The summer season was a success!) The summer resident successfully grew potatoes. Pictures about the garden deserve attention!)
A strange animal - this is a summer resident!) Bears talk about summer residents. Bears do not understand summer residents
What a time saver!) An inventive potato collector dressed his mother-in-law in a helmet. The pictures of the vegetable garden are impressive!)
Jurassic Park is impressive!) The vegetable garden is in decline. A summer resident at his dacha bred dinosaurs. Here's the original!
Unique photo. The summer resident grew a giant pumpkin to everyone's surprise. Pictures about the vegetable garden are relevant, because the summer season has begun.
This is the distribution of responsibilities!) A quitter will always find an excuse for himself. A summer resident rests before the war. Cool pictures about the garden!)
Will grandfather pull out the turnip? Well the mouse settled down! The pictures about the dacha are very funny!)
Silent scene!) The dacha will cost less. As soon as people don’t get out of it during the summer season!
We dig potatoes, but not all of them!) Here's how you can avoid the unpleasant task of digging potatoes. What a cunning one!
Vivid impressions of the holiday!) Friends are talking about how to have fun. To each his own!
A cheerful farmer and his juicer!) A cool juicer for a summer resident. You won't get bored here!
Summer sports during the summer season!) In the photo, a summer resident is friends with sports! Cheap and cheerful!
I understood in my own way how to keep warm at the dacha! To each his own!)
Funny photo. The cheerful summer resident does everything with passion: she sings, dances, so what about the weeds? Nonsense!
The dacha on Rublyovka also requires care!) Elite summer residents from Rublyovka are also crying!
This is how summer residents have fun: bent over and straightened up, all fitness!
The beginning of the dacha season, so grandma is happy!) Fun at the dacha! I dug up the beds and now I can dance!
The dacha is waiting and there is no need to look at the villas!) At the dacha you have to work, but in the villa you can relax. The villas are certainly more attractive!
Funny photo. These garden scarecrows remind neighbors that their owners are nearby.
I want to wish you good luck
At your favorite dacha,
So that everything blooms, bushes,
There were ears of corn in the garden,
So that the bushes are as tall as trees,
Zucchini - just like pumpkins,
Like watermelons - tomatoes
And potato mountains.
In general, a harvest festival.
That's what I wish for you!
Your great joy, and pride, and luck -
Without any doubt, of course, this is a dacha!
Always - in winter and summer - you disappear on it.
You dig all the beds, plant them, water them.
But, our dear summer resident, rest today,
On your birthday, please accept congratulations!
We wish you to grow an excellent harvest,
So that you are proud and happy, that is certain.
So that there is a sea of berries, and vegetables, and fruits,
And all sorts of green stuff, and other products!
We'll have a picnic in honor of your birthday,
And we’ll drink cognac to your health!
Let the cucumbers and tomatoes ripen, let the zucchini and potatoes ripen, let the generous rains fall and all the wormwood grass in the garden dry up, let the sun shine on your plot and in your life, let your work go well and you have a good time with a barbecue. Happy birthday, summer resident. Be strong in spirit and healthy in body, cheerful in nature and happy in soul.
On your birthday we wish you
Light, sun and warmth,
So that they grow and smell fragrant
Fruits, vegetables, flowers.
We wish you strength, health,
A sea of happiness and good luck.
Let them only bring joy
Troubles at your dacha.
Wonderful weather
And a great harvest,
And health for all years
I wish you on your birthday.
So that the birds don't peck
Your strong seedlings,
And warmed with love
Everyone who is next to you!
Let on your country beds
Everything will be fine
The nasty weed doesn't grow,
The sun's light shines wonderfully.
And the size of your turnip
The neighbors will be jealous
Having experienced only surprise
And delight! Happy Birthday!
You are a fan of shovels and beds.
It's only getting warmer outside,
Grabbing a bucket of seedlings,
You hurry to the dacha faster.
On my birthday I wish
So that everything grows well,
Healthy harvests
And good luck in your personal life!
Happy birthday, summer resident,
I congratulate you
Huge harvests
I wish it at the dacha.
For carrots and potatoes
You gave birth to
Phytophthora, to
Didn't ruin the tomatoes.
Apples and pears
To mature
Harmful starlings
They didn't peck the cherries.
I wish you to be full
There were bins
And straighten up for the winter,
Your back did it.
I wish you different successes,
Good health and strength,
And only wonderful harvests,
So that every fruit gives joy!
May good luck accompany you
And every moment brings happiness!
May your dacha prosper
Day after day, year after year!
You are, of course, a prominent summer resident.
There are no equals in this matter.
The harvest is always enviable
You've been collecting for many years.
Happy birthday,
And I wish you to keep it up!
On his noble hacienda
You just have to prosper.
Happy Birthday,
I wish you strength and patience,
To spend at the dacha
Fantastic moments.
Let your beloved hacienda
It only inspires you
And for feats with a shovel
Let him push regularly.
M ir, labor, May!... June... July...
Prospects - dacha... steering wheel...
All that's missing is a bulldozer
So that all the beds go to hell... into the lake...
I'll put a grill in the middle,
I’ll put on Trofim’s disk...
All the neighbors will know
WHAT SHOULD YOU TAKE from your dacha!!!
G magnifying glass is my neighbor, no less,
She asked me yesterday at a meeting:
- What are you planting there at the dacha?
- At the dacha, fool, I “plant” LIVER!
- B guys, life is not scary at all,
I have a blast furnace at my dacha!
-Why do you need a blast furnace there?
-And I just live in it, on....
ABOUT in the garden, often reasoning,
I thought right down to the line, -
radish blushed as she watched
how moles reproduce.
AND I willow myself as a hermit in the country,
Forgotten by family and colleagues.
