A story about a good man I helped my grandmother. Essay on my grandmother

My grandmother's name is Anna. She is very good and kind. I always call her granny because she deserves that word. Grandma always played with me, bought me a lot of sweets, taught me how to bake pies. She always read different fairy tales to me at night, and sometimes she even fell asleep next to me. We spend a lot of time together, walking, playing. Sometimes on holidays we arrange different competitions, everyone was surprised at this, how did it work out for us. Then, over time, it became difficult for granny to do all this. And I began to support her as best I could. I entertained her and, seeing how she smiles at me, it became so good that I can’t express it directly in words. I love my grandmother very much and am proud of her.

My granny essay for grades 2, 3

I have a grandmother. She usually lives in the countryside. But sometimes he comes to visit us for a couple of weeks. Her name is Tamara. She is a brown-eyed and kind grandmother. I like spending time with her. I love her so much. She is a good, friendly person. Grandma will always help in trouble and grief. I owe her a lot: for kindness, affection, courage and strength. She, like her mother, is a very kind person.

Composition My grandmother (description of appearance) Grade 5, 6, 7

Everyone calls my grandmother Dusya, but in fact her name is Evdokia Ivanovna. She lives near the railroad. Grandmother worked all her life on the railroad and knows how to drive a train. And my grandmother also has her own railcar, this is such a cart, on wheels like a train. On this cart, my parents and grandmother went to the forest.

I don't remember my grandfather. Mom said that grandfather was big and strong. Grandma is also very strong. She can lift a huge railroad hammer. When grandmother has many guests, she shows a trick. Lifts this huge hammer with one hand and hammers a special nail into the sleeper the first time. Grandma never misses.

Grandmother has a small house next to the forest. She likes to go for mushrooms and berries. She also makes delicious pies. And with apples, and with mushrooms, and also with different berries. I like pies with cabbage and mushrooms the most. My grandmother has the most delicious pies in the world!

Grandma loves flowers very much. When we visit my grandmother, she teaches me how to care for flowers and water them. Grandma's flowers grow very beautiful. There are always a lot of bees on the flowers. Grandmother says that these are domestic bees and they do not bite. Not far from the grandmother's house there is an apiary. There bees live and make honey. Grandmother is friends with the beekeeper's wife. Grandmother is treated to honey from domestic bees. Everyone likes this honey, it is very healthy and tasty.

Grandma also has a lot of chickens and a few cockerels. One rooster crows very loudly early in the morning. Grandmother says that the rooster wakes everyone up on purpose, even on vacation. Chickens need to be fed millet. Even chickens are given special vitamins. Therefore, hens give good testicles. Grandmother adds these testicles to the dough for pies, so it turns out very tasty.

In the yard of my grandmother there is a small house-booth for a dog. But there is no dog. Grandmother said that the dog was grandfather's. And without a grandfather, she does not want to start a dog.

It's a pity that we only visit grandma during the holidays. We called grandma to move in with us, but she can't leave the chickens and flowers.

I love my grandmother very much. I miss her and want to see her soon.

Description of grandma

Zinaida Pavlovna stood silently at the window and stroked through the half-opened sash an old red cat, which was basking in the gentle, last of this year, autumn sun.

This woman, despite her far from young age, looked beautiful. Brownish freckles huddled on her dark and rough skin, and the wrinkles looked like a kitten's whiskers. When she smiled, her eyes were practically hidden by wrinkles, but they still shone. Everyone saw the radiance and sparkle of her eyes. But her eyes were green-yellow, beautiful and bright, like a ripe gooseberry, and also large and kind.

Her hands were “tired”: these hands were not smeared with fragrant creams every day, but it was with these hands that the most delicious cabbage and mushroom pies in the world were cooked. The skin on her arms was slightly cracked and rough from work. After all, Zinaida Pavlovna was never afraid of hard work in the house, in the field or in the garden, she is not afraid even now, although, probably, she should have been.

This woman is very tiny, short and thin. If it were not for the age-related stoop, from the back it could be mistaken for a girl. But this fragile woman gave birth and raised 3 children and raised 5 grandchildren. The sixth is waiting and will definitely wait. And how fervently she laughs! Anyone will envy.

A fringed lilac handkerchief conceals her short, ash-colored hair, which was once jet black and curly. I love to watch her take off her headscarf, turn on the radio on the wall, and comb her smooth hair with a big wooden comb in front of the mirror. At such moments, she seems to become young again. She still has to live and live. How else?

Zinaida Pavlovna turns to me and speaks in her quiet and so incredibly kind and calm voice. He talks about today's good weather, that the cat must have been sick and that the pies in the oven have been cooling for a long time. And I sincerely smile and hug her tightly. Because this sweet woman is the best and most beautiful in the whole world. Zinaida Pavlova is my beloved grandmother.

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How many funny stories can be told, remembering childhood. The heroes of our today's article shared their cute and at the same time unusual stories related to their beloved grannies.

