Boris Petrovich Ekimov - Parental Saturday (stories from different years). A literary example is any work about the war: L. Tolstoy "War and Peace", B. Vasiliev "The Dawns Here Are Quiet", V. Bykov "Obelisk" and others

Azure color

In recent years, my yard has become more and more full of empty grass. Whether it became less strength to fight back from her, but rather - hunting: it grows ... and let it grow. Lots of places. And planted the garden. And what a garden it is now! Just a name. A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greenery. There is a lot of empty land. No longer with a hoe, with a scythe I go out in the morning for mowing.

But the flowers remain. It's August now, the end of it. It's chilly in the morning. Dew. During the day it is warm, but there is no scorching heat.

My simple flowers blaze, burn, gently shine - a joy to the soul and eyes.

Of course, the main beauty and pride are zinnias; in Nashensky, in Donsky, - "soldiers", probably because the flower stands upright, does not sway on a solid stem, like a grenadier.

And all together they are like a high fire, crimson, scarlet, red. A quiet flame does not burn him, but warms him. Whoever enters the yard immediately praises: “What good zinnias you have!” They even came to take pictures near the flowers. Honestly! Why not? The zinnias are really good.

Long ridge along the path. Tall stems, almost human height. And they bloom powerfully and generously, from the ground to the domes. Crimson, scarlet, pink. Bloom and bloom. It will be like this for a long time. Until the first matinee somewhere in October. They will freeze in color. You get up, you go out into the yard - cold, grass in white hoarfrost. "Soldiers" - zinnias, their bright flowers and green leaves, are frozen. Crunchy on hand. Break down. The sun will rise - they will melt and turn black. End.

But now it's August. It's still far from sad. Scarlet, red, pink flowers blaze, burn like a fire. Love to look at them.

And a little further, deeper into the courtyard, a flower bed is not a flower bed, a bed is not a bed, but like an oriental bazaar, its spacious spill. From the summer kitchen to the cellar, to the barn and home. Here are asters: white, lilac, fawn; with a yellow basket in the middle and delicate, fragile lancet balls. Here are mighty velvet li, "chahrankas", with carved openwork leaves. And the flowers are cream, saffron, carmine. Each petal is trimmed with golden yellowness and therefore shines softly. Looks and feels like velvet. That is why they are called velvet. Powerful bushes of stonecrops: hare cabbage, young ... In August, they are just beginning to bloom. Azure, light lilac, raspberry flower heads with a honey spirit, surrounded by fleshy, juicy, waxy foliage. Gramophones of odorous petunias modestly peep along the edges of the flower bed. - white, purple, pink.

What a flower bed is here ... Oriental Bazaar. Iridescent multicolor on the green lining of the leaves. Ringing and buzzing bees, bumblebees, rejoicing and feeding; golden dragonflies rustle their mica wings, flare up and go out.

Flowers… Let them be simple, ours, but we plant, weed, water, take care of. You can't do without flowers.

In the neighboring yard, old Mikolavna is living her life. He barely crawls around the house, does not go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he punishes his young helpers: “Plant me a dahlia near the thresholds.” She is obeyed, planted. Flowering dahlia bush. Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.

Across the street, opposite, lives the old Gordeevna. She has shortness of breath, a sick heart. She can't bend over. But every summer, "dawns" bloom in her front garden. “This is our farm flower…” she explains. - I love him…"

Neighbor Yuri. The person is unhealthy, sick. What a demand! But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. “Mom planted…” he explains. “I am watering.” His mother died a long time ago. And this flower bush is like a distant hello.

Aunt Lida has little land near the house. “In the palm of your hand…” she complains. - And you need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, and plant both. And the earth - in the palm of your hand. But pansies bloom near the house, "royal curls" are golden. It is impossible without this.

Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. In their backyard, every millimeter is calculated with mathematical precision. You have to be smart. After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. Removed onions, late tomatoes grow. But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, the “sun” spreads and blooms.

Where the owners are young, they are able, there are roses, there are lilies, there are many things in the yards, in the palisades.

But there are so many worries with flowers. By themselves, from God, they will not grow. Plant, look after them, loosen, weed, feed with mullein. And try not to fields at least a day in our heat! They'll dry right there. Not like colors, you won’t see leaves. Growing flowers is a lot of work. But more joy.

August early morning. Free breakfast. Sun behind. Flowers in front of my eyes. How many of them ... Dozens, hundreds ... Scarlet, blue, azure, golden honey ... Everyone is looking at me. Or rather, over my shoulder, into the rising morning sun. Shines before the eyes of yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, sky blue. Our simple flowers look and breathe in my face.

Summer morning. Long day ahead...

Sometimes, when they start talking bad about people: they say, the people went useless, got tired, got lazy ... - in such conversations, I always remember flowers. They are in every yard. So, it's not all bad. Because a flower is not just a look and a sniff... Tell me, whisper to a woman, a girl: "You are my azure color..." - and you will see what happiness will splash in her eyes.

