life around him through the glass. The thought often flashed through my mind: “I wish I could find out what the shepherd boys are thinking about when they look at the passing cars with tourists?” Angelo had another idea, which he didn’t want to tell anyone about ahead of time - to make an amateur film about the most ordinary people Kenya and send it to annual competition National Geographic magazine. (1) Therefore, Angelo decided to go to the village closest to the beach as soon as he met the local boy James.
James sold shells, sometimes simple souvenirs carved from coconut shells, or invited tourists to the village for excursions, walking along the ocean shore. Sunbathing people on the beach most often refused to go for a walk, buying shells as souvenirs, so as not to offend the friendly guy. Angelo's idea to walk around the village promised good money, so James chatted incessantly all the way, trying to please. He mimicked the villagers, grimacing, and, changing his voice, talked about his brothers and grandmother. The road from the beach to the village, which stretched every day like old chewing gum, flew by unnoticed, although the sun burned mercilessly. We decided to start getting acquainted with James’s grandmother, old Grace. She, according to her grandson, was not only a hospitable hostess, but also a good storyteller. "You'll see, you'll like her! My grandmother is funny and cheerful! And people come to listen to her stories and fairy tales even from neighboring villages ", the boy boasted. But before they had time to get closer to the house, the old woman, who had been sitting on a log in front of the door, jumped out of her seat and shouted at her grandson in a matchmaker incomprehensible to Angelo, repeating “Eee!” This guttural “Eeeee! " could mean anything, but not joy. At the same time, Grandma Grace splashed and waved her arms like a disturbed chicken with its wings. Noticing the stranger behind James, she stopped short and fell silent, looking at Angelo with curiosity. - Don’t pay attention, my grandmother screams all the time and swears when I come home from the beach so early.” James said, pushing his new friend towards the house, and hiding behind him. “Why?” Angelo didn’t understand, walking ahead of James. “If I came back early, then no.” “There will be no catch” and there will be no dinner." The boy quickly answered, continuing to push the guest in the back. "Tell her that I will pay you for the walk today. Angelo - but could you put a couple of hundred shillings in her hands right now so she won't scream? - James asked, hiding his eyes. - Certainly! - She will tell you everything about the village and about our neighbors. You can even film it on camera. Before taking the offered money, the old woman asked her grandson something about matchmaking. Apparently, his answer pleased her - she extended her palms and carefully took the advance. "Jumbo!" - she said to the guest, motioning him to sit down on a piece of old wood. Adjusting the scarf on her head and smoothing out her black skirt on her knees, Grace began the story, helping herself with her hands and again repeating: “Uh!” This time the guttural exclamation sounded kinder. James translated grandma's words, trying not to miss anything, and Angelo filmed. The story was interesting and the narrator was colorful, but Angelo felt that this was not quite what was needed for the competition. There was no zest that would make the film lively and original. At some point, he turned off the camera, continuing to listen carefully to Grace. James was the first to notice this and pointed his finger at the camera in surprise, continuing to translate. Then the old woman fell silent, feeling that something was going wrong. Angelo smiled and asked to tell him something funny, some funny story about his grandson. Grandma Grace looked at her guest strangely, thought for a moment, but did not answer. After sitting for a couple of minutes in silence, she said something in matchmaker to her grandson, waving towards the neighbors’ houses, then took out money from the numerous folds of her skirt and silently handed it to Angelo. - Why is she returning the money? - the guy asked his friend in surprise. “She said she was old and didn’t remember anything.” - James answered quietly. - But we were all little and played around, did something funny. Does she really remember nothing about you? - I don’t know, Angelo, I don’t remember anything funny myself. I wanted to eat all the time, and my stomach hurt. - Wait, let me sign you up. Tell me honestly about your life or... - No, I don’t want to talk about it! - James interrupted. - And grandma doesn’t want to. Let's go to the village, talk to other women there and maybe write down a funny story. “OK, let’s go,” the guy was confused. He nodded to Granny Grace, but