Stories about my grandmother. Communication between grandmothers and grandchildren: generational conflict or inexhaustible life experience Grandmothers and grandchildren, life stories

Yuri Kuvaldin

PLEASURE

story

On a June evening, in a summer cafe under the crowns of old trees in Izmailovsky Park, Mikhail Ivanovich was congratulated on his seventieth birthday, and his thirteen-year-old grandson, Boris, dedicated his poem to him, which began with the line:

Think about it, grandpa, seventy is not old...

He composed this and recorded it on his mobile phone while he was walking from Partizanskaya to the park. Boris was seated between his mother and grandmother, the wife of the hero of the day, Tamara Vasilievna, a young-looking woman with a lush, dyed hairstyle.
After the first toast, Tamara Vasilyevna, looking around the table, called the waiter standing at her table and said:
- I want trout fried on coals!
Mom’s father, grandmother’s husband, grandfather Mikhail Ivanovich looked at her with concern and only said:
- Tamara...
But she immediately blurted out:
- And no talking. Understood? I don't want any conversations!
“Mommy, I want it too,” Boris’s mother said to her mother, Boris’s grandmother.
Apparently, Tamara Vasilievna belonged to those old women who know how to command with sweet arrogance if they are obediently obeyed, but who, at the same time, are easily timid.
After several toasts, the drunken Tamara Vasilyevna began to examine Boris with keen interest, until she finally kissed him on the cheek with thick red lipstick and said with a breath:
- How handsome you are, Borenka!
She could be understood, since she had not seen her grandson for five years, because she lived with her grandfather in Kyiv. Now they have managed to exchange Kyiv for Moscow, for 9th Parkovaya.
Boris even blushed from surprise, and during the dance, to which his grandmother pulled him out, she pressed him tightly to her large chest and dared to stroke his cheek with her palm.
She said:
- Well, tell me, tell me how things are going with you at school, what you think about doing after school... I really want to listen to you, Borya... I really want to talk to you, granddaughter...
“I want it too, grandma,” Boris said for the sake of decency.
- Well, that's good. It’s stuffy here, let’s get some air... You get up and go out to breathe. And I'll be out in about five minutes too...
Boris himself wanted to go out and smoke so that his mother wouldn’t see. The fact is that he started smoking a month ago, and he was strongly drawn to it. Behind the cafe there were thickets of bushes and trees. Boris lit a cigarette, turned away, and secretly took several deep puffs, feeling his soul feel even better than from drinking a glass of champagne. In general, Izmailovo Park looked like a dense forest. Soon Tamara Vasilievna appeared.
“What an adult you are,” she said. - Let's take a little walk, breathe...
She took Boris by the arm, and they walked along the path into the thickets. Having walked a certain distance, Tamara Vasilievna sank onto a wide stump and turned to Boris, who sat down on a nearby log. The light dress the grandmother was wearing was not long and ended at her knees. Boris listened attentively to what Tamara Vasilyevna said about studying, about choosing a path, about Kyiv and Moscow, but her knees were in front of him and inevitably attracted attention. They were very beautiful, not angular, but smoothly flowing into the hips, a piece of which was noticeable from the side. Everything else was hidden from his sight.
Then Tamara Vasilyevna started talking about how Borya was already an adult, that he needed to know how to behave with women, and he looked at her plump knees with curiosity, probably thinking about his grandmother as a woman for the first time. Indeed, she was attractive, with a fashionable hairstyle, long eyelashes, manicure, rings and bracelets.
Grandmother was short, wide in the hips, and in general was a plump woman with fairly large breasts. But the figure, despite its plumpness, was quite slender with a noticeable waist. Continuing to admire his grandmother’s round knees, Boris began to crawl from the log onto the grass, leaning on the log with his elbows pulled back. Grandma didn’t seem to notice, she just spread her legs slightly. Afraid to believe in his luck, Boris timidly lowered his eyes and saw from the inside almost completely her full, smooth thighs and a small part of her belly, which hung in a rather large fold and lay on her hips. This picture took Boris’s breath away, and even what it said about Boris growing up ceased to interest him completely. Afraid to move, he admired the opening picture, and his imagination painted what was hidden from his eyes. Here Tamara Vasilievna herself spread her legs wider.
Now he could not see her stomach, but her legs became fully visible. Since she was sitting with them spread wide, he saw how her wide, thick thighs were spread out on the stump, and, following his gaze further, he saw how they gradually came together. The further between the legs, the darker it became, and almost nothing was visible at the junction of them.
Boris's throat became dry, a blush appeared on his cheeks, and an incomprehensible and very pleasant movement began in his pants; his boy, from a small faucet, began to turn into something quite large and relatively thick, sticking up.
The sight of Tamara Vasilievna’s knees and legs was so seductive, they were so alluring that, forgetting about everything, at first Boris carefully touched them with one finger and began to move them back and forth over the knee, as if he was drawing or writing something.
Tamara Vasilievna did not pay any attention to this, and the inspired Boris continued his task with a few fingers. Seeing that this also seemed normal, he placed his entire palm on her knee. It turned out to be very pleasant to the touch, delicate, soft, with slightly rough skin and a little cold.
At first, Boris’s hand just lay there, but then he began to move it a little, at first by one or two centimeters. Gradually he stroked more boldly, moving his hand along the entire knee. The grandmother still did not pay attention to her grandson’s activity, or pretended not to pay attention.
Then he completely slid off the log onto the grass, and as a result his hand involuntarily slipped from his knee and slipped into the space between his thighs. At first, Boris was very scared, but he did not remove his hand, but simply moved it away from his leg and began to touch the surface of the thigh only slightly, with a few fingers.
Afraid to look his grandmother in the face and that she would notice from him what was happening to his grandson, Boris listened and was surprised to find that she continued to talk about his future. True, it seemed to him that Tamara Vasilievna’s voice changed a little, became a little hoarse, as if her throat was dry and she was thirsty. Having convinced himself that since his grandmother continues to raise him, then everything is fine, Boris pressed his entire palm to the inner surface of his thigh. This surface turned out to be softer and much warmer than the knee, it was very pleasant to the touch, I just wanted to stroke it. And, as in the case of the knee, at first carefully, and then more and more boldly, Boris began to move his palm back and forth. He liked this activity so much that he no longer noticed anything around him. Stroking and feeling the pleasant warmth, Boris gradually moved his hand further and further. He really wanted to touch her hair and move his fingers there. Gradually he succeeded. His hand first came across solitary hairs, stroking and fingering them, he gradually reached the thicker ones, at the very top of the thigh.
At this time, Boris noticed that something had changed around him. Looking up from what he was doing for a second, he realized that his grandmother had fallen silent, and it was this silence that alerted him.
Without raising his eyes or removing his hand, Boris saw with his peripheral vision that his grandmother had closed her eyes, and on the contrary, her lips were slightly parted, as if she had stopped her speech mid-sentence. Here, noticing this, Boris froze, even got scared. But the grandmother did not say a word, but only threw her hands back, to the edges of a wide stump, and leaned on them. And Boris realized that Tamara Vasilievna also wanted him to continue stroking.
This encouraged Boris, gave him courage, and he carefully began stroking her hair, expecting to stumble upon her panties, but there were none.
“It’s very hot,” the grandmother said, noticing his surprise, in a trembling and quiet voice.
Boris was fingering his hair, his hand was already moving in the groin itself, it was even warmer and a little humid there. There was much more hair, his whole hand was buried in it. Then Boris noticed that the grandmother was trembling a little, some kind of cramps were running through her legs, and they parted a little and came together. Lowering his hand lower, Boris finally felt what he wanted to touch. Under his hand was his grandmother's lily! It was incredible, even in his dreams Boris could not imagine it. Her thick secret lips were clearly felt; they were very large, swollen and barely fit under his palm. Boris began to more energetically stroke them with his hand and move his fingers, trying to embrace and explore them.
Tamara Vasilievna’s breathing became more frequent, deeper, and Boris thought he even heard it. And immediately after this, the grandmother herself began to move under his hand, fidgeting with her curvy ass on the stump. She stopped for a moment, pushing Boris back, and slid onto the grass. Her hairy womb pressed closely against Boris's hand and moved in all directions. Under his hand it suddenly became very wet, but from this the movements became lighter and more gliding, Boris felt her large lips parting and immediately his fingers fell inside, into the wet, warm and very tender cave, sliding there, causing the grandmother to scream. Both grandmother and grandson began to move together in rhythm, he with his fingers, and his grandmother with her hips, swaying her huge buttocks.
During all this time they did not say a word to each other, as if they were afraid of frightening and disturbing with careless words what was happening between them. But gradually Boris became completely uncomfortable, his hand became numb, and, probably, his grandmother was also tired of sitting in one position. Without saying a word to Boris, she lay down on her back, her legs spread wide and bent at the knees like the letter “M”, her dress was approximately at the level of her stomach, revealing all her charms. Boris also turned over a little, lay down more comfortably, and moved closer. Her legs in beautiful high-heeled shoes lay on display in all their glory - slightly hairy calves, knees, thick thighs that were spread and her wet, swollen lips were right in front of him. But now Boris’s attention was attracted by what was above, he wanted to see his grandmother completely naked.
