style="font-size:15px;"> At home, Mom, without asking anything, at once told me to shove the wounded under the gush of water from the kitchen tap. She bent and straightened it several times and ordered not to bellow like a little cow. Then she bandaged it into a tight white cocoon and promised that by the wedding day it would be like new.
(…and, in the same breathe, childhood is not the nursery of sadomasochism, like, “Whoops, my finger got pinched! Oh, I bumped my head!” It’s just that some jolts leave deeper notches in the memory.
Yet, what a pity that the same memory does not retain the admiring state of ongoing discoveries when a speck of sand stuck to a penknife's blade holds countless galaxies and worlds, when any trifle, a scrap of trash, is the promise and pledge of future wanderings and unbelievable adventures.
We grow up gaining the protective armor necessary in the adult world—the doctor's smock on me, the traffic cop's uniform on you. Each of us becomes a necessary cog within the social machine. All needless things—like gaping at fire extinguishers or scanning the strange faces in the frost gripped windowpane—are chopped off…
Now there is a number of old scars on my fingers. This one from an awkwardly wielded knife, here a deep cut by ax, and only on my pinky fingers I cannot find any trace from that pulley injury. Because "body dissolves"…
But, hey! I know much fresher bywords, like that recent one: “summer is a miniature life”…)
When you are a child not only summer but each and every day is a miniature life. The childhood time is slowed down – it does not fly, it does not flow, it does not even move until you push it on. Poor kids would long since got extinct while crossing that boundless desert of the static time, were they not rescued by playing games.
And in that summer, if I got bored with a game or no one was in the Courtyard to play with, I had already a haven, a kinda “home” square in the game of Classlets. The big sofa it was, where life ran high indeed, the life full of adventures shared by the heroes from books by Gaidar, Belyaev, Jules Verne… And even outside the big sofa, you can always find a place suitable for all kinds of adventures. Like that balcony by the parents’ room, where I once spent a whole summer day reading a book about prehistoric people – Chung and Poma.
There was hair all over their bodies, like by animals, and they lived in the trees. But then a branch accidentally broke off a tree and helped to defend themselves against a saber-tooth tiger, so they started to always carry a stick about them and walk instead of leaping in the trees around. Then there happened a big jungle fire followed by the Ice Age. Their tribe wandered in search of food, learning how to build fire and talk to each other.
In the final chapter, the already old Poma could walk no farther and fell behind the tribe. Her faithful Chung stayed by her side to freeze to death together in the snow. But their children could not wait and just went on because they were already grown up and not so hairy as their parents, and they protected themselves from the cold with the skins of other animals…
The book was not especially thick, yet I read it all day long, while the sun, arisen on the left, from behind the forest outside our Block, was crossing in its indiscernible movement the sky over the Courtyard, towards the sunset on the right, behind the second block.
At some point, in a way of respite from the uninterrupted reading, I slipped out between the iron uprights of the handrail that bounded the balcony and started to promenade outside, along the concrete cornice beyond the safety grating, and it was not scary at all because I tightly grasped the bars, just like Chung and Poma when they were still living in the trees. But some unfamiliar unclie was passing down there that yelled at me and told to get back onto the balcony. He even threatened to inform my parents. However, they were not home so he took his complaint to our neighbors on the first floor. In the evening they told on me to Mom, and I had to promise her to never-never do it again…
~ ~ ~
(…every road, when you pass it for the first time, seems endlessly long because you cannot measure yet the past part of it against what is still ahead. When passing the same road again and again, it obviously shortens.
That keeps true with the school academic year as well. But I’d never discover it had I left the race at the beginning of the second year at school…)
It was a clear autumn day and our class left school going on the excursion to collect fallen leaves. Instead of Seraphima Sergeevna, who was absent that day, we were supervised by the School Pioneer Leader.
First, she led us thru the forest, then down the street towards the Detachment Library which we didn’t reach but turned into a short lane between the wooden houses that ended atop a steep slope bridged by two wide flights of timber steps in a pretty long and steep slant down to a real football field encircled by a wide cinder path.
Walking the flights, we descended to the large board-floor landing to both sides from which, there ran half-dozen bleachers made of lumber beams. No bleachers were seen on the field’s opposite side but a lonely white hut and a tall picture-stand of 2 footballers motionless forever at the zenith in their high jump fixed at the moment of strenuous scramble in the air by their feet for the ball.
The girls of our class stayed back collecting the leaves from between the bleachers, but the boys bypassed the football field along the cinder path behind the goal on the right and fled down the dip to the river running nearby. When I reached the riverbank, three or four of the boys with their pants rolled up to the knees were already wading about the stream that noisily rushed thru the gap in the broken dam while the most of classmates stayed on the bank just watching.
Without a moment’s deliberation, I pulled off my boots and socks and rolled the pants up. Entering the water was a little scary, what if it’s too cold? But it turned out quite tolerable. The stream roared angrily and leaned in constant drive on my legs below the knees, yet the river bottom felt pleasantly smooth and even. One of the boys who waded in the striving ripples next to me shouted thru the gurgling growl that it was a slab from the destroyed dam—wow! so classy!.
And so I waded hither-thither, wary of drenching the upturned pants when everything—the splashes of the running river, the eager yells of classmates, and the clear soft day—all at once vanished. Instead, on all sides, there was a completely different, silent, world filled with nothing but oppressive yellowish dusk and trickles of pallid bubbles waltzing up before my eyes. Still not realizing what happened, I waved my hands, or rather they did it on their own accord, and soon I broke free to the surface full of blinding sun glare, and the rumble of rushing water that kept slapping my nose and cheeks with choking splashes, strangely distant cries “drowns!” through the water plugs in my ears. My hands flip-flapped at random in the stream until the fingers grabbed the end of someone’s belt thrown from the edge of the slab so meanly cut-off under the water.
I was pulled out, helped to squeeze the water out of my clothes, and directed to a wide trail bypassing the whole stadium so as not to run into the School Pioneer Leader and peachy girls collecting fallen leaves for their autumn herbaria…
~ ~ ~
In a bird’s-eye view, the school building, supposedly, looked like a wide angular “U” with the entrance in the center of the underbelly. The tiled with brown ceramic lobby split into 2 corridors of parquet flooring of slippery glint which led to the opposite wings in the building, to those horns of the “U” from the bird’s viewpoint.
Along one wall in each of the corridors, there ran a row of wide windows looking into the wild-never-trodden space in between the horns, filled by a jumbled thicket of young Pines with thin sloughing off bark. The wall opposite the windows had only