I solve complex problems
Which life throws up...
Firstly, there is no toilet in the house, -
We have to squirm around in the bushes.
Of course - no water, no light.
The nearest store is five miles away.
And I am powerless to change anything here.
There is not the slightest hope of success.
...It is financially difficult to live in Russia.
But spiritually we are richer than everyone else!
N back to the dachas!
Look how the prices for grub are biting,
And besides, they grow by the day...
Maybe people will tramp to their dachas again -
To primeval soils and roots?
In a dirty robe, swearing dirty,
I laid out the garden according to the drawing,
He howls, forming himself like a crustacean:
“I go out alone on the boundary!”
Thoughts are not about cheese or lard,
A keen eye on the flora, look - look:
Everything that was stupidly abandoned before -
Nowadays there is an urgent need to revive!
Pure Europe will tremble
Contemplating this creature:
The digger's burrow is unstable,
And his psyche is flawed.
The muscles have not become flabby over the winter,
Sweat flows in a stream onto the kirzachi -
The rake whistles dryly, like sabers,
Hoes knead finer than swords.
This monster is in an irrepressible rage
Everything that prowls is ready to crush:
And homeless people with wallets, and even
Unresponsive slugs and moles!
Wild traditions of craftsmen,
Growing up under the yoke of workdays -
Like space aliens
But more incomprehensible and strange.
Let's say, spoiling women is a nasty custom:
Wife bent at the waist
Except how to hunch over the garden bed -
Good for nothing else!
The demon curator of perversions whispers:
Go into the garden and the apple tree will grow,
Enjoy a bouquet of sensations...
I mean, treat it from aphids!
How flowery they are in epithets,
If we are talking about the harvest:
Summer resident you are faster than Adventists,
He will drive you beyond the border with nonsense.
A European is a jerk when he doesn’t need it,
But my brain is a mess and twilight,
If he eats his snails,
And enters into same-sex marriage?
No, Europe will not be able to appreciate it
Rising to the sky at dawn
The aroma of vigorous dill,
Zucchini heady amber.
Only we, a product of the Soviet school,
Wide-eyed and wide-eyed!
Scythians? Yes! Mongols? Let the Mongols
But not all are fools!
We will decorate our table with our grub,
And let the Indian Opanas
Somewhere in the notorious Honduras
He chews his own sour pineapple!
If root crops fall into the bin -
Let it be the size of small expanded clay -
We are not afraid of either fire or water,
And there is no threat of loss of spirit!
We laid on this pandemonium:
Ahead - and don’t go to grandma -
Wonderful discoveries - to capacity,
And the non-wonderful ones are a dime a dozen!
D I spend a lot of time in vain
I won’t during flowering hours:-
Agrofitness - gorgeous
weight loss technique
D Uncle Borya read it in a garden magazine
About wonderful properties Physalis culture.
He gives such elements to a person,
It was as if he had swallowed the entire pharmacy whole.
Having planted the seeds of the Mexican diva,
Observing the regime of weeding, watering,
Uncle Borya told us foolish people,
That Physalis is the king of the nightshade family.
Next to it, grapes seem superfluous,
And it’s not for nothing that it’s called the Jewish cherry.
But the youth did not take into account the little things,
Sevastopol is not Mexico, as it turns out.
Either a fruit or a vegetable, it suited the taste
In microdoses, like the worst mustard.
Yes,” said Uncle Borya, talking to us, “
Today I will tear out this disgusting thing by its roots.
But the trunks of the foreigner below began to grow stiff.
And the uprooting lasted at least a week,
And in the spring green shoots rose,
Here and there in the garden there was only Physalis.
Without asking the owner for any qualification or quota,
He penetrated beyond the measured acres.
And the neighbors that were both left and right,
Uncle Bor was threatened with severe reprisals.
Someone weaker would have drowned himself out of grief,
But not our optimist gardener Uncle Borya,
That he supplied five liters of cognac,
And the neighbors forgave:
- Live, Michurin...
H then the tomatoes turned red and the cucumbers stood...
The summer resident got on the country bus.
A woman sat down next to her
And she looked into the basket.
Immediately she started shouting:
“Oh, reveal the secret, man,
How do you grow soon?
are you such a TOMATO?
Scarlet, just liquid,
How do you come up with these?”
In a playful mood
and even a little beer
The summer resident gave her a recipe:
"It's no secret, there's no secret,
I'm naked at the dacha
And I appear before them.
Tomatoes for shame
I’m always red.”
A year has passed and again in summer,
This couple met.
The summer resident teased his aunt:
How his method caught on:
blushed or is it a bummer?
My aunt honestly admitted this:
Naked daily
And she walked around the garden like that.
Tomatoes, as it was -
Don't blush, scoundrels,
But what CUCUMBERS!!
Holidays in Crimea:
Sea, fruits, women...
Holidays at the dacha:
Swamp, cucumbers, women...
Grandfather at the dacha wakes up at night, looks,
and thieves are stealing his potatoes, the whole harvest!
He calls the police:
- I have some assholes here who want to steal all the potatoes!
- We apologize, but there is no one nearby
patrol car, goodbye...
Calls after 5 minutes:
- You don’t have to come, I shot them all!
After 3 minutes, 5 riot police patrol cars arrive, everything is done!
They knit all the thieves, the boss comes up to the grandfather and says:
- You said that you shot everyone!
- Well, they told me that there are no patrol cars...
A man tells his neighbor in the country: “I put up a scarecrow last week, and it’s so scary that the crows brought back last year’s harvest.”
Advertisement: "I'm looking to meet an active woman. Briefly about myself: 30 acres of vegetable garden..."
Summer residents on the train.
- So my apple grew - I put it on a stool - the stool broke, it was so big!
