I myself have lived in a private house for a long time... True, a village to call a house, located 30 km from a rather large city, the language does not turn, but still! My own home! It’s not just words, it’s a whole world for a normal man! Accidentally stumbling on the network on this article, I penetrated as such, and I want to present you, though not my own, but very consonant with my point of view. A story written by a woman. (from the network)

A man in the village knows his value.

Where do you feel better: in town or in the countryside? I asked a few men who had time to live in the city and then moved to our village with their wives and children.
And this is what they told me with their gentle men’s words.

"In a village house, a man has a place, and in an apartment - not" - this was the main idea of their monologues. Well yes. In many apartments guess that not only a woman and her children live here, you can only have a pair of 45-size slats in the hallway. Everything is comfortable, clean, stylish. There is no place in the apartment. There is no place to hang out fishing gear. And hunting guns will not be installed: children will find, if little. The man in the city apartment has few points of application. Repairs are rarely done by anyone, and if you do it yourself, then you almost do not need to drill the stones, mix the cement and tile on your square meters. Repair five to ten times in a lifetime. A man is alive every day. And he must somehow manifest himself in space in order to feel alive. Well, he crushed all the blood suckers in the Stalker. Sitting on the Internet. Sitting on the sofa. The rubbish brought. Of all real male activity, only sex and this unfortunate garbage remain. Therefore, a man from this paradise at any opportunity runs to work or to paintball, or to drink beer with croissants, who also do not understand very much, but they gave up here, and, in order not to understand, live on the principle of "Let's drink, let's have fun, let's forget the sadness." And on Monday he’s a strawberry again...

In the village it is different. There is a proverb that says the place of woman and cat in the house, men and dogs in the street. All of our acquaintances have built or got from the past owners of the house garages-time-sarai. They hang, torch and dismantle what is the joy of the male soul: car parts, fishing gear, tools and mechanisms, workpieces and what is unfortunate to throw away: a half-kilogram of thrown nails, an old broken voltmeter, a body from "Mercedes". Every man has something that should be kept holy so that he is calm. Women do not enter the garage. And if they appear, then only on the threshold. Accordingly, a man enters the house to eat, fix something, and at the end of the day – to rest, love his wife and sit on the Internet, if he wants.

Men are different here. There are former programmers who did not hold anything heavier than the keyboard before moving. There are former military soldiers who have seen more than a pound of wreckage and are able to survive in any conditions. There are elevated ascets, there are lovers of eating and drinking. They are happy with life. The only thing that unites them all is that they decided to relocate and did so. If this happens, in the future, male power increases according to need. Sometimes it takes some time for adaptation, at this time a man roam uncompassingly through his fields and in horror looks at the crumbling pillars and a metric buryan. In this time of the future owner is better not to rush. In general, the changes are rapid.

When a man appears in the village on a PMJ, he dissolves very quickly. In a month it is well known in the local business store, in six months the park of screwdrivers and grinding machines is doubled, and the collection of links on the Internet is enriched with forums of carpentry. And the man begins to capture the territory and return to his essence. Men’s actions are ordinary, but – unlike office work – are meaningful, carry a profound message and bring results immediately. He made a couple of plans in the border - a protector. He went out with his spade into the garden and excavated the fat smoking earth - became a strawber and feeder. He replaced the shaking shiffer on the roof - rescue the family from the rain. It becomes clear that without these specific men's hands, the house does not stand and the courtyard does not spin. The woman here also realizes that she really is, on whom to rely, and who participates in the farm not only with her salary, but also with her hands. And here the man receives his portion of respect and respect. The one that is difficult to get, spending the evenings behind the comp and on the couch.

That’s why urban men either acquire bathhouses or run away from women to work. There, striking the bath shelf and fighting with the boss for a salary increase, they can become a reality. And at home – they do not behave as men, but as good, caring, educated boys, and wait for when you can go back into the big world and feel like adults.

In the village, the same man of strong years, with education, professions and some remnants of knowledge, accumulated in the "work" at school, becomes a satisfied life and a valuable owner. No woman will make him “do everything together” anymore because he has his own business. The men. That extremely positively affects relationships, health, worldview and longevity.

I know a lot of city men who tell me, “In the village you have to do something at home, on the farm all the time. And in the city everything is comfortable, there is more time for family, for yourself.” As real practice shows, urban men do not very understand where to give them this time. And to old age, they are beaten down by dull bunches in the courtyards, standing near shops, and looking at their puzzles. Rural grandparents at the same time of life are fun and wretched. They don’t have time, they have to do something all the time. And they do, knocking on the ass of a running wife and conspiring through the fence with a passing neighbor about the evening domino.