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The great Soviet writer Vladimir Ivanovich Soloukhin reflects on the importance of beauty in people's lives, on its necessity in modern society. After all, beauty is what surrounds us. The smallest details in the structure of a flower or the majestic and beautiful crowns of trees - everything is beautiful, beautiful and unique in its own way.
In this text, the author raises the problem of the lack of beauty in the modern world; in particular, V. Soloukhin takes flowers as a unit of beauty. ("The need for flowers has been great at all times.")
The questions raised by the writer are undoubtedly relevant. Now people are increasingly going into problems, into work, while forgetting about the urgent need to communicate with nature. Previously, it was more often possible to observe how families walk in parks, as, for example, a father and daughter collect a bunch of daisies and cornflowers for their mother. Of course, you can still see it all now, but less and less often. People try to buy fresh flowers, subconsciously striving to get closer to true perfection. Therefore, in our time, flowers are expensive: “If you remember the prices, you will have to conclude that people now have a hunger for beauty and for communication with wildlife, communion with it, a connection with it, even if it is fleeting.”
According to V. Soloukhin, flowers are the ideal of beauty (“... in flowers we are not dealing with some kind of pseudo-beauty, but with an ideal and a model”). The author notes that “nature cannot cheat”, therefore, in all creations, there is true beauty and authenticity, which a person so badly needs in our time. The writer also reflects on the fact that flowers are a kind of “barometer” of the state of the state and the people in it (“The state in its heyday and strength is the measure in everything, and with the decomposition of the state fortress, the attitude towards flowers takes on the features of excess and sickness”).
I agree with V. Soloukhin that flowers are the standard of beauty. After all, if you look closely at least at a field chamomile, at least at a rose, you can see what unusualness, grace and lightness each flower is filled with. A person needs to immerse himself in this beauty in order not to lose touch with nature, to feel more acutely the true authenticity of natural beauty.
Everyone knows that flowers have been a source of inspiration for many talented people. For example, lilacs inspired the famous Russian composer P.I. And the symbolist A. Blok loved and ardently sang violets in his works. In my opinion, among ordinary people there are many who truly love flowers, take care of them, because each flower has its own unique character.
And in the fairy tale story of the French writer S. Exupery “The Little Prince”, the main character The Little Prince talks about the fact that his favorite rose has a very difficult character and is afraid of drafts, he understands that flowers, like people, can feel and empathize, and possibly love.
Summing up, I would like to note that beauty is one of the possible parts of the human soul, beauty must be felt and understood, try not to lose touch with it so that the soul does not become impoverished.

Russian language

17 out of 24

(1) In recent years, my yard has been filled with empty grass more and more. (2) Whether it became less strength to fight back from her, but rather - hunting: it grows ... and let it grow. (H) There are a lot of places. (4) And he hunted the garden. (5) Yes, and what a garden it is now! (6) Only the name. (7) A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greens. (8) 3 the earth is empty a lot and a lot, but here are the flowers left.

(9) Flowers ... (10) Let them be simple, ours, but we plant, weed, water, take care of. (11) It is impossible without flowers.

(12) In the neighboring courtyard, old Mikolavna is living out a century. (13) He barely crawls around the house, does not go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. (14) He cannot go out into the yard, but every year he punishes his young helpers: (15) “Plant me a dahlia near the thresholds.” (16) They obey her, plant them. (17) The dahlia bush is blooming. (18) Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.

(19) Across the street, on the contrary, old Gordeevna lives. (20) She has shortness of breath, a sick heart. (21) She can’t bend down in any way. (22) But every summer, “dawns” bloom in her front garden. (23) “This is our farm flower ... - she explains. (24) - I love him ... "

(25) Neighbor Yuri. (26) A person is unhealthy, sick. (27) What a demand from him! (28) But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. (29) “Mom planted ... - he explains. (30) - I'm watering. (31) His mother died a long time ago. (32) And this flower bush is like a distant hello.

(33) Aunt Lida has little land near the house. (34) “In the palm of your hand ... - she complains. (35) - And you need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, and plant both. (36) And the earth - in the palm of your hand. (37) But pansies bloom near the house, “royal curls” are golden. (38) It is impossible without this.

(39) Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also do not have enough land. (40) In their courtyard, every millimeter is calculated with mathematical accuracy. (41) You have to contrive. (42) After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. (43) They removed the onions, late tomatoes grow. (44) But they also have a couple of “dawn” bushes, several dahlias, the “sun” spreads and blooms.

(45) Where the owners are young, they are able, there are roses, there are lilies, there are a lot of things in the courtyards, in the palisades.

(46) But with flowers - so many worries. (47) They will not grow by themselves. (48) Plant, look after them, loosen, weed, feed with mullein. (49) And try not to fields at least a day in our heat! (50) They will dry up immediately. (51) Not only colors, you won’t see leaves. (52) Growing flowers is a lot of work. (53) But there is more joy.

(54) August early morning. (55) 3 breakfast in the wild. (56) The sun is behind. (57) Before the eyes - flowers. (58) How many are there ... (59) Dozens, hundreds, thousands ... (60) Scarlet, blue, azure, golden honey ... (61) Everyone is looking at me. (62) Or rather, over my shoulder, to the rising morning sun. (bZ) Yellowness and whiteness shines before the eyes, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, sky blue. (64) Our simple flowers look and breathe in my face.

