A collection of ideal social studies essays. According to Granin's text

Childhood... The word itself takes us to wonderful memories that we remember to this day. What is childhood and what role does it play in a person’s life? These are the questions that come to mind after reading the text by D. A. Granin.

This was his happiest time, filled only with joy and fun. Soon responsibilities appear, we grow up, time begins to pass, and childhood gradually disappears. “It seemed to me that the world was arranged for me,” this is how the hero describes his childhood.

The author's position is expressed quite clearly. The writer is trying to convey to us all the charm and grace of that time. “Childhood is an independent kingdom, a separate country, the main age of a person” - this is how the author talks about this time. Keeping these memories and cherishing them is our main task.

It is at this time that we learn about the world around us, we learn, and grow up. We all live with memories from childhood, and, looking back, we understand that this time was the most wonderful time in our lives. I want to confirm my opinion with an argument from world literature. So, the main character of the story L.N. Tolstoy's "Childhood", remembering his childhood, writes how he played with friends, how he had fun. The author asks the question: “Will that freshness, carelessness, need for love and the power of faith ever return?”

I would like to give another example from L. N. Tolstoy’s novel “War and Peace”. Let us remember young Petya, who, despite the persuasion of his parents, goes into battle. There he shows his wonderful qualities, instilled in childhood.

This text made me think about the value of childhood. Each of us should appreciate this irrevocable time, which we will remember throughout our lives.

Option 2

What is the value of childhood? It is this problem that the writer D.A. poses in his text. Granin.

The author reveals the problem of the value of childhood using the example of the protagonist of the text, who considers childhood the happiest time of his life. Returning to the past, the hero shows how much fun he had, how he spent hours looking at the water and the clouds. All this makes it possible for the author to show the carefree days of childhood.

I completely share the author’s point of view and believe that childhood years are the most valuable for any person. These years are filled with pleasant and unpleasant moments, but most of all, only the good ones are remembered. This is why childhood years are wonderful.

And I can confirm the validity of the statement with the literary work of L.N. Tolstoy's "Childhood". Remembering his childhood, the main character writes about how he joked with his teacher, how he played hunters with friends. This all shows the joyful and happy childhood of the main character.

Also, childhood years are valuable because it is during these years that a person forms his character, inherited from his parents. For example, in V. Astafiev’s work “The Last Bow,” the grandmother invested deep human wisdom in her grandson Vitka. She became for him a symbol of love, kindness and respect. Having instilled good qualities in childhood, grandmother made Vitya a wise and kind person.

Thus, I can conclude that childhood years are valuable for a person. They are filled with joy, fun, happiness and carefree.

Updated: 2017-03-04

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They say there is protein incompatibility.

And probably there is also mental incompatibility, or, as mathematicians say, “incongruence” of characters and attitudes to life. Otherwise, where does the hostility towards one person, a complete stranger to you, and the feeling of sympathy, craving for another come from? And where then are those family dramas, invisible to the world, whose participants seem to understand everything with their minds and are even ready to make concessions, but only from these concessions no one gets any easier or better, but gets worse and worse until it reaches the limit.

We, children, participate in these processes as a silent huge force, crushing both the right and the wrong with the same oppression. We will learn to understand everything when adults become obsolete, boil down, calm down, that is, in essence, too late. It's too late.

Between me and my father lay vast miles and difficult, long years of separation, almost entire decades: studying at school, war and studying again, but at the institute, and then work with traveling on business trips. He and I also shared my unshakable conviction that those who leave home are always to blame. But for some reason I look at the world through the eyes of someone who is gone, guilty, and this world is beautiful, huge. And sometimes I really want to run along the path after my father and ask: “What is this? And this? And this?..” And hear the answer, as before, calm, comprehensive. But the father is somewhere in a sultry, distant country, beyond the reach of imagination, in a low mud-painted house with a flat roof, behind a clay yellow duct. How he lives there, what he does, and what he thinks, and what he feels, unfortunately, I don’t know.

Childhood was full of inexplicable and beautiful things.

Then the explainable became more, and the beautiful became less. The old fairy tales with mermaids, goblins and brownies have disappeared from our old house. They were supplanted by multiplication tables, then algebra, geometry; the man in the pictures appeared in cross-section; everything secret became clear; prose replaced poetry.

One thing remains a wonderful mystery - my childhood itself. Now I’m wondering: where did it get lost, when? Why didn’t I appreciate him then and was in too much of a hurry to become an adult? For some reason, it appears to me as a very sweet, funny creature, dear to me, dear, but, however, not understood by me. It was as if I, timid, was embarrassed to approach him, look him straight in the eyes, and failed to make friends properly.

Then, years later, in the same way I will regret myself, already an adult: why didn’t I try to fully understand what my strength, my joy, laughter, fun, health are for? Only I will not regret old age, but, probably, even in old age we, in essence, do not comprehend ourselves and do not know what possibilities are hidden in us, what we are capable of.

It seems to me that during the war a person sometimes comprehended this secret. He suddenly saw how, in the brilliance of a blinding, branching lightning that spanned half the sky, he saw himself, his soul - to the bottom. And I surprised myself: this is what I am! These are the gigantic powers within me! How glad I am that I am better, more beautiful, braver than I once thought...