Boris put his hand on the very bottom of his stomach. It was very soft to the touch, easily bending under his hand. He began to stroke it, knead it, gradually move his hands up, lifting up the dress. First he saw her deep navel, then her entire belly. It was large, soft, flaccid, some strange veins ran along it, it was quite ugly and not at all like his. But it was precisely such a belly - of a plump, adult woman - that attracted his gaze, exciting Boris even more.
Having looked at him enough and seeing that the grandmother did not object and allowed all his actions, he jerked the dress up his neck, got rid of the bra and saw her breasts. Boris was amazed that she was much smaller than he expected. It seemed to him that it should be large and stick out upward. After all, this is exactly what she was like when grandma walked, and her chest swayed as she walked. Her big tits somehow spread all over her body, and blue veins ran through them in thin streams. The nipples were brown, large, shriveled and stuck up. Boris carefully touched one tit, then the other, and they swayed following the movement of his hand. He put his hands on them, began to knead and feel. They turned out to be very soft and flaccid, but, nevertheless, it was very pleasant to caress them. Sometimes his hands would brush against her hard, large nipple, further intensifying her arousal. Boris was already lying almost next to his grandmother, and she was all naked in front of him. That was incredible!
Then her hand moved, and Boris froze, but the grandmother carefully unzipped his jeans and put her hand there. Boris lost his breath, it seemed as if something was about to break inside him. The grandmother's fingers gently stroked his testicles and the bench, which was very tense and sticking up. Boris experienced incredible pleasure from her movements; the whole world was now focused only on the movements of her hands. Boris even stopped caressing her and simply admired her body.
Then the grandmother parted her lips and said something barely audible, and he guessed rather than heard her words and, leaning over, kissed her breast. At first, carefully, then more and more boldly, he kissed her soft and warm tits, slightly salty in taste, like a baby enjoying his grandmother’s breasts, he took her into his mouth and sucked, biting her nipples. At the same time, he convulsively kneaded and squeezed her sides with his hands, running his hands along the folds of fat on her thighs and fingering them.
Tamara Vasilyevna was moaning louder and louder, her desires were growing. Boris lowered his hands down and began to knead and squeeze her little baby, no longer carefully, but forcefully and maybe even roughly. The Gates of God were all wet, and Boris's hand literally squelched in this swamp. Here grandmother’s arms gently hugged Boris and pressed him to her, then she lifted him and laid him on top of her. Boris felt very comfortable and good, grandma was big, warm and soft. Boris felt her all under him, her body close to him, which now belonged to Boris, her large breasts, belly, thighs, on which his legs lay. It was delicious.
But between his legs there was a real fire and itching, and instinctively he began to move, trying to relieve this burning, moving back and forth over the naked body of his grandmother. But instead of relief, the itching only got worse. The grandmother also moved under her grandson, her movements were more powerful. She unbuckled his jeans and pulled them down along with his boxers, then lifted his shirt so she could see his stomach and chest. Her bottom moved from side to side, and his legs finally fell from her hips to between her legs, Ben pressed tightly against her lower abdomen. The grandmother was still hugging Boris with her arms, but suddenly she began to move his body down, and he already thought that the games were over, but as soon as Yasha fell off her stomach, she stopped moving Boris and just hugged him.
Their movements continued, but the grandmother was no longer moving from side to side, but raising her butt, she ran into Boris, while his van rested between her legs, feeling moisture and warmth. The grandmother’s moans intensified even more, and it seemed that she was losing control of herself, her cheeks turned pink, her eyes were half-closed, her lips sometimes said something, but Boris could not understand what exactly.
Suddenly, after one of the movements towards him, Boris realized that he was right between her big thick lips. Considering the small size of his teenage Adam and the large, adult size of his grandmother, this was not surprising. Boris’s sensations intensified, Vanechka felt very pleasant, it was warm, humid, and he wanted this warmth and moisture to always envelop him from all sides. At this time, the grandmother also felt it in herself and stopped moving for a moment. Perhaps she did not want to let him go, or some doubts suddenly took possession of her. But after a momentary lull, instead of moving back, she raised her buttocks, and his red-hot phallus entered her completely. It was an indescribable feeling. The grandson's rod was in the grandmother's vase.
Boris lay on her large body, wrapping his arms around it. The grandmother put her hands on his hips and began to move Boris, now pressing him, now pushing him away a little, as if showing him what he should do, and gradually it came to Boris.
And Boris began to independently make movements back and forth, rising above his grandmother’s body. And at that time she began to move her butt towards him, rotating it from side to side, her pubis pressed closely against him and rubbed furiously and strongly. The grandson plopped down on her large and flabby belly, but he felt very soft and pleasant. Tamara Vasilievna moved more and more furiously under him, her body did not remain in place for a second, hugging and stroking her grandson, she moaned loudly. His halyard seemed to fall into some kind of hole, rubbing against the wavy walls of her vagina. They both had already forgotten about everything and entered each other with force. Her plump body arched and fell, forming fat folds that her grandson squeezed like crazy.
Suddenly the tension in the phallus grew to the maximum, Boris felt dizzy, he tensed, and something suddenly came out of him, devastating him, his strength left him. He felt delight, extraordinary pleasure, relief. The grandmother, noticing the tension in his ball, twitched furiously, her thighs squeezed him very tightly and painfully, she uttered some incredible moan, sound, wheezing, and gradually her movements began to subside. Boris simply lay on her, exhausted, and maybe already unconscious from everything that was happening.
After some time, straightening her dress, Tamara Vasilievna said:
- You should know that this did not happen. Never tell anyone...
“Okay,” Boris stammered, calming down.
We were silent. A crow squawked high above them.
Literally a second later, abruptly looking away, the grandmother exclaimed:
- Squirrel!
And then the cell phone rang. Boris, not without respect, asked his grandmother whether to answer - maybe it would be unpleasant for her? Tamara Vasilievna turned to him and looked as if from afar, tightly closing one eye against the light; the other eye remained in the shadows - wide open, but by no means naive and so brown that it seemed dark blue.
The cloudless sky was visible in the gaps between the crowns of motionless, venerable birch and linden trees.
The fluffy-tailed red creature sat on its hind legs on the path, and made pleading movements with its front legs.
Boris asked to hurry up with the answer, and Tamara Vasilievna left the squirrel alone.
- Well, you have to! - she exclaimed. - This is him, for sure!?
Boris replied that, in his opinion, whether to say or not, one hell of a lot, he sat down on a stump next to Tamara Vasilievena and hugged her with his left hand. With his right hand he raised the phone to his ear. The sun slantedly illuminated the forest. And when Boris raised the phone to his ear, his brown hair was lit especially favorably, although perhaps too brightly, so that it seemed red.
- Yes? - Boris said into the phone in a sonorous voice.
Tamara Vasilievna, experiencing pleasure in the hug, watched him. Her wide-open eyes reflected neither anxiety nor thought, all that was visible was how large and black they were.
A man’s voice came through the receiver - lifeless and at the same time strangely assertive, almost indecently excited:
- Boris? It's you?
Boris glanced quickly to the left, at Tamara Vasilievna.
- Who is this? - he asked. - You, grandpa?
- Yes I. Borya, am I not distracting you?
- No no. Something happened?
- Really, I'm not bothering you? Honestly?
“No, no,” said Boris, turning pink.
“That’s why I’m calling, Borya: did you happen to see where grandma went?”
Boris again looked to the left, but this time not at Tamara Vasilievna, but over her head, at the squirrel running along the branches.
“No, grandpa, I didn’t see it,” said Boris, continuing to look at the squirrel. - And where are you?
- As where? I'm in a cafe. The party is in full swing! I thought she was here somewhere... Maybe she was dancing... I literally searched for Tamara...
- I don’t know, grandpa...
- So you definitely haven’t seen her?
- No, I didn’t see it. You see, grandpa, I had a headache for some reason, and I went out to breathe... So what? What's happened? Granny lost?
- Oh my God! She was sitting next to me all the time and suddenly...
- Maybe she just went out to get some air? - Boris asked with a delay, as if thinking out loud.
“I wish I’d ​​come back already, she’s been gone for about twenty minutes.”
“So quickly did all this happen?!” - thought Boris.
“Listen, grandpa, don’t be so nervous,” Boris said calmly, like a psychotherapist. -Where can she go? She’ll take a walk, freshen up and come back... Now she’ll come.
- So you haven’t seen her, Borya? – Mikhail Ivanovich insistently repeated the question.
“Listen, grandpa,” Boris interrupted, taking his hand away from his face, “I suddenly got a terrible headache again.” God knows why this is. Will you excuse me if we finish now? We'll talk later, okay?
Boris listened for another minute, then turned off the phone and put it in his pocket. And Tamara Vasilievna said:
- Borenka, pleasure is everything, exactly everything that is contained in the world, love is embedded in every person by a persistent need, desire. Every person pursues pleasure and happiness and, in the end, finds his own happiness...
Tamara Vasilyevna fell silent, looked at him without blinking, with admiration, and opened her mouth slightly, and Boris leaned towards her, put one hand under the hem to the black bush, put the other on the back of her head, pressed her wet lips tightly to him, and kissed her passionately.

