The goal of the creative workshop is to form in students a value-based attitude towards national traditions, crafts, native nature, literature, the history of their “small homeland” and Russia as a whole.
That is why the choice of the type of event “creative workshop” was not accidental.
The creative workshop stimulates the work of students, gives them the joy of discovering the world and their capabilities, and creates conditions for a feeling of freedom in consciousness and creativity.
An indispensable condition for any creative workshop is that the material is problematic; students have the opportunity to experience a creative breakthrough and discovery. We supplemented the already acquired literary knowledge on the works of Kursk writers and poets with new information material based on the read text of the story “Patchwork Blanket” by Evgeny Nosov.
Creative literary workshop
6th grade
"Colors of the native land..."
(based on the story “Patchwork Quilt” by E.I. Nosov)
Each person has his own small homeland,
and her signs are also different..."
E.I. Nosov
Introduce different types of national Kursk crafts;
- create your own creative works and handicrafts at the end of the event;
- teach how to apply the acquired knowledge of local history material in practice;
- develop interest in the literature of the Kursk region, national traditions, crafts;
- develop skills in group and individual (independent search) work;
- to form in students a value-based attitude towards their native history, literature, and culture.
Basic concepts:“small homeland”, “local history”, “cluster”, “patchwork”.
Equipment:
PC; presentation, audio and video materials;
- portrait of E. Nosov;
- text of E. Nosov’s story “Patchwork Quilt”;
- envelopes with tasks and materials for group work;
- Whatman paper (for completing group assignments), Whatman paper for final reflection;
- handicrafts (chest, patchwork blanket);
- handouts for each group;
- scraps of fabrics of different colors;
- stands with the names of groups: ARTISTS, CRAFTS, LITERARY STORIES, LOCAL HISTORY.
Lesson structure:
1) Organizational stage. Distribution into groups.
2) Motivation for cognitive activity, explanation of the choice of form of activity.
3) Joint formulation of the theme of the event.
4) Activity planning.
5) Updating existing knowledge, an impetus for creative activity.
6) Reading, analysis and discussion of the text of a work through semantic, sound and color associations.
7) Inspiration for new forms of creative self-realization.
8) Summing up.
9) Reflection of activity (summarizing the lesson): introspection of actions, feelings, open.
Progress of the event
1. Organizational stage.
Goal: to organize the beginning of collaboration.
Good afternoon dear friends! Today our meeting is not entirely ordinary. At the beginning of the week, you received items that were stored in the chest of an unknown Kursk artisan. They seem to have no connection with each other. But this is only at first glance. Look at them carefully.
Distribution into groups.
Those holding objects related to painting and fine arts in their hands took places at the table with the inscription “ARTISTS”. Those who have objects related to literature, books, and writing in their hands take places at the “LITERARY SCIENTISTS” table. A group of subjects related to history and local history determined your place at the “LOCAL HISTORY” table. And finally, those who had items related to needlework and crafts in their hands took places at the “Craftsmen” table. So let's begin.
2. Motivation for cognitive activity, choice of activity form. Getting involved in work.
The goal is to create a friendly atmosphere, motivate learning, and create a situation of success.
Our class today will turn into a CITY, and you will become its glorious inhabitants. You will learn who was the support of any region of Russia, who created the cities, and that Kursk was famous for its master craftsmen. And therefore the name of our city... What?
City of masters!
Let's remember the main provisions of the “Code of Working in Groups” (everyone has a reminder on their desk).
Group work code:
1. Read the assignment carefully.
2. Be tactful and friendly.
3. Choose a group leader, coordinate actions with the team and the group leader, help each other in case of difficulties.
4. Signal to the teacher about the end of joint work.
5. Remember the “musketeers” rule.
Great, now we can begin our work, which I am sure we will cope with and will get great pleasure from communicating together.
3. Joint formulation of the theme of the event.
GOAL: plan future activities.
Formulating a topic, planning further activities, working in groups.
After the children answer, a slide opens with the name of the topic of the event.
The song “Kursk Waltz” plays, the music fades away.
Once a famous Kursk writer said that “it is important to see your small homeland from a bird’s eye view, but it is not necessary to take to the skies in an airplane to do this.” He constantly proved this statement, because his stories were heard throughout not only our Kursk region, but also wherever the Slavic soul lived.
Which Kursk writer are we talking about?
Students' versions.
Indeed, we are talking about the wonderful Kursk writer Evgeny Nosov.
Let's turn to the epigraph. What is the writer talking about?