she didn’t answer. Thinking that she had not noticed his nod, Angelo said loudly, “Goodbye!” However, the old woman did not pay attention to his words, still sitting on her “bench” and looking at the top of the palm tree with dull eyes, as if looking for an answer to his question among the sharp leaves. "A funny story about a grandson... This white Bwana (2) is mocking me. What funny incidents? Did I remember them? I remember James almost dying of malaria, but that's probably not interesting. Or how we couldn’t sleep for a week because of the rain, when our houses were half flooded. - I thought, watching the retreating figures of James and the guest. - “How different they are! Okay, so different color skin, so they also go differently. James walks lightly, dancing, and Bwana takes each step as if he were hammering in nails with the soles of his expensive leather boots. Why did God create us so different?" Continuing to do household chores, I did not stop thinking about Bwan's request. And the memories themselves crawled into my head and disturbed me, although time had passed and it was time to forget about them. - Khabari, bibi! (3) - An elderly woman greeted me, standing behind a wire fence. She was probably afraid to come closer because of the dog lying across the path. - Mzuri sana, bibi! - I shouted and tried to drive the dog away from the road. She didn’t move from her place, she just pressed her ears and tucked her tail under herself. “Don’t be afraid of him, he doesn’t bite,” I added, placing my foot on the dog so that the guest could walk to the house. “He just loves this place and everyone lies here.” day. Don’t hit, she won’t leave until she’s hungry. The woman stood at the door, holding her bag in front of her, and looking incredulously at our Mbwa. Although I tried to calm her down, she was still afraid of the dog, who came running at my screams. first he looked at the unfamiliar woman, then lay down next to Mbwa, hugging his neck. The boy once again looked expressively at the guest, making it clear that she was not in danger. “Your grandson is so smart,” she remarked after we greeted each other and asked the traditional questions about the house and children. I looked in surprise at Tom and Mbwa, lying in an embrace in the red dust, and just waved my hand, saying that this boy is always lying on the ground with the dog. - Look how smart his eyes are! They just glow! “The woman continued to admire my grandson. “Not ours, not the village one,” I thought, looking at her. A dark brown suit, tailored in the English style, a white shirt underneath and black leather shoes said a lot about its owner. She's probably a housekeeper in good home in the city or serves in some important office. Her hair, braided in small braids, was neatly laid under a blue scarf. Metal-framed glasses glittered in the sun, hiding his eyes. I felt somehow embarrassed for my old, dirty outfit and sun-faded scarf, and I, trying not to look at the stranger’s good-quality suit, asked: “How can I help you, bibi?” Out of the corner of my eye I noticed that neighbor Lucy was already walking in our direction, hastily wiping her hands on her dress and trying to pull her granddaughter away from her. The crying girl trotted nearby, clutching her grandmother's skirt with one hand and smearing tears and snot across her face with the other. “Well, now all the old women will come running,” I grumbled and repeated my question. “Give me some water, please,” the stranger asked, her throat was dry from the heat, without answering my question. The last canister of water was half empty, so I began to pour water into the mug carefully, afraid to stir up the sediment. - This boiled water? - asked the guest. - Why boil it? - I was surprised by her question. - I brought water from the river this morning. It's fresh, just a little cloudy. - Oh, then there’s no need, I won’t drink water from the river! “The woman even pulled away from me, wrinkling her nose in disgust. "I wish you were empty!" - I thought, screwing the cap of the canister. I handed the mug of water to Tom, who was always thirsty. - And don’t give your child unboiled food! - the stranger exclaimed, snatching the mug from my hands. Out of surprise, I unclenched my fingers, and the mug rolled along the ground, leaving behind a wet path in the dust. Lucy, who had already approached us, stared in bewilderment at the woman in the suit, forgetting about greetings. Her granddaughter cried louder, scared or stranger, or just out of habit. Lucy displeasedly took her granddaughter in her arms, without taking her eyes off the stranger and me. - Bibi, I need to talk to you very seriously. important matter. - The woman lowered her voice and expressively squinted her eyes towards the curious neighbor. - Then come into the house. “I said dissatisfied, feeling