If you have been married for twenty years, there is no way to let your husband go free - he will die. I straightened his face a couple of times, of course, and said “you once and I once.” My cycle may end soon, but I still don’t know anything about forbidden pleasures. My husband, a respected man, a party member, also did not want to get a divorce. Well, he says, my soul, no soap will wash away. I bless you for one-time adultery. And if you bring me a bad French disease in my lap, I’ll poison you with my own hands, I’m telling you as a pediatrician. And he laughs, he means joking.

Well, after that incident, my eyes opened like a window into what’s called Europe. I started to notice, What's going on around here?And I noticed it further. PThis week, Ninel brings that gabardine man to our cutting room, and shakes her head so impatiently: they say, friend, go away for a while, we’ll check the quality of the fabric here. “Yes, right now,” I answer casually. “There’s no point in throwing rolls around here, go to your office, check the furniture for strength.” And I stand, continue to cut myself, and look at the gabardine, like that dear one, “bowing her head low.” And I myself think, “What a piece of idiot you found in Ninelka.” Look, my lips are one hundred percent sugarier, my bra is lazier and my borscht with donuts is more.” And Ninelka stared at him, apparently also inspiring him.

The man almost tore himself in half from such hypnosis, but made the only right choice. Poor guy. Ninelka called him offensive names and told him to go to a well-known address.
The man, sensitive to female rudeness, winced, introduced himself as Volodenka and began to wander towards me. Ninel, of course, dropped the iron on me a couple of times, not counting minor dirty tricks. And I, too, did not find myself in a leper colony under the sink. She screamed in falsetto, made a deadly click of scissors in Ninelina’s muzzle, and our African passions subsided.

Volodenka showed me the Kama Sutra for six months. I was just about to leave him, not that I was disgusted, but I was tired as a dog. I don’t know about others, but this adultery weighed heavily on me. Work, children, funny husband “Yeah, are you late? Is your order urgent? You’re not taking care of yourself.” Me too, what a daring Torquemada.

Volodenka, meanwhile, went completely crazy. I called thirty times a day. “I woke up, I ate, I worked...” And all this with assurances of utter passion. I pooped, duh. And Volodenka didn’t earn that much money. For two families. Well, I told him. The time has come to part, I will never forget you, well, you yourself know everything. And Volodenka suddenly fell to his knees - thumped and began to cry, “I spent a year reading stupid books about perversions, it’s called the Tao of Love, I brought you a carload of flowers and got used to borscht as to my mother’s boob. I even now divide the harvest from the dacha among three people: the family, mom and you. If you suddenly leave me, then I will buy toilet cleaners made in the GDR, and I will lie down on the tram tracks in tears and with a note of vile content.” Well, something like that.

A woman's heart is soft as wheat porridge, that's what. Moreover, Volodenka turned out to be very capable in terms of studying the above-mentioned Tao. Well, the bagpipes continued on.

And Volodenka got burned as expected - on nonsense. My wife, don’t be stupid, felt something. Of course, you will feel here when the second year a third of the harvest floats to the left. The raspberries won’t bear fruit, the bark beetle eats the potatoes, the salad tomatoes didn’t grow at all this year, sorry dear, I didn’t notice. Volodenka keeps running around the studio. So the wife decided to see everything with her own eyes. These demonic internets of yours had not yet been invented, there was only one opportunity to find out everything - to hide in the closet during the division of the harvest.

Volodenka arrived one day from the dacha, there was no one, only for some reason a hot pan with pickle was gurgling on the stove. And let’s put everything into three piles: this is for me, this is for mom, and this is for the atelier. “What kind of atelier is this? - Volodenka’s wife choked on an artificial fur coat in the closet. I sat quietly until my husband left, and then let me look at his notebook with passion. The book was thoroughly suspicious: only Ivan Petrovich and Vasily Alekseevich. Only one woman was found, with the letter a “Atelier Luda”. The wife, of course, lost her breath. And she decided to ruin my life completely, like the Socialist-Revolutionaries to sans-culottes. I called and invited my husband on a date.

The cheerful husband agreed with the hunt; there was somehow not much entertainment in our time. He came to the botanical garden in a gray suit with a large newspaper - a sign for recognition. And there is my wife, nervously running around the fountain. In general, she suggested poisoning Volodenka and me. She suggested, leaned back on the bench and glanced at mine. And my doctor, they have a very specific sense of humor.
“Okay,” says mine, “I agree to everything.” But first you give yours, otherwise I don’t really trust strangers’ wives.

So, what is next? - I ask. One grandmother I know and I are sitting having a leisurely conversation, waiting for our children and grandchildren to return from their English courses. - Did you give me a laxative?
“Laxative,” the grandmother drawls contemptuously. - Gave it to Brom. A horse dose, to be sure.