About the “small homeland”.
I propose to carry out the work of our glorious City of Masters under the motto: “Every person has his own small homeland, and its signs are also different.” Let’s try to understand the meaning of the concept “small homeland”. What place, in your opinion, can be considered a “small homeland”?
In the explanatory dictionary of S.I. Ozhegova interprets the concept of “small motherland” as follows: SMALL MOTHERLAND is a place of birth, origin.
4. Activity planning.
GOAL: create a problematic situation, predict upcoming activities.
After answering the questions, children formulate the purpose of the lesson and plan their activities.
Our “small homeland” is the city of Kursk. Many of us were born and raised here. Do you know how old the Kursk region recently turned?
How has our city changed in 80 years?
Is our region different from hundreds of others? What is he famous for?
What people made our city famous?
Why is it important for us, modern people, to know the history of our “small homeland”?
We will try to answer these questions after we work in the workshop of our City of Masters.
5. Updating existing knowledge, an impetus for creative activity.
GOAL: to update children's knowledge (the works of E. Nosov, the history of the city of Kursk).
Group performance. Self-analysis, analysis of student group performances.
What do we know about the writer of our “small homeland” E. Nosov?
Let us give the floor to a group of “literary scholars” who prepared a story about the life and work of E.I. Nosova.
Message from the group "LITERARY STUDIES":
Evgeny Nosov was born on January 15, 1925 in the family of a hereditary craftsman and blacksmith in the village of Tolmachevo, not far from Kursk. It was his father’s craft that from birth determined E. Nosov’s attitude towards Kursk traditions and the skills of the Kursk people.
Evgeny Ivanovich went to the front. In the battles he was seriously wounded and on May 9, 1945 he was met in a hospital in Serpukhov, which he later wrote about in the story “Red Wine of Victory.” After the war, he went to Central Asia and worked as an artist, designer, and literary collaborator. I started writing prose. Was admitted to the Writers' Union.
His first book, “On the Fishing Path” (in 1959), was dedicated to the nature of his native Kursk region. Kurshchina will be present in most of his works. People who cannot imagine life without their “small homeland” were the writer’s favorite heroes.
Evgeniy Ivanovich died in Kursk on June 13, 2002. In 2005, the collected works of E.I. were published. Nosov in 5 volumes. One of the most striking works of the five-volume series is the story “Patchwork Quilt”.
What facts from the life of E.I. Do you remember Nosov?
This is only a small part of what can be told about our wonderful fellow countryman. I suggest later that you get acquainted with the books about the life and work of the writer presented at our book exhibition.
Address to the exhibition of books about the life and work of E.I. Nosova.
Evgeniy Ivanovich loved his “small homeland” very much, and throughout his life he studied its history.
Do we know everything about our “small homeland”, the Kursk region? A group of “local historians” will help us answer this question.
SPEECH BY THE GROUP OF “LOCAL HISTORIES”:
Every nation has its own history. The ancient Kursk region with its nightingale trills is part of the glorious history of the Russian people. Kursk is famous for its ancient history, traditions and famous historical events, because it was founded in 1097. We invite the participants of the remaining groups to answer the questions of a short quiz about the Kursk region that we have prepared.
Questions are displayed on the screen.
Why is the Kursk region called the nightingale region?
What does the coat of arms of our city look like?
Why did Kursk get such a name?
6. Reading, analysis and discussion of the text of a work through semantic, sound and color associations.
GOAL: to develop the ability to apply new knowledge.
Working with the text of a work. Creation of questions by a group of students for the class. Analytical reading of the story. Construction of an associative series.
Prove, using the text of E. Nosov’s story “Patchwork Quilt,” which we recently read, that Kursk was a border trading city.
- “Here, just before Trinity, here are Chinese peddlers with goods...”
What historical events are described by the Kursk writer in the story “Patchwork Quilt”?
- “And he brought it back from the German war. And then the tsar was soon pushed out, the revolution began. I don’t like that grandfather was escorted out of St. Petersburg and that, it turns out, he did not participate in the storming of the Winter Palace.”
What do you think the patchwork quilt symbolizes in E. Nosov’s story?
Students' versions.
The first element of the cluster is revealed on the board: PATCH BUILT - SYMBOL OF HISTORY.
7. Inspiration for new forms of creative self-realization.
GOAL: apply new knowledge in new conditions.
Children learn to build an associative series, compare existing knowledge on a topic with new information.
PHYSMINUTE.
