In cabbage soup with sauerkraut The potatoes are added first, otherwise they will be like pebbles and will not be cooked through.
When the potatoes and cabbage are cooked, the inexperienced housewife will check the readiness “by tooth” or with a spoon, but the experienced one will understand everything without “buying”, by smell, by smell. Now you need to add the prepared thick dressing from the frying pan and then, without delay, finely chopped fresh herbs, a crushed clove of garlic and a small amount of hot pepper dressing. The latter is only for everyone. Not everyone likes it spicy. Most often, for this purpose, a dried pod of hot pepper – gardala – is placed on the dining table. They will take the pepper by the tail and rinse it in a plate with cabbage soup. Looking at adults, children are sometimes zealous, and often beyond measure. They will pepper you, even tears from your eyes. “You were warned,” the mother will say. “Now eat to the bottom, finish your nonsense.”
Crushed garlic is also not always included. Fresh bread with a slight garlic flavor is good. But if you cook cabbage soup for more than one day, then it’s better not to add garlic, it will go rancid.
Bay leaf– also not for everyone, but it is placed at the very end of cooking. And also - also for everyone - two or three tablespoons of mustard oil
Ready-made cabbage soup should be removed from the heat, but allowed to simmer over low heat for at least ten to fifteen minutes.
And then – off the lid! – hot Don cabbage soup appears to the world and family.
Smelling, fiery, even to look at. After all, they contain not only the current heat of the stove, but the sun, saved over the long summer, while from a small seed they grew, filled with earthly juices, and then the tomatoes sang and ripened, tight, scarlet, to fall apart and taste - sugary, bluish onions the size of in the fist, red with ripeness, pound peppers, crunchy carrots. They sang and ripened for a long time, so that in this single hour they could simultaneously give away all their sweetness, tartness, smell and color and, of course, satiety and strength. This is how Don cabbage soup is made. Our main thing is food and treats.