(65) Summer morning. (66) Ahead is a long day...

(67) Sometimes, when they start talking bad about people: they say, the people went useless, got lazy ... - with such conversations, I always remember flowers. (68) They are in every yard. (69) 3begins, it's not so bad. (70) Because a flower - it's not just looked and smelled ... (71) Tell me, whisper to a woman, a girl: (72) “You are my azure color ...” - and you will see what happiness will splash in her eyes.

(According to B. Ekimov *)

* Boris Petrovich Ekimov (born in 1938) - Russian prose writer and publicist, laureate of the State Prize of the Russian Federation (1998), laureate of the Alexander Solzhenitsyn Prize (2008). Boris Ekimov is often called the conductor of the literary traditions of the Don region. The leitmotif of his works is the real everyday life of a simple person. The collections of short stories "Za with warm bread", "Night of Healing", "Shepherd's Star", the novel "Parents' House" were widely known.

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Boris Petrovich Ekimov is one of the amazing masters of the artistic word. His works instill in us a reverent attitude towards nature.

The author raises the problem of a person's attitude to flowers. In the text, the author describes many examples and the lives of modern people. "Flowers... Let them be simple, ours, but we plant, weed, and protect." Nature can bring great joy. "It is impossible without flowers," the writer writes.

The position of the author is expressed quite clearly. He is convinced that flowers have a positive effect on a person. The author claims that while a person admires nature and strives to be closer to it - It cannot be said that our generation is useless and lazy. After all, a person spends a lot of energy on admiring flowers in his garden. "Growing flowers is a lot of work. But there is more joy."

I fully share the opinion of the author. Indeed, it is a great happiness to admire the flowers planted on your own. In the life of a modern person, filled with urban fuss, it is necessary to be able to be closer to nature. I saw