Yes, that’s why we remember those bitter, difficult, painful days with such pleasure, we so lovingly cherish and keep in our memory that harsh time. Our best “I” is not for everyday affairs, it somehow fades in the light of ordinary electric lamps, it appears only in the light of smokehouses and the flash of guns.

Home, family, but for some reason you don’t value them. And you don’t know their meaning...

It was only during the war that I first felt what it was like when you have a mother, a father, a gate to the yard, a porch with a latch that hasn’t been painted for a long time, a door to a room, a room with a Venetian window. Everything is nice and familiar. Whether in an icy trench or on a hot day on a dusty army road, I remembered them more and more often: I learned their value. I remembered a green, grassy street with shiny rails in the middle. Once or twice a week, a shunting locomotive, smoky, covered in fuel oil, stinking of kerosene and coal, passed along these rails once or twice a week, with a squeal, a roar, a clang, puffing and groaning. He was hauling one or two empty tanks to the creamery. Then, after a while, he returned back, but already full: their dusty, slate-gray sides turned oily dark.

I remembered the elephant-like, gloomy elms in gray thick wrinkled skin under our window. The sun never came into the house because of them. It softly, like flying spots of gold and emerald, was crushed in our room on the table and floor, reflected in short sparks in the mirror, on the wall, on an open notebook.

I always imagined opening the creaky gate and walking along the sandy path into the yard. The mother will look out of the window and clasp her hands: “Oh God! Who has arrived! My little soldier has returned from the front..."

But the war... she knew what she was doing!

Current page: 2 (book has 22 pages in total)

I remember there was even a “sparrow night”.

Why passerine? Don't know. Maybe because all night long sparrows and other birds rush about in fear, fly in the air screaming, flapping their wings over the trees, as if trying to cover and protect their nests.

I remembered this night for the rest of my life.

First, the July sunset bloomed over the steppe, resembling the wings of a tropical bird: bluish-scarlet, dark blue and green feathers, with a bright orange, searing eye in the center.

Not having had time to waste its fiery shine, its scarlet colors, it faded and drowned in the approaching, completely silent, dark hordes of clouds.

The clouds were moving in a dense formation, voluminous and weighty; their blackness and heaviness frightened them. They reached the darkened zenith, in rare flashes of the sky - and the wind began to beat in the trees, rushed, as if breaking free from a chain, crushed their dark tops almost to the ground, tore the leaves, threw them first up, then down and carried them across the plain. In the house, windows and doors slammed, glass clanged somewhere and glass fell onto the floor.

I was still small in those years, I had not seen war, and then I would not have been able to find the corresponding images. But now I would compare this night with a difficult battle to encircle. To complete destruction. Thunder growled and roared from four sides around our house and forest plantations, like artillery barrage. Here and there, like battery lights, lightning flashes flickered on and off, something exploded loudly and rolled across the roof, like shell explosions. It’s creepy, joyful, really like being in mortal combat. The cry of frightened birds, their anxiously buzzing flocks, fluff and feathers from nests, green leaves crumpled by the wind, shreds of hay, sand and powdered dust from the road - everything rushes in front of the house like a prickly pillar and suddenly falls and crumbles. And from time to time on the horizon something flashes, winks, shines, someone silently exchanges fire signals before a new attack, falls silent in a mysterious silence. Just like Tyutchev:

One lightning fire,
Igniting in succession,
Like demons are deaf and dumb,
They are having a conversation with each other.

And suddenly dry thunder rumbles again, rolling over our heads like a huge empty barrel. The clouds drag low above the ground, hanging like boulders. They move quickly - and not a drop of rain. The hot, stuffy, swirling air, saturated with electricity, did not give birth to anything, did not bring a drop of rain, a trickle of water, or scattered small drops of the much needed, so long-awaited warm moisture evaporating on the fly.

Thunder roars, frightening with its bubbling, and slowly moves away, as if screaming gutturally, and fades away in the distance.

In the east, dawn broke in a thin yellow stripe. “Sparrow Night” was running out, rolling back, coming to naught. Why "passerine"? Even Dahl didn't answer. He uses this word to call the autumnal equinox. And our “sparrow night” - thunder and lightning without rain - swept through the dry, hot summer in July. Only once, many years later, did I find this name in Turgenev - “sparrow night” - in the same sense as ours, but he only called it, without giving an explanation why “sparrow night”, as if everything around it they knew it themselves. And I suddenly thought that our distant ancestors, moving further and further away from us through the centuries, were also deaf-mute demons. We, standing somewhere below, on earth, see the brilliance, hear the thunder of their speeches, but we no longer seem to grasp the very meaning of their fiery concerns, their great and comprehensive thoughts - and we misinterpret them.

Sparrow. Why?.. It’s unclear. In terms of strength and feeling, it’s more like an eagle’s.

At this time something happened in our family. We, the younger children, my little brother and I, of course, did not understand anything about what had happened.

I remember the gray fence, the bare garden, the barking of a three-legged dog. “Your Pomeranian, lovely Pomeranian, is no bigger than a thimble.” We are in Voronezh, without my father. The year is tough and hungry. I am already studying at school, but my main school is the road along the street, through the whole city, a garden with Persian lilacs and books. And the eternal complaints: “Your youngest daughter threw stones.” I throw stones at boys! What a horror! And the boys are roaring!