The happiest

So August is passing. Summer is over. The days are sunny and hot, as if the month of July has returned. But in the evenings it’s chilly, and in the morning there’s steam from the mouth and white, icy dew, so that they don’t forget: summer has come to an end. At night it is so starry, as if there, in the fields and high gardens, everything is singing and ripening. And now the golden apples of paradise with a quiet rustle, having traced the horizon, fly to the ground.
Just yesterday the yellow moon, like a large ripe melon, rose in the evening and shone for a long time in the warm night. Today, only the bright white horn of the month walks across the starry sky. Every day it gets thinner. It's about to dry out. Then the summer will end. I can’t believe that in just another week or two I’ll have to leave. Over the old house, over the entire area, a long autumn, and then winter, silence will close.
Although nowadays there is not much noise here even in summer. Outskirts, thank God. Cars are not a nuisance. And people – young and old – are no longer crowded on the street, huddled in front of televisions.
My old house remembers something else - when you can’t drive the kids under the roof with a stake. Especially in the summer: there are no school lessons, only “lessons” at home. Drive the cow into the herd and meet him, help with gardening chores: digging, watering all summer (my peer Yuri Tegeleshkin still remembers on a bath day: “Three hundred and sixty buckets were in the well... Three times a day I scooped it out...”); Whether it’s for rabbits or goats to pick grass, there’s enough to worry about. But eventually they too come to an end. “I’m going outside!” - a short explanation to the family, and the heels sparkle.
Now look for fistulas. Only hunger, no matter what, will drive you into the yard. Yes, evening, when you need to water the garden and meet the cattle from the pasture. And then again: “I’m going outside!” Before late at night.
“The street” for the children of our district and the entire village is not just a meeting of peers and an escape from parental care. The street during my childhood was a world that now does not exist and will never exist again. There are too many games to count. Lapta... And each boy got his own wooden bat: comfortable, with a blade at the end, moderately heavy (so that he could handle it, and the ball would fly far when hit). Towns, siskin... There are so many games with just one rubber ball... “Standar!” And the ball flies high, high, you run away, and someone catches the dropped ball and aims it at you. And “knocked out”? Of course, the “third wheel”, “blind man’s buff” in a circle, “catching up” and “hiding kulikalkalki”. "Split" and "runaway". It’s good that the space is wide: the whole street, all the courtyards. And “Cossacks-robbers” and “give us a review”... They already went to Log and to the wooded plot. And on the spot, next to you, you can play “goat”, “measure out”... What jumping there were! It will take your breath away! The girls have hopscotch and jump ropes. The latter are also for children, because dexterity is needed: without touching the “jump rope”, which is whistling and twisted, to enter it “with entry”, “with departure”, “with replacement”. If you don’t dodge it, it will whip you across your naked body with a rubber band. And football. At first there were “balls” stuffed with rags and sawdust. Heavy, I must say. They twisted their fingers. Then beach balls appeared, with a tire and a tube. Football was played everywhere: near the courtyards, on the pasture, in the spacious Log. Street to street: Proletarskaya to Oktyabrskaya. Class to class. We played barefoot so as not to break our shoes, because they cost money. And without judges, but honestly: “don’t forge”, that is, don’t hit your legs. And the sticks, hockey - it’s already winter, on the frozen Kondol and in Zaton, on Gusikha. In winter, skis, sleds, and snowy fortress towns, their “assault” and “defense.” But this is winter! And throughout the long summer there is also living water nearby: first the Log, shallow and warm, then the Don and Zaton. “Catching up” in the water, “diving” and “tag”. And of course fishing. Heavy rowing boats, calluses on your hands... But how much joy it is when you sail further and further! Today to Berezovaya Balka, and tomorrow to Lake Nizhny.
And again about games. Now there is no memory of them. “Aidanchiki”, or “cauldrons”, when you aim and hit from a distance with a heavy, lead-filled bat. Chik, beech, tala, artsa are forgotten words, and even more so are junga li, jinga, aidan. They also don’t remember about “hard” anymore... A round piece of leather with long hair, to which a lead or copper weight is attached from below. He straightened the fur, tossed the “stiff” with his hand, and when it falls, do not let it fall by tossing it with your foot, the inside of your foot. “And one, and two, and three...” The “hard” takes off and flies up. “And ten, and twenty...” If you are a master, then the “hard” flies above your head, and you will have time to turn around and throw it again. This is the class: “with a turn”, “heel”, “left and right”. “Fifty-six, fifty-seven...” “One hundred twenty-one, one hundred twenty-two... one hundred and fifty...” These are already great masters. And also craftsmen. You need to be able to make the “hard” yourself, with your own hands. Like rounders, towns, paper kite. There is no one to help. All fatherless. War. Widows and orphans are around. Miroshkins, Podoltsevs, Bykovs, Chebotarevs, Ionovs... Now I don’t even remember who had a living father. Tolya Ponomarev - without a father, Afonin - without a father, the Luzikovs, Nikolai Arkov, Viktor Varennikov... All without fathers. There is no one to rely on.
And one more question, the answer to which must be sought in the past.
-You weren’t an artist? - they asked me from the audience at the end of the meeting.
It happened in Moscow, in Central house writers, in Great hall, when young readers, students and high school students, awarded me a literary prize. And before that there was a short conversation between the applicants and the full hall. Everyone has their turn. I also spoke, answering questions, the last of which made me laugh:
– Weren’t you an artist?
I laughed: what kind of artist am I?.. And then I remembered: our old house, Kalach-on-Don, a small village in which there were many artists.
Old photos. They have a wonderful power to resurrect the past. Here, the year is probably 1945, still wartime. Kindergarten, it was called “vodnikov” and was located in the basement. But it's not about the walls. Here's a photo: kids, some kind of holiday, May Day, I think. The children are wearing simple costumes, but they are made of gauze and colored paper. “Ukrainian”, “Uzbek” in a skullcap, also made of paper, glued and painted. But the dances were real, from the peoples of the USSR: hopak, lyavonikha, lezginka. Marianna Grigorievna Blokhina, our musical director, inspirer and organizer, loved and knew her job.
Noise orchestra. Have you heard of this? He toured only in Kalach-on-Don. In the club, which was called “Vodnitsky”. The hall was full. As they say these days, it’s a full house, and a constant one at that. A full room of adults.
The orchestra members are children from kindergarten. Tools?.. God, what wasn’t there! Wooden spoons, bells, rattles, some rattles, xylophones made from bottles. I don't remember everything. Accompanied by a piano, behind which Maryana Grigorievna. Why noise? From poverty. This is war, which means poverty. But children want joy. And Maryana Grigorievna comes up with and creates a noise orchestra. He also had a conductor. Just like a real one, with a conductor's baton. The stick is an inch. And the conductor - no more. But how he bowed, receiving the enthusiastic applause of the audience! Left hand pressed to her chest. A graceful bow to the right, and a bow to the left, so as not to offend anyone, God forbid. And then - a raised hand and a turn to the orchestra: they, they say, also tried, and not just me.
A flurry of applause and laughter.
I was that conductor. And our repertoire was serious: Tchaikovsky, Mendelssohn and, probably, Schumann. Well, what would it be like without Schumann in the noise orchestra? Famous throughout Kalach.
Here's another photo. Girls in gauze tutu dresses are dancing. Probably the “dance of the little swans.” This is already a school.
But now they’re almost adults, seventh grade, probably. Participants theatrical performance. Kalach had its own school theater. They staged Ostrovsky, Gogol, Rozov, Korneychuk. A new club has already appeared, with a big stage. They played there for the whole village. “In Search of Joy” by Rozov... Who did I play? The professor's son, who rebelled against the family furniture! And another: “The sun is low, evening is near. Come out before me, my dear…” – Levko sang, and now I remember... This is me too.
What kind of merchants Ostrovsky were! Larisa played them. And what a man Kalenik was, Vitya Ivanidi! And how he played Lyubim Tortsov! You won’t find anything like this at the Moscow Art Theater.
– Exceptionally talented children! - said Maryana Grigorievna.
And how we sang! Everyone sang: vocalists, choirs, of which there were several at school. The younger ones have theirs, the older ones have theirs. There is also a choir in kindergarten. And there was also a “mixed” choir - all together, during major holidays.
Voice check. “You have the first, you have the second.” And now everyone at home knows that Masha or Grisha has a good voice and there will be a concert soon. Of course, everyone will come: relatives, neighbors.
“Kalachevsky children are very, very gifted,” said Maryana Grigorievna.
All this was a joy: they sang and danced, recited, acted in plays, rehearsed, and gave concerts.
And it’s just us: kids, schoolchildren. The adults had their own “drama group” in the House of Culture. There was also a choir and vocalists. The hospital has its own amateur activities. Of course, not patients, but doctors and nurses. The longshoremen sang in the river port. There was such a thing female profession- they carried sacks and boxes over their humps, unloading and loading wagons and barges, throwing grain in piles of pounds. And they also sang. I remember several names: Dusya Rastorgueva, Matryona Neklyudova... Uryvskaya... There were many of them, about thirty people. And at the head is the famous harmonica player Mitya Fetisov. They performed in clubs, in hospitals, traveled to Rostov and even Moscow. But this, as they say, is vacant, luck, in life - once. Everything else is for my fellow countrymen, and most importantly, for myself.
Much later, at a concert of the ensemble of Dmitry Pokrovsky, who left so early, I heard from him, from the stage, the words: “We are the happiest in this hall, because we sing. And you just listen.”
So we, Kalachevskys, were happy people in our time: we sang, danced, played in plays. But that is in the past. Present day: TV and rare television, during the next elections, a concert of some shabby “celebrity” in the stadium.
It’s a pity, a pity... After all, Maryana Grigorievna said: “It’s amazing in Kalach talented people. They have a keen ear, good voices, and amazing plasticity.”
This is about all of us. No wonder, after so many years, Moscow students, seeing and listening to me, immediately recognized me as an artist.
And I read my stories myself on the All-Union Radio, on Kachalov Street. They recorded Tabakov, Pokrovsky, and someone else. Then they realized: the author must read. It turns out better. It worked.