Criteria

• 1 of 1 K1 Statement of source text problems
• 3 of 3 K2

Boris Ekimov
summer memory
short stories
STEPAYA BEAM
I’ll start with a reader’s letter: “At one time, in very old years, I had to drive by car in your area, from Kalach to Surovikin. We decided to take a break, drove off the road to a small gully. I can, but I remember thirty years later. It was in May or June..."
A little strange, isn't it? Usual steppe beam. What's in it? "Palm trees of the south" do not grow there. Only - grass, shrubs, trees. But I remember thirty years later. Probably not in vain.
A beam is an ordinary hollow between the steppe barrows or ridges. Steep, deep or spacious, with gentle slopes. There are many of them, beams and beams, in the Don steppe. In the beams the water is closer, there are springs. There the grass is greener and thicker, and not only thorns and wild roses grow, but also black-throated, aspen, and linden. Lipologovskaya beam, Osinologovskaya. From my summer dwelling, at home in the village, to the nearest beam in Zadonye - an hour on foot, twice as fast on a bicycle, by car it’s just a stone’s throw away. Birch beam and Nut - these are in plain sight, near the bridge across the Don. But I love Pear more: it is spacious and far from crowded roads.
You pass the bridge, leaving behind the Don waters; climb uphill along a noisy asphalt road; turn left, run a narrow, also asphalt road for three kilometers and - away from it. Now clayey, not painfully traveled track down and down. This is already a pear beam.
Early spring. April. It just got warmer. Only another day the sun warms.
And immediately pulled in Zadonye. I went. And there it is still boring and empty in winter: black steppe, cold wind.
I turned off the road, went down half a mountain into the Grushevaya gully, got out of the car and realized that I had arrived early, I hurried up: everything was bare, black, only in some places on the oaks dry leaves sometimes rustle. But once you've arrived, don't leave at once. He walked away from the car, sat down on a hillock.
Clear day. The sun is warming. The midday silence, disturbed by my arrival, closed again like still water: the waves splashed and calmed down. A simple lemongrass butterfly, sparkling yellow, traced the air.
With my heightened hearing, in the absence of wind, in the midday silence, I sensed some kind of continuous rustle, looked around and saw an awakened, living anthill. Quite large for our places - in the knee - the mound was seething with spring ant life. I went up to him, leaned over: a sharp ant spirit smelled in my face. Remembering my childhood, I put a dry stalk on an anthill, and then licked it, wincing sweetly from formic acid. An elegant coffee-spotted butterfly - hives circled in front of me in a leisurely, fluttering flight, then flashing under the sun with iridescent tints of wings, then fading.
Another time flowed - slow, viscous; all together: both life and sweet oblivion. Humming earthen bees are slowly looking for shining marigold flowers or goose onion stars - the first color. Red soldier bugs, crowded together, bask on an old stump. Nearby, a scarlet droplet of a ladybug hurries up the dried stem, wants to fly up.
The sun is overhead; warm earth; pungent spirit of leaf preli and young bitter buds. Quiet world of life. This is early spring, Zadonye, ​​Pear beam. It is not difficult to get here, but there is no strength to leave. And in the young summer at all. On a hot afternoon you will pass through the village streets, then you will pass the Don. Everywhere - summer, greenery. But they went down to Grushevaya ravine, got up, got out of the car - and as if struck, blinded. You squint, you can’t believe your eyes: is this a different land or a magical dream?
Blooming glades are like colored lakes in the green banks of oaks and elms. Sochevnik blooms pink - pink lake. Purple spill of chin and mouse peas. Sunny yellow spears of mullein, pink - wild mallow. Lovely daisies, spur. Everything shines, everything blazes under the sun, exuding a heady spirit.
We're delirious. Greenery and color - above the knees, to the waist. On the lips - sweetness and bitterness. White, pink, lilac, purple, gold - on light, on dark greens. No, this is not my mean Don land - sand and clay, fading to red, this is a fabulous golden dream.
The greenery of small beams cuts through the blooming earth with lans. And this is salvation. From the bright, blinding multicolor, the eye rests on the greenery of oaks, black maples. Wild cherries spread along the ground, along the lacquered greenery - a scattering of pinking berries. They passed a beam, its coolness cooled the face and body. And again - yellow, scarlet, purple, blue. The constellations of St. John's wort, clouds of white and pink porridges, fragrant thickets of sweet clover sway, float on thin elastic stems, sway, thrill under the sun. Honey sweetness and sweet, tart bitterness. Everything is here: wormwood, savory, yarrow, iron ore, immortelle, oregano, which has not yet revealed colors, but gives a sign. Here she is at the edge.
Heat, heat, but breathe easily. You go, touch, hug the blooming, which showers and gives you golden pollen, petals, bitter juice and sweet honey satiety. And now you are all smelling of this sweetness, astringency, bitterness ...
You fall, close your eyes, falling not into oblivion, but into the same festive dream: blue and scarlet float before your eyes. You drink thick and fragrant air, a viscous infusion, you drink and you feel the blood bubbling in your veins. This is June: young summer in bloom, Pear beam, which descends from the tops of the Zadonsk barrows to the very water with a huge plow. Pear, Krasnaya Balka, Blue - the whole Don land is now like a woman in her most ripe, sultry time: dazzlingly beautiful, hot, sweet, intoxicatingly fragrant and so desirable.
They remember that earlier, when they lived for weeks in hand-made haymaking in huts, on mowing, the most beautiful children were born in March, nine months after mowing.
Time for autumn. On a serene August day, we made our way from the Osinovsky farm to Bolshoi Nabatov. As always, we wanted to shorten the path and got a little lost. And only having stumbled upon an abandoned field camp, they realized where they landed.
They got out of the car and, without saying a word, wandered down from the road - to the greenery, to the shade, to the coolness, to where a wooded beam flowed down from the corner into the valley. They came up, sat down, and then lay down on the grass, under the canopy of the oaks, which had already gathered clusters of young acorns. After the buzzing car, the shaking road, I could breathe well, look and no longer wanted to rush anywhere.