Team website I collected this selection to prove once again: it is worth appreciating every moment and treating everything with humor, and grown-up grandchildren will confirm this.

She came to visit her grandmother. There is a knock on the door, and there is a drunken old man with an accordion. He asks: “How are things with Rituli? Tell her that Sanya came to sing songs for her. And indeed the hour sang! Grandmother, smiling, told me that he was her first school love. @overheard

My grandmother was very cruel and stingy. Once, when our boiler failed, she borrowed another from a neighbor. I turned it on to boil water, but it does not work. The grandmother decided that I had burned down the neighbor's boiler, and let's yell, and then she grabbed it and followed me, cut a couple of circles through the fields and villages, nevertheless caught up and weighed the noble "pills" with that boiler. Later it turned out that the light was turned off. @overheard

Today I was reviewing old photos of my great-grandparents, I saw my grandfather in a black leather coat, and my hands trembled and tears welled up in my eyes. I remember the love story of my old people. Grandmother at the age of 20 decided to tell fortunes with the girls using a mirror; when the turn came to the grandmother, according to her, she saw a man in a black cloak, got scared and left this venture. A couple of months later, walking down the street, she saw a tall man in a black cloak, got scared, but the man came up to meet her - it was her grandfather. Soon the war began, he was taken to the front, saying goodbye, he said to his grandmother: “If I stay alive, I will find you and get married.” Found. @overheard

“Today my grandmother gave me her mug, which she has been using for over 30 years. I'm shocked, I don't know what to think"

Once, in the 3rd grade, my grandmother took me from school, and once we had a serious conversation with her about a new acquaintance of my mother, a certain Uncle Sasha.
- Does Uncle Sasha often visit you and your mother?
- Yes, every day.
- And what, to spend the night remains?
- Yes.
- Well, does he bring you something tasty?
- No.
- Hmm ... What a bad one, he comes to visit, but brings nothing to the child. Well, how about you and your mom?
- No.
- Nightmare. And my mother, probably, prepares food for him?
- Yes.
Grandmother fell silent, and for some time we walked in silence. Then I decided to urgently rehabilitate a potential dad in the eyes of my grandmother and gave out: "Uncle Sasha, when he comes, he always brings vodka or beer." Burnt down the office. @VerbLudochka

I often hear the opinion that computer games cause aggression and cruelty in children.
When I was 12 years old, I spent my school holidays in the village with my grandmother. Once she gave me an ax and said, pointing to a rooster: “It’s time for soup. Take off his head for a bathhouse, and then I will pluck.”
So, not a single game caused me so many emotions as a headless rooster, running away without a head and flooding the garden with blood, caused me at the age of 12.

To my grandchildren

Terrible desire

As a child, I slept in the same room with my grandmother. Grandmother used to scream at night, and I was ordered to wake her up so that she would not get sick with her heart. One day she began to cry so thinly, and I began to disturb her and ask:

Why are you screaming?

Aunt came.

Well, what about aunt? Why are you crying?

Came and wants to sing.

I have achieved nothing more. Maybe the aunt is not good and she shouldn't be allowed to sing, or maybe she sings out of tune.

Composer's daughter

My grandmother herself had an excellent ear, and she considered herself to be from a musical family. Her father, according to her, the “famous composer” Gideon Fidman, wrote a march in honor of the king, for which he was awarded a safe-conduct from the emperor, which could save (but did not save) from pogroms.

Do you go to music shops? Grandma demanded of the music teachers who came to our house to teach the children how to play the piano.

Yes, of course, - the teachers answered with bewilderment.

Have you come across Gideon Fidman's sheet music?

No. And who is it?

How, you don't know Gideon Fidman? This is a famous composer. It was he who wrote the padespan. Do you know? - And she sang a well-known tune: - Padespanese - a pretty dance, it is very easy to dance-ah-be.

Are you saying that this is the music of Gideon... uh...

Well, yes, Gideon Fidman... – and, looking down modestly, she added: – This is my father.

deadly rivalry

Modesty grandmother went to her father. He was so shy that he did not know how to defend his rights. For example, two composers competed in Odessa - Fidman and Chernetsky. Chernetsky wrote all the marches and was very successful, because these marches were immediately performed by all military bands. But his musical gift began to dry up, and then he did - Vitenka, what is the word? Yes, plagiarism. He wanted to be credited with the march that Gideon Fidman wrote. He went mad and ended his days in an insane asylum. In the ward, he cut his veins and wrote the notes of that very march on the wall with blood. Nothing could be done. It was written in blood, and you can’t argue with that, although the author is Fidman. This music is often played. Grandmother sat down at the piano (she played by ear) and performed a bravura well-known melody. In my opinion, I can’t remember exactly, it was “Farewell of the Slav”.

Of course, I was proud of my great great-grandfather and subsequently often told this story to guests or at a party. Once, when I once again sang "Farewell of the Slav", I noticed that the handsome Zhenya Arenzon, sitting at the table opposite me, was filled with blood.