Grandmother carefully rolled up the X-Files newspaper. By that time I was lying between the chairs and just grunting with delight.
“No,” the grandmother adds sternly, remembering something, “we didn’t have sex.” There were passions, but these nasty things did not happen. Just know it!

Oh, my grandmother was a classic sociopath, just like they wrote “Bury me behind the baseboard” from her. And there could be no talk of any heart-to-heart conversations, the main thing is that she would not exhaust her soul. And when she died (I was 9) it was an indescribable relief. Although it’s a pity that she didn’t leave earlier, she still managed to make a big mess, and without her my life would have been different.

My grandmother left me six months ago. She was the only one in the family who truly loved me. I was with her in the last years of her life. And the second grandmother. Well she was like everyone else in my family

I haven’t seen my grandmother on my father’s side almost all my life, since I was 3 years old, as soon as my parents divorced. I saw you only a year ago, when I was 19 years old. She invited me to visit them through my dad. And before that, no call, nothing. For my birthday I could send something small through my father. Once upon a time this really bothered me, as did the fact that my father saw me and called me only 2 times a year. Now it has long been the same. But ironically, in appearance I am simply a copy of this grandmother in her youth. After the meeting, by the way, we didn’t communicate anymore.
And on my mother’s side, my grandmother is a person of purely Soviet training. Twice widow. A very hard-working, favorite phrase: “there is no word “I don’t want”, there is the word “need”. As a child, I often visited my grandparents, and she was always an evil policeman, and my grandfather was a kind one. But I never scolded much. Now we have very good relationship. Well, she also performs stereotypical grandmotherly duties - she helps babysit her younger brother, brings food and pickles.
My mother told me that she wants to be a young grandmother. Well, I'll have to disappoint her.

My grandmother was a very difficult and domineering person, but she loved us all. We were arguing with her - there was a roar. But every time, entering the room after a quarrel, she checked whether she was breathing, and at the thought that she might not be breathing, she began to roar. She had a difficult fate - her mother died, an evil stepmother appeared, then she married the most handsome guy in the village, and he turned out to be a terrible womanizer, constantly cheating on her. She never forgave him for this - when he was dying of cancer in the living room, she did not even approach him. And in her will she insisted that she be buried far from him. It’s sad to say, but after my grandmother’s death, life in the family became easier - she was very much in control of everything. But we still miss and love her.

Both of my grandmothers passed away, one before I was born, the other recently, and the one with whom I grew up was exactly like that for me: kind, understanding; she and her grandfather loved each other very much, until the very end. I don't agree with the author.

I only had one grandmother - the second one died when I was just a baby, and I hardly remember her. She talked a lot about her life, I loved to listen, and so: she had no life, but only work, work and more work. That’s why they pulled the country through the war years, because instead of life there was only work. And what she loved, what she was interested in, she probably forgot even during the war.

I have two grandmothers, and they are completely different from each other. I can’t say anything good about my paternal grandmother - but she had a very difficult childhood and youth, her father was a terrible abuser and tyrant, and her first husband was not much better. As for my mother, she is very progressive, even feminist to some extent, and raised two daughters alone. Of course, there are some shortcomings, but she helped us a lot! Glory to the Goddess, my grandmother is almost never sick and, I hope, will live many more years, she is now 76 years old.

My grandmothers are born the same year and even have the same middle name. Mom lived all her life in the village. I think erasing her identity was something she saw as keeping up appearances. "What people will say" is a very important motivation. She is always helpful to relatives, even through force. Sometimes she later complains about how hard it is for her, but if someone comes to visit, she always gives the best. Especially in front of men. She has two sons, 4 grandchildren, and two daughters and I am a granddaughter. She is more frank with us, but with men she seems to keep a distance.
The second grandmother has lived in the city since she was 19 years old. She is very strong and independent. Although it is very difficult for her to be on her own. She was widowed 2 times (the second unofficial marriage began when she was 65 years old). And her policy towards men is “feminine cunning.” She is a very close person to me, but I still make decisions myself. Perhaps my mother will soon become a grandmother. I will respect her right to be herself. In the meantime, I am actively pushing her towards self-knowledge from identifying herself only with my mother.

As I understand you. My mother is already 41, and she still tries to “steer” her life and interferes with my brother’s and my destinies.

I can understand the author’s position about grandmothers. I have two grandmothers - also two opposites. On my father’s side, she led a very reclusive lifestyle - she didn’t go outside without a particular reason, she didn’t go for walks, she was reluctant to attend family events and didn’t particularly welcome guests. She treated us strictly and with restraint. She never told stories about her life. So my sister and I got the role of “unloved granddaughters”

My great-grandmother was like that: sunny, with a lot of interesting stories at the ready, she baked the most delicious buns. I regret that I never had time to grow up and ask what kind of person she was before her grandfather beat her to death.

Your heart skips a beat when you read stories like this. How much these women had to go through. And after this they still dare to call women “the weaker sex.”

At the age of 9, my grandmother stayed on the farm with her younger brothers and sisters. And in general, I understand now that I want to talk to her about a lot in her life, but she has always been very modest and patient. She sacrificed a lot for us, and she could only tell us after a direct question. But she died when I was still a wild teenager, who often lost her temper and spoke rudely and offended her, it’s a shame now.

Your story just brings me to tears. You didn’t have time to apologize, but at least you managed to understand everything - this is also valuable. I'm sure your great-grandmother would forgive you. And she, judging by your story, certainly wouldn’t want you to torment yourself for the rest of your life because you didn’t have time to ask for forgiveness. I really want to support you, but I don’t know how best. I mentally hug you, if possible. You had a wonderful great-grandmother.

And my grandparents told me a lot about the war. It’s enough that I fear her more than anything in the world and really sympathize with those who now unwittingly find themselves in the war zone. I try to remember everything, life is an interesting thing. And my great-grandmothers also told a lot, books can be written about them, as an example of a woman’s life in a patriarchal society, a complex and ambiguous fate. I miss my great-grandmother, Baba Katya, she taught me to read when I was one and a half years old, while she was sitting with me. She herself did not have time to finish school, so she read slowly and clearly for me, and that’s how I learned. I can still very clearly imagine her voice: “You’re running too fast, sparks are flying from under your heels!” - and I kept trying to see these sparks.

I read it, and I’m happy that since childhood I always listened with pleasure to my grandmother’s stories about her youth, her boyfriends, her relationships with her parents and sisters. Until now, we gather for tea at least once a week and discuss our views on religion, politics, family, and every time it is incredibly interesting. Behind every woman is an incredible story, a heroic story. Thank you for your thoughts, very precise and sensitive.

My grandmothers are completely different. One very cheerful and energetic woman who loves me terribly. The second, on the contrary, is very gloomy, a little offended by the whole world, plus it seems that she does not consider me a wonderful child or, one might say, a grandson.

My great-grandmother went through the war on the home front. From the age of fifteen she worked on a collective farm. Her whole life passed on the same collective farm. As a child, I didn’t understand the scary stories about hunger, spikelets, about serving ten years in prison, about letters from the front. She was also madly in love with Indian films and could retell the plot of every one she watched. As I grew older, my sanity left her. Now I understand her fears: don’t let me into the children’s camp, “otherwise I’ll get it in the hem,” don’t go with the boys, and so on. It's a pity that I remember so little of what she said.