The audio recording “Flight of a Bird” is turned on.
Now close your eyes, take a position that is comfortable for you, imagine that wings have grown behind your back, you are soaring above the ground, rising higher and higher. Below you are vast expanses of Kursk fields, meadows, and forests. You've seen this more than once, but this is the first time from a bird's eye view.
The music stops. Children open their eyes.
Tell me, how did you feel when you listened to the music? Why were you sitting relaxed, leaning back in your chair, and not like you usually did in class?
Indeed, music encourages calmness and overcoming internal tension.
Why, according to E. Nosov, should one look at one’s native land from a height?
(Students' answers).
It’s true that the breadth of perception from a height of the surrounding world increases, as when shooting a film.
What did you see when you closed your eyes, what did you imagine our land, the land of the Kursk Territory to be like?
What colors came to your mind? What do they symbolize?
Now the time has come for the next group of our city of Masters - a group of “artists”.
Group of "ARTISTS".
Whatman paper hangs on the board, children paste multi-colored squares of colored paper, accepting suggestions from students in other groups: brown - earth, yellow - field of dandelions, dark green - forest and meadow, pale green - field of unharvested wheat, blue - sky, water.
Look what our land looks like from a bird's eye view?
(On a patchwork quilt.)
And what colored patches are found in E. Nosov’s story “Patchwork Quilt”?
“This joint, which is paired with bells, you see, there are white grains sprinkled on the blue, sort of like stars in the night sky, it’s from my grandfather’s shirt.”
The teacher adds a scrap to the rest.
What does the patchwork quilt symbolize?
Student answers (A patchwork quilt is a symbol of the nature of our native land.)
A cluster begins to form on the board: PATCH BLANKET - SYMBOL OF NATURE.
E.I. Nosov said more than once: “Russian national craft is absolutely truthful.”
What crafts flourished in the Kursk region? There are envelopes with photographs on the table in front of you. Within a few minutes, look at the photo and identify the names of crafts traditional for the Kursk region.
Don't forget to signal that the group is ready. Pay attention to the clock (hanging in the classroom). Time has passed.
Completing the task.
Students name weaving, blacksmithing, pottery, and rag products.
What craft was the most widespread in the Kursk region and why? A group of “craftsmen” will help us figure this out.
Performance by the group "Umeltsev":
The most common type of women's needlework in the Kursk region was the creation of blankets from scraps. Pieces of unnecessary fabric, different in texture, color, size, were carefully stored in wooden chests. On long winter evenings, Kursk craftswomen sewed them together with strong woolen threads. This craft has not disappeared to this day; it is very popular even now.
Patchwork, from English. patchwork - “a blanket made of multi-colored patches” is a type of needlework in which, according to the mosaic principle, a whole product is sewn together from pieces of fabric (shreds).
You have quilts on your tables. Try stretching your blanket. Pass it on to each other. Stretch. Can you tear it? Why?
(Students’ answers.)
What else does the patchwork quilt symbolize in E. Nosov’s story?
(Students’ answers.)
The 3rd element of the cluster is formed on the board - A PATCH BLANKET - A SYMBOL OF THE CONNECTION OF GENERATIONS.
8. Summing up.
PURPOSE: generalize, draw conclusions.
Students summarize their knowledge and draw conclusions.
Why is it important for us, modern, mobile people living in the age of computer technology, to know the history of our hometown?
(Answer options.)
Now you have made a small discovery. And discoveries are not made in a vacuum; they require a certain amount of knowledge.
What knowledge brought you closer to discovery today?
What goal did we set at the beginning of our meeting?
9. Reflection of activity: introspection of actions, feelings, open.
GOAL: self-esteem, assessment.
Analyze the work of groups, individual work, conduct self-analysis, and make assessments.
What was the most interesting? The most difficult?
Whose work can be highlighted (why?) and evaluated (how?)?
How would you evaluate the group's work and your own?
Let's create our own patchwork quilt of the City of Craftsmen!
(Whatman paper is on everyone’s desk, then we connect it.)
Who is happy with their work, who found much of what we discussed interesting and important? (Glue on a green square.)
Who else doubts themselves and their knowledge? (Glue the yellow one.)
Who still has questions on the topic, who would like to discuss them later? (Glue red.)
I would really like to acknowledge the excellent work...
They worked well and...
- “They write: small homeland... What is this? Where are its borders? Where and where does it extend from?” Small Motherland is a corner of native nature, history, family. So let’s love this small “corner of the earth”, take care of it, protect it, do everything in our power to make it prosper and become better and more beautiful from year to year.