Did I sing falsely? I got worried.

The thing is, - Arenzon said indignantly, - that my great-grandfather, the composer Chernetsky, never went crazy and even more so did not steal tunes.

I don’t know, I don’t know,” I answered coldly.

We met more than once, but never mentioned our great-grandfathers again. (And I mentioned another relative of mine much more successfully, talking with an artist who turned out to be in the same degree of kinship with the lawyer Gruzenberg, who defended Mendel Beilis, as I was with the hero of this trial).

Odessa relatives

I did not learn anything about my aunt, who came to sing at night to scare my grandmother, because during the day my grandmother no longer remembered what she was crying about in her sleep. Was it really one of her many aunts, or did her grandmother call some Odessa lady that she remembered as a child? Odessa, in my opinion, was literally flooded with my grandmother's, and therefore, my relatives. Later I met some of my relatives - Aunt Fanya, Aunt Bluma, Uncle Mozey. But I never found out about them either, to whom, in fact, they are aunts and uncles.

There were fourteen of us (or sixteen?) souls of children,” my grandmother said, and the doubt about the number of souls lived in her, and not in my memory. “Some more died in childbirth.

She curled her fingers, counting something, and moved her lips, by which I sometimes read some Jewish names. She never remembered her mother, but I saw an old photograph of my mother at the age of two on a stool, and next to her was a famous composer with a mustache curled up and his wife in a long heavy dress. I asked my mother about my great-grandfather and great-grandmother, but she, too, was inclined to remember Gideon Fidman, and all she knew about his wife was that she was lazy and indifferent. And what, I ask, could be a woman who continuously gave birth all her life - after all, she endured sixteen souls (stillborns do not count) ?! The composer must have made good money with his marches and padespans, if he could support all this horde of emphatically noisy souls.

Lvov. All photos - Galina Zelenina

Tall, slender, blue-eyed

However, my grandmother contributed to the family budget from an early age.

Having learned to play fashionable dances on the piano, my grandmother began to earn money as a pianist at parties, and it so happened that she even played in the homes of members of the State Duma. And once a handsome cornet drove her home in a cab. I didn’t know what a cornet was, but what handsome men are, I guessed from my grandmother’s chased formulation: “Tall - slender - blue-eyed.” These three words, which constituted the formula of male beauty, my grandmother recited with great enthusiasm, like poetry. In fact, over the years I have become so handsome: tall - slender (hm, hm) - blue-eyed. However, I was born beautiful right away - with blond curls on my head (other children are most often born bald). Even Madame Vinokur (I don’t remember her), who was usually very demanding and picky, was forced to admit:

Is this a boy? It's Apollo!

On the confidence of speech

Madame Vinokur, a neighbor in the Odessa apartment, in general, often appeared in grandmother's stories. The neighbors must have often competed, and Madame Vinokur, with her skillfully delivered victorious intonation, prevailed over the shy Madame Weisberg (my grandmother). For some reason, in Odessa, everyone called my grandmother not Evgenia Gedeonovna, but Madame Weisberg, and she herself called her Odessa acquaintances by their last names and madams. At the same time, men were most often mentioned by name and without any “monsieur” there. In Lvov, where I spent my childhood, my grandmother was called “Mrs. Vaysbergova,” and she answered “Mrs. Stefa” or “Mrs. Yana.” In the same way, however, we all called the indigenous inhabitants of Lviv - Ukrainians and Poles: “Pan Bronislav”, “Pan Stefan” (this is if they are young and well known, and older and seen for the first time - by their last names: “Pan Nedbaylo”, “Pani Kropyvnytska"). So, Madame Vinokur, apparently, defeated her grandmother in verbal duels, even if it came to cooking, where grandmother was always a recognized master. If the competition did not take place at the table, when guests could compare the fruits of the labors of two competing hostesses, but, for example, when asked: “Madame Vinokur, Madame Weisberg, what do you have for lunch today?” - the grandmother answered shyly:

Fish soup, stew, compote.

For the first - bouillabaisse, for the second - veal in sweet and sour sauce with wine and prunes, for dessert - fruits in lemon syrup.

Madame Vinokur even pronounced the words “boiled potatoes” as if it were an exquisite French dish, and meanwhile the menu she recited corresponded to an ordinary (and not very tasty) fish soup, goulash with disgusting oversweetened gravy and the same dried fruit compote.

You understand, Vitenka, how important it is to speak confidently and value yourself according to your deserts, my grandmother summed up the lesson of Madame Vinokur.

I remembered the lesson, but, alas, I did not master it: genes are still stronger than science. But anyway - thank you, Madame Vinokur, thank you, grandmother.

As for cooking, the grandmother had no equal among her contemporaries. In my opinion, it was not even my mother who surpassed her, but my sister, who, however, with the shyness inherent in her grandmother, claims that all her skill comes from memory not so much for recipes, but for how grandmother’s hands moved in the kitchen when making that or other food. It is necessary, she says, only to reproduce these movements.