For me, stories about good grandmothers are like from a parallel universe.
One was an aggressive bitch. I almost don’t remember her smiling or being in a good mood. Almost everything she told me was that the main thing was to “wait for my husband.” She did just that herself, walking on her hind legs in front of the men. At the same time, she pressed three daughters and all grandchildren.
She herself was an unpaid servant, and persistently encouraged all the girls in the family to do the same. My parents used to scare me, saying that if I behaved badly, they would send me to this bitch for training. She constantly beat me and all the other children, saying that we were her shit. I remember once she even beat a baby - my sister - because she was crying. I was once beaten because my legs hurt.
The second one, at first glance, was harmless; she never shouted or raised her hand at me. I generally considered her a victim, an unfortunate lamb. But rather, the couple simply bothered her, and she did dirty tricks with the wrong hands. For example, she complained to my parents about me. She knew that they were inadequate and could beat me. But apparently that’s what she wanted. She was also against her father marrying her mother, and spread rot on her. She said she was a villager with no education. And her son is urban, and deserves a city wife, with a prestigious education. Moreover, the mother was much more civilized than her city husband. Then she received an education, began to work prestigiously, and build a career. Socially she achieved much more than her father. But it still didn’t get any better for grandma.
There was also a great-grandmother, I hardly remember her, since she died when I was 6 years old. I think I loved her more than anyone. She protected me too, and protected me from other fucking adults. I didn't let anyone scream or hit me. But I'm still not sure she was a good woman. They said that they greatly oppressed all the wives of their sons.

My maternal grandmother always seemed uninteresting and boring to me until I was 17-18 years old. Then I grew up and looked at her as a person with a very difficult life in the past, and not as a boring family member who is always nagging about unwashed dishes and bad grades. She, like all girls, got married early. She gave birth early. Only my husband (my grandfather) turned out to be a rapist, a liar, a philanderer, and also a pedophile. And it so happened that only I was able to rid the family of this monster. And now I understand that she does not talk about herself, because before no one simply listened to her. Her grandfather broke her, and only recently did she begin to live life to the fullest. I have long wanted to talk to her about her feelings and past. But I don’t even know how to do this, and whether it’s even worth getting into a person’s soul, which is already a sieve.

Ask a question in a clearly respectful manner, and tell her that she doesn't have to answer if she doesn't want to. “Grandma, I understand that you had a hard life that you may not want to remember, but could you tell me something?”

My grandmothers were never interested in me, nor my brother and other grandchildren. My father’s mother still considers me a spoiled child, she never helped my mother with eczema and falling off fingers (in the literal sense of the word, it was very difficult after the second birth), neither washed the dishes, nor took food to cook, nothing.
She just sat with another grandmother in the kitchen while her mother washed the dishes and moaned in pain, and they just shook their heads that “I should help her, but what can I do, because they didn’t ask her, she didn’t ask” and other nonsense. I was five, and I was of little use, except that I was sitting with a one-year-old child, instead of grandmothers, who were not even in the maternity hospital. In the maternity hospital on the occasion of my brother’s birth there were only me, my dad, and my grandfathers. And my father's younger sister. All. No one.
Perhaps, yes, offended by life, blah blah blah, but the problem is that the grandfathers were normal people, with respectful understanding of others! Both were bosses, yes, but their attitude to the end was pleasant and even loving.
Conclusion: I never had the grandmothers they write about in books." Moreover, I never had grandmothers even so closed, so personal, the kind of people about whom the article is about.
Yes, my mother's mother died - I didn't feel much pain, because, well, how can I feel sorry for a dead person I don't know? I cried, cried almost all of elementary school when my uncle died, yes, a drug addict, yes, from an overdose, but he loved me and my mother and father, communicated with me. Yes, I cried when my father’s father died - he loved me and my brother, he idolized his brother, “the bearer of the surname.” I love my mother's father - grandfather, just grandfather.
But the grandmother who remained is gone. It requires communication, but even to a banal request to help me - “well, you know, I can’t, I won’t succeed, I’m old, I’m this, I’m that.” Like I don't know she's lying. How to communicate with someone who does not want to make contact? However, they point out that “you are my only granddaughter! Girl! Why don’t you look after me?”
Yes, it's stupid, but I don't want to. She is nobody to me, was nobody and has become nobody. Just a person whom I don’t even see once a year.

And my grandmother tells fortunes with cards. Even if I don’t tell anything, she still knows what’s going on with me, down to eerie details - for example, once she was dumbfounded by the question “how is your new house?” Although no one knew that I left my husband a week ago and rented another place to live (and just a house, not an apartment); another time she asked the name of the little black man who lived at my house for four days. When asked how she found out exactly how many days it was, the answer was - I laid out the cards for four days in a row, and you were together in your house, and on the fifth - he was already in another country. So I realized that it was useless to hide anything from grandma, and I tell her everything. Which is why I’m glad that there is a person in the family whom I trust, or, more correctly, I’m not afraid of condemnation or rejection.

Thank you very much for your support. I only told one girl about this. It’s easier just because I said it. Ashamed. Of course it's a shame. But now, having understood everything, I’m trying to be less selfish towards those close to me who love and support me.

I read this and somehow felt both offended and sad at the same time. It just so happened that at the age of 8 I moved far from both my grandmothers, who, unfortunately, are no longer there. My mother’s mother was lying with a stroke at the time, I remember how kind she was and how silent. I really saw the pain she was experiencing and how embarrassed she was that everyone was “running around” with her, as she said. Why is it sad, because I didn’t have time to tell her much, she didn’t see me as an adult, although I know for sure, she really dreamed about it, my silent granny with sad eyes. I'm sure there was a whole world in it, a whole universe that I never knew about...
And my second grandmother, my father’s mother, didn’t want to know anything about me since I left. She didn't call or write. But I still love her and miss her. After all, who knows what she was thinking about then, what she wanted.
It's just sad that I'll never know.
Yes, I always dreamed of sitting with my grandmother on the sofa, drinking tea and just chatting, asking her about everything in the world and telling her about myself.
It's a pity.

My grandma calls me a motherfucker. Since I was 10 years old, she has been claiming that I am a slut because I played football with boys. There were few girls in the yard; she played with whomever she had. I lived with a guy, my grandmother wanted my wedding, she was afraid that I would bring it to the hem.

Because you don’t choose relatives, and grandmothers are just as different as any other women. I now understand that I am still not ready for the fact that my grandmothers will pass away. It seems to me that when we have a good relationship and we know so much about each other, letting go is simply unrealistic. I’m trying to get used to the idea that I myself can theoretically be a grandmother and this is an inevitable course of life, but I still won’t be able to let them go, I I know that.

Very good topic! I no longer distinguish between whom I love more - my mother or my adored grandmother. My grandmother is Lezgin by nationality, and throughout my childhood she looked after me, still affectionately calls me swallow and sang songs in our native language (which I learned thanks to her). She is a very interesting person, cheerful, optimistic and often likes to joke.
And the most wonderful thing is that she supports the feminist direction of my thoughts.

Yes, my grandmother is such a grandmother. True, she told me a lot of interesting things about her life, about the life of her mother, father and sisters. And she really loves what she does (farming, embroidery, watching TV series and sitting with her friends on the bench). I'm happy for her. She calls me often, and I tell me how things are going. Although, of course, she knows much less about me than I know about her. If she had known what kind of person I was, she would not have understood me. But I love my grandmother, and she loves me. And in general all my relatives.

I had the same grandmother as in the films mentioned by the author. The most understanding and kind. Unfortunately, we lived in different cities and met extremely rarely.

My grandmother was the head of our family. I often talked about my life, and I told her about mine, due to my open character, although there was not always understanding.

