ANYTHING IS POSSIBLE

In general, the situation with gifts from my father was very interesting. Well, how interesting, he was very serious and the exact opposite of grandmother. Dad never spoiled me and did not give me any toys. And he was proud of it, and he always telling me things like: “I’ve only given you two gifts in your whole life that you’ll remember for the rest of your life.” That’s basically what happened.

He gave me two cars over the years: one kids’ pedal car and one real car.

Really, there was another toy that my dad brought home unexpectedly and took away just as quickly. It was a radio-controlled moon rover, the Lunokhod. It was something out of science fiction at the time. But only now, becoming a father in my turn, I realize that moon rover was a toy not for me, but for dad himself. All men are big kids who want to play with toys that weren’t there when we were little. Daddy, having played a little and realizing that these are not the times for such expensive toys, returned the toy moon rover to where it came from.

Adult reason took over childish dreams and emotions.

Truth be told, I sometimes actually find myself trying to trick my son into choosing a toy I like the most, to have a little play with it as well.

I’m lucky my son and I have the same interests, and he likes cars too. That passion for cars hasn’t gone away so far.

I started driving very early on my life. At first, sitting on my dad’s lap, all I did was steering the wheel and changing gears. Then, when my legs became long enough to reach the foot pedals, I was already pushing the accelerator, and a little later, I was actually driving the car.

Driving was a reward for my good work, and it was usually on country road where we drove to plant bakhcha gardens (places for growing watermelons and sweet melons). Despite the fact that the garden work took several hours and the trip behind the wheel lasted 5-10 minutes top, I was still looking forward to the trip.

The first hours of training were very hard for me, and I got out of the wheel sweating and wet like a drowned rat because of stress. There were moments when I was ready to give up and get out of the steering wheel, but my dad, as a professional teacher, was pushing me into continuing the ride. He took a big risk, and I’m sure it wasn’t easy for him to teach me, because we had a lot of moments when I could crash the car. To make it clear how he felt about the car, I’m going to tell another anecdote from those years.

A car used to be not a necessity but a luxury those times. We lived it a district called simply “116 km”, and this is such a small, as if separate, part of the city, where everyone knows each other. And everybody knew dad very well, because he was the school principal at that time.

And then one day, coming out into the yard, dad noticed some boys circling around our car and licking it. Dad got confused and came up to the boys, and asked them what they were doing. What they told him was that they often hear from their parents that the principal licks his car into shape, and they wanted to know how it is and what it tastes like.

He cared about it a lot: washed it, waxed it, in winter we put it on bricks in the garage so the springs wouldn’t deform.

In the evenings, we used to go to the garage with him, get in the car and smell it. We really liked the way her plastic smelled.

Can you imagine what dad felt when he saw his treasure heading into some roadside post?

After many years, I felt it all on me, teaching my wife and son how to drive.

So much worrying, screaming, tears…

In spite of my cherubic appearance, I was no angel, and my weakest point was my behavior, or rather, being bad.

I don’t use the word “hooliganism” because it feels too harsh for that young age.

Now, remembering things I can still remember, I wonder and ask myself a question: how did I do it and how was I even capable of it back then, being so young?

It’s even a bit scary to tell.

I messed around a lot, some antics were forgotten for good and ended without much destruction, but there were those who left a mark on my body for a long time, and some – for life.

One day, I was fooling with a pillow on my bed again, as many times before, trying to hit the head of either of my parents,

badly missed and smashed my forehead into the back of the bed.

I cut my eyebrow open. What can I say, there wasn’t enough blood and screaming! The scar will be here forever.

I must say that my brain did not work then at all, or I had no brain at all, because any adequate human capable to do even the least bit of thinking would never have thought of what came to my head.

Now, when I think back to my antics, I’m just baffled. It confirms to me once again that I had no brain at all. And neither then nor now do I understand or can answer a simple question: why did I do it?

Another time I did such a thing that I’m ashamed to admit I found a little piece of wood, and I can’t remember if it already had a nail sticking from it, or I put that nail there… So, what I did:

I’d catch a moment to put the piece of wood with a nail under my mother’s foot for her to step on, naturally with the nail facing upward.

In my misfortune, but more of course my mother’s, this wrongdoing was a success, and my mother stepped on the nail that pierced her foot through.

What was my reaction? The only thing I was afraid of at that moment was that the parents would report me to the police.

I misbehaved a lot, but the rest of my antics were erased from my memory. However, I think they are probably well remembered by my parents.

Once I had a fight with my aunt, when we still were living together. I don’t remember which one of us won, apparently my aunt, because I went for a couple of weeks with a big bump on my forehead and complained to everyone, saying only two words: “Irka bump” (Irina was my aunt’s name).

At that time, I still wasn’t good at speaking and didn’t know any more words thar would be stronger and more colorful.

Well, what else do I remember from kindergarten? At that time, we still lived on Stepan Razin Street, and we had a steep uphill road called Pionersky Spusk near our home. There were no cars driving past in winter, and my dad and I used to go there for sledding.

I remember my first day in kindergarten, how I bawling my eyes out, when my mother brought me in and left.

I remember one time I had a fight with my best friend and I wanted to strangle him.

I remember peeping in the bathroom for the girls, and the kindergarten teacher put me in front of the whole group and said: “Take off your pants.”

I remember not liking to sleep in the daytime. How I remembered it later, kicking myself for not understanding how sweet it was to sleep during the day.

I remember how they wouldn’t let us go to the bathroom during the lunchtime nap, and I’d stick my peepee out in between the beds and pissed on the floor, for which I was punished later, but I slept in a dry bed, unlike some of the other kids.

I remember doves shitting on my head and having to wash it, crying bitterly.

Like I said, we lived in 116 km settlement. We had an almost abandoned military airfield nearby. My father not only taught me how to drive a car, but also instilled a love of sports.

He was a Candidate Master of Sports in skiing and occasionally took me out for cross country skiing. One of the trips I remember very well.

Of course, there was always a sense of competition. Once again, we went out to the ski track and raced towards the forest. From time to time my father asked if I was tired. I didn’t want to look weak and continued to act tough. And we skied further and further away from home.

I ended up being a hero, and I returned home in tow.

We tied up our ski sticks together, and my dad towed me like a snowmobile.