Literature
1. Nosov E. Patchwork quilt // Literature at school, - 1999. - No. 3.
2. Solzhenitsyn A.I. Evgeny Nosov: From the literary collection // New World. - 2000. - No. 7.
3. Modern illustrated encyclopedia. Literature and language. Moscow: Rosman, 2007.
4. Veronica Tushnova. Poems. M.: Eksmo, 2003.
5. Dal V.I. Dictionary. M.: Rosman, 2000.
6. Gorbich O.I. Modern pedagogical technologies for teaching the Russian language at school. M.: September 1st, 2009.
7. Kolechenko A.K. Encyclopedia of educational technologies: a manual for teachers. St. Petersburg: KARO, 2005.
This is the second week I’ve been thinking about rag dolls, remembering the Odessa handicraft fair and the needlewomen girls, how they deftly and beautifully folded and sewed bright dolls and horses from colorful scraps and threads.
Under my pillow lives a pot-bellied Bird of Happiness with fluttering wings, Nadenka brought it a long time ago from the M@STER@ festival, made it with her own hands from a light rag and thread - a little Miracle!
Today, in the art literature department, the book “Russian Folk Doll” (authors Galina and Maria Dain) asked to be picked up.
Reading:
"Back in the middle of the twentieth century, in almost every family in the village and city, children played with rag dolls. And only since the 1960s, when industrial enterprises began to produce millions of batches of plastic toys, the tradition of making home dolls has almost died out. However, it did not disappear completely, being deeply deposited in people’s memory".
Surprisingly, I never thought about what kind of dolls my mother had? We need to ask the aunties what they were playing.
Grandma Olya told me that as a child she wrapped a wooden spoon in a rag and nursed it)
The writer Evgeny Nosov has a story “Patchwork Blanket”, where a cheerful multi-colored cloth, skillfully assembled from scraps and scraps from sewing a simple peasant renovation, brings the grandson and grandmother closer together.
patchwork quilt
From distant distances
My grandmother Varvara Ionovna had a blanket made from various scraps of material.
Grandma sometimes sewed simple peasant clothes: pants and shirts, sweaters and sundresses, and all sorts of things for us kids. From this, scraps remained, from which the grandmother cut identical joints, sewed them in pairs into squares, and from the squares a cheerful multi-colored cloth was obtained, which served as the top of a cotton quilted blanket.
I lie under its cozy thickness and wait for my grandmother to come to me. And she’s on her feet almost at the first rooster, still busy around the house: rinsing something, putting cow’s swill in the oven, covering the bread on the table with a towel, sorting it into pairs and stuffing knitting and fur mittens into the stoves. And after all that, she extinguishes the lamp, lighting the kagan, which she put together from a vial, a raw potato mug and a cotton wick. Covering the timid tongue of fire with her palm, like a pumpkin seed, she places the kagan on a high stove so that it immediately illuminates the kitchen, where under a bench with buckets of Seim water, a goose planted on eggs quietly rustles with basket hay, and the adjacent walk-through room with her grandmother’s wooden bed, above in the corner of which hung the stern-faced Nikola in a wide gilded frame. Finally, grandma comes into our room and, standing in front of Nikola, takes off her jacket with a deft cross of her hands, then throws off her long, toe-length skirt to the floor and walks barefoot outside her circle. All in white, with bare shoulders and arms, she begins to quickly and incomprehensibly whisper something to the holy saint, flickering from the moving light on the stove, at the same time not forgetting to unravel her braid, the half-gray remnant of the once ripe wheat beauty, throwing it over her sunken chest and dexterously, by touch, fingering strands and silk ribbons. And, bending over herself three times with a wide cross, and at the same time poking me from afar with a pinch, she hastily climbs under the blanket and, having grown cold in front of the icon, passionately clings to me, warm, settled under the cotton canopy.
Having calmed her breathing and gotten used to it, the grandmother lifts the blanket with her knees, makes a sloping cellar out of it, above which the doorposts are clearly visible, and in the quiet and peaceful voice of a person who has finished the day and got to bed, asks:
- So how far have we finished reading our book?
- About the blue joint.