About food

True, in my childhood I could not always appreciate my grandmother's dishes. So, I absolutely could not stand roast duck, which became famous among our acquaintances almost more than Peking duck. Grandmother, knowing my dislike for this bird, nevertheless could not resist from time to time not to please her family with her delicacy.

I, as always, was well aware of what was supposed to be for lunch today, and was ready that immediately after the soup I would go to dessert, and this suited me quite well, as, indeed, my parents.

Grandmother, of course, also guessed that I would refuse the duck and that it was not even worth offering it to me. But it was still difficult for her to come to terms with the fact that such a yummy prepared by Madame Weisberg would not even be tasted by her beloved grandson.

With a completely innocent look, she took out the most appetizing piece from the cauldron and, bringing it to my very nose, humbly asked:

Vitenka, do you want such a chicken?

Such The question could only be asked once. Grandmother failed - I almost knocked the meat out of her hands in indignation. But the duck in the house on Zhovtneva Street in the city of Lviv was forever renamed "such a chicken".

And how many people in this world can boast that they not only gave something a name, but renamed something with a very stable name?

Even now, when visiting a Chinese restaurant, only at the very last moment I refrain from not naming a duck when placing an order. such a chicken.

About feeling
(Mit harz un gefil)

I know that my grandmother attached great importance to feeling, at least in two things - in food and in music. For example, she asked me to put on a record of Kozlovsky, and no matter what he sang, she burst into tears and said:

My God, with what feeling he sings.

With which? I tried to clarify.

Oh, mother, you can hear yourself! Grandmother waved.

She claimed that I, having learned to play Tchaikovsky's Sentimental Waltz, perform it with great feeling. Meanwhile, I solidified this piece for mercenary reasons: my parents believed that I could not master this waltz, which even professional musicians play as an encore in a concert, but I offered a bet, winning which I would become the owner of the Pobeda watch - my old dream. I fell in love with music very much, but it was this love that discouraged me from doing it - I understood that nothing good would come of me, and asked me to stop useless classes. Grandmother was terribly upset, and she complained for a long time. When she heard the winner of the First Tchaikovsky Competition play on the radio, she told me:

My mother, if you played at least fifteen minutes a day, you would already play better than Vanya Kliverman (as she called Van Cliburn, whose name, however, was already distorted in Moscow). Do you remember how you played Sentimental Waltz? With which feeling!

Candies

Her own feelings for her grandchildren knew no bounds. She hid the sweets that she was treated to, and at the right moment, when one of her grandchildren asked: “Is there no more sweets left?” - and the parents answered that they were no more, the grandmother disappeared for a minute, then suddenly appeared and, dancing, twirled a small fist in front of the children’s nose with sweets clamped in it and at the same time sang to the motive of the folk song “From under the oak, from under elm" these words:

My dear mother, dear mother!

The children figured out what was what, quickly unwrapped the candy wrappers and, under the disapproving glances of their parents, crunched sweets. Grandmother at that moment turned into a fiery pillar of happiness and sang a different song:

Woo, my kids, woo, my kids!

Evgenia Gedeonovna, - dad called her that, - do not feed the children with sweets.

She just shrugged it off, continuing to shine.

Pedagogical principles

But it happened that because of the children she quarreled with her parents, unable to agree with their "cruel" methods of education. The earth did not produce anyone kinder and more tolerant than my parents. However, my father had principles that he could not compromise. For example, he, who generally did not recognize the obscene vocabulary, could not stand it if someone allowed himself to speak “indecently” in front of women.

I remember such an episode. I, six years old, walked in the yard and looked at the balcony of the third floor, where the tenth grader Lyusya was teaching lessons. All the children knew that I was in love with this adult schoolgirl. My twelve-year-old enemy friend Mikola, prone to hooliganism and foul language, began to secretly tease me. He spoke in a whisper, so that only I could hear him, but when I answered, I became more and more annoyed and raised my tone, so that everyone heard my words.

Oh, Lyuska is a beauty, - Mikola hissed, - I love her.

No it's I I love her,” I protested.

But Lyuska loves me,” my friend continued to tease quietly.

No she loves me- I was offended.

And we will soon get married, - Mikola threatened.

No it's I I'll marry her, - I was already yelling at the whole yard.

And I ate it ... l, - put an unfamiliar word into my ear, my now definitely enemy.

The answer was, of course, predictable and loud:

No it's I her f...l!

Lucy got up. She put down her textbook and, descending the stairs, knocked on our door... When she left our apartment, dad appeared on the threshold, who gloomily said one word to me:

I didn’t understand anything, and soon I stopped thinking at all.

Dad took me to the bedroom and said:

Take your pants off!

They are still clean, I objected.

Shoot! shouted the father and began to take the belt out of their pants.

