My father was an automobile amateur. Now, when cars are roughly everybody, this word has lost its meaning, and then it was a fairly rare category of citizens. He started with a motorcycle, after marriage purchased a motorcycle with a wheelchair, and when I was 2-3 years old, they and my mother borrowed money from all relatives and bought a strawberry "Zaporožec".

Almost every weekend we went to my mother’s village. The cars were few, "Zaporožec", trembling and dreezing, carrying at a crazy speed of 70 km / h. The main danger was presented by the locals who suddenly ran out on the road: goats, dogs, boys, and sometimes adults. Every time he saw an obstacle, he pressed the signal, the car was loud and lost speed sharply. Dad said something like, “Ele slowed down,” or “I had to brake again,” or my mom noticed the goat before him and said, “Stumble!” So I learned that “braking” is the same as “bicycling”: in case of danger, you have to press the signal, the car will stumble and stop. The fact that at the same time Daddy still grumbled his foot on some pedal passed past my childhood consciousness.

Sometimes we went shopping “to the area”, that is, to small towns and villages located around our city. There could be bought, for example, socks or balls. In the city, they were quickly dealt with, and the residents of the district had not yet used these innovations, writing with ink and dressing children, including boys, in socks on rubber. Also, we must have bought on the market a briket of butter oil wrapped in a notepad in a cage or line. Milk, kefir, cheese were in the dairy store in the city, and the oil was either absent, or did not satisfy my mom in quality.

I was 5 or 6 years old when we once again came to the area and stopped on the main street. Dad and mom decided to run to the commercial store for a minute, suddenly something was thrown out there, and I was left in the car. As soon as they left, I moved to the driver’s seat and started playing an amateur car.

I remember how it was then appropriate to leave a parked car, on the first transmission or on the manual brake. Anyway, I removed her from this brake, and the car rolled under the hill far across the street. I was terribly scared. He turned back – behind the car, the father ran and shouted desperately: “Tormozi!”

Well, I started to brake the way I imagined it: I pushed with both my hands to the hammer. The car was silent, but for some reason did not slow down at all and finally crashed into a pillar. It was a slight scare, a broken lighthouse and scratches on my nose.

Why didn’t you stop? I asked the escaped father. I screamed to you.
Dad, I stopped it! I answered through tears. I stopped very loudly. But for some reason she did not stop.

More than 50 years have passed. My father has not been alive for a long time. But this expression still exists in our family and in a few friends. When someone tries to correct the situation with actions that can’t affect the situation in any way – for example, drinks fuvlomycin, or screams at a crying child to reassure him – we say to him:
I think you’re braking loud.