In the old times of the Great Union, my young wife and I arrived in a small port town by distribution and, as it used to be, got a room in the commune as a help to a young family of specialists. Our neighbors were a noisy family, consisting of a mother, a dad, a grandmother and an eight-year-old kid, and another room was occupied by the hero of this story, the old man, a former bosman of the trade fleet, as everyone called him - Uncle Jora. Uncle Jora was a very colourful personality, a sailor from God who spent his whole life at sea. Detdomovsky was an orphan who never knew his parents, a man in whose speech there were only sea terms and expressions, but a completely harmless man. Uncle Jora was always on the lookout, but he was never drunk, from morning to night he was digging in the yard in his barracks, plowing, hanging, carving and crafting something.
The neighbor’s boy was a local robber, the leader of street hooligans, the problem of the school and the thunder of the whole street. His parents paid little attention to his upbringing, worked as prisoners in the port, and his grandmother simply could not because of age and softness. Uncle Jora was a constant subject of his bullying, then they shot him with a scarf of horns, then stole instruments, then shot with plasticine. A couple of times he was locked up in the barracks and Uncle Jora waited inside until someone released him. On all these bullying uncle Jora did not react and only smiled, shrugged his shoulders and said, say, nothing, himself will come to apologize.
One day uncle Jora, right in the middle of the courtyard between the branches of chestnut, began to weave the hamac. Yes, what a hamak, a node to a node, from a soft beech. A local chantrape headed by a neighbor’s boyfriend was first starting to interfere, as usual, then interested and quietly watched, then asked to show how it is done. Uncle Jora, without hesitating for a minute, took out the rope to everyone and began to explain how and what to do. No one managed to drive the boys home that day. A few days later I saw Uncle Jora teaching the child to tie the knots and even taking some exams. Then floor mat, hamacks, fishing nets, scentels, etc. A week later, all the linen ropes disappeared from the courtyards, and a month later, the linen was not for anything to hang in the whole area, but in each courtyard hanged hamacks, on the football gates were nets and in front of each apartment lay halves - woven mats. Every evening the boy told and showed the tired parents that the new uncle Jora showed what a node, a method of shortening the wire or a new way of wrapping, but they only waved in response with the phrase type less run to this old alkasha.
It all lasted for a long time until Uncle Jora died. He died as pure people die, quietly and calmly, in their dreams. His body was taken, and a few days later a social service worker brought a certificate that he was buried in a public cemetery, on the site of the number of such. Uncle Jora had no relatives, and very soon a noisy neighbor’s family already lived his room, as needed to expand the living space. All the treasure of Uncle Jora, and it was a bag with a pair of beads, underwear and a bank of coins, was thrown out to the laundry by the new tenants.
The neighbor’s boy grew up enough that his parents could, after breathing out calmly, give him to the summer camp, which they were constantly doing successfully. In one such period, we came home after work and saw that the apartment was full of schoolchildren in cravings, neighbors covered the table, something in a hurry is preparing. At the head of the table is a neighbor boy, next to a five-year-old girl with a twisted hand and her parents. On the other hand, the cool head of his class was sitting and quietly cried out that he was of course taking another one, and that he had exhausted her all the nerves, but she never doubted that he was a guy with a pure soul. Everyone chewed the cakes, fast baked by my grandmother, ahali and ohali. Later, the girl’s father told me what happened.
The pioneer camp, in which the boy was, was on the edge of the abyss and from time to time layers of land slipped down to the beach due to water washing. No one paid attention to this and only moved the fence of the camp further from the abyss. On that unfortunate day, the younger group was returning from the sea to the camp, the girl on the road ran to the side to collect flowers and at this moment a huge layer of land broke away and began to slip down so that the girl remained cut off from the ground. After a moment, part of the layer collapsed, and the second stopped, forming a deep crack of five meters deep and one and a half meters wide. The girl from fear tried to jump over the break and failed to crack, whistling the hand. It was a shock for the chiefs, because no one knew what to do, a roaring child, it was impossible to get, they panicked and brought all the children and ran to call for help, police, firefighters. A neighboring guy, playing nearby football, jumped to the flagshot, unleashed the wires of two flags, skillful movements bound himself with a spell node, the other end bound around the fence stand and, taking the free end of the other wires, slowly descended into the crack. He slipped to the girl who was stuck, bound her with a rescue knot and the rushing adults pulled the girl out.
I looked at the little boy during the story and saw the grief in his eyes, on my question why he was so sad, the little boy approached me and asked me to go with him to the cemetery where uncle Jora was buried. There was little chance of finding the site, during this time it was clear that many people were buried there, but anyway on Saturday I found in my documents a certificate of the death of Uncle Jora and we and the boy went to the cemetery. Of course, we did not find the desired site and the guard could not understand why we were looking for the tomb of some bombage, but the little one was not lost, on the first tablet with the deleted number, wrote Uncle Jora, laid the pre-acquired flowers and said thank you. Uncle Jora was right, the moment came when the boy came to him himself.
The boy, Filatov Andrei, grew up and became a long-haul captain, now sails the seas and manages a modern container ship. At home he is awaited by his wife and son, Georgy Andreevich.