I stumbled, and my father had to work hard to get to my ass. Then he spread me out on his knees and several times, not painfully, but insultingly, lashed me on my bare pope. He wanted to insult me! It was unbearable, and I finally roared, also because I did not understand why? It is clear that this is somehow connected with Lucy, but I just defended my love! (I loved not for the first time and knew what it was).

My father let go of me in confusion, and I left the bedroom, sobbing. When I, met with hugs and kisses from my grandmother, stopped sobbing, I announced that I was leaving this house. My father held my mother's hand and said nothing. The grandmother said:

That's right, mommy. I will go with you. Wait, I'll put on boots now.

I obediently waited.

We walked in silence for a while, but I knew that my grandmother was thinking the same thing as me: "Daddy is a monster."

Grandma then said:

Vitenka, we still need to buy bread for dinner.

We went to the store, where, in addition to the roll, we also bought candies in a round tin box, which was difficult to open and was so sharp at the edges that you could injure your hand on it, but then, when the candies disappear, it can serve as a piggy bank or storage of a small treasure.

You are already big, Vityenka, and you know that a man should take weight away from women. Can you help me carry bread home?

Could I not take a string bag from my grandmother's hands? I even raised it high above my head so that everyone could see that I could not bear such burdens. So we reached the house, and I, of course, could not refuse my grandmother's invitation to come in for dinner. Moreover, everyone should know that it was I who brought bread for dinner.

On Fortitude and Forgiveness

I immediately forgave my father. (When already forty years old I shared these memoirs with him, he not only remembered the episode itself, but also could not believe in its veracity). With my dad, everything turned out to be more complicated. She stopped talking to him, answering his questions. Rather, it would be impolite not to answer at all, intelligent people don’t behave like that, but the answer came not directly to the dad who asked him, but to the one who was nearby. For example, my father asked:

Evgenia Gedeonovna, there was a newspaper here. Where did you hide her?

Let him look at his desk, - my grandmother instructed, well, let's say, my three-year-old sister.

Or, when there was no one else at home, and the grandmother had to feed her son-in-law, she entered her father's office and, looking at the ceiling, neutrally and unknown to whom she asked:

What He wants to eat?

That's all, that's me.

But He doesn't like a stuffed neck? Grandmother doubted.

Then he will eat a chicken wing, - dad laughed and walked to the table, one hundred percent sure that the wing was already put on his plate.

So they did not talk for two years - until dad fell and hurt himself, and grandmother, rushing to him, screamed instead of the already familiar "He"- Sashenka!

About beauty

In fact, she loved her brother-in-law very much and had great respect for him. It's no joke to say: her Sashenka was first an assistant professor, and then a university professor, and, talking about friends at home, dad's colleagues, one could say:

One professor we know... well, he's not a professor, but everyone calls him that (grandmother, of course, was just ahead of the curve, because I remember a banquet given by this professor friend of ours, speaking between us, a decent bastard, when he- defended his doctoral dissertation).

My grandmother was very fond of my father's friends, and I was surprised to see how she smokes with them (actually, no one in our family smoked, including my grandmother). She gracefully removed her small hand with a cigarette and blew a thin stream of smoke, following her with narrowed eyes, while my father's friend, who was smoking with her, winked at me, blew smoke rings from his mouth.

Grandmother, to my amazement, did not just smoke with the guests, she also flirted and coquettished with them; low notes appeared in her voice, and the sound e in general, it was ousted from all the words that were pronounced: “meeting”, “serce”, “restlessness”, etc. She later spoke approvingly of those who smoked with her as “tall, slender, blue-eyed”.

According to my observations, some of them did not quite correspond to these characteristics - someone was brown-eyed, someone was short or overweight. But that didn't matter, what mattered was that they deserved praise, and the male's praise was forever enshrined in a chiselled three-syllable formula.

Dad, by the way, did not have blue eyes either, but he, of course, was beyond praise, especially since he had virtues that the beauty formula shyly did not mention. I remember that my grandmother always expected the son-in-law's morning passage through our room with her to the restroom. Dad walked by in his underpants, and grandma looked at him with wide eyes, even when they were in a quarrel.

God, what beautiful legs he has! - my grandmother always exclaimed, - this is how he looks for me in his shorts, - she said to me happily and slightly embarrassed, never looking for any other words.

Now that I'm a grandfather myself, I look at my legs and find that they are shaped like my father's, and I think it's a pity that I can't walk past my grandmother in my shorts to the bathroom. How much fun it would be for both of us! I am sure that my grandmother, just like my father's, would have admired my legs (and maybe more - well, really, beautiful ones!).

About love

It is clear what role they played in grandmother's life feeling and beauty. How, then, was the case with love, which should have united both concepts? To be honest, I really don’t know this - I didn’t have time to discuss it with my grandmother. Apparently, she did not love her grandfather: she even fed him without feeling- so, put it on the table and not even ask if you liked it.