.—Have they already reached him? But did you mention this one? About blue bells? About mom's first dress? She was a big girl, but everything was out of place, everything was altered and altered. Here, just before Trinity, here are Chinese peddlers with goods. And in the village this is such an opportunity. The women drop everything and run out into the street. Well, the Chinese know what to do. One piece of calico is rolled out right on the grass - a May meadow, and that’s all! They open another one - and even more beautiful. Your mother grabbed your hand, tugged, tugged painfully: buy it, buy it... Or didn’t she tell you about that?
“We’ve already talked about bells,” I remember.
- Ah, well, then let's move on. This joint, which is paired with bells, you see, there are white grains sprinkled on the blue, sort of like stars in the night sky, it’s from my grandfather’s shirt. And he brought it back from the German war. They were standing near Riga then. Yes, the Germans drove them away from there, from the Courland land, hungry and without ammunition. Yes, that’s how the pawns retreated. Your grandfather bled from his leg, his wet and dirty footcloths caused him to get sick, his leg was swollen right up to his groin. They put us in a gig with other wounded, took us to some station, and from there to St. Petersburg itself. And then the tsar was soon pushed out, the revolution began. Grandfather, right there on crutches, was elected to some committee. Well, since you have chosen, let’s jump and jump. Well, I jumped and almost lost my leg. They wrote him off clean and released him, thank God, in peace.
I don’t like that grandfather was escorted out of St. Petersburg and that, it turns out, he did not participate in the storming of the Winter Palace.
- Who cares about Winter! - Grandma begs. “I even go to the neighbors with a chicken: the guy is at home, but there’s no one to kill it.” No, he’s not my hero, he’s not a hero, I won’t lie.” And in a calm, kind voice he continues: “And I’ve seen so many different things.” God forbid what happened to him, dear one. When I came home, the whites almost cut me to pieces with sabers, they found the master’s collar in the barn... Well, okay, good night about that, Queen of Heaven. From those times, besides this flap, the crutch remained somewhere in the attic. And also a soldier's cap.
“Is this a bayonet?” I cry jubilantly.
- No! This is a cloth sack with wings. They put it on top of a hat in a snowstorm. When grandpa comes home from the night, from the stables, you ask nicely. Perhaps he will show you the head. And then he’ll let you vilify me.
I silently nod dreamily.
- Well... So let's move on. But this, my granddaughter, this little scrap... - Grandmother sighs and, putting out a thin, whip-like, bluish hand with a dark brush, as if made of bark, strokes for a long time the light, unremarkable triangle.
“So what?” I fiddle with my grandmother, who has suddenly fallen silent. “And grandmother?”
Grandma doesn't answer. I squint in bewilderment, imagining that she was overcome by a sudden dream. But she is not sleeping, and I see how in the dark eye socket the moisture accumulated there flickers like dull tin.
I fall silent, and she, taking a deep breath, lowers her knees and destroys the blanket closet.
“I had a girl,” she sighs, crossing herself again, and, turning and pulling the patchwork blanket over me, says in a warm, familiar whisper: “Sleep, calm down.” Tomorrow we'll remember something else... ________________________________________ ___
So is a rag doll.
The puppet people, like a colorful patchwork mosaic, preserve the skill and art of their creators.
And no matter who makes rag dolls, everyone will have their own “patchwork story.”
From distant distances
My grandmother Varvara Ionovna had a blanket made from various scraps of material.
Grandma sometimes sewed simple peasant clothes: pants and shirts, sweaters and sundresses, and all sorts of things for us kids. From this, scraps remained, from which the grandmother cut identical joints, sewed them in pairs into squares, and from the squares a cheerful multi-colored cloth was obtained, which served as the top of a cotton quilted blanket.
I lie under its cozy thickness and wait for my grandmother to come to me. And she’s on her feet almost at the first rooster, still busy around the house: rinsing something, putting cow’s swill in the oven, covering the bread on the table with a towel, sorting it into pairs and stuffing knitting and fur mittens into the stoves. And after all, she extinguishes the lamp, lighting the kagan, which she put together from a bottle, a raw potato circle and a cotton wick. Covering the timid tongue of fire with her palm, similar to a pumpkin seed, she places the kagan on a high stove so that it immediately illuminates the kitchen, where under a bench with buckets of Seim water, a goose planted on eggs quietly rustles with basket hay, and the adjacent walk-through room with her grandmother’s wooden bed , above which in the corner in a wide gilded frame hung the stern face of Nikola. Finally, grandma comes into our room and, standing in front of Nikola, takes off her jacket with a deft cross of her hands, then throws off her long, toe-length skirt to the floor and walks barefoot outside her circle. All in white, with bare shoulders and arms, she begins to quickly and incomprehensibly whisper something to the holy saint, flickering from the moving light on the stove, at the same time not forgetting to unravel her braid, the half-gray remnant of the once ripe wheat beauty, throwing it over her sunken chest and dexterously, by touch, fingering strands and silk ribbons. And, bending over herself three times with a wide cross, and at the same time poking me from afar with a pinch, she hastily climbs under the blanket and, having grown cold in front of the icon, passionately clings to me, warm, settled under the cotton canopy.