The dry hot summer is coming to an end. The earth burned out, the steppe grasses turned yellow, dried up. And nearby, in a wooded ravine, the foliage of trees was lush green, the water of a spring murmured somewhere below, in the depths of the gully. Blue flowers of midday chicory, yellow fragrant tansy, larkspur were full of flowers on the edge. The spirit of greenery, near water, damp earth, rolling in waves, dissolved in the hot steppe. Grasshoppers chirped, and some kind of bird - it seems to be a glory - murmured softly nearby, in the bushes.
It's winter again. Outside the windows - late December, bleak, with short days. I came across a letter from a reader among the papers, and I immediately remembered another time - spring and summer. This is a memory for a lifetime. And just - a steppe beam, somewhere in the Don, halfway from Kalach-on-Don to Surovikin. All you have to do is stop and get out of the car.
KAYMAK
Ask a Russian person if he likes kaimak. In response, most often bewilderment: "What is this thing?" Probably, indeed, our Don, Cossack region is not Russia. Because their people, whether native, inveterate Cossacks or just living in our places, will immediately smile, their eyes will become oily, and their lips will smack themselves: "Kaimachok ..." And that's the whole answer.
Ordinary dictionaries of the Russian language kaymak bypass. As they say, let them be worse. Wise Dal reports that kaymak is "cream from baked milk, foam ... boiled cream" ...
Thank you for not being forgotten. But what is "melted" and "boiled" ... And most importantly, you can't lick a dictionary. And to truly understand what kaimak is, you need to eat it. So, the dictionary is aside, let's go to the Sunday market somewhere in Kalach-on-Don, to the village of Ust-Medveditskaya.
We've arrived. To the people... as if in China. The market is buzzing. Who to sell, who to buy, and more - to look, to show people.
Today we pass meat rows and even fish rows, where pike perch and carp, shoveled bream from Tsimla, hanging catfish balyk and mountains of dried sabrefish. And now we don’t need vegetable salt: scarlet cheeky tomatoes, pimply fragrant cucumbers in dill, vigorous cabbage with bell peppers and even royal soaked watermelon. All this - past, past ... Our way - to the dairy row, where the Cossack women of the Kamyshevsky farm, Ilyevsky, Kumovskaya, Pyatiizbyanskaya brought fresh, sour, folding milk, cottage cheese and sour cream to the auction ... And of course the famous Don kaimak ! Here it is, on plates, on dishes - milky, creamy, lush foam, a finger, two thick, four times - a pancake - folded. Here is a pink kaimak, gently toasted, and here it is simmered in the heat, brown with a crust; this one is oily yellow. And someone loves completely white, drowning in a kaimak liquid. Bazaar kaimaks - for every taste. Choose. And you can even "eat", that is, taste with a spoon, from the bottom. That's how it's supposed to be. The main thing is to find a freshly removed kaimak, with a "tear". And so that it breathes with the unique kaimak spirit, in which it seems - and it should be! - everything farm, as they say, "unpossessed", that is, primordial: fragrant June steppe hay ("We have a pood of hay that a pood of honey," they will say now), clean water, the Don wind, which means "sweet" milk, it is from it that a real kaimak is made, which now flaunts on the shelves of the Sunday market.
But of course, it’s better to go for kaimak, go in the morning to the yard where cows are kept and kaimaks are made. On the same Kamyshi farm, it is nearby. You run up to the time, the hostess smiles: "I'll shoot now." It is "to remove", the kaimaks are removed. It's called "kaymachny eat". One take, two take...
Here a heavy cauldron or a spacious saucepan with milk is brought in from the cold, and before your eyes, with a wooden spatula or a spoon, an inch is removed - a lush, spongy pancake of frozen melted cream, a huge foam in thick smudges, juicy and fragrant. In a word, kaymak. Thank the hostess, pay and go to your base to drink morning tea with fresh kaimak. Preferably with hot donuts. You break off a piece of hot donut, up - a cold kaimak, which immediately begins to melt, to leak. Rather, in the mouth ... Smelling hot bread flesh and the chill of fragrant kaimak melting on the tongue. Eat - do not eat. Not pampering, not delicacy, just kaimak. He is in our area from childhood to old age. Even at the commemoration, after hot bread, donuts generously smeared with kaimak are served with a boil.
And kaimak begins from childhood. He is in every yard where cows are kept. In my childhood, we had one cow in our yard (it’s still not a farm, but a village), you can’t get much from one, especially since in that post-war period most of the milk went to the state for cow tax.
As a boy, I dragged and dragged cans of milk "for change", receiving paper receipts in return. So kaimak appeared very rarely in our yard. And therefore, it is better to recall now the story of our old neighbor, the long-dead Praskovya Ivanovna Ivankova, who grew up as an orphan on the Peskovatka farm, with her own aunt. There were many cows at the base. And Praskovya Ivanovna loved the kaimak until the end of her days, repeating:
- I'm a curmudgeon. But now, are they kaimaks? Here, it used to be, on a farm, with an aunt ...
It used to be that they milked the cows in the evening, strained the milk, poured it into a loose, that is, spacious on top, clay pot: whether it was a brazier, sagan or makitra - and they took it out into the yard on a stand, "on a wheel" - an ordinary cart wheel raised above the ground on a stake. Cats and dogs won't get it. There is milk, waiting in the wings.
Early in the morning, the hostess will fire up the Russian stove, clean herself off, and then put the milk on. There, in a Russian stove, in a light heat, milk languishes until the evening. Such milk is called baked. It is thick and reddish in color. In the evening, the milk returns to the wild again, "to the wheel", or maybe to the cellar. Early in the morning, they remove the kaymak - thick, hardened foams on top. If kaimaks are being prepared for sale, then they are folded into a pancake, and if for themselves, then in a bowl, in a skull.
“You collect kaimaks,” Praskovya Ivanovna recalled, “and you won’t be able to resist. Under the underside of the kaimak there is a brown stewed goose. I can't stand it. Spoon her, spoon and in her mouth. So sweet... While I'm taking off the kaimaks, we eat and I don't want to have breakfast anymore. My aunt reproaches me: "I caught it ... Duck" ... I answered her: "Don't make me take off the kaimaks. They climb into my mouth on their own."
Such is the memory.
Later, when there were fewer cows and the Russian ovens were gone, milk for the kaimaks was simmered right at the base. They made an adobe or wild stone outdoor stove, on it - a Kalmyk cauldron with a round bottom. They will collect the "matinee" and the "evening" one, roast it, and in the evening they put it up, hang the cauldron somewhere in the wild until the morning.