My father already lived somewhere in Asia. For me he almost doesn't exist. Only somewhere, latently, there lives a strange memory of a shirt embroidered with colored silks, of a soft mustache, strongly smelling of tobacco, of some kind of fire - we, children, are lying on huge bundles in our father’s office, clouds of smoke are flying through the open doors, and our mother is giving us water. spoonfuls of sweet, spicy port wine, and unwraps fragrant oranges in golden tissue paper: this means that we are very sick with something.

But now, without a father, we get sick a little differently. Yes, and everything in our house goes differently. No port, no oranges and often no bread. And when a long, white, bony old man with a beard appears - the postman - and brings us money or letters from a distant Asian city, there, in our souls, something slowly melts, warms. At such moments I always remember the steppe and our house - my father's house - furnished in a Spartan way: a dining table, five stools, a chest of drawers, a wardrobe, a bed and a desk for my father. In the corner, near the closet, there is a chest under the carpet, next to it are fishing rods and a double-barreled shotgun. There is a Russian stove in the kitchen. In the entryway there is a warm sheepskin sheepskin coat on a nail: for traveling around the steppe in winter, waders, a bundle of hare skins, spread out to dry. There is a five-step porch; under the porch is an old dog, his father’s faithful friend and hunting assistant.

Anyone who thinks that simple rural life necessarily corresponds to simple, even perhaps simplified, crude feelings does not know life. Here, in my opinion, everything is inversely related. Looking at little things, at countless, flickering people distracts and scatters attention. And a simple, harsh life in the desert, with the sunset in the window, with black bread and milk and with wide freedom to the very horizon, with this convex, faded from the heat and frost, washed by the rains most transparent sky, as if everything in your heart gathers into a single whole , as if in focus, and highlights, zooming in and enlarging. That’s why everything comes out not rougher at all, but simply clearer, brighter, deeper, more powerful:

If you love, so without reason,
If you threaten, it’s not a joke.

In this life there are special joys and special courage: to understand your role in the world around you, and not to demand for yourself anything beyond the simplest pleasures of a working person, and to value bread and water, fire and firewood as the only important, necessary things. Nowadays, not everyone can do this.

They say there is protein incompatibility.

Childhood was full of inexplicable and beautiful things.

Home, family, but for some reason you don’t value them. And you don’t know their meaning...

But the war... she knew what she was doing!

In her killing black anger, she did not want to leave the combatants neither health, nor life, nor this joy of return, desired as bread or air. And, like bread or air, natural, necessary.

Victory has come, but I have nowhere to return.

My city is burned and destroyed. And my house was burned. There are no elms, no windows, no creaky gate, just a pile of bricks from the foundation. And half the country is in similar ruins. Wherever you go, you have to start life from scratch. And everywhere for now you are a soldier. Because you don’t know how to do anything except fight. And now it seems that this is no longer necessary. Now we need something else: restore, build, work. This means that you need to learn, or rather, relearn to wean yourself from soldier’s habits, to get used to a peaceful life that is still unfamiliar to you on other grounds: without shoulder straps that give you the right to command and the obligation to obey, without elders, at the very least, but who fed and clothed you, without the ability hear a flying shell or bomb.

Our whole family is somewhere in the distant, unknown Kzyl-Orda. At my father’s, in his new, unfamiliar and somehow alien house for us. We need to go there...

In Moscow, at the station, at the ticket offices there are buzzing crowds of demobilized people. There are powerful shoulders, commander’s voices and louder than my lieutenant’s voice. Somebody will bark in a deep voice: “How are you standing?” - and you will involuntarily freeze. No, of course, you can’t get a train ticket in such a crowd. On the benches, among the bags and duffel bags, there was talk: “If only we could get onto the platform, they’re saying, they’re about to serve a Pullman. The doors seem to be sealed, well, maybe on the roof...”

Well, on the roof it's on the roof.

After I traveled throughout the four years of the war, day after day, in any weather, on the most disgusting, beaten and dangerous roads unknown to me before, in rattling trucks, on trucks, in carts, on tanks, on gas stations, on boxes with shells or mines, under bombing, sometimes on the running board of a passing car, holding only the cabin door with one hand, and the roof of the car doesn’t seem like anything special to me. And even more so, there are comrades nearby. In this military brotherhood they will always protect you, feed you, give you something to drink, will not leave you in trouble, and when you are sad, they will make you laugh with a rude, good-natured and well-aimed word.

And then, why not go?!

Since the war?! To your family?!

Having wandered along the tracks in the dark, climbing over a high fence - my companions chivalrously gave me a ride - we come out to some closed carriages. The rain is pouring, the wind is tearing, the swollen floors are hissing. Someone climbs onto the buffer, then, like a cat, onto the roof, reaches out his hand: “Give me a duffel bag!” We rattle our boots on the iron, slippery from the rain, press ourselves against the icy rusty sheets, tie ourselves to the pipe with commander's belts: although it is cold in the wind, it nevertheless makes us sleepy, as if not to fall asleep.

- Where are you going?

- To Kyzyl-Orda. And you?

– I’m going to Tashkent.

- Well, good! You can touch it. Go…

In fact, they hardly waited, they didn’t suffer. The locomotive gently set off, carried it through the tunnels, quickly carried it out into the wind, into the dull, alarming darkness, and so well, so quickly, it suddenly began to assent: “Well, well, well! So so so!" - as if he agrees with me on something, he won’t contradict me.