Having calmed her breathing and gotten used to it, the grandmother lifts the blanket with her knees, makes a sloping cellar out of it, above which the doorposts are clearly visible, and in the quiet and peaceful voice of a person who has finished the day and got to bed, asks:
- So how far have we finished reading our book?
- About the blue joint.
. -Have they already reached him? But did you mention this one? About blue bells? About mom's first dress? She was a big girl, but everything was out of place, everything was altered and altered. Here, just before Trinity, here are Chinese peddlers with goods. And in the village this is such an opportunity. The women drop everything and run out into the street. Well, the Chinese know what to do. One piece of calico is rolled out right on the grass - a May meadow, and that’s all! They dissolve another one - and even more beautiful. Your mother grabbed your hand, tugged, tugged so painfully: buy it, buy it. . . Or didn’t you say anything about it?
“We’ve already talked about bells,” I remember.
- Ah, well, then let's move on. This joint, which is paired with bells, you see, there are white grains sprinkled on the blue, sort of like stars in the night sky, it’s from my grandfather’s shirt. And he brought it back from the German war. They were standing near Riga then. Yes, the Germans drove them away from there, from the Courland land, hungry and without ammunition. Yes, that’s how the pawns retreated. Your grandfather bled from his leg, his wet and dirty footcloths caused him to get sick, his leg was swollen right up to his groin. They put us in a gig with other wounded, took us to some station, and from there to St. Petersburg itself. And then the tsar was soon pushed out, the revolution began. Grandfather, right there on crutches, was elected to some committee. Well, since you have chosen, let’s jump and jump. Well, I jumped and almost lost my leg. They wrote him off clean and released him, thank God, in peace.
I don’t like that grandfather was escorted out of St. Petersburg and that, it turns out, he did not participate in the storming of the Winter Palace.
- Hey, Winter! - Grandma begs. - I even go to the neighbors with chicken: the man is at home, but there is no one to kill. No, he’s not my hero, not a hero, I won’t lie. - And in a calm, kind voice he continues: - And I’ve seen so many different things. God forbid what happened to him, dear one. When I came home, the whites nearly chopped him up with sabers; they found the master’s collar in the barn. . . Well, okay, good night about this, Queen of Heaven. From those times, besides this flap, the crutch remained somewhere in the attic. And also a soldier's cap.
“Is this a bayonet?” I cry jubilantly.
- No! This is a cloth sack with wings. They put it on top of a hat in a snowstorm.
From distant distances
My grandmother Varvara Ionovna had a blanket made from various scraps of material.
Grandma sometimes sewed simple peasant clothes: pants and shirts, sweaters and sundresses, and all sorts of things for us kids. From this, scraps remained, from which the grandmother cut identical joints, sewed them in pairs into squares, and from the squares a cheerful multi-colored cloth was obtained, which served as the top of a cotton quilted blanket.
I lie under its cozy thickness and wait for my grandmother to come to me. And she’s on her feet almost at the first rooster, still busy around the house: rinsing something, putting cow’s swill in the oven, covering the bread on the table with a towel, sorting it into pairs and stuffing knitting and fur mittens into the stoves. And after all, she extinguishes the lamp, lighting the kagan, which she put together from a bottle, a raw potato circle and a cotton wick. Covering the timid tongue of fire with her palm, similar to a pumpkin seed, she places the kagan on a high stove so that it immediately illuminates the kitchen, where under a bench with buckets of Seim water, a goose planted on eggs quietly rustles with basket hay, and the adjacent walk-through room with her grandmother’s wooden bed , above which in the corner in a wide gilded frame hung the stern face of Nikola. Finally, grandma comes into our room and, standing in front of Nikola, takes off her jacket with a deft cross of her hands, then throws off her long, toe-length skirt to the floor and walks barefoot outside her circle. All in white, with bare shoulders and arms, she begins to quickly and incomprehensibly whisper something to the holy saint, flickering from the moving light on the stove, at the same time not forgetting to unravel her braid, the half-gray remnant of the once ripe wheat beauty, throwing it over her sunken chest and dexterously, by touch, fingering strands and silk ribbons. And, bending over herself three times with a wide cross, and at the same time poking me from afar with a pinch, she hastily climbs under the blanket and, having grown cold in front of the icon, passionately clings to me, warm, settled under the cotton canopy.