hostility towards this uninvited guest, but my curiosity had already put its paws into my heart, and I was not going to let this woman go just like that. She sat down on a small chair in the middle of the house, placing her bag on her lap, and looked at me questioningly, as if asking permission to start a conversation. “I don’t think I can help you,” I said to start the conversation, making an indifferent face. Although most of all now I wanted to know only one thing - what is this for? rich woman she came to me. - I already said that I have a very important conversation to you, bibi. My name is Marie. I work in Mombasa for white people. “Sava-sava (5),” I said, stroking my knees with impatience. - My owners have no children, they are barren. And you know, life is not life without children. “And with them - only troubles and misfortunes,” flashed through my head. - “It would be better if I were also barren.” But in reality I nodded understandingly, knowing that Marie would not have liked my thoughts. - They decided to adopt the boy, but do not want to get involved with the orphanage. You know, the children there are not as well-mannered as in the family. My owners are afraid that they will encounter a sick or spoiled child. Besides, how can you check who the orphan’s parents are? Maybe they were very sick people or criminals. But it happens that the parents are alive and can show up at new family and demand her son back... - Marie looked at me carefully over her glasses, as if checking whether I was listening to her. If only she knew how carefully I listened to her, holding my breath. “God himself sent me this woman today,” I thought and shook my head sympathetically. While she spoke, I nodded and agreed with her, rejoicing that the Lord brought her to my house today, when I don’t know what to feed my crowd. And this one, if you pity her, can leave money for maize flour. - Your grandchildren are orphans, that’s why I came to you. - Marie finished her long story. “But they only need one boy,” she added hastily. I was silent, trying to understand it last words. Thoughts revolved around food all the time, and the eyes of their own accord turned to the woman’s bag, where the money probably lay. - Do you understand what I'm talking about? - She even stood up on her chair, peering inquisitively into my face and glinting ominously with her glasses. The room became dark - neighbor Lucy stood in the doorway with her silent granddaughter in her arms, blocking sunlight . She opened her mouth in surprise and stared at Marie as if she had fallen from the moon. - Grace, what is she saying? - Finally, the creaky voice of old Lucy broke the silence. - Bibi, I'm not talking to you. Aren't you ashamed to eavesdrop? - Marie stood up, her glasses on her nose flashing angrily. “Eh, Lucy, you’re always minding your own business,” I grumbled out of habit, glad that my neighbor had come and I didn’t have to answer the guest’s question. - Go to your place. I'll figure it out myself. -Will you sell your children? - Lucy did not move from her place. - Go, go. I was a bad mother, but I am a good grandmother. - With these words, I got up from my seat and left the house, pushing the old woman in the back. Tom was still lying in the dust with Mbwa, but when he saw me, he stood up and ran over, taking my hand. Marie also came out of my shack, brushing invisible dust from her skirt and jacket. This made me angry. “Look, what are you! You want to show that my house is so dirty that you have soiled your rich outfit! Don’t come around to me, don’t meddle with your stupid proposals!” - I thought, rubbing under my left breast, in the place where it often hurt. - Goodbye, bibi! - I squeezed out of myself. - But we didn’t agree with you? - Marie exclaimed, opening her bag. - My owners will pay you well. Here's the deposit, and they'll give you the rest when you bring the boy. - She handed me a gray envelope. - Which one? - It escaped me involuntarily. - I have five of them. The eldest James is seventeen years old, and the youngest, Tom, is only four. And between them are Mofat, Silvano and John. So which one do you want? - We need little Tom. - The guest answered quickly, trying to push the envelope with money into my hands. But I flapped them like a seagull and rushed at Marie, ready to scratch out her “glassy” eyes. Confused, she dropped the envelope on the ground - brand new thousand-dollar bills spilled out into the dust. When I saw the money, I froze with my hands raised. I wanted to sit on the ground and collect them, then carefully put them back in the envelope and hide them in the folds of my skirt. And then take out little by little and buy food from the store every day. How I would spend them - carefully, counting them several times a day, inhaling that wonderful smell of paper and