There is such a stereotype about older women, as well as about women of any other age, and, although I am still far from the age of a “grandmother,” I sometimes think with horror about what kind of old age awaits me, because I will never become such an old woman in a dress in peas, with grandchildren, with specialties and the habit of persuading everyone to try my delicacies. It’s scary that we spend our whole lives trapped in public opinion, and a step to the left or a step to the right - we will be judged and excluded from society. “Abnormal” old women are also shamed - they say, she was a fool in her youth, now die alone! Or: what do you think you are, you old fool, you’re not old enough! Or (if you have children and grandchildren): you didn’t raise them the way they grew up to be!
My grandmother on my father’s side lived like this all her life, trying to prove herself “correct” in society, and demanded the same from others. She was ashamed of her son, my uncle, when he fell in love with a representative of an ethnic minority, because “what will people say,” then she found him a wife, and she was ashamed when he and his wife divorced, and the wife took her granddaughter - it seems that not much Because of the separation from my cousin, I was worried so much about my reputation - after all, she doesn’t have an exemplary family! People will gossip! All my life I didn’t like my mother because she came from an extremely poor family, and then also because she suddenly turned from a proper patriarch into a self-confident careerist (yes, my mother is cool!). Then came the suffering that I, supposedly, “at that age” don’t get married, don’t give birth to children, it’s wrong, it’s a mess.
And the worst thing is that I observe in myself, albeit not so terrible, but still a dependence on public opinion. The example of my grandmother shows how pathetic and worthless it looks, because she didn’t really live, but as if she was making a show out of her life that people should like.

And my great-grandmother passed away 3 years ago. My great-grandfather fell ill from a stroke, the doctors said - a maximum of a year, and then he won’t even get up. She carried it on her every day, did exercises, and washed it. And he got to his feet! I went and played sports with her. After that he lived for another 10 years. Granny was very happy that he was around. True, after her grandfather passed away, she only lived for a couple of years. She said she didn’t want anything anymore. There was great love, pure, bright. They loved each other very much. She was a very kind woman. Now I regret that I spent so little time with her.

And my grandmother is exactly as the author described, the grandmother from the films, especially in her behavior, oddly enough. At 65, she looks 10 years younger, always dressed “in fashion” and carefully monitoring her appearance. But besides this mask, it is exactly how people interpret this image in films and books. I can talk to her as an equal, she can give me advice. How different people are in this world!

Grandmothers are the same women. With my personal life, including.

My grandmother is a wonderful, kind woman, ethical, tactful. A child of war, raised in harsh conditions. She entered medical school and left central Russia to “raise” the fraternal republic. She rode around the villages on horseback and provided medical assistance. And by the way, I saved my grandfather from death several times, “got out”, and then went to live with my sister for a couple of weeks, thousands of kilometers away, and there was no one to save my grandfather. But he refused to save himself, forbade calling an ambulance, and so on. A perfect illustration of a woman's responsibilities is also to be responsible for all lives, including adult men. Okay, not about that. Now I’m feeling good, we see each other very often. He watches the news, bakes pies, uses his cell phone better than his mother, but is a little sad. He can’t find something he likes, but we don’t know how to help. We've already changed our minds about so many things. I really don’t know what to do anymore.

It seems to me that everything depends on the character. For example, I am a terribly unsociable person. I can go days without communicating without experiencing discomfort. Empty conversations about nothing tire me, and I don’t like family feasts in general precisely because of empty conversations for the forced 3-4 hours. But there are people who like it, no doubt.
We are all different. Sociable grandmothers who take great pleasure in communicating with their grandchildren, other elderly women, in queues, etc., and those women who prefer to keep to themselves and mind their own business - this is all normal. Both options are normal. We're all just different.
At least that's what I think.

How do you like the article?

Quote:

(Anonymous)
Oseeva's story "Grandma"
At our house we had a thin book of stories for children, and the title of one of them called the book “Grandma.” I was probably 10 years old when I read this story. He made such an impression on me then that all my life, no, no, but I remember it, and tears always come to my eyes. Then the book disappeared somewhere...

When my children were born, I really wanted to read this story to them, but I couldn’t remember the name of the author. Today I remembered the story again, found it on the Internet, read it... Again I was overcome by that painful feeling that I first felt then, in childhood. Now my grandma has been gone for a long time, my mother and father have left, and, involuntarily, with tears in my eyes, I think that I will never be able to tell them how much I love them, and how much I miss them...

My children are already grown up, but I will definitely ask them to read the story “Grandma”. It makes you think, educates feelings, touches the soul...

Quote:

Anonymous)
Now I read “Granny” to my seven-year-old son. And he cried! And I was happy: he was crying, which meant he was alive, which meant that in his world of Turtles, Batman and Spiders there was a place for real human emotions, for pity, which is so valuable in our world!

Quote:

hin67
In the morning, while taking my child to school, for some reason I suddenly remembered how they read the story “Grandma” to us at school.
During the reading, someone even grinned, and the teacher said that when it was read to them, some cried. but in our class no one shed a tear. The teacher finished reading. suddenly a sob was heard from the back desk, everyone turned around - it was the ugliest girl in our class roaring...
I came to work and found a story on the Internet and now I’m sitting as a grown man in front of the monitor and tears are welling up.
Weird......

"Granny"

Valentina Oseeva Story

The grandmother was sleeping on the chest. All night she tossed and turned heavily, and in the morning she got up before everyone else and rattled dishes in the kitchen. Then she woke up her son-in-law and daughter:
- The samovar is ready. Get up! Have a hot drink on the way...
I approached Borka:
- Get up, my father, it's time for school!
- For what? - Borka asked in a sleepy voice.
- Why go to school? The dark man is deaf and dumb - that's why!
Borka hid his head under the blanket:
- Go, grandma...
“I’ll go, but I’m not in a hurry, but you’re in a hurry.”
- Mother! - Borka shouted. - Why is she buzzing in your ear like a bumblebee?
- Borya, get up! - Father knocked on the wall. - And you, mother, move away from him, don’t bother him in the morning.
But the grandmother did not leave. She pulled stockings and a sweatshirt onto Borka. She swayed with her heavy body in front of his bed, softly slapped her shoes across the rooms, rattled her basin and kept saying something.
In the hallway, father shuffled with a broom.
- Where did you put your galoshes, mother? Every time you poke into all corners because of them!
The grandmother hurried to his aid.

Yes, here they are, Petrusha, in plain sight. Yesterday they were very dirty, I washed them and put them down.
Father slammed the door. Borka hurriedly ran out after him. On the stairs, the grandmother would slip an apple or candy into his bag and a clean handkerchief into his pocket.
- Yah you! - Borka waved it off. - I couldn’t give it before! I'll be late...
Then my mother went to work. She left food for the grandmother and persuaded her not to waste too much:
- Be more economical, mom. Petya is already angry: he has four mouths on his neck.
“Whose race is his mouth,” sighed the grandmother.
- Yes, I'm not talking about you! - the daughter softened. - In general, the costs are high... Be careful, mom, with fats. Borya is fatter, Petya is fatter...

Then other instructions rained down on the grandmother. The grandmother accepted them silently, without objection.
When her daughter left, she began to take charge. She cleaned, washed, cooked, then took the knitting needles out of the chest and knitted. The knitting needles moved in the grandmother's fingers, now quickly, now slowly - according to the course of her thoughts. Sometimes they stopped completely, fell to their knees, and the grandmother shook her head:
- That’s right, my darlings... It’s not easy, it’s not easy to live in the world!
Borka would come home from school, throw his coat and hat into his grandmother’s arms, throw his bag of books onto a chair and shout:
- Grandma, eat!

The grandmother hid her knitting, hurriedly set the table and, crossing her arms on her stomach, watched Borka eat. During these hours, Borka somehow involuntarily felt his grandmother as one of his close friends. He willingly told her about his lessons and comrades.
The grandmother listened to him lovingly, with great attention, saying:
- Everything is fine, Boryushka: both bad and good are good. Bad things make a person stronger, good things make his soul bloom.