Having calmed her breathing and gotten used to it, the grandmother lifts the blanket with her knees, makes a sloping cellar out of it, above which the doorposts are clearly visible, and in the quiet and peaceful voice of a person who has finished the day and got to bed, asks:
So how far have we finished reading our book?
About the blue joint.
Have you already reached it? But did you mention this one? About blue bells? About mom's first dress? She was a big girl, but everything was out of place, everything was altered and altered. Here, just before Trinity, here are Chinese peddlers with goods. And in the village this is such an opportunity. The women drop everything and run out into the street. Well, the Chinese know what to do. One piece of calico is rolled out right on the grass - a May meadow, and that’s all! They dissolve another one - and even more beautiful. Your mother grabbed your hand, tugged, tugged painfully: buy it, buy it... Or didn’t she tell you about that?
It’s already been about bells, I remember.
Ah, well, then let's move on. This joint, which is paired with bells, you see, there are white grains sprinkled on the blue, sort of like stars in the night sky, it’s from my grandfather’s shirt. And he brought it back from the German war. They were standing near Riga then. Yes, the Germans drove them away from there, from the Courland land, hungry and without ammunition. Yes, that’s how the pawns retreated. Your grandfather bled from his leg, his wet and dirty footcloths caused him to get sick, his leg was swollen right up to his groin. They put us in a gig with other wounded, took us to some station, and from there to St. Petersburg itself. And then the tsar was soon pushed out, the revolution began. Grandfather, right there on crutches, was elected to some committee. Well, since you have chosen, let’s jump and jump. Well, I jumped and almost lost my leg. They wrote him off clean and released him, thank God, in peace.
I don’t like that grandfather was escorted out of St. Petersburg and that, it turns out, he did not participate in the storming of the Winter Palace.
What a winter for you! - Grandma begs. - I even go to the neighbors with chicken: the man is at home, but there is no one to kill. No, he’s not my hero, he’s not a hero, I won’t lie.” And in a calm, kind voice he continues: “And I’ve seen so many different things.” God forbid what happened to him, dear one. When I came home, the whites nearly chopped him up with sabers, they found the master’s collar in the barn... Well, okay, good night about that, Queen of Heaven. From those times, besides this flap, the crutch remained somewhere in the attic. And also a soldier's cap.
Is this a bayonet? - I cry jubilantly.
Nope! This is a cloth sack with wings. They put it on top of a hat in a snowstorm. When grandpa comes home from the night, from the stables, you ask nicely. Perhaps he will show you the head. And then he’ll let you vilify me.
I silently nod dreamily.
Well... So let's move on. But this, my granddaughter, this scrap... - The grandmother sighs and, putting out a thin, whip-like, bluish hand with a dark brush, as if made of bark, strokes for a long time the light, unremarkable triangle.
So what? - I fiddle with my grandmother, who suddenly fell silent. - And grandmother?
Grandma doesn't answer. I squint in bewilderment, imagining that she was overcome by a sudden dream. But she is not sleeping, and I see how in the dark eye socket the moisture accumulated there flickers like dull tin.
I fall silent, and she, taking a deep breath, lowers her knees and destroys the blanket closet.
I had a girl,” she sighs, crossing herself again, and, turning and pulling the patchwork blanket over me, says in a warm, familiar whisper: “Sleep, calm down.” Tomorrow we'll remember something else...
patchwork quilt
From distant distances
My grandmother Varvara Ionovna had a blanket made from various scraps of material.
Grandma sometimes sewed simple peasant clothes: pants and shirts, sweaters and sundresses, and all sorts of things for us kids. From this, scraps remained, from which the grandmother cut identical joints, sewed them in pairs into squares, and from the squares a cheerful multi-colored cloth was obtained, which served as the top of a cotton quilted blanket.