paint. And the children would stop crying and rush happily along the ocean shore, joyfully pushing their full bellies. I would buy them city toys, and for Tom a real car. Thoughts flashed through my head one after another, but the last one, about Tom, sobered me up. Sitting down exhausted on a log, I waved my hand at Marie to get out. With shaking hands, she collected the money and, under the hostile glances of Lucy, her granddaughter, Tom and Mbwa, left. I tried not to look in her direction, afraid to weaken again from the magic of money. Tears flowed down my cheeks, but I was not going to wipe them away, knowing that this stream could not be dried with either a handkerchief or the palm of my hand. All the pain that had been accumulating in my soul for years was now pouring out through my eyes under my measured swaying from side to side. Lucy sat down next to me and put her hand on my shoulder. We cried. The children watched us silently, and the dog, resting his head on his front paws, looked at the two old women, whining from time to time. I don’t remember how long we sat like that, but when the rest of the children arrived, I had to stop crying and start doing household chores. We didn’t tell the boys anything, even Tom didn’t say a word about the stranger and her money. I still wonder if he then understood anything from our conversation with Marie or not? James and Angelo returned in the evening, chatting cheerfully about how the other old women had greeted them and what they had managed to film. Sitting down on a log, Angelo began to show the camera footage to James's brothers, who were gathered at home. From time to time the group burst into laughter, looking at the footage of awkward neighbor girls or camera-shy aunties. Old Grace was busy by the fire: poking the boiling corn in the cauldron with a knife, stirring the stewing cabbage, adding wood to the hearth, stealing glances at the children. She already liked the white Bwana, who was not afraid to come to the village and did not disdain her children and home. - Well, who told you the most funny story? - she asked later, handing out boiled chicken wrapped in leaves. - ABOUT! - James exclaimed. - Old Lucy told us how one day her grandson Thomas climbed a palm tree to get coconuts, and then couldn’t get down: he looked down and became dizzy. I sat at the top for several hours until I wanted something “little” so much that I ran away from the palm tree myself. The boys laughed so loudly that Mbwa, frightened, jumped up from his usual place and barked. Grace smiled sadly. She remembered that incident. “Then Thomas didn’t really eat for a couple of days. That’s why he felt dizzy from hunger at altitude. Is this funny? Eh, children, it’s good that you know little about this life. It’s so cruel, and my lot is so... - But the old woman “And yet I’m a happy grandmother, since I have the strength to raise boys and not sell them.” Thinking like this, she cooked ugali (6), stirring the porridge habitually with a wooden spoon. It's time to feed the boys. 
Angelo waved once again to James and his brothers from the car - the guys came to the hotel early in the morning to see off their new friend. On the way to Mombasa airport, he thought that when he returned home, the first thing he would do was collect a package for James' family. He left old Grace some money, but he wanted to do something special - give clothes, toys, games to these cheerful boys. “Then I’ll sit down to edit a film about the “village of grandmothers”. I’ll show it first in college, and then I’ll contact TV channels and ask to show my film on television. I’ll write an article and post it on my blog,” Angelo planned. “Then I’ll gather the guys and we’ll come to the village to open a school. We need money. Dad will probably give us something, we’ll collect something in college,” Angelo took out a notepad and began writing down ideas. Angelo's film about the story of a Kenyan village in which grandmothers remained with their grandchildren shocked the college. No one could imagine how all the young parents died of AIDS so quickly, one after another. Students and teachers argued about this not only during breaks, but also in class, trying to understand how the disease could wipe out the adult residents of an entire village in a few years? The guesses were different. Some reasoned: “Were they really dissolute to such an extent that they infected each other in bed? Did the neighbor sleep with the neighbor’s wife and vice versa?” Others believed that the cause was drug addiction. Angelo did not reveal the secret and asked everyone who asked him to think about the riddle of the “village of grandmothers” until tomorrow. “If you can’t guess it yourself, I’ll tell you, but tomorrow,” was his most curious and persistent answer. One of the gardeners, who accidentally