Sometimes Borka complained about his parents:
- Father promised a briefcase. All fifth graders carry briefcases!
The grandmother promised to talk to her mother and told Borka about the briefcase.
Having eaten, Borka pushed the plate away from him:
- Delicious jelly today! Have you eaten, grandma?
“I ate, I ate,” the grandmother nodded her head. - Don’t worry about me, Boryushka, thank you, I’m well-fed and healthy.
Then suddenly, looking at Borka with faded eyes, she chewed some words with her toothless mouth for a long time. Her cheeks were covered with ripples, and her voice dropped to a whisper:
- When you grow up, Boryushka, don’t leave your mother, take care of your mother. Old and small. In the old days they used to say: the most difficult things in life are three things: praying to God, paying debts and feeding your parents. That's it, Boryushka, my dear!
- I won’t leave my mother. This is in the old days, maybe there were such people, but I’m not like that!
- That’s good, Boryushka! Will you give me water, food and affection? And your grandmother will rejoice at this from the other world.

OK. Just don’t come dead,” Borka said.
After Dinner, if Borka remained at home, the grandmother handed him a newspaper and, sitting down next to him, asked:
- Read something from the newspaper, Boryushka: who lives and who suffers in this world.
- “Read it”! - Borka grumbled. - She’s not small herself!
- Well, if I can’t do it.
Borka put his hands in his pockets and became like his father.
- You're lazy! How long did I teach you? Give me your notebook!
The grandmother took out a notebook, a pencil, and glasses from the chest.
- Why do you need glasses? You still don't know the letters.
- Everything is somehow more clear in them, Boryushka.

The lesson began. The grandmother carefully wrote out the letters: “sh” and “t” were not given to her at all.
- Again I put an extra stick! - Borka was angry.
- Oh! - the grandmother was scared. - I can’t count it at all.
- Okay, you live under Soviet rule, otherwise in tsarist times you know how they would beat you up for this? My regards!
- That's right, that's right, Boryushka. God is the judge, the soldier is the witness. There was no one to complain to.
The squeals of the children could be heard from the yard.
- Give me your coat, grandma, quickly, I don’t have time!
Grandma was left alone again. Adjusting her glasses on her nose, she carefully unfolded the newspaper, went to the window and peered for a long, painful time at the black lines. The letters, like bugs, either crawled before my eyes, or, bumping into each other, huddled together. Suddenly a familiar difficult letter jumped out from somewhere. The grandmother hurriedly pinched it with her thick finger and hurried to the table.
“Three sticks... three sticks...” she rejoiced.

* * *
The grandmother was annoyed by her grandson's fun. Then white airplanes cut out of paper, like doves, flew around the room. Having described a circle under the ceiling, they got stuck in the oil can and fell on grandma’s head. Then Borka appeared with a new game - “chasing”. Having tied a nickel in a rag, he jumped wildly around the room, tossing it with his foot. At the same time, overwhelmed by the excitement of the game, he bumped into all the surrounding objects. And the grandmother ran after him and repeated in confusion:
- Fathers, fathers... What kind of game is this? Why, you’ll smash everything in the house!
- Grandma, don’t interfere! - Borka gasped.
- Why use your legs, my dear? It's safer to use your hands.
- Leave me alone, grandma! What do you understand? You need to use your feet.

* * *
A friend came to Borka. Comrade said:
- Hello, grandma!
Borka cheerfully nudged him with his elbow:
- Let's go, let's go! You don't have to say hello to her. She is our old lady.
The grandmother pulled down her jacket, straightened her scarf and quietly moved her lips:
- To offend - to hit, to caress - you need to look for words.
And in the next room a comrade said to Borka:
- And they always say hello to our grandmother. Both our own and others. She is our main one.
- How is this the main one? - Borka became interested.
- Well, the old one... raised everyone. She must not be offended. What's wrong with yours? Look, father will be angry for this.
- It won’t warm up! - Borka frowned. - He doesn’t greet her himself.

The comrade shook his head.
- Wonderful! Now everyone respects the old ones. The Soviet government knows how it stands up for them! Some people in our yard had a bad life for an old man, so now they pay him. Court sentenced. And I’m ashamed in front of everyone, it’s terrible!
“We don’t offend our grandmother,” Borka blushed. - We have her... well-fed and healthy.
Saying goodbye to his comrade, Borka stopped him at the door.
“Grandma,” he shouted impatiently, “come here!”
- I'm coming! - Grandma hobbled out of the kitchen.
“Here,” Borka said to his comrade, “say goodbye to my grandmother.”
After this conversation, Borka often asked his grandmother out of nowhere:
-Are we offending you?
And he told his parents:
- Our grandmother is the best of all, but lives the worst of all - no one cares about her.

The mother was surprised, and the father was angry:
- Who taught your parents to condemn you? Look at me - still small!
And, getting excited, he attacked the grandmother:
- Are you, a mother, teaching your child? If they are unhappy with us, they could say it themselves.
The grandmother, smiling softly, shook her head:
- I don’t teach, life teaches. And you, fools, should be happy. Your son is growing up for you! I have outlived my time in the world, and your old age is ahead. What you kill, you won’t get back.

* * *
Before the holiday, the grandmother was busy in the kitchen until midnight. I ironed, cleaned, baked. In the morning I congratulated the family, served clean ironed linen, and gave socks, scarves, and handkerchiefs.
The father, trying on socks, groaned with pleasure:
- You pleased me, mother! Very good, thank you, mom!
Borka was surprised:
- When did you impose this, grandma? After all, your eyes are old - you’ll still go blind!
The grandmother smiled with her wrinkled face.
She had a large wart near her nose. Borka was amused by this wart.
- Which rooster pecked you? - he laughed.
- Yes, I’ve grown up, what can you do!
Borka was generally interested in grandma’s face.
There were different wrinkles on this face: deep, small, thin, like threads, and wide, dug out over the years.
- Why are you so painted? Very old? - he asked.
Grandma was thinking.
- You can read a person’s life by its wrinkles, my dear, as if from a book.
- How is this? Route, perhaps?
- What route? It’s just grief and need that are at play here. She buried her children, cried, and wrinkles appeared on her face. She endured the need, and wrinkles were fought again. My husband was killed in the war - there were many tears, but many wrinkles remained. Heavy rain also digs holes in the ground.

I listened to Borka and looked in the mirror with fear: he had never cried enough in his life - could his whole face be covered with such threads?
- Go, grandma! - he grumbled. - You always say stupid things...

* * *
When there were guests in the house, the grandmother dressed up in a clean cotton jacket, white with red stripes, and sat decorously at the table. At the same time, she watched Borka with both eyes, and he, making grimaces at her, carried candy from the table.
The grandmother’s face was covered in spots, but she couldn’t tell in front of the guests.

They served the daughter and son-in-law to the table and pretended that the mother occupied a place of honor in the house, so that people would not say bad things. But after the guests left, the grandmother got it for everything: both for the place of honor and for Borka’s candies.
“I’m not a boy for you, mother, to serve at the table,” Borkin’s father was angry.
- And if you’re already sitting, mom, with folded hands, then at least they should keep an eye on the boy: he’s stolen all the candy! - added the mother.
- But what will I do with him, my dears, when he becomes free in front of guests? What he drank, what he ate, the king will not squeeze out with his knee,” the grandmother cried.
Irritation against his parents stirred in Borka, and he thought to himself: “When you’re old, I’ll show you then!”