...We didn’t learn that our land is great at school, sitting at a desk. There was another, much more advanced and accurate scale - on three-verstka maps, under machine gun fire.

Dusty, sooty with the stinking smoke wafting from the locomotive, we have not slept since dawn, we all look forward, exposing our faces to the cold wind, and with love, with longing and with excitement we drink in, absorbing the autumn expanse of empty fields, already harvested, compressed, all of it the breadth, all its immensity, suddenly seen for the first time, not at the cost of one’s life, not on the line of the parapet, not at the intersection of the stereo tube, and not in the slot of the sight, but so freely, freely, like birds flying nearby.

We still do not know how to comprehend all the complexity of the new life and all the beauty of peaceful days, war still rumbles in our souls, and in our eyes the reflection of fires, and those reflections of batteries, and those flashes of shell explosions that were filled before refusal, sleepless, angry, harsh years. And is it any wonder that, as if suddenly stumbling upon peaceful life, we all seemed a little stunned.

“What is this, comrades,” my companion, a major, all in sparkling orders, stutters, says to me. - All over again? Again? He was a battalion commander, a chief, and now again... a schoolboy?!

He was, as it were, humiliated by his journey “on the tube”, on the roof of the carriage. But it was right for me, this lively, cheerful flow of wind around my modest person, it was as if I was flying on wings and kept smiling.

- What are you?

- So simple. Funny…

The sound of wheels... It brought back memories of some other, unlike roads. For some reason I remembered a dusty train of green, worn-out, old carriages. On this train I traveled with my mother from the Kamennaya Steppe to Voronezh for the beginning of the school year. There was no electricity then, and the conductor, who seemed like a giant in a raincoat that rattled and was stained by the weather, carried an iron lantern with a candle inside into the crowded compartment and hung it on a hook. Then everything swayed in the carriage: light and shadows, figures of people, silent fields and forests outside the window, illuminated by the yellow gypsy earring of the flawed month. Someone greedily lights a cigarette in the dark, not yet sitting down, and looks out the window, and rattles a tarpaulin duster on the benches. There is a thick smell of foot wraps, samosad, sheepskin, warm bread, smoke - all some kind of peaceful, kind smells, not of an invented city, but of a living, sovereign, such an amazing life. And the involuntary thought that living, native village life is still clumsy in its directness and cruelty, angular. And I really want to finally doze off, certainly on a soft, fluffed pillow, under a fluffy, caressing, light blanket...

Beyond the Aral Sea they drove us off the roof of the carriage: bridges across the Syr Darya had begun. Probably, many desperate, brave heads, who survived the very heat of the war, fell on these bridges, touching low-hanging farms, if we were almost pulled off the roofs, charred, tanned, with duffel bags, with overcoats, by angry policemen.

And the road continues to stretch, stretching like a thread in the yellow steppe. It smells of dust, kumiss, camels. The unfamiliar southern sun is shining brightly...

Finally Kzyl-Orda!

How I was struck by the modest, low house in Kzyl-Orda! And the same as in the Stone Steppe, the rather poor furnishings are a table, a bed, stools, a bookcase, a laundry basket covered with a knitted tablecloth.

- Well? Have you arrived? – my father asked me sternly, hugging me, kissing me, pressing his dry, tanned face to my tunic. He didn’t seem surprised that I survived that great fire, didn’t burn, didn’t perish.

- Yes, I have arrived...

- Well done!

He was just as tall and handsome, only his hair was a little thinner and less curly, and his mustache drooped; in a faded blue jacket, not a scientist - a worker. And working hands.

“Put it on the table for us quickly,” he said softly to his mother, although she herself was already fussing cheerfully.

How many years have I not seen them? Mother - four years old, father - all fifteen. After all, it happens! The war separated millions of people forever, but united my parents tightly again. When the Nazis started bombing our Voronezh, and I was leaving for the front, my father called my mother to his place. And she went with my little brother...

“There would have been no happiness, but misfortune would have helped,” my father once explained to someone in a fit of frankness, and I now believe that he could say so, although I didn’t believe it before: he is too stingy for such assessments.

They say that the apple tree does not bloom for long, but its boiling-white fragrant outfit, the pale silk of the petals, are remembered for a long time. Now I look at those past years like into a fast river - the bottom is not visible, only the reflections of the sun and ripples on the water. No matter how life threw me around and crushed me later, something remained in my soul from those sunny days.

And not only will it remain, but, probably, until old age, some bush of fragrant wormwood, or a path in the rye, or a warm sunset over a lake or forest will resonate in the soul with either pain or joy. Or the same Kzyl-Orda smelling of melons.

Then I lost count of the number of kilometers. And again, as at the front, I flew and rode everything. In the fever of those years, it didn’t often happen that you could escape from the bustle, but if you did... But if you were carried into silence, with what grace it would suddenly wash both your heart and soul...

