The old is already a story, and my grandfather died in 2010, the land was loose to him, and I want to share how I recorded it a year before his death, in 2009.

On February 6, 2009, my grandfather turned 94. He still lived in Kazan, hardly walked, and saw very poorly. I didn’t talk to him on the phone often — he couldn’t hold the phone himself, yet he got this damn Parkinson’s disease. When I was very missing, I asked my mom to hold the phone at his ear. Then he and I talked a few words. And talking to him was not difficult - his grandfather's mind was still clear, and his sense of humor did not disappear.

He was born in 1915 in Odessa, and spent his childhood in the Nude Port in the house of his father, Peter Timofeevich Sidorov, the chief manager of the Masandrov wine basements of His Imperial Majesty.

My grandfather saw a lot in his life. And the mother killed by the Red Army, in that unfortunate night of 1927, when they came to their soul, and Peter Timofeevich, my great-grandfather, was shot, and left with the governor and teenager-grandfather in the fortunately frozen Dnieper. My grandmother, my grandmother, Maria Kremli-Sidorova, unfortunately, did not survive that attack. Then the grandfather and grandfather had Tashkent, typhoid (the grandfather was sick twice), then a lot more, and finally Kazan.

His grandfather was a master of his business, a winer of the highest class, so I am not surprised that he was not arrested, not shot, but appointed director of the Kazan wine factory. The NKVD shakes them, indeed, regularly, but always without reason. My grandfather did not come from that service to the new post to start stealing.

And his grandfather finished the rabbfak, and, working as a slugsman, entered the KAI, already having the crusts of the master of the 7th division. He was talented, a mechanic from God, although selected. Grandma then often called it a millimeter, although in my opinion, a micron would be more correct. He studied in KAI just before the beginning of the war.

On June 30, 1941, he married my grandmother, Yevgeny Yakovlevna Majorova, then a student of Kazan financial and economic (we call this institution in Kazan a "café"), and immediately from the wedding went to do first Katyusi, and then aircraft-strike on Kazan aircraft. Twice escaped from the factory, wanted to get to the front - returned. The 7th grade is not a joke.

In 1943 my mother was born, and in 45 the war ended. Grandfather enrolled in postgraduate studies, defended himself, and eventually became an associate professor at the Department of Aerodynamics in his Alma Mater. This very aerodynamics was long later called by the students sidodynamics. Students had reasons for that.

And here in Kazan, already in adulthood, far beyond thirty, my grandfather grabbed the passion. No, not what you thought. He stopped smoking at the age of 25, when he felt that he was drawn, he treated guilt all his life as a delicacy, although all branded wines were unmistakably recognized from the first swallow. I brought him, already as a postgraduate student in Prague, somehow from Hungary, from some cellar, his native Masandrovsky muscat white red stone. I recognized my grandfather’s wine, without even trying, by the smell. Although it was sold under this name in Russia at the time, it was scorned in black. And still would. The vineyard under this mustard, for my grandfather’s grandfather, Matthew, began in the Crimea, and did my grandfather not know how the mustard should smell? What and how my grandfather with women was - I don't know, don't ask, so about the passion I write about completely different.

My grandfather sat on the mushrooms. Specifically, for a quiet mushroom hunt. And so sat down that until the very end, as long as he could walk, he did not give up his passion.

Grandfather to mushrooms a peculiar attitude has always been: for him there were only four worthy breeds - white, bushes, loads, and rubies. It was only at the beginning of June that he drove us all to the shores - until the white one had to wait, and the mushrooms he always wanted to collect, and the long winter stunned him so that it hardly seemed.

All his mushroom places the grandfather gave names: Snake hills (there he argued with a straw for the pineapple), the first, the second, the third Grive (I have no idea why he called these places so, it was all the shores of the shore), a lion hill (a separate story, don't believe it, but there to my grandmother the lion jumped out, and licked with her. It was his employees of the Kazan Zoo who took him out into the wild, and he, the pig, went away. The common name is Cordon. (We were near the dacha some cordon at some time, so the name was fixed).

My grandfather taught me to collect mushrooms at an age when I didn’t have anything to say, I didn’t know how to walk. Our regime was strict. Before the "frog" to get up was necessary to get to the first place before the sunrise. Why so? I won’t tell you exactly, but my grandfather always stood firm. And then you swing 20-30 kilometers with him, all over the place, and you drag a basket with what you gathered, you drag on yourself. Do you think it hard? No to Figo! Yes, I would struggle immediately, ask me who will carry this basket for me. The mine! I found it! Do not touch!

Here we went to this snake hill before dawn. This place is in the pine pine pine - it is very beautiful there, well, yes to me, the five-year-old carapuz did not care about the crust at the time. I came here to look for mushrooms. Grandfather fled immediately to his places, and Grandma-Jenna stayed with me, of course. Here we went with her, in front of us. She told me fairy tales, and by the way, the exercises in mathematics stressed me, and I turned in all directions. Then he turned, and suddenly stumbled. Because I saw a huge, luxurious beetle. Woooot thataaki!!!! And frozen in place. My grandmother hadn’t noticed it at first, she felt like I stopped, and I was pulled by the hand – and I’m all standing, my mouth shaking. She looked too. It was difficult not to notice, it was a fungus, and not an old one, by the way, not a pineapple - but a dream of mushrooms. have arrived. Grandmother sat down, and I started jumping, shouting, "The mushroom found, the mushroom found!" I don’t even remember when I was so happy.

My grandfather and I met in two hours. He collected something, of course. But when he saw my champion, only his hands shaken. I was so proud! ?

Upon returning all the white we usually dried over the plate for the winter, cutting them into slices. But apparently I looked at my beautiful borovik so much that my grandfather made an exception for him. We dried it entirely. And then I took this dried mushroom to my kindergarten, and to all of us, the whole little girl from my group, our kindergarten cook made a soup out of it.

I have tried many different types of mushrooms, but I still remember the taste of that soup.

Yes the most important. The last time I spoke with my grandfather, he asked me, “Do you remember that shrimp on the Snake Hill?” I immediately understood what he was talking about. “Yes,” I say, “and what?” Grandfather responded with a delay, his hand was trembling. The shit is Parkinson’s disease, though. But then he gathered and suddenly asked, “If you come, take me there, right? Suddenly, there was another such beetle grown there?”