Grandfather was a portly, fat, although very mobile, strong and kind person. After eating, he liked to lie on the floor, beckoning his grandchildren to him (my sister and I) and letting us crawl on his belly.

Grandmother did not interfere with this: she was sure that they would not offend us. Meanwhile, grandfather told us political jokes, which we did not understand, but had fun just like that - from fuss; grandfather again and again savored some word and laughed so that his belly swayed - to the delight of the children who settled on him. True, I remember once my grandmother heard an anecdote about Kaganovich, unknown to us, and was indignant:

Oh, you will raise anti-Semites from my grandchildren!

Ay, leave it, Zhenichka, they are smart, look, this is gold.

Grandfather was a great lover of life, adored women, the circus and the operetta. Grandchildren knew about the circus and operetta: we had to pretend to be lovers of these genres in order to give grandfather the opportunity to take us to the daytime performance (grandfather had already been to the evening performance without us - “interesting with whom?” Grandma asked).

We then began to guess about women, and over time, even from various scraps of home conversations, we reconstructed the story of how grandfather met in the house of one woman with his son, Bobka, a famous walker. What exactly was the piquancy of the meeting between grandfather and uncle, we did not really understand, but we whispered about it mysteriously.

Grandfather died early - 59 years old, at work, from a heart attack. Parents were informed by phone, they went by taxi to the hospital, returned gloomy, they did not say anything to their grandmother. Grandmother was setting the table and suddenly slammed her hand on the tablecloth so that the dishes rang:

Are they hiding something from me?

In response, my mother cried.

Okay, Grandma said.

She did not leave the apartment again, the last time - only for her grandfather's funeral. Neither in the cinema, nor, especially, in the operetta - never, but she was released for another eighteen years.

Sometimes she let something courteous into her stories: someone threatened either himself, or her, or an opponent to douse with sulfuric acid; it seems that grandfather threatened and, apparently, achieved it, because grandmother was frightened - either for herself, or for a handsome young man (I remember the word "vileoncellist"), or for the grandfather.

In general, my grandmother did not marry of her own free will, but whether she loved someone at that time, whether she had ever been in love, whether she knew other men besides grandfather, I don’t know.

About erotica

A certain erotic dissatisfaction sometimes peeped through her. She could tell me, still completely unintelligent, obscene anecdotes from the life of Peter the Great (how did she know them herself?). I then could not understand what it means: he got up. Who got up, who got him up? I thought that my grandmother just speaks with a Jewish accent, over an accent, and not over a joke, and I laughed.

Mom, what are you talking about? - quietly and meekly asked my mother.

But the grandmother firmly answered:

Let him already know.

This is how an early acquaintance with the Jewish accent prevented my early maturity: after all, if I had not been ashamed of my grandmother's accent, who would have prevented me from clarifying the features of male physiology and the functions of organs, as I later found out, which I also had and acted in strict accordance with as described in a true story from the life of the Russian emperor?

On the ability to carry on a conversation

She told jokes not only to me. In general, conversations occupied a significant part of her life. She did not leave the house, but she often lay on the windowsill, or rather, on two windowsills - in turn. One of the windows chosen by her overlooked the courtyard, and the other - to the street. We lived, as it was customary to call it, in the “mezzanine”, and, sitting on a wide windowsill, we could bend over the window opening and freely, without straining our vocal cords, talk for a long time with neighbors in the yard or with acquaintances or strangers walking down the street.

It was even possible to talk across the road - cars passed infrequently and did not interfere with conversations. And just in the house opposite there was a butcher's shop, and from there, when there were no buyers, a cheerful butcher, already aged, went out into the street - to bask in the sun. The butcher willingly joined in the conversation and after a while, having learned about the grandmother's status as a widow, he began to make eyes at the grandmother and show how he would hug Madame Weisberg if she visited his shop. Grandmother got angry - however, only when she saw how he really hugs Mrs. Yana right on the threshold of his store, and then Mrs. Yana takes meat out of the store completely without a single bone or fat.

In her heart, Grandma would pick up the phone and settle into the rocking chair for another long conversation. She disregarded instructions from her family as to the duration of her conversations, responding with a maxim that would be convincing for any intelligent person:

He says to me - do not spit in the face of a man!

Photos

Grandmother loved to look at photographs and was very picky about her images. If she was alone on the card and this card did not suit her in some way, the photograph could disappear without a trace. If the picture was a group one and she did not like herself, then scissors were put into action, cutting an exquisitely bizarre curve in the photograph so that not a single extra millimeter of the remaining usable space was wasted.

I always tried to understand what exactly did not suit my grandmother, but even if the reasons were given to me, I still did not understand them. "Double chin" - so what, - double chin. Often I looked for the fruits of my grandmother's destruction in the trash can and rescued them from there - in secret, in order to victoriously demonstrate to everyone a portrait neatly carved along the contour. Grandma was always upset about this.