Berendey kingdom. Or, perhaps, the Koshchei of the Immortal, where everything is intact, everything is preserved, as if in an ancient, bound chest under a lock - and now it is taken out in front of you and spread with precious silks that smell of withering and solar decay; azure, gray-green and blue - the river and the exact same sky above it; the forest along the shore is gray, silver, yellow and dark green; white, clean washed sand; next to it is a house, painted ocher, with decorative platbands like a toy; a dirty gray pier - and treasured, in fact, as if extracted from some reserved nothingness, desertion, idleness, sweet autumn loneliness, unusual for modern man...

I get my passion for fishing from my father. The boat cuts through the mirror-like, calm water, pressing it ever so slightly, like an iron. In the pools the depth is almost black; On the sand spit, minnows play in the warm, wind-wrinkled, caressing ripples. And there, further, heavy tree branches hanging over the water, looking like leafy boa constrictors, duckweed, algae, kuga, holly-leaved sedge with a thin depressed edge and green, as if varnished, heart-shaped leaves of water lilies. Here’s how happy it is, one, small, rocking afloat, also basking in the late, slightly warming sun. We slowly go around it, afraid to touch it with an oar or the bottom, but still we touch it; it quickly goes under the water on a brownish-greenish stem as flexible as a wire and immediately floats up as if nothing had happened and again lies on the fans of leaves, like an elegant jewel, shining, alluring, all glowing from within, like a candle, with a yellowish, slightly ghostly light.

Not a single human voice in the area, not the sound of engines, nothing except the rustle of seaweed under the oar - this rustle is almost metallic - and the voice of a bird in the coastal bushes, with such a simple song that you hear only in the fall, after departure. Warmth, demagnetization, complete dissolution.

We put mugs on the caught minnows. They, too, like lilies, only red, swayed along the reach and slowly drifted in all directions: some into the thickets of reeds, another to the shallows where the minnow was caught, the third to the shore, under the green arches of overhanging trees.

We returned the gudgeon that had swam to the shallows, but it immediately stubbornly turned onto a road that was familiar or simply attracted by the dark instinct of a fish, probably no less than one and a half kilometers long. And we returned it again, and so on three times. Late in the evening, when the pikes, heavy, slippery, like thick rubber stumps, had already settled on the bottom of the boat, we set off again, for the umpteenth time, to catch up with the gudgeon. He was cheerful, not damaged by the hook, not eaten, and walked briskly on a thin, tight leash.

- Well, shall we let him go free? For such a desire...

The gudgeon is taken off the hook and thrown into the water. And he immediately, deftly and joyfully pushing his tail two or three times from the warm thickness of water invisible to us, but felt to him, suddenly rushed straight in the direction of the shallows. Like a fugitive soldier from Turkish captivity. There will be stories in the minnow family!..

The sun had set a long time ago, the air was damp and cold. Above the river, above the forest, it is almost motionless, all fragrant with the smell of algae, and caught fish, and smoke; along the edges of the horizon it is green, thickening, warm. We look to the west, to the sky, where the edge is still turning pink, with a hidden hope that everything will happen again someday. Like youth. After all, it repeats itself. After all, it can’t help but repeat itself! Well, at least for a moment. For a moment. For a second…

Life is changing before our eyes. But it changes not gradually, not smoothly, but in jerks, with some kind of twists.

In my memory - yes, I remember it very well, although I was still a child then - the peasants in the Voronezh villages plowed with plows, sifted grain with their hands from a basket, they were dressed in homespun trousers made of harsh linen, in brightly colored panevas, zipuns and undershirts, on the legs - onuchi and bast shoes. There was no radio or electricity in the huts; lights were lit. And with me, the Voronezh boy Anatoly Filippchenko “traveled” into space with the help of a smart electronic machine that can do everything and knows everything...

But life is changing in other directions.

Here the highway cuts through fields and ravines and some completely treeless villages. The landscape is the grayest. But he is gray not because he is unprepossessing and poor from an aesthetic point of view, although he also has this in him. It is gray with countless flocks of domestic geese grazing on meadows, stubble, by ponds, and by dead rivers. The impression is as if the entire earth is covered with gray goose down. I can’t help but remember Yesenin’s: “Perhaps instead of winter in the fields, it was the swans who sat in the meadow?” There are no swans here, however. Geese! And not instead of winter, instead of autumn... Near the little white, renovated or recently built houses there are herds of thirty, forty and fifty geese. Therefore, the meadows and the grass in front of the house look sloppy, the air is full of hissing and creaky cackling. The orchards along the hills droop sluggishly under the weight of apples, but the leaves of the trees are covered in flying fluff.

It’s joyful, it’s pleasant, and you involuntarily wish: let this dullness be the only thing in the world, you can come to terms with it!

But you can no longer put up with the fact that there are no wild geese in the meadows, no swans, that probably every single one of the steppe beauties of the bustard has disappeared. I remember them, large, clumsy, almost unable to fly, but running away from a person. The year the steppe was plowed up, the bustards immediately disappeared. I remember pikes playing in the rapids along the ravines, splashing heavily, somehow ponderously, out of the water for as much as half a meter. I remember flocks of – then they called “stanitsa” – flying cranes. And what a great multitude of ducks settled in our swamps, along the beams and on the old pond in the reeds and sedge! All the forest plantings, all the bushes across the steppe, all the grass for many kilometers around the farm, like some kind of huge cauldron, was bubbling and boiling with countless birds - noisy, chirping, quacking and chirping. In the evenings, the owl will laugh and groan in the darkness, then the steppe nightingale will click and scatter the crystal trill.

