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Andrew practically did not remember her, but her silhouette, the knitting old woman was deposited in the memory for a lifetime.
Last summer was fruitful, which brought the collective farm at least some profit.
Wilka still had enough money for the first four floors of the cottage, and the milkmaids even managed to sell milk, although Gregory and contractors in the mornings sucked all of it straight from the udder.

Aunt Afdotya finally bought a match, and now all the villagers run to her to look at this wonder.
Morning foggy road, motorcycle, one hundred twenty kilometers per hour.
This is the sensation of flying in outer space, of boundlessness and serenity.
Probably Einstein was right with his theory of relativity, because while you are driving, you are not getting old, and eternal driving is eternal youth.

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Rushing headlong, without thinking about the reason forcing you to increasingly turn the knob of gas, you forget about everything earthly, leaving in mind only a dusty snake of the road.
The eyed cobra also began to hiss and hooligans.
The bumps were getting bigger, and in addition, and the puddles made Andrei slow down, he looked around and, recovering himself, saw that he had arrived in the village where he had been born.
Having informed the terrible bang of his Java about his arrival, he rushed to the house, in which he had not been for so long.
There were several people standing at the house, and when they saw Andrey, they began to fuss.
Two days have passed.
The granny was buried in honor, the girls cried, and it seemed even sincerely, while the men, as always, strong and strict, gritted their teeth, looked at the simple coffin going down to the ground.

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It was not a major and always tragic funeral of a comrade who died in a hot spot, no, there was no sorrowful pathos here, everyone already knew that it was time for her grandmother to die and that death in old age was for her only deliverance from earthly ailments.
“It’s time to come back more, nothing keeps me here,” thought Andryukha, walking from the cemetery to the courtyard, where he left “Java”, but someone’s sonorous voice called him.
Sorry, are you Andrew, the grandson of the woman of Vera? Yes, he himself, – replied the grandson and turned.
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