In our younger years, playing tricks at night, we went to "sack kaimaks", offending the owners. Kaimak cauldrons usually hung under barns of sheds, under a canopy near summer kitchens. On distant farms, from where there is a long way to the bazaars, kaimak butter was churned from kaimaks, slightly sour, veined with brown foam. Smelly, delicious. Now he is long gone. And it won't.
The kaimaks themselves, thank God, have remained so far. May not be the same as in the past. After all, now there are no Russian stoves, no roasting pots, no kaimak cauldrons, which means there is no truly baked milk. But the kaimaks still remained. When you come to the market in the urban winter life, you involuntarily carry your feet to the dairy row. They meet you there, they persuade you: “Take real milk ... Sour cream, homemade cottage cheese ...” Sometimes you will hear: “Kaimachok ...” You hear, you look - something turns white in glass jars, and you only sigh to yourself: “No , my good ones. You have not even seen a kaimak at a glance. " There can be no real kaimak either in Volgograd or in Moscow. To taste it, or rather, to eat it, you need to go to Kalach-on-Don, to the Ust-Medveditskaya village, to the Sunday market. And better - straight to the farm, in the morning, when the kaimaks are removed.
From the cold they brought, if not a clay pot, not a Kalmyk cauldron, but simply a wide saucepan, not closed with a lid, but tied with a clean scarf. Opened. Spent along the edges, cutting. And here it is - lush, gently toasty, frothy kaimak, with thick sweet kaimak slurry. As they say, do not eat, for good health.
AZERO COLOR
In recent years, my yard has become more and more full of empty grass. Whether it became less strength to fight back from her, but rather - hunting: it grows ... and let it grow. Lots of places. And planted the garden. And what a garden it is now! Just a name. A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greenery. There is a lot of empty land. No longer with a hoe, with a scythe I go out in the morning for mowing.
But the flowers remain. It's August now, the end of it. It's chilly in the morning. Dew. During the day it is warm, but there is no scorching heat.
Blaze, burn, gently shine my simple flowers - a joy to the soul and eyes.
Of course, the main beauty and pride are zinnias; in Nashensky, in Donsky, - "soldiers", probably because the flower stands upright, does not sway on a solid stem, like a grenadier.
And all together they are like a high fire, crimson, scarlet, red. A quiet flame does not burn him, but warms him. Whoever does not enter the yard immediately praises: "What good zinnias you have!" They even came to take pictures near the flowers. Honestly! And why not?.. Zinnias are really good.
Long ridge along the path. Tall stems, almost tall. And they bloom powerfully and generously, from the ground to the domes. Crimson, scarlet, pink. Bloom and bloom. It will be like this for a long time. Until the first matinee somewhere in October. They will freeze in color. You get up, you go out into the yard - cold, grass in white hoarfrost. "Soldiers" - zinnias, their bright flowers and green leaves, are frozen. Crunchy on hand. Break down. The sun will rise, they will melt and turn black. End.
But now it's August. It's still far from sad. Scarlet, red, pink flowers blaze, burn like a fire. Love to look at them.
And a little further, deeper into the courtyard, a flower bed is not a flower bed, a bed is not a bed, but like an oriental bazaar, its spacious spill. From the summer kitchen to the cellar, to the barn and home. Here are asters: white, lilac, fawn; with a yellow basket in the middle and - delicate, fragile, lancet balls. Here are mighty velvet li, "chahrankas" with carved openwork leaves. And the flowers are cream, saffron, carmine. Each petal is trimmed with golden yellowness and therefore shines softly; looks and feels like velvet. That is why they are called velvet. Powerful bushes of stonecrops: hare cabbage, young ... In August, they only begin to bloom. Azure, light lilac, raspberry flower heads with a honey spirit, surrounded by fleshy, juicy, waxy foliage. Gramophones of odorous petunias modestly peep along the edges of the flower bed - white, purple, pink.
What a flower bed is here ... Oriental Bazaar. Iridescent multicolor on the green lining of the leaves. Ringing and buzzing bees, bumblebees, rejoicing and feeding; golden dragonflies rustle their mica wings, flare up and go out.
Flowers ... Let them be simple, ours, but we plant, weed, water, take care of. You can't do without flowers.
In the neighboring yard, old Mikolavna is living her life. He barely crawls around the house, does not go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. He cannot go out into the yard, but every year he punishes his young helpers: "Plant me a dahlia near the thresholds." She is obeyed, planted. Flowering dahlia bush. Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.
Across the street, opposite, lives the old Gordeevna. She has shortness of breath, a sick heart. She can't bend over. But every summer "dawns" bloom in her front garden. "This is our farm flower... - she explains. - I love him..."
Neighbor Yuri. The person is unhealthy, sick. What a demand! But in the summer, a mighty bush of pink peonies blooms in the middle of a completely neglected yard. "Mom planted ... - he explains. - I'm watering." His mother died a long time ago. And this flower bush is like a distant hello.
Aunt Lida does not have much land near the house. "In the palm of your hand ... - she complains. - And you need to plant potatoes, and beets, and tomatoes, both. And the earth - in the palm of your hand." But pansies are blooming near the house, "royal curls" are golden. It is impossible without this.
Ivan Alexandrovich and his wife also lack land. In their backyard, every millimeter is calculated with mathematical precision. You have to be smart. After the potatoes, the cabbage also has time to ripen before frost. Removed onions, late tomatoes grow. But they also have a couple of "dawn" bushes, several dahlias, the "sun" spreads and blooms.
Where the owners are young, they are able, there are roses, there are lilies, there are many things in the yards, in the palisades.
But with flowers - so many worries. By themselves, from God, they will not grow. Plant, look after them, loosen, weed, feed with mullein. And try not to fields at least a day in our heat! They'll dry right there. Not like flowers, you won’t see leaves. Growing flowers is a lot of work. But more joy.
August early morning. Free breakfast. Sun behind. Flowers in front of my eyes. How many of them ... Dozens, hundreds ... Scarlet, blue, azure, golden honey ... Everyone is looking at me. Or rather, over my shoulder, to the rising morning sun. Shines before the eyes of yellowness and whiteness, delicate cornflower blue, greenery, scarlet, sky blue. Our simple flowers look and breathe in my face.
Summer morning. Long day ahead...