- What's this. I put my apple on the table - the table fell apart!
- And my apple grew, so I put it on the cart...
- So what - the cart broke down?
- No, but a worm came out and ate the horse!
Baba Manya found a boomerang in the garden and was tortured to throw it away.
 |
Grandfather and grandmother come to the garden. Grandfather says: |
A young man, late for his train, addresses a farmer standing by the road:
- Do you mind if I walk through your field to catch the 6:45 train?
- Of course not. But if my bull sees you, you will even catch the train leaving at 6-15.
...: Country house. Grandfather Vasily is sitting in his toilet. Neighbor Grandma Alena walks past: - Vasily, you should hang doors on the toilet!
Grandfather looking around:
- What is there to steal here?
At the dacha, the champion athlete has a reception - friends, fans, journalists have gathered, celebrating another success. This athlete says:
- We're already sick of all this gossip about hormones, doping and moping... As soon as you win, the howling immediately begins.
At this moment his mother enters, carrying a meter-wide tomato in her hands:
- Vasya, well, I asked you, is it difficult to get to the restroom? Wrote again in the garden...
A journalist asks a farmer:
– Don’t your neighbors steal from you?
- Of course not!
- Why is there a gun near the chicken coop?
“That’s why they don’t steal.”
Photo on the topic THERE ARE WOMEN IN RUSSIAN VILLAGES
The summer resident, leaning over the fence, asks his neighbor:
- What kind of holiday did you have yesterday? Everyone danced like that...
Neighbour:
- Yes, our grandfather, damn him, he turned the hive over...
It’s time to water the garden,” the wife says to her husband in an indisputable tone.
“But it’s raining like buckets,” the husband timidly objects.
- So what? Put on your coat.
Photo on the topic LOVE-CARROT
Two neighbors in the country are talking, one says: “Why are your tomatoes in the greenhouse so red?” I still have evergreens.
The second one answers: “And I come to the greenhouse at night, turn on erotic music and slowly begin to undress, so they begin to blush right before my eyes.”
The next day the first neighbor says to her:
- You know, I did everything as you told me, the tomatoes didn’t even think of turning red, but the cucumbers started to grow...
1: - Listen, bro, what kind of dacha do you have?
2: - Well, like everyone else - 6 acres.
1: - Yes, not enough... What about the plot?
A woman calls a landscape company and asks to make her a garden. Manager in a cheerful voice:
- Hello! We will come to your site, bring catalogs, offer several sketches, and then carry out all the work on a turnkey basis. How will you pay: cash or by invoice?
- I don’t have money...
The manager immediately turned sour:
- Then bye!
-...my husband has the money.
- Hello again!
Finally, Vasin’s youthful dream came true - he covered his parents’ 6 acres with asphalt.
Photo on the topic CHILDREN ARE THE FLOWERS OF LIFE
What kind of potatoes do you have?
What did you fertilize it with? A! Whatever they fertilize, the infection grows!
Evening. There is a tree near the Central Telegraph, and in its crown a light bulb sways in the wind, scattering light through the foliage. The drunk stopped, looked at the light bulb for a long time and said: “Well, Michurin, come on, I didn’t expect it...”
Today Marusya Duborezova gave her husband Vasya great bodily pleasure. She allowed him to postpone digging the garden until tomorrow.
On the street the lady saw a familiar man:
- Oh, hello, Nikolai Ivanovich!
-Sorry, you apparently made a mistake. Your face is completely unfamiliar to me.
- Yes, I’m your neighbor in the country!
-Sorry, I don't remember...
-How can that be... Take a closer look. Last week I also sowed carrots, and your wife asked for some seeds.
-Did you sow carrots? What did you look like?
- Yes, this is how I stood, with my back to you, bent over, like this.
And as soon as the lady gets into the “dacha pose,” excuse me, with her fifth point toward the sky, the man smiles joyfully:
- Darling, Maria Petrovna, well, how, of course, I recognize you, hello, neighbor!
And what kind of watermelons you have!
- These are not watermelons, these are gooseberries.
- And what zucchini!
- These are not zucchini, these are peas.
- And how your nightingale is pouring!
- This is not a nightingale, this is a Geiger counter...
A dacha is a wonderful place where a small seedling becomes a tree,
a seed sown becomes a plant, and a person becomes a cancer.
Mom writes a letter to her son in prison:
“Son, since you were imprisoned, it has become increasingly difficult for me to cope with the rule.” Now we need to dig up the garden and plant potatoes, but there is no one to help.
The son writes:
“Mom, don’t touch the garden, otherwise you’ll dig up something that will make you go to jail and add more time to my sentence.”
“Son, after your last letter the police came, they dug up the whole garden, but found nothing.” They left angry and swore.
– I helped in any way I could. Plant the potatoes yourself.
– Dad, do you like fried vegetables?
“I love you, son, I love you very much.”
“Then you’re lucky: our garden is on fire.”
The dacha is a purely Russian phenomenon.
In many European languages it is called dacha.
Dachas appeared during the time of Peter the Great, who gave his subjects suburban plots so that they would not hesitate to experiment in architecture.
This thing given by the king was called a dacha.
COUNTRY INVESTIGATOR
My old friend, former KGB officer Yuri Tarasovich, last years lives almost forever at the dacha. His daughter Oksana considers herself very smart and independent, and therefore never asks her father for advice or help. In her stubbornness she took after her father, but in her mind... in herself, probably:
“Dad, what can you advise me if you don’t even have a camera in your phone?”
Last spring, Oksana was in a serious accident.
I was driving on the green light and rammed into the side of the road an embassy car filled with a bunch of blacks.
Both cars are written off, the blacks are also broken down, but everyone is alive, well at least she herself remained unharmed.