Holiday

Yesterday turned out to be cloudy and cold. It was raining; The Trans-Don hills were barely visible in the foggy, damp darkness.
And now it’s already midday, and the rain either subsides or hits the tin roof again. Gloomy, boring. Apricot trees in white bloom become wet, like orphans. But tomorrow is a holiday.
In the evening the rain stopped, but the sun never came out. Rainy day, late cold spring. But it's still spring. The sky is cloudy, low, gloomy in the evening; and on the ground there is fresh greenery, wet from the rain. At a distance, it’s like a whitish haze is spreading across the grass. This is the shepherd's purse blooming. And nearby are flowering apricot trees: white, pink color. They bloom, as always, powerfully: only a black trunk is visible near the ground, and above there is a white cloud. Cloudy evening; dampness and chilliness. But how good does the white smoke of flowering look on green soil... Usually apricots bloom even before the greenery. It’s somehow even alarming: white on black. And now it’s green. This is what it looks like on a stormy evening: white on green. It’s better this way: warmer for the eye, calmer for the soul.
He walked up to the trees. Even from afar, through the dampness and cold, a gentle spirit wafted. At first I didn't believe it. I sniffed it - exactly: aroma. He came closer and stood between the trees. Yes, it’s chilly and gloomy, but they smell and bloom.
I stood there for a long time. I went into the house. I already looked back from the yard: green, white, blurred by dusk, which means spring. Tomorrow is Easter.
He went out at night: there was no wind, and there were no gaps in the clouds; in the evening I tapped the barometer with my finger - nothing good: the needle was in bad weather.
And in the morning I woke up, went out into the yard and couldn’t believe my eyes. In the slanting morning sun rays, the wet grass shines, iridescently shimmering, all in beady moisture. The sky is clear.
The sun rose higher, and bright, golden dandelions opened at once; apricot trees are like white clouds on the ground; the cherry plum blossoms, it smells so sweet; currants yellow sickly sweet, black furry bumblebees love it; they hum satiatedly, bending flower after flower with their weight. All day long the bees ring and ring. And in the evening the swallows flew in. This is the holiday.

