I was 10 years old. I went to my cousin’s house in the autumn. He suggested that I go to the colloquial garden for apples in the morning. I agreed, but asked if the guards would rush us. The uncle said, “Don’t do it, tribe. It is OK.” Ok so ok.

At about 5 o’clock in the morning we went to the garden. The garden was large, several hectares. As an adult man, I was serious about harvesting fruit, at least before lunch. I decided to pick up a few bags. Uncle had thought about it. I’m not driving here for the first time.

Upon arriving at the place, we went out to the central hallway of the garden and stopped. There was silence around, occasionally interrupted by the knock of apples falling to the ground.

Uncle, by the way, a middle-aged man, a height of two meters, cutting the seedling in his shoulders. Looking over the garden, he smiled and, taking a full chest of air, the Akis lion cried out, "Oh, see the Sukabla! The shooters!”

From the scream I sat down and covered myself with the bags I held in my hands. What happened in the garden cannot be described in words.

A loud shell of branches as in a hurricane, shells of bodies falling from trees, the ringing of overturned veers. Then the top of several dozen legs moving away in different directions and after the sounds of the start and start of the aircraft. Mostly motorcycles and motorcycles. When it was all over, my uncle stepped forward. After passing through the garden, we squeezed the apples carefully selected by other people's hands from the abandoned beads and bags into our bags and submerged the bags into the car. I still asked on the account of the guards, what the uncle whispered and assured that they also heard him well, so they will not come out of the guard for lunch. But mentally they are grateful to him because after such uncle's arrivals in the next at least a week no one worries the garden.