The trouble is different: the broken blacks shouted in one voice that they were the ones who were going to the “green”. Nobody had DVRs. Word against word.
In addition, the blacks had a very valuable witness - a police officer, by the way. On his day off, he sat on the street at a plastic table near a cafe, drank coffee and watched the intersection in full view.
So, he swore that it was the blacks who were driving on the “green”, and Oksana on the “red”.
Millions of dollars in claims for compensation for harm to black health, not to mention deprivation of rights, are looming.
Yuri Tarasych wanted to take this trouble upon himself, conduct his own investigation and figure out what was what, but Oksana snapped:
Dad, don't get involved in this matter, you're under pressure. Sit at the dacha and watch football. I'll figure it out myself.
You may have been a good investigator, but when was that? Forty years ago and in another country! Now everything is different! A completely different life in which you are just a little child!
That's it, don't bother me, dad, my head is already so sick.
Oksana hired an experienced lawyer, he flapped his wings, pecked at the grain, and refused, they say, it’s a losing case, there’s a whole, not the smallest African country against us, plus a Moscow policeman.
Then a more expensive lawyer appeared, the result from him was about the same, only he pecked off much more grain before leaving.
The trial was approaching, Oksana was crying all the time and Tarasych finally managed to get some details of the case out of his daughter.
Imagine everyone’s surprise and confusion when the main witness, a senior police lieutenant, stood up in court and said:
Your Honor, this citizen was driving at the traffic light, but these dark-skinned comrades in a Volvo were pushing through the red light, which is why they suffered, and the fact that I showed the opposite at the preliminary investigation was because I misunderstood the investigator’s question.
The judge slammed his gavel and ruled in Oksana's favor. The insurance company paid in full for the destroyed car, and even the embassy of the African country expressed its regrets to Oksana.
Yuri Tarasovich congratulated, praised his daughter and asked:
But why, nevertheless, did the witness change his testimony?
- The devil knows? Maybe my conscience was stuck, or maybe he saw my determination, got scared and realized that I wouldn’t leave this like that, I would go to the end.
- May be…
And only Tarasych secretly told me “where legs grow from”
The day before the trial, he did his little dacha investigation and spent exactly 20 minutes on it. Only three calls were enough.
With his first call, he found out that the witness was not just a Moscow cop, but by “pure chance”, a cop who guards that very embassy.
With the second call, Yuri Tarasych learned that on the day of the accident, it had been drizzling since the very morning and the cafe did not put any tables outside at all.
And with the third call, Tarasych disturbed the cop himself and told him about the contents of the previous two...
I persuade Tarasych to tell Oksana everything, but the old man insists: “She is so independent and proud, she will be offended...”
Yesterday I went to the local regional center to the store, there was a notice on the store doors: “Entry into the store for summer residents dressed as homeless people is prohibited”))
Autumn... Having rested and gained strength and health at their dachas, pensioners return to clinics.
Sorry, comrade, I see you are from Odessa. Tell me, where can I rent a cottage near the sea, just not far away, so that I can go to the beach in my swimming trunks?
- I'm afraid that if you rent a dacha near the sea, you will have to wear only swimming trunks not only to the beach...
This simple incident happened about fifteen years ago. My grandfather and I steadily continued for many years the construction of a house in the country that had begun before. This house became like an outlet for us: for grandfather - from grandmother’s eternal claims and scandals, and for me - from half a hectare of potato and tomato plantations. The house was a symbol of freedom of spirit and a men's club at the same time - the grandmother knew little about construction, and once again did not bother with advice.
Summer, August. The sun was gradually going down, and the clock hand was moving towards six in the evening. After honestly swinging the hammer all day, I asked my grandfather for leave to go mushroom picking. This idea was not very successful - it had rained a couple of hours before, and it was too late for forest walks; but who measures strength in youth? Having quickly gathered myself, I walked lightly to the forest lake. There was no further road, so I tried to move carefully so as not to lose direction. The forest was not too large - no more than ten kilometers deep. The swamps were dangerous, with numerous branches piercing it in different places- these treacherous labyrinths became the grave of a couple of people only in my memory. However, armed with the basics of military topography and logic, I felt quite confident in the forest - this was not the first time.
Nevertheless, it was difficult to walk: wet paws drenched the spruce trees with every touch, all the clothes were wet, there was melancholy in the stomach, and the sun in the forest generally lived its own life. As the classic said, it was getting dark. Having picked half a basket of mushrooms, I decided to call it a day, when I suddenly realized that I found myself in a completely unfamiliar landscape. In the excitement of a quiet hunt, I got lost to the point that my feet began to champ treacherously, trying over and over again to pull off my boots. There was slush all around, and it wasn’t even clear how I managed to get here.
Okay, I think I need to pull myself together... I remembered the topography: the sun, mosses, lichens, etc. The reality was harsher than the books - there was no moss, and the brain, in a panic, did not understand the connection of the cardinal directions to the sun. The head simply switched off, the heart was pounding a square dance, and the eyes were like those of an antelope that accidentally walked in on the lionesses. Suddenly a brilliant thought came to mind: I need to look around.
I found a taller spruce and began to conquer it. The wet tree gave in with difficulty to my climbing efforts, but in retaliation it began to swing under the pressure of the wind like a pendulum. Hopes for exploring the surrounding area were not justified: all around was a green sea of the same fir trees and pines. In addition, there was new problem: my hands were cold and tired, the barrel was slipping, and falling from 15 meters was scary. Somehow I came down, caught my breath, and began to come to my senses.
