It was an interesting summer. If the first month of rest did not differ from previous summer vacations, I was in the city, then the next two months turned out to be the most memorable for me, I went to my aunt’s place in the village. Exactly, with the spent days in the village, the most interesting events and bright impressions of my summer are connected with me. In the country, time is slow and hesitant, not at all like in big cities. It seems that a whole month has passed, but in fact, only one week has passed. Usually, in the morning I help my aunt in the garden, although her morning begins earlier than mine. We have a village far from the village and tap water is an unheard-of luxury, so I take two old iron buckets and go through three houses to the well.
The water from the well is incredibly clean and very cold. Sometimes I have to do something about the house, but as soon as the first opportunity appears, I wave over the fence and run to friends. In the village, I
have good friends. Together we spend almost all the time. In the hottest days we can sit for hours on the river bank. Bathe, frolic and see off passing barges. Somehow I got it from my aunt because I missed dinner, but in fact I was not hungry.
The fact is that my friend Paschka brought a whole packet of potatoes from Uncle Sergei and we baked it right in the fire. What a pleasure to throw hot potatoes from one hand to another, and then break it and eat it on a piece, clearing it of salt ash. Agree, this is not a plate with soup ready for you. But how much romance and happiness spent, as if in a different world, summer days! In the evenings, I was sitting at home in a real wooden hut. Usually, after dinner, friends came to the aunt’s, they sat for a long time at a large round table in the center of the room and drank tea. I was nearby, climbing a large stone stove, and either I looked at the books brought from the city, or did nothing, as my aunt often said “beat the buckets”.
Although in fact I kept a diary, and, like Robinson Crusoe on an uninhabited island, made notes, counting the days
until the time when I was taken to the city. Sometimes, I find myself thinking that the village is an island away from the city, where life obeys another rhythm. Perhaps, because it is closer to nature, and maybe just cities so far away from a real quiet life in pursuit of technological progress. Anyway, I’m an urban person and my place is there, in an endless stream of information, but every time leaving this quiet island of serenity, I’ll remember how I spent the summer and missed my village.