Sometimes, when they start talking bad about people: they say, the people went useless, got tired, got lazy ... - in such conversations, I always remember flowers. They are in every yard. So, it's not all bad. Because a flower - it's not just looked and smelled ... Tell me, whisper to a woman, a girl: "You are my azure color ..." - and you will see what happiness will splash in her eyes.
LIVE LIFE
Our summer life in an old house, in the village, among other things, also happily differs from urban life in that there is living life around. You can't compare it to a city apartment. There is a desert.
In my yard I tried to count the plants and herbs that turn green and bloom, even the most noticeable ones: creeping knotweed and light reedweed, arzhan, tragus, fragrant lilies of the valley, blue iris, lovely dandelions, lilies of the valley and nettles, simple-minded burdock, tall mallows , steppe scarlet poppy, celandine, euphorbia, carrot, bitter wormwood, plantain, bindweed with white and pinkish flowers, tatar shrub, hemp fence ... Having reached hundreds of names, I left this empty occupation. May God consider and protect them.
And about living creatures that fly, flutter and crawl, and there is nothing to say. An unintentional cockroach will wander into a city apartment, with him - a war: crush and grass! A tiny moth flutters - completely confusion. In the old house, in its spacious yard, the order is different: here the tenants cannot be counted. And there is enough shelter for everyone.
True, the swallows no longer live on the veranda. We do not keep the cow, but the swallow loves the spirit of the beast. Swallows do not nest, although they fly in and chirp; but the sparrows are full of yards, they take out the chicks along the fences. On a prickly blackthorn - an unreliable nest of a dove. You can’t even call it a nest, some kind of sieve. Nearby - starlings, tits, warblers. Yellow-winged oriole - in a dense crown of elm. The woodpecker sometimes knocks, healing old apple trees. There are many birds. And smaller creatures, they can not be counted at all. Heavy bumblebees, earthen and tree bees, amber wasps, light-winged butterflies - from majestic swallowtails, bright urticaria to every little thing, grasshoppers and crickets, praying mantises, "fillies", soldiers, ladybugs, ants, spiders, other insects, which cannot be counted. It can only seem to an outsider that our green yard is dozing in lifeless oblivion. Look and listen - life is everywhere.
The same ants ... Of course, there can be no large anthills in the yard, but ant people are bustling here and there, running around. They roam back and forth, dragging something. Sometimes ants show up in unexpected places.
Little by little the old apricot dries up. I cut branches. A thick bough stuck out at the foot of the tree. He hit him with the butt of an ax, he fell off and revealed an intricate pattern of ant passages, punched in a rotten, but tree. Passages, galleries, secluded pantries with grubs and brood - white testicles. The knot fell off, revealing a hidden life. Red ants fussed, ran around ... What a disaster! Of course, I could not put the knot back. But he did not continue to dig the nest. Let them live. They do live. Sometimes I come to the old apricot, to its foot. I sit down, I look at the ant life in the corroded tree trunk. Sometimes I bring a present - some seeds, crumbs, a ripe apricot, a plum, a tomato core. They immediately take away a small alms, not at once, but bite into it and feast for several days, until only a bone and a withered skin remain.
But there is a place in our yard that I pass by, if not with apprehension, but with some kind of vague anxiety. The place is not secluded, but in the most obvious way - on the path that leads from the house to the summer kitchen and past it to the garden. Path of concrete slabs, grass grows on both sides. A path and a path... But when I walk along it, I involuntarily slow down just at the junction of two slabs, sometimes I stop and even squat down, staring at the concrete of the slab, at the haunted earth. I look, I listen. A gray slab, floating with earth and bordered by creeping goose grass and tall reeds. No holes, no cracks. And there are no sounds. The reed will swing under the wind. And - all. A small grasshopper will chirp. But it's up here. But from there, from under the ground, there is no sign. Although I know that somewhere here, very close, a mighty life is in full swing, unknown to me.
Once a year, usually on a warm June day, this life suddenly comes out. Some secret cracks, passages open up and the living swarm of thousands and thousands of tiny ants spills out into the white world. There are so many of them that they flood the path and roadsides with a black living flood. Almost the whole day lasts vanity, boiling. More and more ant hordes arrive from underground, fussing and hurrying. Just dumbfounded: where were they placed there? Such a passion...
And by the evening you look - it's empty. And the next day there is no crack, no mink, not even a hint of the recent rampage. Like a dream. The earth is silent, and the grass is silent. It appeared for a day and again went underground for a whole year.
I feel like I understand everything. Fabre read, and something else. It was the usual exit and flight of young ant queens. In this way, ant colonies spread. With my mind, I seem to understand everything, but for some reason I always slow down my step, passing through this place. Sometimes I stop, squat down, peer. An empty place: no cracks, no mink. But I know: somewhere out there, hidden from me, is life. Invisible and unknown. Like a different light.
All this is strange. And when you think about it, it's even scary. We hurry, we jump, we fly. Distant countries beckon, distant worlds. And he is here, a different world. I stand over him, he is near, unknown. Yes, and one? Maybe there is another one nearby who does not give a sign about himself at all. Another and a third ... How many of them, these lives, hidden worlds, hidden from our sight? a flower, an eternal stone and an eternal wind in the crown of a tall tree. And that's it.
I sit on the porch on a late summer afternoon. The birds are quiet. The street is deserted. But he looks at me from all sides, breathes in my face, sings, and rings, and rattles the tocsin, merging into silence, and an endlessly many-sided living life flows. Next to mine, human. One of all.
FISH IN THE HAY
I am sure that most readers will look at my title with bewilderment. "Dog in the manger" - this is understandable: I will not give myself no din and others. But how and why did the fish get into the hay?
This is ours, Don. Anything can happen in the Don. For example, in the village of Nizhnechirskaya, the famous Don fish sabrefish “ate hay”. It was like this: at one time the Cossacks did not bring hay from the water meadow, postponing this concern for later. As a sin, the Don overflowed, and the haystacks went downstream. "At the Chiryans she ate hay," resounded around the neighborhood. Remember this even now.