The journey up and down gave an unexpected result: the adrenaline with drops of sweat came out without a trace. A crystal clear mind remained in my head. Probably, I have never thought as clearly as that evening in my life. I figured that walking north, I would inevitably come across a river, and downstream there was a forest path. It was just a matter of time before we reached the village along the path. Having estimated the position of the sun, I realized that I needed to go in the direction that at first seemed the most dangerous. That’s why the brain didn’t want to take the binding at first, because. got lost in orientation exactly 180 degrees. He did not believe himself, he drove himself into a trap.
Then everything was simple - after walking about fifty meters over bumps and mud, I came out onto dry ground, and half an hour later I was already in the village. Grandfather smoked silently and intently on the steps, and when he saw me, he didn’t even say anything - he just grunted a little to the side.
The house was never lived in, my grandparents divorced in their eighties, they sold the dacha and divided the money. And since then I have been able to navigate perfectly by the sun, which is what I wish for you.
Over the weekend, the Teplovs came to the Bobrovs’ dacha in a Beaujolais Nouveau. Both families had been friends for a long time, were, as they say, accomplished and, over time, discovering the joys of gastronomic tours in Europe, they began to celebrate this French holiday. Last fall they gathered with the Teplovs, and this time they were hosted by the Bobrovs, who tried not to lose face. The table was laden with delicacies that any Parisian family would envy. Several types of cheese stood side by side with meats and fish delicacies, above which towered a large bottle of whiskey with a piper in a skirt on the label. Everything was great.
- Wow, oligators! – Teplov exclaimed enthusiastically, holding up a jar of goose pate – their foie gras is, wow, level!
“Yes, well, with these sanctions,” the satisfied hostess waved her hands, feigning anger, pouring wine into tall glasses, “there’s really nothing right now, it’s good that we at least have a manager we know at Lux-Gourmet, she helps out....” Well, let's have something for an aperitif...
Everyone drank a glass of tart young wine and ate the canapés they offered with pieces of pate and ham.
“Hmm,” the owner of the house leaned back in his chair – foie gras…. Do you remember how in the nineties you and I chipped in and went to the market together so that it would be cheaper to buy stewed meat in bulk? So, go ahead and make us eat it now...
“Yes,” his wife shuddered, “there was a time, God forbid....
- But why? - Teplov unexpectedly objected - I really liked that stew, I wouldn’t refuse it even now.
“Yeah,” Bobrov laughed skeptically, “come on, come on....” I can offer you some more Royal alcohol, I recently found my stash in the cellar...
“Oh, what,” Teplov stubbornly said, “stew... and I can drink alcohol, it’s you who have become completely French here, you can’t live without Parmesan....”
- I?! - Bobrov was indignant - yes, just so you know, I don’t eat this cheese at all, only that blue one, and even then it’s more of a hangover, to kill the smell....
“Wow, wow,” Teplov laughed, nodding his head at the standing bottle of whiskey. “What you’re drinking now is Scotch whiskey, but you won’t be able to drink alcohol anymore...”
- I can’t do this? - the offended Bobrov cried with rage - is it me? Well, let’s get this alcohol - he told his wife - and look at the stew there in the cellar, I think I saw it.
- Come on, what did you come up with? - she wailed reconcilingly in response - yes, I’m not going anywhere!
After a brief argument, realizing that it was useless to argue with his wife, the angry Bobrov himself went to the cellar, returning with a dusty bottle of alcohol and tin can pearl barley porridge.
- Have you gone crazy?! – his wife was indignant - let me give this porridge to the neighbor’s dog!
“No way,” Bobrov snapped, throwing a cold glance at Teplov. “This is for me instead of stew for a snack, I’ll just heat it up.”
“Give me some porridge too,” Teplov said in response and added, “you can even have it cold.”
- Then I’m cold too! - Bobrov declared angrily and, shaking off the jamon laid out there from his plate, he dumped a gray sticky mass from the jar onto it. Then he opened a bottle of Royale and poured the alcohol into a couple of empty wine glasses.
The women, wincing, covered their noses with their hands, and the host and guest looked intently, as if from an ambush, at each other, raised tall glasses of alcohol and drank, snacking on brown lumps of cold barley.
- Well, how? - Bobrov exhaled, turning the glass upside down - I can’t? Yes, I can do without a snack, unlike some... More, maybe?
- Certainly! - Teplov responded - why are you asking?
A couple of hours passed, and complete harmony reigned at the dacha. The women were talking peacefully and drinking tea somewhere in the kitchen. In the hall on festive table almost untouched foreign delicacies were drying, which the surprised bagpiper looked at from his label, and both friends, having finished a liter of alcohol and eaten all the pearl barley, snored in unison on the wide sofa standing in the corner.
The French holiday "Beaujolais Nouveau", as always, was a success.
© robertyumen
WILD SWAN
“Even on the way to the place of execution, she did not let go of the work she had begun; ten shell shirts lay at her feet completely ready, she was weaving the eleventh..."
(Tale: Wild Swans)
On December 31, early in the morning, my friend, former KGB officer Yuri Tarasovich, was sent to the dacha to heat up the whole house before the family arrived, and to put a goose in the stove in one go.
Tarasych took some cognac to relieve the cold, turned on the record player, sat, stuffed apples into the goose, got high, enjoyed the solitude.
Suddenly, crows cawed on the street for no reason.
It was strange, because when you are alone, in silence, in the country, you feel especially subtly that in nature nothing croaks without a reason.
Yuri Tarasych was not lazy, went up to the window and indeed - the reason was, on the opposite side of the site, near the shed there was a healthy man standing and...
Yes, nothing “and”, he just stood facing the wall and seemed to do nothing. Maybe he wanted to break down the door to steal a vice and an angle grinder? But no, the door was a meter away from him, and the man just stood with his face pressed against the wooden wall, as if he had been placed in a corner. No, but still, he did something with his hands, but what? It’s not for nothing that he climbed over a three-meter fence to get here. He doesn’t look like a pervert, and the cold is not suitable for perversion.