Yes, if happiness were multiplied by simple cell division, how simple, how joyful it would be to live! Then one could hope that if there is little happiness today, then tomorrow there will definitely be more of it, and in a month, and even more so in a year, there will be plenty for everyone.

But here are the swans... Wild geese...

Since childhood I have not heard cranes flying away.

Now before me are bare plains covered in stubble browned by the weather, so similar to my own. I’m sitting right next to the water, next to a cold, shallow lake overgrown with trees. The weeping willows are still bright green, and the willows are gray, as if in smoke, as if touched by frost. And in the foliage of lindens and maples and white, silvery poplars, here and there the yellowness of early autumn can already be glimpsed.

Silence, sunshine, dissolution in this amazing air smelling of withered grass, fish mucus and fallen leaves, in a calm where the calmness returns you again to the hot summer. And suddenly something alarming, incomprehensible, like a trumpet voice from the sky, someone’s call, slightly creaky, burry, dreary.

- Cranes! Look quickly, cranes!

They came out like airplanes from behind a clump of trees in a classic triangle, heading strictly south, and disappeared behind a dam overgrown with broom. Half an hour later the call came again and again. Now the cranes were walking in a line to the west; only the leader, struggling, flew a little ahead, as if with force pulling the disobedient followers again into a triangle, this whole black thread, but never pulling it out.

- There are more cranes! - my comrades shout to me.

But it seems to me that these are the same ones that have already flown over us once. It’s just that the birds are saying goodbye to the lake, to the groves, to the valleys and ravines overgrown with wheatgrass and wormwood, to the fields covered in fragments of corn stalks, to the haystacks of straw abandoned homelessly on the arable land. It can be seen that adult cranes teach the younger ones, the fledglings, to find, when returning in the spring, this lake, the islands on it in the pines and spruces, this house on the hill, these clumps of trees and all the noticeable landmarks visible from above, from any approach - a sad bird lesson in navigation.

Perhaps at the same time the elders tell them:

– Remember, this is your homeland! Be sure to return to your native land, even if we adults are not there! Please don't forget the way here. Here we love each other, here our children are born, here we die. The hot south is just a vacation, but our life is here...

I envy them flying away, because in the spring they will definitely return here again. And me?.. Will I be able to visit here again, on the dark, green river, on these ponds and lakes, look at the birch alleys going into the steppe, at the beet and rye fields? I am now flying higher than the birds, and from there, from a height unimaginable for a crane, is it possible to notice the blue horseshoe of the bay flashing somewhere below, where we catch roaches and crayfish, these gray willows, as if grey, these red oaks scorched by the sun?!

Every time I love to be in some new land, in a place unfamiliar to me, to see mountains, seas, and beautiful cities, and beautiful people, I love to listen to beautiful, cunning speeches full of hidden meaning... And what will you hear here? Just “tsob” and “tsob”? What will you see? These cranes flying from north to south, and then again, as if in an even cross, across, from east to west, parting with me, flying away?

So little, so little!

There is so little that you definitely want to come back and understand: what is there a lot here? Why did people fight for this dim, poor land - to the point of blood, to death - with the Polovtsians, and with the Tatars, and with the Poles, and with the Swedes, and with the German fascists? So, something attracted them to this land, my ancestors who settled here from ancient times, near the gray river?

I love this land.

Teach me, cranes, to definitely come back! Maybe I’ll understand what’s unclear, just like you, I’ll guess.

We, who live in the city, do not go out into the street before dawn, to work with the cattle or to the field to arable land, and if we do go out, then behind the bright lanterns of lilac-pink and deathly blue-green mercury lamps we see neither the sky nor the stars , nor that barely noticeable, always moving star dust that glows there, in the depths, “in the second echelon” of the huge August or September sky.

And in the forest village the night is quiet, like a whirlpool. The sky glows solemnly with a bright blue crystal, and at the bottom of the hemisphere overturned over the silent earth, on its sloping edges, on the glassy slopes rising to the blue zenith, like living creatures, full of sparkling moisture, like creations from flowing, icy fire, here and there in infinity, countless stars.

I don’t know the names of these strange, unknown configurations moving in the sky, they are so huge, so monstrously distant and so bright that it is difficult to imagine the whole path along which their light reaches the eyes and the heart - I know, from eye to heart instantly, but you can’t mentally repeat it, you can’t walk this path, you can’t comprehend it.

The steam flows like a river. The entire forest is drawn like a spot in black ink, only the nearby branches of the trees against the background of some large star are cut through, like purple and silver or black lace. The sweet smell of a forest road, slightly clayey and dusty. It’s still night, but it’s already turning pink, and for some reason the invisible is visible, outlining itself with a muddy outline.

The air, sharp, frosty, penetrates through you. It’s good to go into the house, into the warmth of the dark rooms and close the door tightly behind you. But in the eyes there are still furry sparks for a long time, like fiery drills, and the smallest splashes from them, imprinted in the pupils for all the coming years, perhaps forever.

Sometimes the “familiarity” of the landscape suddenly pierces the heart, the memory of feelings that responded to some mounds trampled by cattle, to goose grass near the bank of a stunted river.