Approximately a year after her death, I laid out photographs from the family archive on the table (now this archive has become very scarce: when I left Moscow, it was forbidden to export photographs). Here is a dark yellowed picture: a young grandmother in a boa and with a Siberian cat in her arms in front of a mirror, here she looks out of the window into the courtyard (I photographed this), here she is with her grandchildren (the photographer was specially invited). But... my sister and I are in the sea... and next to each other... a sinuous gaping... (it seems that my grandmother did not like her bathing suit)...

Once again about the beauty of the legs

During grandmother's conversations with the street, she lay down on the windowsill with her stomach, because she was short, and she wanted to better follow the facial expressions of the interlocutor. In order to climb onto the window in this way, grandmother had to stand on tiptoe, which made her dressing gown slightly ride up and her wonderful tiny (Cinderella's) legs became visible, the beauty of which she, of course, knew and which, in my opinion, she was deservedly proud of. When rising on tiptoe, her calves tightened and became quite round and elastic. The skin was smooth and silky and seemed to be hairless.

I now describe this from memory, but, honestly, in my childhood, in some way, I noted the dignity of her legs (the diminutive suffix in this word is from childhood, and not current speculation), and, in any case, I would I couldn’t remember it now, if it weren’t for my furtive or point-blank glances.

The validity of my observations was once unexpectedly confirmed on the day of a visit to the grandmother of our new district doctor. He was very attentive, for a long time examined and listened to the grandmother from all sides, then asked to lift the hem. Grandmother chastely lifted him up. This did not suit the doctor, and he himself rolled up the hem to the very top. And suddenly he (the doctor) just broke through:

Look, - he exulted, - what kind of skin, what forms! After all, she is no more than twenty-five! Where is the heart! Look at those legs!

Grandmother, pulling up her hem, looked at the doctor in fright, and he quickly prescribed the necessary medicine and bowed out, still muttering to himself: “What kind of legs!” - and shook his head.

When the door slammed shut behind him, Grandmother said thoughtfully:

Good doctor!

But what tramp!

About tramps

Grandmother called tramps shameless and depraved. Although sometimes from her stories it turned out that they were quite nice and extremely charming people. The tramp, for example, was her own son, Bobka, my favorite uncle Bob, whom my grandmother condemned not only because he was a womanizer (he often married and even more often Not married), but for being addicted to alcohol.

Tramps were also some of my grandmother's secretly beloved writers (among them - Maupassant, Maupassant!). When reading one of these writers, my grandmother tried to hide it and during the day she hid the book she read at night under her pillow - but I saw it!

Sometimes grandmother complained that she had nothing to read, and the guest to whom she complained looked around the numerous shelves with books in bewilderment and asked:

How, Evgenia Gedeonovna, did you read all this?

All! Grandmother resolutely replied.

Well, here is a thirty-volume edition of Maxim Gorky - have you swallowed all thirty volumes?

Oh, how grandma was cunning! She deliberately mixed up the shades of the meaning of the word "tramp". She knew from Peshkov's biography that in his youth he wrote "tramp stories", which, like the novel "Mother", were boring to her. She did not read Gorky precisely because he was not a tramp in her sense, he was not depraved and shameless. Then she would read it (perhaps secretly).

When I grew up, my grandmother closely followed what I read and wanted to read the same thing (unlike me, she liked Kuprin's Pit).

My mother, what is your book?

- The Decameron by Boccaccio.

Good?

Bosyatskaya, grandmother.

A few days later I see - carefully looking for something on the bookshelves.

Vitenka, where this book?

I can already guess what she's looking for, but I pretend not to understand:

What, grandma?

She (shyly):

Well, the one you said was a tramp.

Other family stories:

There are people in the life of every person who have a huge impact on his development in childhood. Of course, the older generation can be attributed to them: the parents of our fathers and mothers. Grandmother in many families, especially in the summer (and not only), plays the main educational role. If he lives in the village, then the kids are brought there to relax and improve their health, drink fresh rural milk, eat natural cottage cheese for breakfast and, of course, grandmother's pies, so lush and very tasty: with fruits or berries. And if the grandmother lives with her family, then she is entrusted with the role of caring for the baby in the absence of her parents, with which she copes with pleasure and with all care. In general, writing a home essay about a grandmother is not so difficult for almost any child in primary and secondary school age, using the help of their moms and dads. For example, on the topic: how good it is that my grandmother exists in the world! Or describe your summer in the village in her small cozy house.

Where to begin?

An essay about a grandmother can begin with a description of her appearance. What a kind face she has, what soft and laboring hands, nose, forehead, hair, and so on. What she usually wears, how she walks and talks. Then we continue the short essay about the grandmother with a description of her habits and what she likes to do most of all. You can finish with a story about why every child likes to spend the summer in the countryside.