Tarasych’s whole long life flashed before his eyes, he frantically began to remember who, when he crossed the road and who would be under New Year, could you hire such a ridiculous killer? Or maybe this guy just wants to burn down the shed? Then why doesn't it fire? Where is the fire? He stands there for about ten minutes, nothing happens, he just shakes his legs from the cold. He's not going to leave either. Maybe it's mining? It doesn’t look like a joke either, and what kind of jokes can there be on the last day of the year, and at eight in the morning at that?
From his rich operational experience, Tarasych understood that such a strange person could not be so unfounded, just taken and called out. Who knows what's on his mind? Maybe he, without hesitation, is ready to tidy up a dozen random witnesses around him?
And Tarasych is already over eighty, too much for a swashbuckling hand-to-hand fight, so he was not lazy and went up to the second floor, where the safe is located. And with the SKS carbine, even the words of a decrepit old man no longer sound so unfounded.
It’s good that there wasn’t a lot of snow; we managed to get within five meters of the uninvited guest.
Tarasych clicked the shutter and clearly commanded:
One sudden move and you will die right now. Slowly raise your arms and kneel down.
The man, without looking back, dropped to his knees and raised his hands, dropping the soldering iron and the wooden box. The soldering iron hissed in the snow. It turns out he was connected!
Why are you soldering to me here?
- Sorry, I don't solder - it's a wood burner. Can I turn around?
- Stand up, turn around slowly and speak.
The man turned around, spread his hands slightly with trembling fingers and continued:
I swear to God, I didn’t know you were at home, oh, I’m saying the wrong thing. I’m not a thief, you see, I’m from Yelets, I work and live at a sawmill. Do you know where the sawmill is? So it's me. And my fellow countryman, right now, in exactly twenty minutes, must go home to Yelets in a KamAZ. I only found out about this yesterday and decided to make a box for my son and give it to him. There are candies and some money inside. And on the lid, see? I burned out Santa Claus, but didn’t have time. At night they turned off our lights and said that there wouldn’t be any until first. So, I had to climb up to you, I saw the socket, I couldn’t stand it and climbed in to finish burning it out, there was just a little bit left. But that would never happen. I wanted to make it to Kamaz in time and in a beautiful way. Don’t be afraid, call the police, I don’t twitch or run away, I understand that it’s my fault, you’re the only one with a gun, please be careful.
Tarasych looked at the unfinished box painting and asked:
Why did you write so strangely? “Happy New Year 2000 and 16!”
- Oh, fuck, exactly! It's me from the cold. My brains were completely frozen.
Yuri Tarasovich hid the carbine, called the man into the house, warmed him up with a glass of cognac, showed him the socket and in the remaining minutes let him finish burning the deer.
And what would Santa Claus be without a deer...?
I was drawn to the lyrics)
We have an aunt at work who is over 50. She has a dacha of 20 acres. From the very early spring until late autumn she lives there after work. It plows like hell there. The garage is filled to capacity with tomatoes, potatoes and other vegetables. Moreover, neither she and her husband, nor her son, nor her former daughter-in-law and grandchildren are able to eat all this. The latter don’t really eat all this, just as they don’t work at this dacha.
At first the aunt is offended by them for not helping, then because they don’t eat, then because she has to throw the lecho out of the cans into the toilet, because TA-DAMM!!! There are no cans for the new lecho!!!
And before, this woman says that she went hiking in the mountains...
I ask her, when was the last time you were on vacation and not at the dacha? She doesn't remember.
And when are you going to live, I tell her?
She is a dacha, there is no time.
And she doesn’t even consider people without a dacha to be people, because they spend their time idly on vacation, and if they also went somewhere to a resort, then in her eyes they are lost.
What am I talking about? Moreover, she has programmed herself that a dacha is an obligatory attribute of her life and that of other people. It can’t turn anywhere, like a worm poking around and crawling.
And it’s sad to look at such people - they choose a program for themselves - to live in order to live or to live in order to crawl like a worm.
My wife and I decided to spend a long winter weekend at the dacha. Beauty, frost, stove, cognac, a veranda full of New Year's goodies. On January 2, suddenly there was a call: “Dudes, I saw that there was smoke coming from your chimney? Wait, I’ll be there!”
This is Pashka, an extreme sportsman and survivalist, literally a Russian Bear Grylls, a friend of my snotty childhood, who spotted us from a neighboring dacha village. About fifteen minutes later he appeared on a snowmobile, pulled out a bottle of whiskey from his bosom, grabbed us into an armful with joyful screams, and soon we were sitting by the fireplace, indulging in gluttony and drunkenness, while listening to Pashka’s stories from life. He is a born storyteller. He should write books.
And my wife has a great weakness for good strong drinks, but she doesn’t like a lot of alcohol. She is a very profitable drinking companion: she begins to nod off when others are just beginning to feel an improvement in their mood and lightness in their thoughts. In the very middle of one of the heartbreaking stories (Pashka is alone, without a boat and a cell phone, on an island in the middle of a flooded river, wet from head to toe, the yard is plus five) she drops her head on my shoulder and begins to quietly snore.
Pashka wisely doesn’t climb onto the snowmobile when he’s tired, goes to bed in the next room, and early in the morning, in the frost, he whistles to his base.
My wife wakes up, meditates over the coffee maker in her pajamas, hums something, still squints sleepily, and suddenly turns to me, her eyes full of six kopecks. Listen, he says, I fell asleep yesterday. Tell me, Pashka is on the island, how is he there, is he still alive?
Why am I laughing, it only dawned on her after the first cup of coffee.