Maryana

“I very often remember our sincere meetings, warm conversations in your small and cozy house. You write that I calmed you down, could cheer you up, but I myself came, ran to you with every new event, with every news. In Kalach, I didn’t have any more dear and close people than you,” these are lines from a letter from Marianna Grigorievna Blokhina. For the last few years she lived in Rostov-on-Don, near her son and sister. She died there.
Maryana Grigorievna was known in every Kalachev house. Two generations studied with her. Although she was not a teacher at all, but musical director“part-time”, that is, on half the salary. Kindergarten and school. The noise orchestra I was talking about, dance groups, several choirs, a drama group, vocalists, reciters.
– Kalachevsky children are very gifted. Very! Plastic is amazing. Vote…
It’s hard for me, now a native Kalachevo resident, to disagree with this. This is about me too. But before Maryana Grigorievna, there was no person who saw this, felt it, said it out loud.
Kindergarten, school... We have to be on time everywhere. Maryana Grigorievna is like a squirrel in a hectic school and kindergarten wheel.
“At eleven I started a junior school choir, then they asked me to play at a pioneer gathering, then a dance choir. After lunch I gather the soloists. In the evening - dramatic. Who won't come? Lena? Why? Disrupt the rehearsal?! What happened to her? Now I’ll run and find her!”
The high school students, those who knew her better, simply called her Maryana among themselves. She was not a teacher by training at all, but, it seems, an electrical engineer. But she played the piano well and loved music. She ended up in kindergarten and school by accident: war, evacuation, a foreign village, she needed a job. It seems like it happened by accident, but for the rest of my life.
Now, from a distance, one can see: what a crazy job she had! After all, the main thing at school is: mathematics, Russian and so on. And here is Maryana with her rehearsals. And to her: then - there is no room, then - the right people They're taking me somewhere. Or suddenly these nice people disappeared somewhere. Look for it, Maryana! The soloist has an unhappy love, and she has no time for songs. Persuade, Maryana... And Maryana has her own children at home. And the salary is a pittance. More than once she threatened to give up everything and leave. But fortunately, I couldn’t leave.
Late evening. Empty school. The rehearsal is over. Tired. “Would you like me to play something for you?” - “Play, Maryana Grigorievna...”
Open piano. Music. Let's sit next to each other and listen. The cleaning lady, leaning on a mop, stands and listens too.
Then, through for a long time When I was an adult, this cleaning lady, when meeting me, asked me: “How is Maryana Grigorievna? Haven't you heard? – She shook her head. - What kind of person...
In her last years in Kalachev, Maryana Grigorievna lived in the school annex, in a tiny room, and never received a normal apartment.
She was from Odessa, from the Sokolovsky family. Apparently, they fled from the Germans. And after the war they ended up in Kalach. Fima Naumovna is the head of the family, old, gray-haired. Two daughters: Marianna and Lyubov Grigorievna, the latter died immediately. I don't remember her. She is survived by her son Felix. Maryana has a son, Sergei. That’s how they lived, the four of them: Maryana worked, the boys studied, Fima Naumovna ran the house.
One case. Aunt Nyura and my mother told me about him more than once. This was in '47 or '48, after the war.
Times are hard: hunger, devastation. And Fima Naumovna and Maryana, in their family, had money. I remember - five thousand rubles. (The amount was large for that time. Monthly salaries were thirty rubles, fifty rubles, seventy.) They said that this was a gain from a “state loan.” Winning means winning. Fima Naumovna and Maryana saved this money, without spending it, for the orphan Felix. When he grows up, this money will help him start his life. In the meantime, they are saving money, I don’t know whether it’s in a savings book or at home.
But many people know about “five thousand”. And times were difficult: they did not eat enough bread. And therefore, when the pressure was on, people went to Fima Naumovna and asked to borrow money, for some short period of time, in order to “get by.” Many took, and all gave. Only one person did not return the money. I remember his last name, but I won’t mention it. He borrowed money to buy a heifer. And then he said: “I won’t return the money.” That's all. Who should I go to complain to? And How? No document, not even a receipt. And in those very days, someone I knew urgently needed money. It seems like Shklenniki. Also refugees, whether Poles or Latvians. I remember the children’s names: Eduard, Vitaus and Yulia. The schoolchildren hoped. And here is such a story that became known to everyone. But Shklennik still came to Fima Naumovna, because there was nowhere to go. He came and said: “I know that you didn’t get your money back. But I have nowhere else to get it. But need dictates. I wrote a receipt, and the witnesses will sign...” Fima Naumovna stopped him. “You don’t need any receipts,” she said. – If one bad person deceived us, is it possible not to trust all people? That's all.
Everyone in Kalach at that time knew Maryana Grigorievna and remembered her for a long time. Fima Naumovna too. “What good people…” my family said. “This is not the Rosenzweigs...”
The Rosenzweigs are also Odessa refugees, from Ili. They evacuated there with a wagonload of shoe goods. They organized an artel in which exiled Poles worked. Throughout the war, the Rosenzweigs lived happily ever after. And then they returned to Odessa, as they said, with a wagonload of money. But this is different, almost the same as today.
Maryana Grigorievna is from another time, it’s not for nothing that she loved our old house and its inhabitants. Lines from the letters: “I remember Kalach and your sweet little house... You and Anna Alekseevna are always so kind, sympathetic, affectionate towards all people... With you it was easy and free for me...” “...here, even with the closest ones... I somehow don’t feel by oneself. In their opinion, I don’t know how to live, I don’t know how to get settled, achieve things... they have already said more than once that I am an idealist, a naive woman, I groundlessly believe in all the good things in life, in people. Who knows, maybe this is true... But people always seemed good to me in most cases.
No, I think I was right. And you, my good friends, continue to be kind to people. Don't lose faith..."
Our old house, its family albums, yellowed photographs. Kindergarten, school. Cheerful children: dancing, singing... Somewhere there, nearby, is our Maryana. And this is an older one: a drama club. Venya Boldyrev, Valera Skrylev, Valya Zhukova, Masha, Raya, Galya and I... In “May Night” we were the “leading actors”. And this is even older, and the people are different, but also a drama club: Egor, Mitya, Yura Mogutin, Valya Popova and I, already grown up, this is probably tenth grade. Bright, sweet faces. And Maryana is with us. And now my younger brother, Nikolai - he is ten years younger - is also with Maryana Grigorievna. A whole bunch of kids. The starlings are singing.
I look at the photographs. None of our brethren became musicians, actors, or artists. This was not even in my thoughts. We studied, we worked, we lived, we live. What about “Teacher, raise a student”?.. What did Maryana give us? Moments of joy in childhood and youth. And one more thing: “Kalachevsky children are very gifted.”
Thank you, Marianna Grigorievna.

