When I was a student, I rented an apartment in Kemerovo. My parents held all kinds of livelihoods in the village and from time to time gave me any provisions so that the child would not die of hunger. Once in the late autumn after another trip to the historic homeland, mommy, accompanying me to the city, says: "Soon we will be pigs, I, like a slaughter, will send you a telegram, so that you come for fresh food." Well, okay... In two weeks I sit at home, I drink tea with one-touchers. The call. I open the door - and there is a postman (a thick aunt of Motya) and with a frightening and mysterious voice says to me: "You have a telegram... sign up." I signed up. She stands and does not leave. “Something else?” I ask. “Yes no,” he replies. No, no is not so. I closed the door and read, “The seventh. Come to. “Mom.” Friends, when they read it, fell into a precipice.