Note to summer residents: if you don’t hear the buzzing of a horsefly, it means it’s already sitting on you.
Tajik Django appeared in our area about a year ago and immediately became a common favorite of the entire holiday village. Handy, reliable, positive, keeps his word and charges inexpensively for work.
Django's only drawback is that the Russian language doesn't stick to it at all.
It seems that in a year he learned only two Russian words: “okay” and “how much,” but this is enough for him to negotiate work and fees.
Once I started talking to him and even, foolishly, tried to find out whether he had seen Tarantino’s film Django Unchained? But Dzhangi (that’s his real name) thought for a long time, became serious, then nodded and said:
OK. How many?
Now I’m racking my brains and thinking: what kind of job did I accidentally sign him up for then, and how can I get him back?
This is absolutely not funny and here's why:
The other day, our neighbor started a light renovation and asked Django to lay tiles in the kitchen. Django, as always, appreciated the scope of the work, nodded and said:
OK. How many?
The hostess explained the number on her fingers, Django said:
And also, through pantomime, he showed that he should be able to handle it before nightfall.
The neighbor was very happy and, in order to somehow make the master’s work easier and brighter, she took Django by the hand and led him to the huge refrigerator. She opened it and explained that, supposedly, everything that was here could be taken:
- Here is compote, here is bread, red caviar, sausage, butter, and here, in the freezer, there is even ice cream. Do you see? Everything, all of this you can take and eat, take and eat. Understood?
Django smiled happily, nodded and replied:
OK.
- Well, that's good, okay.
The hostess paid in full in advance and told us to just slam the door behind us after work, and she got into the car and drove off to the city.
I returned late in the evening and discovered: there were perfectly laid tiles on the kitchen floor, and in the corner all my food from the refrigerator, for some reason folded in an even pile, but the refrigerator itself was nowhere to be found...
For two days, the neighbor, along with Django, had to travel around local villages and buy back her refrigerator from a whole chain of unshaven, conscientious purchasers.
Well, how could poor Django know that demonstrating products is practically no different from demonstrating the refrigerator itself...?
GIRL AND WOLF
Today I was ready and even tried to become a superhero. Posthumously. I'm lucky I didn't.
And it was like this:
I rode my bike to the farthest reaches of our holiday village.
I decided to sit on a bench near the playground and relax before heading back.
I look - a huge Caucasian Shepherd dog is walking down the street and powerfully pulling its owner along with it.
At this time, on the playground, a little girl of about three years old was crawling on a slide; she saw a dog, became interested, jumped off and ran out to meet him.
The dog, noticing the girl, growled deep in her throat and bared her bear fangs.
The girl got scared, retreated half a step, but said:
Uncle, what is the name of your wolf?
The man looked at the girl with a contemptuous look and, without raising his dark glasses, answered:
You need to say hello, girl, when you talk to adults.
- Oh, excuse me, hello uncle, what is the name of your wolf?
- Hello, his name is Zakhar.
Zakhar, meanwhile, became more and more nervous and incensed, trying to reach the girl with at least his front teeth, but the owner, although with difficulty, still held this monster.
The girl continued:
Uncle, he doesn’t bite you, can you pet him?
- Try it if you're not afraid.
To my horror, the girl extended her small index finger forward and slowly moved towards Zakhar’s mouth. Zakhar, already suffocated with anger, rushed towards her and clacked his mouth with a terrible trap-like click. But, by some miracle, the girl managed to pull her finger away from the inevitable amputation of her hand:
Uncle, you deceived me, your wolf turns out to be very angry, he wanted to bite off my hand.
I've seen various idiots with scary dogs, but these...
Although my scruff of the neck was sweating with horror, I could no longer stay away. I slowly got up from the bench, raised the bike in front of me and, trying to be calm so as not to anger the already Caucasian man, took a step forward, stuck the bike between the dog and the girl and said monotonously:
Girl, move away from the dog very slowly and stand behind me. And you, man, hold on to your dog with all your might, otherwise you’ll be in jail for a very long time. We are leaving.
Zakhar was already suffocated with anger, he was rushing towards me, trying to devour me along with the big one. The owner’s glasses even flew off his head, he deftly hung on Zakhar’s powerful neck and, laughing, spoke:
Everything, everything, everything. Everything is fine, please put away the bike. This is my daughter, she just loves to play the game “Alien Uncle with the Evil Wolf and Little Red Riding Hood.”
The girl also hung on the neck of Zakhar, who hated me, and confirmed:
Yes, he is too angry with us.
The man somehow forced the dog to obey the “sit” command and told me:
Thank you for trying and being determined to save this little girl. It was... it was strong.
Sorry, for technical reasons I can’t shake your hand...
A neighbor in the dacha, a kind and cheerful uncle, a teacher, with an equally kind and cheerful wife-doctor, upon reaching a certain age, realized that it was frankly breaking to work on the dacha and, by proxy, they handed it over to their doltish son. A dacha in a completely unranked location is worth nothing by the capital's standards, but by the suburban standards it is slightly below the market average.
The son was drinking a little, and at some point the dacha, apparently, began to burn his hands.
Without hesitation, he sold it to an acquaintance at half price.
The buyer turned out to be a difficult one - a songwriter, a guitar player, creative evenings in the city, in general, he completely won over the new neighbors, especially since he turned out to be one of their kind and delighted them with his creativity right at the dachas - in a good way.
Meanwhile, daddy, looking reproachfully at his idiot son, revokes the power of attorney. At that dramatic moment when nothing has yet been formalized. Courts-muda...
Having won the key trial, dad, tired of all this hassle, sells the dacha to a lawyer at a better price and gets out of the case.