The pain of an old house

“There is no such thing as someone else’s grief” - these are all fairy tales. Another truth is true: “A well-fed man will not understand a hungry man.”
“...we have such grief and loss that the villains of my hero Volodya killed... I lived only for the children... so that there would be good specialists so that everyone would love and respect them... and why did I have to live with a sick heart and I can’t die, I haven’t worked for two days, I keep going like deafened..." This is from a letter from Aunt Shura Salomatina. War, year 1943. Terrible letter. And a little earlier they killed their eldest son, Pavlik. One is twenty years old, the other is eighteen. And Aunt Shura then lived for almost half a century. And I cried for half a century. Who will understand her? What will console you? One simple excuse: there was a war.
There was a different kind of pain in our house. Without war.
Now all this is just an old story: half a page in some school textbook. 1937 Stalin's repressions. Experts argue whether there are ten million victims or twenty. The current student read it at home, rattled it off to the teacher in class, and got an “A.” Repression: ten million died, another ten survived in the camps. Then everyone was rehabilitated, that is, found innocent. Both dead and alive. But each of them has fathers, mothers, wives, children, brothers, sisters. Twenty million times what? It turns out – the whole country.
I said that the head of our house - Uncle Petya - was quite cool in character; sometimes picky about little things, hot-tempered to the point of rage. Who got the hot hand? For me and my protector - Aunt Nyura. Now, after a while, I begin to understand. The man had a terrible fate. And for what sins?..
Pyotr Grigorievich Kharitonenko began working at the age of ten. His father died in 1912, leaving five children and a wife. By that time, only the eldest of the sons began to work. Others also had to go to work. Uncle Petya graduated from one or two classes of school. He worked as a parcel boy, mowed hay, collected bread from people, dug potatoes, sold newspapers.
At the age of fourteen he was accepted as a “messenger sailor” at Sretenskaya pier. A year later - a mechanic's assistant, another year - a junior oil worker, first on the ship "Korsakov", then - "Count Amursky". (The oil worker is an assistant to the steamship mechanics.) This is already “one of the people”: he earns his own bread and even helps his mother.
And then - study: workers' faculty in Chita, in Vladivostok. Military service. Again - work as an oil worker. And again - study: Vladivostok, Moscow, Institute of Water Transport Engineers.
A half-starved orphan boy, a delivery boy who runs errands to get a piece of bread, becomes an engineer, a leading specialist in a large plant. He lives quite well, for those times: an apartment, a salary, and even a personal “cabin with a coachman” that takes him to and from work. The son is about to goes to school. They are expecting another addition to the family. There is talk about a promotion, even a transfer to Moscow, to the ministry. Thirty-three years old. Healthy and strong. Very handsome. Photos don't lie. Here it is - fate: everything with your own hands and head; an orphan, the son of a washerwoman, a scrubber, he overcame everything, overcame everything, “became a man.” And his wife, Aunt Nyura, is also from an orphan family, from childhood, without a mother, she was the mistress. Laundry, bathing, food - everything is done on it, and also for earning money: reaping bread, digging potatoes, washing floors, washing other people's clothes. Then - work on ships: cleaner, laundress, cook. Now she is the wife of a specialist, works in a savings bank. Everyone is fed and dressed. Son Slavochka, with long combed golden curls. And the second child is about to appear. I want a girl. Aunt Nyura was also good in her youth. In a word, live and rejoice.
And suddenly - everything was shattered: arrest, prison, then exile, again - prison, capital punishment, awaiting execution, replacement, stages, Ivdellag... Unexpectedly, incomprehensibly, on long years.
“I was involved in the counter-revolutionary organization by engineer Kharitonenko...” (according to the investigator, from the testimony of the head of the Amur Shipping Company Rogozhkin).
“I know that a group of watermen who are spies are being transferred from the DVK (Far Eastern Territory), including engineer Kharitonenko” (according to the investigator, from the testimony of the head of the mechanical and ship service of the Upper Irtysh Shipping Company Burykhin).