I lie under its cozy thickness and wait for my grandmother to come to me. And she’s on her feet almost at the first rooster, still busy around the house: rinsing something, putting cow’s swill in the oven, covering the bread on the table with a towel, sorting it into pairs and stuffing knitting and fur mittens into the stoves. And after all, she extinguishes the lamp, lighting the kagan, which she put together from a bottle, a raw potato circle and a cotton wick. Covering the timid tongue of fire with her palm, similar to a pumpkin seed, she places the kagan on a high stove so that it immediately illuminates the kitchen, where under a bench with buckets of Seim water, a goose planted on eggs quietly rustles with basket hay, and the adjacent walk-through room with her grandmother’s wooden bed , above which in the corner in a wide gilded frame hung the stern face of Nikola. Finally, grandma comes into our room and, standing in front of Nikola, takes off her jacket with a deft cross of her hands, then throws off her long, toe-length skirt to the floor and walks barefoot outside her circle. All in white, with bare shoulders and arms, she begins to quickly and incomprehensibly whisper something to the holy saint, flickering from the moving light on the stove, at the same time not forgetting to unravel her braid, the half-gray remnant of the once ripe wheat beauty, throwing it over her sunken chest and dexterously, by touch, fingering strands and silk ribbons. And, bending over herself three times with a wide cross, and at the same time poking me from afar with a pinch, she hastily climbs under the blanket and, having grown cold in front of the icon, passionately clings to me, warm, settled under the cotton canopy.
Having calmed her breathing and gotten used to it, the grandmother lifts the blanket with her knees, makes a sloping cellar out of it, above which the doorposts are clearly visible, and in the quiet and peaceful voice of a person who has finished the day and got to bed, asks:
So how far have we finished reading our book?
About the blue joint.
Have you already reached it? But did you mention this one? About blue bells? About mom's first dress? She was a big girl, but everything was out of place, everything was altered and altered. Here, just before Trinity, here are Chinese peddlers with goods. And in the village this is such an opportunity. The women drop everything and run out into the street. Well, the Chinese know what to do. One piece of calico is rolled out right on the grass - a May meadow, and that’s all! They dissolve another one - and even more beautiful. Your mother grabbed your hand, tugged, tugged painfully: buy it, buy it... Or didn’t she tell you about that?
It’s already been about bells, I remember.
Ah, well, then let's move on. This joint, which is paired with bells, you see, there are white grains sprinkled on the blue, sort of like stars in the night sky, it’s from my grandfather’s shirt. And he brought it back from the German war. They were standing near Riga then. Yes, the Germans drove them away from there, from the Courland land, hungry and without ammunition. Yes, that’s how the pawns retreated. Your grandfather bled from his leg, his wet and dirty footcloths caused him to get sick, his leg was swollen right up to his groin. They put us in a gig with other wounded, took us to some station, and from there to St. Petersburg itself. And then the tsar was soon pushed out, the revolution began. Grandfather, right there on crutches, was elected to some committee. Well, since you have chosen, let’s jump and jump. Well, I jumped and almost lost my leg. They wrote him off clean and released him, thank God, in peace.
I don’t like that grandfather was escorted out of St. Petersburg and that, it turns out, he did not participate in the storming of the Winter Palace.
What a winter for you! - Grandma begs. - I even go to the neighbors with chicken: the man is at home, but there is no one to kill. No, he’s not my hero, he’s not a hero, I won’t lie.” And in a calm, kind voice he continues: “And I’ve seen so many different things.” God forbid what happened to him, dear one. When I came home, the whites nearly chopped him up with sabers, they found the master’s collar in the barn... Well, okay, good night about that, Queen of Heaven. From those times, besides this flap, the crutch remained somewhere in the attic. And also a soldier's cap.
Is this a bayonet? - I cry jubilantly.
Nope! This is a cloth sack with wings. They put it on top of a hat in a snowstorm. When grandpa comes home from the night, from the stables, you ask nicely. Perhaps he will show you the head. And then he’ll let you vilify me.
I silently nod dreamily.
Well... So let's move on. But this, my granddaughter, this scrap... - The grandmother sighs and, putting out a thin, whip-like, bluish hand with a dark brush, as if made of bark, strokes for a long time the light, unremarkable triangle.
So what? - I fiddle with my grandmother, who suddenly fell silent. - And grandmother?
Grandma doesn't answer. I squint in bewilderment, imagining that she was overcome by a sudden dream. But she is not sleeping, and I see how in the dark eye socket the moisture accumulated there flickers like dull tin.
I fall silent, and she, taking a deep breath, lowers her knees and destroys the blanket closet.
I had a girl,” she sighs, crossing herself again, and, turning and pulling the patchwork blanket over me, says in a warm, familiar whisper: “Sleep, calm down.” Tomorrow we'll remember something else...