Discussions

A BIT OF HISTORY

Zosimo-Savvatievsky churchyard
Temple complex. It does not work.
Year of construction: Between 1836 and 1855.
Address: Vologda region, Veliky Ustyug district, Gorka village

Temples of the complex:
Church of St. Nicholas the Wonderworker
Church of Zosima and Savvaty Solovetsky

Shemogodskaya Zosimo-Savvatievskaya, assigned to the Sinegodskaya Assumption Church, built in 1618, rebuilt in 1855. Location: in 1859 - Zosimo-Savvatievskaya churchyard (Savatiya), in the 2nd camp of the Ustyug district, not far from the state-owned village of Gorka ( Korovnya), near the river. Dvina; now - the village of Gorka. Stone. Throne in honor of St. Zosima and Savvaty Solovetsky. Initially, the church was a monastery, located in the wilderness of Zosima and Savvaty Solovetsky the Wonderworker on Sluda, in the Dvina third of the Ustyug district, as indicated in the salary book of monasteries and churches of the Veliky Ustyug diocese in 1755. In 1788, there were 322 people in the church, in 1868 - 726.

The Shemogodskaya St. Nicholas Church was built near Zosimo-Savvatievskaya in 1836 (1837?) Part of the funds was donated by the St. Nicholas merchant Ilya Popov and the actual state councilor, the first guild St. Nicholas merchant Ilya Gribanov. Stone. Throne in honor of: St. Nicholas the Wonderworker, Archbishop of Myra.

The churches were part of the Sinegodsko-Shemogodsky parish of Ustyug district.

via: parishes.mrezha.ru

***
“Ten versts from the Yarokursky churchyard on the left side is the Savvatiev Hermitage churchyard; in it there is a wooden church in the name of the Venerable Zosima and Savvatiy of Solovetsky wonderworkers. This church was built from the Solovetsky monastery for the peasants who were in the vicinity of this graveyard, who were from that Solovetsky monastery; for the administration of The hieromonks and monks sent from the Solovetsky Monastery lived in wooden cells built at the church; after the peasants were taken away from the monasteries, this church was made a parish church, and white priests were assigned to it.”

travel through the North of Russia in 1791 Chelishchev's diary

IN 1891 IN THE VILLAGE OF GORKA (KOROVNYA) THERE WERE 8 YARDS 55 WOMEN AND 50 MEN

Our pensions are being robbed!!!

To make the meaning of the new pension reform clear, I simply took one of
Navalny's publications - everything is told in accessible language. Below is the link-
you can write a request.
how to rob 25 million people and will they be outraged?

If you are an able-bodied citizen under 46 years of age, then most likely next year you will be robbed of several tens of thousands of rubles.
This is not Vanga’s prediction or a generalization in the style of “there is terrible corruption in the country, so we are all constantly being robbed.”
This is a decision of the Russian government and, if it is supported by the State Duma, then 25 million citizens will be deprived of their money.
Not some abstract shares in raw materials rent or taxes, but directly concrete pension fees that belong to them and were earned by their labor.
Newspapers write a lot about this, but, unfortunately, few people understand this, so we (yet) do not see much public resonance on this topic.
Let me try to explain it in a super-mega-primitive way.
1. If you work legally, then insurance premiums are calculated on your salary, from which pensions are paid to current pensioners, and then they will pay you.
2. If you were born after 1967, then you are included in the “funded pension” program, that is (the government said) the size of your pension depends on you: special “funded contributions” are made from your salary. More salary - more deductions - more future pension.
3. You can decide to send your “pension savings” to the Non-State Pension Fund (NPF) or not make any decision - then you will be called “silent” and your “pension savings” will be managed by the state VEB.
4. Some time ago, the Government decided that “silent people” would not transfer anything to the funded part, and those who are in non-state pension funds - 6%
5. Well, now the government says: there is (SUDDENLY) little money in the Pension Fund, so in 2014 we will confiscate this 6% from everyone who signed up for the NPF.

Still not clear?
Then look here:
25 million people are able-bodied citizens of Russia, born in 1967, who have savings in non-state pension funds and send 6% of their salary there.
For all of them this primitive math works:
- Let’s say your salary is 40 thousand rubles a month “net”.
- So your salary is “dirty” (together with 13% income tax) - 45,970 rubles.
- This means the cumulative insurance premium (6%) will be 2,750 rubles per month or 33,000 rubles per year.
This is exactly the amount that will be confiscated from you in 2014 and used to plug holes in the budget created due to the government’s crookedness and theft.

Once again: this is not abstract money from oil and gas. These are very specific accruals that belong to you and should make your life in retirement a little better.
This is a most amazing robbery that happens before everyone's eyes.
It is assumed that, in this way, the government will find itself an additional 244 - 300 billion rubles.
Let me remind you that in government procurement, according to official estimates, 1 trillion rubles a year are stolen from the budget. But no one is concerned with reducing theft in government procurement (for example, by accepting the proposals of RosPil) - it is much easier to simply take away the savings of millions of people.

And we are not talking about some oligarchs, citizens with the highest incomes, a “luxury tax”, etc.
They are taken away from the most active and able-bodied part of the population.
Ordinary people. If you yourself do not fall under the “pension robbery”, then one of your loved ones definitely will.