(1) It’s autumn in Moscow, and velvet season in Koktebel.

(2) Although times are different, things are good in Crimea today. (3) Along the embankment there are continuous birdhouse shops with a bright motley of labels and wrappers, cafes, kebab shops, and snack bars. (4) But the main thing remained - the sea, the sky, the mountains, the steppe; their silence, the murmur of the waves, the rustle of the grass - in a word, the main thing.

(5) And in the evenings there is a noisy embankment, from the veranda shaded by wild grapes to the Voloshin Museum. (6) Walking, talking, jostling. (7) Interesting trinkets on the parapet and trays. (8) You will look at something, buy something - for yourself or for family and friends as a gift.

(9) Everything is great. (10) And only an elderly woman with bouquets of wormwood disturbed me. (11) She was so out of place with her appearance - a shabby coat, a dark scarf, old age - and with her pitiful, useless bouquets. (12) In the evenings, she hunched over and sat alone on a bench at the very edge of the embankment. (13) She was superfluous at this autumn, but still holiday on the seashore.

(14) On the very first day, of course, I bought a bouquet of wormwood from her, after hearing: “Hang it on the wall and it will smell so good!” (15) I bought it as if I had paid off a debt. (16) But this didn’t make it any easier! (17) Of course, she did not come here from a good life. (18) She sits, then slowly wanders home in the darkness. (19) My old mother usually goes to bed before the sun has set. (20) She says that she is tired. (21) After all, I’m really tired: so long life. (22) And such a long summer day is for an old man.

(23) Old people... (24) How many of them are now with outstretched hands!

(25) And this lonely elderly woman on the embankment! (26) Apparently he doesn’t want to beg. (27) Although they would have given her a lot more than what she would get for her pitiful dry twigs. (28) But he doesn’t want to ask. (29) Sitting...

(30) A day passed, then another, then a third. (31) The sunny days, the warm sea, the blue sky, the bright flower beds of orange marigolds and fragrant petunias, and the greenery of the trees were also pleasing. (32) In Moscow it’s slushy, cold and even snowing, but here it’s a gentle summer. (33) During the day it’s good, in the evening it’s nice to walk along the embankment and stand on the pier near the fishermen.

(34) And every evening there was an old woman sitting alone near bouquets of dry wormwood.

(35) But one day, going out to the embankment, I saw that next to the old woman, on her bench, a couple was sitting: a bearded man was on the edge of the bench, on the fly, smoking peacefully, and his wife was animatedly talking with the old woman. (36) A dry bouquet in hand, some words about the benefits of wormwood and all sorts of other plants. (37) And conversations “about benefits” are very attractive.

(38) Near the old woman, near her bouquets, having heard something “about the benefits,” they began to stop. (39) The day is ending, no worries. (40) It’s time to talk “about the benefits.” (41) They are talking and, I see, they are buying. (42) It’s a cheap matter.

(43) I looked, rejoiced, and slowly walked on my way.

(44) And somehow my soul became calm. (45) It was so disturbing to see her loneliness, as if a splinter was piercing her heart.

(46) The next evening - the same picture: women talking, a bearded man calmly smoking next to him. (47) I hear that the old woman is already called by her first name and patronymic. (48) So, we met. (49) This is completely good.

(50) On one of the last evenings I saw both an old woman with dried flowers and her new friends. (51) The latter, apparently, were leaving. (52) The man was writing something down on a piece of paper. (53)Probably the address.

(54) The next day - thunderstorm, downpour, then drizzling. (55) I went out in the evening - no one. (56) And, of course, there is no old woman either.

(57) But then, on that last Crimean evening, and now, far from Koktebel, I remember the old woman without bitterness and sadness. (58) There were some kind people, they sat near her and talked. (59) What else does an old man need? (60) Now she is hibernating and waiting for spring. (61) Like all of us, sinners, we are waiting for warmth, whether heavenly or earthly. (62) Anything will help.

(according to B.P. Ekimov*)

*Boris Petrovich Ekimov (born in 1938) - Russian prose writer and publicist.

Text Information

Problems	Author's position
1. The problem of lonely old age. (What does the lonely need? old man?)	A lonely elderly person needs human participation, communication with friendly people.
2. The problem of poverty among lonely elderly people.	Elderly people, finding themselves alone, may need a means of living, and then some of them stand up with an outstretched hand, and those whose pride does not allow them to ask try to earn money with their labor, despite their age and fatigue.
3. The problem of people's attitude towards lonely old people. (How do people feel about the problems of lonely older people?)	People feel sympathy and compassion for lonely old people, but not everyone finds the mental strength to show sincere sympathy for them and provide effective help.
4. The problem of people's need for warmth. (What does every person need?)	Every person needs not only the warmth that nature gives, but also the warmth that comes from other people.