* * *
The grandmother had a treasured box with two locks; None of the family was interested in this box. Both the daughter and son-in-law knew well that the grandmother had no money. The grandmother hid some things “for death” in it. Borka was overcome by curiosity.
- What do you have there, grandma?
- When I die, everything will be yours! - she was angry. - Leave me alone, I won’t interfere with your things!
Once Borka found his grandmother sleeping in a chair. He opened the chest, took the box and locked himself in his room. The grandmother woke up, saw the open chest, gasped and fell against the door.
Borka teased, rattling the locks:
- I’ll open it anyway!..
The grandmother began to cry, went to her corner, and lay down on the chest.
Then Borka got scared, opened the door, threw her the box and ran away.
“I’ll take it from you anyway, I just need one,” he teased later.

* * *
Recently, the grandmother suddenly hunched over, her back became round, she walked more quietly and kept sitting down.
“It grows into the ground,” my father joked.
“Don’t laugh at the old man,” the mother was offended.
And she said to the grandmother in the kitchen:
- Why are you, mom, moving around the room like a turtle? Send you for something and you won’t come back.

* * *
My grandmother died before the May holiday. She died alone, sitting in a chair with knitting in her hands: an unfinished sock lay on her knees, a ball of thread on the floor. Apparently she was waiting for Borka. The finished device stood on the table. But Borka did not have lunch. He looked at the dead grandmother for a long time and suddenly rushed headlong out of the room. I ran through the streets and was afraid to return home. And when he carefully opened the door, father and mother were already at home.
The grandmother, dressed up as if for guests - in a white jacket with red stripes, was lying on the table. The mother cried, and the father consoled her in a low voice:
- What to do? She's lived, and she's had enough. We did not offend her, we endured the inconvenience and expense.

* * *
Neighbors crowded into the room. Borka stood at the grandmother’s feet and looked at her with curiosity. The grandmother’s face was ordinary, only the wart had turned white and the wrinkles had become smaller.
At night Borka was scared: he was afraid that the grandmother would get off the table and come to his bed. “If only they would take her away soon!” - he thought.
The next day the grandmother was buried. When they walked to the cemetery, Borka was worried that the coffin would be dropped, and when he looked into the deep hole, he hastily hid behind his father.
They walked home slowly. The neighbors saw him off. Borka ran forward, opened his door and tiptoed past his grandmother’s chair. A heavy chest, lined with iron, protruded into the middle of the room; a warm patchwork blanket and pillow were folded in the corner.

Borka stood at the window, picked up last year's putty with his finger and opened the door to the kitchen. Under the washbasin, my father rolled up his sleeves and washed his galoshes; water flowed onto the lining and splashed onto the walls. Mother rattled the dishes. Borka went out onto the stairs, sat on the railing and slid down.
Returning from the yard, he found his mother sitting in front of an open chest. All sorts of junk was piled on the floor. There was a smell of stale things.
The mother took out the crumpled red shoe and carefully straightened it out with her fingers.
“Mine is still there,” she said and bent low over the chest. - My...
At the very bottom the box rattled. Borka squatted down. His father patted him on the shoulder:
- Well, heir, let's get rich now!
Borka glanced sideways at him.
“You can’t open it without the keys,” he said and turned away.
They couldn’t find the keys for a long time: they were hidden in the pocket of the grandmother’s jacket. When his father shook his jacket and the keys fell to the floor with a jingle, Borka’s heart sank for some reason.

The box was opened. The father took out a tight package: it contained warm mittens for Borka, socks for his son-in-law and a sleeveless vest for his daughter. They were followed by an embroidered shirt made of antique faded silk - also for Borka. In the very corner lay a bag of candy, tied with a red ribbon. There was something written on the bag in large block letters. The father turned it over in his hands, squinted and read loudly:
- “To my grandson Boryushka.”
Borka suddenly turned pale, snatched the package from him and ran out into the street. There, sitting down at someone else’s gate, he peered for a long time at the grandmother’s scribbles: “To my grandson Boryushka.”
The letter "sh" had four sticks.
"I didn't learn!" - Borka thought. And suddenly, as if alive, the grandmother stood in front of him - quiet, guilty, having not learned her lesson.
Borka looked back at his house in confusion and, holding the bag in his hand, wandered down the street along someone else’s long fence...
He came home late in the evening; his eyes were swollen from tears, and fresh clay stuck to his knees.
He put Grandma’s bag under his pillow and, covering his head with the blanket, thought: “Grandma won’t come in the morning!”

Here are some stories of my relatives.
1. This story was told to me by my grandmother’s sister – b. Nina. Everything described below happened during the Great Patriotic War. Grandma Nina was still just a girl then (she was born in 1934). And then one day Nina stayed overnight with her neighbor, Aunt Natasha. And in the villages it was customary to keep chickens in a fence in the house. And Aunt Natasha also had chickens. Now everyone has already gone to bed: Natasha is on the bed, and her children and Nina with them are on the stove. The lights were turned off... The chickens also calmed down... Silence... Suddenly, suddenly in the dark, one of the chickens - rrrrrrrrr! - and jumped over the fence! The chickens got worried. T. Natasha got up and drove the chicken back. Just settled down, and again - bang! – the hens clucked, and one flew over again. T. Natasha stood up, lit a torch and turned to the invisible spirit that was bothering the chickens: “Atamanushka, for better or for worse? “And she looks: standing in front of her is a small man, about a meter tall, in such an interesting striped robe, with a belt, and the same pants. He says: “In two days you will find out.” And then he grabbed one chicken, strangled it and threw it on the stove with the children. And then he went underground. Two days later, Comrade Natasha received a funeral from the front: her husband died...

2. And my grandmother told me this. One day, her late mother Evdokia, after a hard day, lay down on the stove to rest. And I spent the night alone. And then he hears - someone very close, as if even at the bottom of the stove, sharpening a knife. The sound is so characteristic: the grinding of metal on a block. Evdokia was seriously scared. He looks down from the stove, and there’s no one there. As soon as he lies down, he looks at the ceiling and hears someone sharpening a knife again. “Well,” thinks Evdokia, “my death has come!” And she began to go through all the prayers she knew in her mind and be baptized. And he hears - this sound moves away, moves away, and then disappears completely... Grandma says that in the villages they used to make stoves with salt, and evil spirits, as you know, are afraid of salt. So, perhaps, without reading the prayer, Evdokia would not have died.

3. And my grandmother told me this story. She once worked as a janitor. They were sitting on a bench with the women, relaxing, talking, and the conversation turned to evil spirits. So one woman says: “Why go far? This is what happened to me. I was sitting at home with the child, but my son, Vanechka, was born. My husband left for work in the morning, Vanya was sleeping in the cradle, and I decided to take a nap. I’m lying there, dozing, and I feel like someone is pulling me under the bed. I jumped up and ran out of the apartment! And straight to your neighbor. I come running and say: “Please, help me take Vanya out of the apartment! I’m really afraid to go in!” My neighbor was a military man and was in a hurry to go to work. He says: “Oh, I have no time. Ask someone else, Maria Fedorovna, for example.” Maria Fedorovna is also our neighbor on the landing. Well, I'll hurry up to her. And she says to me: “Go to your apartment, turn around yourself three times at the threshold, and then walk boldly and don’t be afraid of anything.” I did so. Once I spun around - nothing, the second time I started spinning - I saw some strange creature standing in the apartment, either a person or something else. I already closed my eyes, spun around for the third time, I looked - and there was such a very scary man! He looks at me with narrowed eyes, as if mockingly, and says: “What, you guessed it?!” Now look for your Vanya” - and disappeared! I rushed into the apartment, quickly to the cradle, but there was no child there. I was already scared: did he throw the child off the balcony?! We live on the third floor. I quietly looked from the balcony - no, no one was lying on the ground. I started looking in the apartment, looked everywhere, and barely found it. This creature swaddled my child and stuck it in the space between the wall and the gas stove. But Vanechka is asleep and doesn’t hear anything. And only then I found out that there once lived in our apartment a man, a bitter drunkard, who hanged himself in this entrance.”