For example, I am “silent”, but even in our Anti-Corruption Fund there are 6 people who transferred their savings to non-state pension funds, and from whom their savings will be taken away.
It is very difficult to imagine that the government of any European country would survive after robbing 25 million people in this way.
Young and able-bodied people who are most comfortable turning over cars.

In Russia, not only do these 25 million quietly and sadly watch as their future pension is taken away from them, but there is not even a political force that would organize a campaign against the “pension robbery.”

This is terrible, and for me and my colleagues at FBK it is doubly terrible, because polls showed that able-bodied people under 45 are the core of my electorate in the mayoral elections.
These are those for whom Internet penetration is almost 90%.
These are the ones who are reading this post, in fact.
Several late and post-Soviet generations of citizens, united by similar cultural codes.

We have to protect ourselves.
If there is no political force ready to launch a campaign of public pressure on State Duma deputies, then we must do it ourselves. Then this is the place for you.

Russian language

12 out of 24

(1) Childhood rarely makes it possible to guess anything about the child’s future. (2) No matter how hard fathers and mothers try to see what will come of their child, no, it is not justified. (3) They all see childhood as a preface to adult life, preparation. (4) In fact, childhood is an independent kingdom, a separate country, independent of the adult future, of parental plans; it, if you like, is the main part of life, it is the main age of a person. (5) Moreover, a person is destined for childhood, born for childhood, in old age childhood is remembered most of all, so we can say that childhood is the future of an adult.

(6) Childhood was the happiest time of my life. (7) Not because things got worse. (8) And over the next years I thank fate, and there were a lot of good things. (9) But childhood was different from the rest of my life in that then the world seemed arranged for me, I was a joy for my father and mother, I was for no one, there was no sense of duty, there were no responsibilities, well, pick up the snot, well go to bed. (10) Childhood is irresponsible. (11) It was then that responsibilities around the house began to appear. (12) Go. (13) Bring it. (14) Wash... (15) School appeared, lessons appeared, a clock appeared, time appeared.

(16) I lived among ants, grass, berries, geese. (17) I could lie in a field, fly among the clouds, run to God knows where, just rush, be a locomotive, a car, a horse. (18) Could talk to any adult. (19) This was the kingdom of freedom. (20) Not only external, but also internal. (21) I could look from the bridge into the water for hours. (22) What did I see there? (23) I stood idle for a long time at the shooting range. (24) The forge was a magical sight.

(25) As a child, I loved to lie for hours on the warm logs of the raft, look into the water, how they played there in the reddish depths, the bleaks glistened.

(26) You turn on your back, clouds are floating in the sky, and it seems that my raft is floating. (27) The water gurgles under the logs, where it floats - of course, to distant countries, there are palm trees, deserts, camels. (28) In children's countries there were no skyscrapers, no highways, there was a country of Fenimore Cooper, sometimes Jack London - he had snowy, blizzard, frosty ones.

(29) Childhood is black bread, warm, fragrant, there was nothing like it later, it remained there, it’s green peas, it’s grass under bare feet, it’s pies with carrots, rye, with potatoes, it’s homemade kvass. (30) Where does the food of our childhood disappear? (31) And why does it always disappear? (32) Poppy seeds, lean sugar, millet porridge with pumpkin...

(33) There were so many different happy, cheerful things... (34) Childhood remains the main thing and gets prettier over the years. (35) I cried there too, I was unhappy. (36) Fortunately, this was completely forgotten, only the charm of that life remained. (37) Namely life. (38) There was no love, no glory, no travel, only life, a pure feeling of delight at one’s existence under this sky. (39) The value of friendship or the happiness of having parents was not yet realized, all this later, later, and there, on the raft, only me, the sky, the river, sweet foggy dreams...

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Childhood is an important stage in a person’s life. It's a carefree time. I think that most of us remember our childhood with tender trepidation. In this text, D. A. Granin raises the problem of the value of childhood. This problem is always relevant, because it is during this period of time that the child learns to interact with the world around him, forms his ideas about it, acquires skills and character traits that will influence the development of his personality in the future.

To prove his thoughts, the author cites his reasoning: “childhood is an independent kingdom, a separate country... it, if you like, is the main part of life, it is the main age of a person.” D. Granin emphasizes that childhood is one of the most significant stages of a person’s life. Also, the author says about his childhood, describing how he could spend hours looking from a bridge into the water, lying on the logs of a raft, looking at the clouds: “The value of friendship or the happiness of having parents was not yet realized, all this later, later, and there, on the raft, only me, the sky, the river, sweet foggy dreams...” D. Granin describes his unity with nature, shows the carefree nature of that time, and recalls his childhood with tender feelings.

I agree with D. A. Granin, because this is the time that has a strong influence on us. We learn to understand nature and the world around us. The child observes the events taking place and tries to interact with him. Every person probably remembers with trepidation that fabulous time when it seemed that time, problems and worries did not exist. To prove this position, let us turn to arguments from fiction.

Firstly, a striking example of the value of childhood is the work of L.N. Tolstoy "War and Peace". The author describes the Rostov family, the warm atmosphere of family relationships in which children are raised. Brothers and sisters are very friendly with each other and open. Since childhood, Natasha was instilled with important values, such as love, attention, caring for others. The girl grew up watching your parents, taking over and

Criteria

1 of 1 K1 Formulation of source text problems
3 of 3 K2