Essay based on the text: “There was no need to wait for letters from Maryana, our old nanny.” Ekimov B.P.

What does it mean to treat old people well? About this eternal problem The writer B. Ekimov made me think.

The text tells a common story about how one wealthy family places an old nanny in a certain “wonderful shelter with a perfectly organized life.” The narrator, whom she raised, one day decides to visit Maryana with his father. The author shows how glad she is to meet her family, how she cheers up with all her might, tries not to show her melancholy and loneliness, convincing them of “how nice and good her life is.” And young man his heart contracts, and from shame he cannot raise his eyes to his beloved nanny.

The writer leads us to the idea that a good attitude towards old people cannot be limited to their material support.

I share the author's point of view. Man does not live by bread alone! People, and old people in particular, need another luxury - luxury human communication. Sometimes it is enough to simply listen to an elderly person or be with him. Old people should be confident in their need, and not feel like a hindrance or a burden to the “youth”.

I remember the heroine of K. G. Paustovsky’s story “Telegram”, who every time postpones her trip to her sick single mother and even forgets to answer her letters. Having received news of Katerina Ivanovna’s illness, the girl again hesitates and does not find her alive. This is the case when nothing can be corrected, and the pangs of conscience are unlikely to subside over the years...

Thus, B. Ekimov’s text teaches how not to make annoying and bitter mistakes in life.

Searched here:

• Should we be strict about the mistakes of older people? essay

Option for an essay in Unified State Exam format based on the text by B.P. Ekimov

(option 11 from the collection of I.P. Tsybulko)

Many of us, without a doubt, have people in our lives who give themselves to us without reserve, give their warmth, care, and are ready to do anything for us. Happy is he who has such close people! But the question is: do we know how to appreciate it? Do we feel responsible to these people? Do we understand that they too will someday need our support, our care, our attention? Do we understand??? It is precisely these questions that B.P. Ekimov makes us think about.

The author examines this problem, which is relevant for everyone, using the example of the fate of an elderly woman Maria Ivanovna Mikolutskaya, the nanny of the narrator character. A manifestation of the so-called care for her on the part of the narrator and his father was the definition “ old nanny» Maryany to a nursing home for former party workers. Before us is an amazing woman! A woman who devoted her entire life to caring for other people, who managed to maintain the ability to believe in a person, to find joy in work, who carried to the end of her days love for those who betrayed her. Yes, he betrayed me! Is it possible to do this to a person who gave you his whole soul? The nanny's character is characterized by integrity and high morality, which, unfortunately, is becoming less and less common. The “ordinary joyful smile” that never leaves Maryana’s face exudes warmth and friendliness. Not a word of reproach is heard from the heroine towards the people who “took care” of her. Maryana even bequeaths her pension to the younger brother of the narrator character, denying herself many things. Isn't this a feat? A feat of human generosity! Talking about infrequent visits to the nanny, the hero of the text feels guilty before the woman who nurtured him. But it’s surprising: why did neither the narrator nor his father have a desire to find the nanny’s grave after her death? “Neither of us visited her grave,” these words-confession of the narrator sound like belated repentance. Too late, of course, the weak voice of conscience is heard. But the reader feels that the narrator is bringing this story to the judgment of people, and he is also judging himself.

It is impossible to disagree with such a point of view. In my opinion, you need to be able to appreciate the goodness that comes from others towards you, to understand that you have a responsibility for those people who have always been with you. You can't turn away from them!

IN fiction confirmation of this idea can be found. Recently I re-read V. Rasputin’s story “Money for Maria”, in which we see the image of a simple Russian woman, a rural worker, a mother of many children who is in trouble. Living by the principle of “doing good to people,” Maria assumed responsibility for the entire village - to conduct trade in the store. This is the heroine’s response to the requests of her fellow villagers. Maria and her entire family are beset by a disaster of enormous proportions - a shortage of a thousand rubles in the store. In my opinion, Kuzma, Maria’s husband, who instilled the concept of conscience in children from an early age, deserves respect. Did Kuzma leave his wife in trouble? No! Maria devoted herself entirely to her family, her husband and children, not sparing her poor health, she took care of her relatives, and of strangers too. “We will turn the whole earth upside down, but we will not give up our mother,” says Kuzma, because he feels responsible for Maria, a loved one.

L. Petrushevskaya’s story “I Love You” also depicts the image of a husband who takes care of his paralyzed wife. The hero's behavior in the first half of the story is the cause of many problems that have arisen in his family. Cheating on his wife, inattention to her and children, despite the fact that the wife gave all of herself to her family. All this was the cause of the heroine’s illness, who found herself bedridden. It is the husband, realizing his responsibility for the person who loves him, who takes upon himself all the care of his sick wife.