heard the students arguing during a break, helped figure it out. Without looking up from his work, he intervened in the conversation: “We have the same problem in Tanzania. People become infected with AIDS due to old tradition, according to which a brother marries the widow of his deceased brother so that his nephews remain in the family. Imagine a young man dying of AIDS. His already sick wife infects her new husband-brother, and he infects his first wife. When the second husband dies, the wives go to the cousin, and so on in a circle. Everyone is dying one after another, until there is no one left except grandparents and grandchildren." - The gardener fell silent and was about to leave. One of the students stopped him with a gesture and asked: - And in your village, in Tanzania, there are also only grandmothers and grandchildren left ? - No, there are several more families with parents. And I ran away before it was my turn to marry my brother’s wife - the black guy answered and went to another part of the garden. We have been the owners of a small dacha for about 10 years. The dacha is located in the village. And in the village, as it should be, there should be a temple. They are. And for 8 of our 10 years it was a typical sight of a modern village church - a headless bell tower, ruins of a refectory, a collapsed dome vault. And around the ruins, and in some places on them, small birch trees grow. Once, while walking around the temple, we picked up a piece of brick with the thought that maybe the temple would completely collapse, but a small piece would survive. But last year, a leisurely but purposeful restoration of the temple in the village of Rusinovo began.
This year, among other summer residents, our restless family with three young children began to attend services. Very often now they write about how poorly they receive children, how they hardly tolerate them, and how quickly they send children out of the church. They say they make noise, run around, talk, and interfere in every possible way. And here it is Sunday. Having dressed the prettier children, we go to the temple. Somehow they will meet us there...
We went to the service early so as not to be late. But it turned out that they hadn’t read “I Believe...” either. What to do for children? My favorite pastime is blowing on candles. I lowered my eyes to the floor in advance, try to quickly relight the extinguished candles, try not to get angry and try very hard not to look people in the eyes. “Now they’ll kick me out or say something,” I think, blushing and sweating, after each childish loud retort. In general, I don’t really take part in the service, but I keep worrying about where the middle one got in, where the older one went, and how to calm the younger one down.
And then the woman from the candle box turns to us: “Children, come here, look how many toys there are! This is for you, and this is for you,” she says, handing out bears and hares to my children. And all this with a good, sincere smile. “Wow!” - I think. But now, having played with the offered toys and gone through all the others, the children return to their previous activity - blowing out the candles. They put it out - I light it. They extinguish it with excitement - I light it up nervously. Finally, one of the praying women comes up to me: “Leave it alone, we’ll light it again later!” Do not worry!" And also with a smile! I'm in culture shock! And this is said by an elderly woman, the same age as those fierce grannies, whose image often appears in the Orthodox and other media.
There are not many children in the temple at all. The large family This is now a rarity for the village. Grandmothers are touched by little children and watch with interest the grown-up talkative three-year-olds. And in grandmother’s eyes there is joy and warmth. And a little melancholy.
Well, I think they treated us so well the first time, then they will be stricter. We come for the second time. But again, smiles, care, a desire to help and entertain. Someone lifts my son up so he can kiss the icon, someone lets me blow out the candle. “I want to take communion!” – the middle one says in a loud whisper, tired of waiting and hungry. The parishioners turn around and look at each other in surprise and approval. Completes the godly picture younger son. Approaching the Chalice, he fidgets impatiently in his hands, points his finger at the Chalice and demands: “Yum-yum!” Even the priest smiles.
Still an amazing difference! Soviet women aged 60-70 have approximately the same fates; they have experienced the same joys and sorrows of the Soviet state. But what a difference there is in the perception of life and its specific manifestation - children! May God grant them, these numerous grandmothers, “white handkerchiefs - heavenly flowers,” many years to come!