The songwriter, sensing the smell of bullshit, quickly sniffs, as they call it nowadays, the toxic asset to the first sucker he comes across, who turns out to be a tough cop, who doesn’t doubt for a second that no one will be able to cheat the tough cop. The cop receives the keys, happily brings a variety of tools (what would one do without them?) to the dacha, and leaves for the city, satisfied. Probably catching scammers.
On his next visit, he discovers an open dacha and a stranger rummaging in the ground, who, of course, turns out to be that same lawyer. The people are experienced, so there was no mochilov or mask show, but the conversation was loud, and in all the surrounding cardboard houses the radio was turned off.
In the end, the cop asked to return at least the instrument, but the lawyer just threw up his hands, saying, I don’t know anything, I haven’t seen anyone.
As a result, the songwriter is on the federal wanted list, the cop mourns both the money and the instrument, the drunkard son just shrugs his hands stupidly.
I went to visit my neighbors in the country. They sat me down at the table, put out the barbecue, and ate. Suddenly a voice came from behind:
- We already had lunch, and you just showed up.
Somewhat taken aback, I ask:
- Uncle Volodya, are you telling me this?
It turned out he was talking to his cat.
Provinces.
A woman grows flowers for her soul in her dacha.
Loves very much.
The selection is rich.
We even sent her more exotic seeds from St. Petersburg.
She's old, and it's hot - recently after weeding she felt sick and had to lie down.
The good sister saw and felt sorry for her.
And she asked her son-in-law to mow down all the flowers.
So that it doesn't get worse.
He squinted.
In the end, you can guess for yourself about the woman’s condition.
We went to visit my friend, her son (2 years 11 months) points to the cake spatula and says:
- Let me play with this trowel.
What does it mean to spend a summer at the dacha in the midst of construction?
I, obeying my heart,
Became a vegetable grower:
Peeled the turnips to the pepper
And he gave horseradish to the melon...
CONFESSION
“In this world you can’t be completely alone. There is always something here that connects a person with others.”
(Haruki Murakami)
New Year's Day was going off with fireworks, it was three o'clock in the morning, it was cosmic cold outside - minus thirty, and in my dacha it was indecently warm, and there was tea and jam.
At such moments you clearly understand that this planet is not very suitable for us. Outside, without a special down-wool spacesuit, there is nothing to do at all, ten minutes and you are an icy corpse with bulging eyes.
I turn the tuning wheel of my favorite receiver: it’s always nice to hear that I’m not alone on this planet. Someone is now sitting in some China, also warm, and with a funny accent, telling me his simple news and singing songs.
Swimming past grunting radio amateurs, I come across a measured voice:
"Zhuk, Anna, Khariton, Zhuk, Anna, Khariton. My name is Andrey. Who can hear? Answer. Please get in touch, Zhuk, Anna Khariton is on the air. Broadcasting from the Rostov region. How can you hear me? Reception. Zhuk, Anna, Khariton, who can hear me? Is there anyone on the air? Strange, the passage should be normal, well, I’ll wait a little longer. Zhuk, Anna, Khariton, please contact me. Is everyone already asleep?
Come on? As they say - alone, all alone. And once upon a time, if you remember, the whole city knew me, a line lined up: Andrei Nikolaevich, repair the cassette player, Andrei Nikolaevich, somehow the TV has stopped showing colors. Andrey Nikolaevich, get more powerful thyristors for color music.
And I made, repaired, took out, and wound transformers for kilometers. He was a respected person. And now, what can I say. Nobody needed it anymore. These are such sad pies. Oh, maybe I should try switching to a different antenna? This is the thought p-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh... Zhuk, Anna, Khariton, Rostov region. Anyone on the air, please contact me. No one again? It's clear. OK. What I wanted to say is that today is my birthday. Sixty-nine years old, no matter how. And what’s interesting is that not a single dog said congratulations the whole day. None. Although, to tell the truth, there is no one to congratulate. My wife died two years ago, my daughter was buried back in the nineties. Friends have long scattered, but still at least someone could congratulate? Right? It didn’t work out, it wasn’t fate. It’s funny to say that I walked the streets all day long just to meet a familiar face. So I end up on air - alone, completely alone. Zhuk, Anna, Khariton, who can hear me?
Nobody. I'm talking to myself. These are the pies, but in any case, everyone, everyone, everyone, Happy New Year, peace, goodness, prosperity and everything, all the best to your Surnames. Well, on this cheerful note, I’ll probably say goodbye s-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh-sh..."
I don’t have a radio transmitter, that’s why I had to write this story, let Andrei Nikolaevich know that he is not alone, there are many of us on this cold planet...
-You've lost so much weight! I'm shocked, is this some kind of new diet?
- Yes, it’s all because of carrots, potatoes, beets.
- Come on! And how did you prepare all this? Did you fried or cooked?
- Dig!
- Children! How many of you were in the village in the summer?
- Fine. And what new sounds did you hear in the village?
- Quack quack!
- Get off the tractor, quickly!
A neighbor in the countryside asks her neighbor:
– Why are your tomatoes so red?
- And I go out to them naked in the morning. They see me and blush. Give it a try.
The next day:
- Well, how? - asks the neighbor.
- The tomatoes did not react. But how the cucumbers started to grow!
“Well, I’ll dig mine up this afternoon.”
The husband takes out all the alcoholic drinks from the home bar and carefully puts everything in a sports bag.
His wife asks him:
- Kolya, why the hell do we need so much? We're only going to the dacha for two days!
- It’s not us, Lucy, who are going to the dacha for two days... It’s our son who is staying at home for two days!
Two neighbors in the country are talking. One asks the other:
- Masha, why don’t you put a scarecrow in the garden?
- What for? I myself spend the whole day in the garden.