B.P. Ekimov made us, the readers, think deeply about the attitude we show towards loved ones and relatives, and appealed to the voice of human conscience. Following the author, I would like to say that we must remember our responsibility for those who have dedicated their entire lives to us.

Composition:

Should a person be responsible for his loved ones? The Russian prose writer and publicist Boris Petrovich Ekimov makes you think about this question in his text.

The author talks about how a family decided to visit an old nanny who now lives in a nursing home. Maria Ivanovna tried with all her appearance to show that she was living well, but, according to the hero-narrator, the family understood that if they offered her to leave with them, she would agree. Next, the author talks about the news of the nanny’s death. The fact that the family missed the funeral, moreover, they do not know where Maria Ivanovna is buried. This makes the heroes ashamed.

I share the opinion of B.P. Ekimov. A person should be grateful to the one who devoted at least a small period of his life to him and be responsible for him.

Very often this problem finds its place in the works of Russian writers. K.G. Paustovsky in the story “Telegram” examines a similar problem. Katerina Petrovna’s daughter has not visited her mother for many years now. The daughter lived in the city, and the mother in the village. Katerina Petrovna was ill and her main desire was to see her daughter, maybe in last time. But Nastya was never able to find time for her own mother, for the closest person in her life. The mother died without ever seeing her daughter.

In A. De. Saint-Exupery’s work “Planet of People,” the author talks about the accident that happened to the pilot. About how he, lost in the snow, forces himself to crawl forward, not paying attention to the pain. The pilot was saved by a sense of responsibility for the people close to him.

B.P. Ekimov considers current problem. The most precious thing in a person’s life is time, and if someone devoted at least a part of their time to us, then we should be grateful to him for it and not forget it.

Text by Boris Petrovich Ekimov

(1) There was no need to wait for letters from Maryana, our old nanny. (2) My father and I decided to visit her.

(3) A well-kept nursing home for former party workers stood in a sparse suburban forest. (4) Maryana came out of the house to us with her usual joyful smile from ear to ear. (5) But only this wide smile and even the bearish clumsiness of her movements remained from the completely gray-haired nanny. (6) Moreover, as before, she grinded with her tongue without interruption.

(7) It turned out that here she quickly got bored of sitting with her hands folded, and she asked to be an assistant in the kitchen. (8) The servants had long ago guessed that Maryana did not belong to either the Soviet or party workers, but belonged to the category of complete simpletons, and they accepted the free worker into the kitchen without any delay. (9) The nanny was very pleased with her career.

- (10) And then it came in handy! - she boasted, holding out her trembling hands in front of us. “(11) In the morning, with these hands I’ll peel a bag of potatoes... (12) Our ward is as big as a church,” she continued. - (13) For four. (14) But one grandmother died, and now the bed is walking around. (15) And it’s better for us, freer!..

(16) In general, she was cheerful with all her might and was clearly trying to convince us how good and glorious her life was. (17) But I listened to her, and my heart sank, and for some reason my eyes did not want to look at Maryana. (18) It felt like if we offered her now to leave this wonderful shelter with a perfectly organized life and go home with us, she would go to the car without hesitation.

(19) Already when we were saying goodbye, promising to definitely visit her again, Maryana remembered one more thing.

(20) My pension is disappearing! She told her father with a permanent smile. - (21) The nurses will hide the glasses from the grandmothers and take away the money. (22) What will you do? — she caught herself, realizing that she was casting a shadow on the reputation of her magnificent establishment. - (23) They are young, fast. (24) Tell them to deposit my pension in the bank. (25) And when they bury me in the ground,” here she, as before, tried to stamp her foot dashingly, “give this money to the smaller one.” - (20) She meant my younger brother.

(27) The father, also apparently slightly emotional from meeting Maryana, began to say that she would live another hundred years. (28) But something new and serious crossed the nanny’s face. (29) And she interrupted her father:

- Not really...

(30) At the end of the summer they called from the nursing home and reported the death of Maria Ivanovna Mikolutskaya.

(31) It is unknown where she was buried. (32) None of us visited her grave. (33) And now you can no longer find this grave. (34) Lonely old women dying in nursing homes are not entitled to metal crosses or stone tombstones. (35) Most often they get a wooden peg with a plywood board on which the surname and dates of birth and death are carelessly written.

(36) But after a year or two, rain and snow take away the ink inscription from the plywood, the peg falls, the grave mound settles, and no trace remains that anyone’s bones lie here. (37) What remains is simply the earth, from which every spring night blindness, horse sorrel, burdocks and dandelions climb together.

(38) Now it seems to me that this is how it should be. (39) What else could our nanny turn into if not into simple earth overgrown with grass?

(40) So I tell myself and listen with suspicion to my own words: am I trying to calm my conscience?

(According to B. Ekimov*)

* Boris Petrovich Ekimov (born in 1938) is a Russian prose writer and publicist.