My father for the mushrooms.

A friend once told me how they and a friend stumbled in the woods on a white barrel.
The baskets were already full, so the place was remembered, marked on the navigator. And went further home.
The next day they came back – they can’t find this pollen. The navigator indicates that they are in place. Everyone was around – there was no one.

My dad and I had the opposite.

He loved the forest very much. He has led me for mushrooms since my very youth. And the phrase “silent hunting” I heard from him for the first time.
If we were going somewhere far away and for a long time, he was wearing a kirzachi. I bought my first shoes when I was 4-5 years old.

By the way. - an interesting nuance of the era of the early sixties - in the store sold children's boots. And bought them.
I remember my pleasure when I tightly wrapped my booty, wrapped my foot in my boots, and slightly sinked, to feel that my foot in the booty is like poured.

I remember that my father and I often drove the 33rd kilometre. This road is called the A-108.

They came on the track, caught the trunk... The father said to the driver, “Thirty-third...”

They came out of the high cabin of the truck, crossed the road... There was a breeze hole. My father cut off the stick for me and for himself, he must have found a white on that stick, and we went deep into the forest.

Once there was no white on that shovel. My father chewed her over and over again. I started asking, “Dad! Let’s go further!”
He said, “The weather. I always take the first white from here...” But then he found a spoon of a newly cut white mushroom, and calmed himself: “Look, he was waiting for us, and we were late.” Let us go further.

At one time or another, we will walk with him somewhere in the woods. They went deeper, the roads are almost no longer heard. I went ahead of him when I heard from behind, “What did you go past the mushrooms?” I look around, he points to the pads with a stick. Large, next to him - a little smaller, and quite small - fifteen centimeters from them.
He leaned with a knife to the mushrooms – he never broke them, only cut them. He says, "This small... and to leave it for nothing - will dry when the big cut, and to take away why this little thing."

I said, “Dad! Look, these mushrooms are like mom, dad and son. Let it grow and let it grow.”
The father again explained that the fungus was one, and when he cut these mushrooms, it would stop growing. I did not agree. Dad was a little angry that I didn’t believe him, and said, “Look, we’ll come here after tomorrow – you’ll see!”
I looked around, the same forest. I say, “How do we find this place?” the father smiled, “This is a forest. How can you get lost here?He approached the ass, and made a knife at the eye level half the size of my palm.

And here we wander through this forest again, I have forgotten about that mushroom for the past two days, again ahead of my father, and suddenly hear from behind: "Look, you see! I told you...” He points with a stick to the dried dry mushroom. I’m looking for pins from those he cut around yesterday, and I don’t find them. I say, “This is exactly the place?” the father answers, “Of course...” And here I was surprised. He lifts up his eyes, turns his head, and looks for an ass and a snare on it. He finds and shows me.

That is to say, deep in the forest, which seemed to me quite monotonous, he easily recognised the smallest cane, found that tiny mushroom in this grass, and it turns out that the hose was even superfluous for him.

He died when I was seven.

I love to go for mushrooms, but I rarely go out, and I find few.

On the photo, I am 2 years and 11 months old. He photographed him.