→ Part 1

In recent years, my yard has become more and more full of empty grass. Whether it became less strength to fight back from her, but rather - hunting: it grows ... and let it grow. Lots of places. And planted the garden. And what a garden it is now! Just a name. A bed of onions, a bed of garlic, fifty tomato bushes and some greenery. There is a lot of empty land. No longer with a hoe, with a scythe I go out in the morning for mowing.

But the flowers remain. It's August now, the end of it. It's chilly in the morning. Dew. During the day it is warm, but there is no scorching heat.

My simple flowers blaze, burn, gently shine - a joy to the soul and eyes.

Of course, the main beauty and pride are zinnias; in Nashensky, in Donsky, - "soldiers", probably because the flower stands upright, does not sway on a solid stem, like a grenadier.

And all together they are like a high fire, crimson, scarlet, red. A quiet flame does not burn him, but warms him. Whoever enters the yard immediately praises: “What good zinnias you have! » They even came to take pictures near the flowers. Honestly! Why not? The zinnias are really good.

Long ridge along the path. Tall stems, almost human height. And they bloom powerfully and generously, from the ground to the domes. Crimson, scarlet, pink. Bloom and bloom. It will be like this for a long time. Until the first matinee somewhere in October. They will freeze in color. You get up, you go out into the yard - cold, grass in white hoarfrost. "Soldiers" - zinnias, their bright flowers and green leaves, are frozen. Crunchy on hand. Break down. The sun will rise - they will melt and turn black. End.

But now it's August. It's still far from sad. Scarlet, red, pink flowers blaze, burn like a fire. Love to look at them.

And a little further, deeper into the courtyard, a flower bed is not a flower bed, a bed is not a bed, but like an oriental bazaar, its spacious spill. From the summer kitchen to the cellar, to the barn and home. Here are asters: white, lilac, fawn; with a yellow basket in the middle and delicate, fragile lancet balls. Here are mighty velvet li, "chahrankas", with carved openwork leaves. And the flowers are cream, saffron, carmine. Each petal is trimmed with golden yellowness and therefore shines softly. Looks and feels like velvet. That is why they are called velvet. Powerful bushes of stonecrops: hare cabbage, young ... In August, they are just beginning to bloom. Azure, light lilac, raspberry flower heads with a honey spirit, surrounded by fleshy, juicy, waxy foliage. Gramophones of odorous petunias modestly peep along the edges of the flower bed. - white, purple, pink.

What a flower bed is here ... Oriental Bazaar. Iridescent multicolor on the green lining of the leaves. Ringing and buzzing bees, bumblebees, rejoicing and feeding; golden dragonflies rustle their mica wings, flare up and go out.

Flowers… Let them be simple, ours, but we plant, weed, water, take care of. You can't do without flowers.

In the neighboring yard, old Mikolavna is living her life. He barely crawls around the house, does not go out into the yard, only sometimes sits on the porch. He can’t go out into the yard, but every year he punishes his young helpers: “Plant me a dahlia near the thresholds.” She is obeyed, planted. Flowering dahlia bush. Mikolavna looks at him, sitting on the steps in the evenings.

Across the street, opposite, lives the old Gordeevna. She has shortness of breath, a sick heart. She can't bend over. But every summer, "dawns" bloom in her front garden. “This is our farm flower…” she explains. - I love him…"

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