Short essay about grandma. Example 1

My sister and I have a beloved grandmother. Her name is Baba Nastya. Although, of course, strangers call her Anastasia Ivanovna, but in a simple way, that's what we, grandchildren, call her. She is not very tall, slightly hunched over from the years she has lived, but still cheerful and very cheerful. Moderately plump, but not fat. Oddly enough, but she has a rather thin waist, since Baba Nastya was engaged in folk dancing and singing in her youth.

Her face is all in small and large wrinkles, because our grandmother is already many, many years old. The nose is straight and the forehead is high, you can immediately see that she is very smart, and was very charming in her youth. Once she showed us her old photographs, where immediately after the war she was photographed with her friends - well, very beautiful. And now Baba Nastya looks better than many old people in the village, where we came for the summer. But her hair was completely gray and became a gray-white color. She hides them all the time under a handkerchief, so neat and well-groomed.

Grandma is never strict with us. She pampers us, her grandchildren: she buys sweets, brings milk (she also has a cow Duska, which Baba Nastya milks every day). And when mom leaves for the city to work, grandmother puts us to bed and tells fairy tales, each time a new one, from which we sleep so well and soundly: sweet dreams!

Example 2

A short essay on the topic “My grandmother” can be written in a slightly different way.

Our grandmother lives with me, mom and dad in our big city apartment. Her name is Luba. Previously, she had a house in the country, but then it became difficult for her to work on the housework, and she had to sell it. Since then, my grandmother has moved in with us. But she didn’t stop housekeeping, and every day she cooks something tasty.

Our grandmother loves to bake pies. She makes them lush, soft, with various fillings: cottage cheese, meat, potatoes. With apricot jam - my favorite. I think I could eat a whole plate of them! Especially tasty with cocoa in the morning, but also good with tea in the evening. And grandmother Lyuba does not get tired of working all day long so that our whole family is full and healthy.

And my grandmother cleans the apartment every day, and everything shines with cleanliness. Of course, she also teaches me to clean her room, but we are not very good at it yet. There is still something lying around somewhere. But the grandmother is not angry, but only looks attentively and makes a remark.

Example 3. “Letter to Grandma” (composition on a given topic)

If this is the topic for work, then you can start with a description of city life. How we live, go to school, and what grades in which subjects we have received recently. You can congratulate your grandmother on the upcoming holidays, promise in a letter that we will definitely come to visit her during the holidays.

Svetlana Grusha
Grandma's story.

Dear Colleagues, I would like to bring to your attention story, which I wrote while participating in a municipal competition "I remember! I'm proud!" and took 2nd place.

Youth, scorched by the war.

We will remember veterans

We will never forget

Their sacrifices, deeds and wounds

Victory! Remember the whole country!

The Great Patriotic War. How much grief, suffering, deprivation, fear, pain it brought to our people! How many people died, how many became disabled, how many people lost everything!

During this difficult time my youth passed. grandmothers, Mironova Valentina Grigorievna. My story will be about a simple girl who did not accomplish any heroic deed, but who endured all the hardships of this wartime. In my opinion, every person who lived, endured all the difficulties, fears, pain deserves respect and honor.

When the war started, she was 15 years old, so the memories remain.

(Childhood and youth were spent in the Tarasovsky district of the Rostov region, the rest of the years she sewed in Gukovo.)

They heard the terrible news of the beginning of the war on the radio. She did not yet understand the seriousness of the consequences, but she saw what was happening. Mom often cried. Dad and older brother went to the front. My mother and three sisters stayed at home. It was very difficult because everyone had to work hard. Mom worked all day in the field, she was very tired. grandmother I had to take care of my sisters and go to school. The teachers were only women. Studying in those distant years was difficult. There was one textbook for five to six children. There were no notebooks, paper for drawing and drawing. They wrote on newspapers, wrapping paper. After school, she helped adults do various work. In the summer, herbs were harvested - quinoa seeds, nettles, linden leaves. They were dried, crushed and added to real flour and bread was baked, as it was difficult with food. They were given on cards. half-starved grandmother even helped dig trenches for the soldiers.

For two years they lived in constant fear, as they were occupied by the Germans.

For a long time she experienced an eerie feeling of fear when something hummed strongly. This remained in my memory after the bombings, during which I had to sit in the basement for a long time.

Everyone: It was very difficult for both adults and children. But still, everyone believed in our victory. They lived, worked, endured all hardships.

For life grandmother remembered the news of the end of the war. Her mother cried and laughed, hugging the children and saying one phrase: "All!", "All!"

I would like to repeat that the heroic in my life no grandmother. But the fact that she lived in that wartime, endured the burden of those years together with everyone, experienced fear, pain, made her small, childish contribution to the victory, is worthy of veneration. And I'm proud of my grandmother. And the younger generation needs talk about these people, giving an example of patience, fortitude and service to their homeland. Your small story I want to end with words of gratitude to the older generation.

Today low bow to you,

Native veterans.

Thank you for peace, tranquility,

For tears, blood and wounds.

For the fact that we are in our native country,

We laugh without looking back.

For the fact that our days are bright,

Cloudless and sweet.

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