The arctic fox of my childhood

Mom sewed me with a fiery hat not because we were rich. But because there was nothing to buy things in my childhood

When I think about my mother, she almost always seems to me in a black coat with a sandy collar. In a barely noticeable strip, with a thin lining. She went in him all my childhood, for many years. And for some reason did not freeze.

When I think about my mother’s arrow collar, I also remember my fox hat. Mom's collar is blue-gray, my hat is white. She sewed it from a sandy skin - fluffy, funny, with two pompons on the ties. I go to her school contrary to frost and wind. I'm warm. Not only the fur warms, but also the mother’s heart - it seems that she sewed him into the lining. I leave the hat in the sleeve of the jacket and hand over to the wardrobe. Once, after lessons, I put my hand in the sleeve, but there are no hats. I examine the floor in the wardrobe, questioning the wardrobe and classmates. Nowhere, no one has seen. Woe ...

Mom sewed me with a fiery hat, not because we are rich and can afford. But because buying things is expensive. Because we have no money for excess. I am small, but I understand that the hat is priceless. And the arctic fox is invaluable. I know how he got it. When we left the city where I spent my childhood, my parents sold our house. We had money, and then there was a monetary reform, and there was no money. Mom said that rumors about reform went long before, and nothing serious could be bought. Therefore, the parents hastened to invest part of the money in what was sold in our small city: painted samovars and skins of foxes. Samovars lined up in a row at the very top of the sideboard. My beloved was black with scarlet roses. It was scary to even breathe on him, so beautiful. And inside the sideboard frantically smelled of dead foxes. White, gray, bluish-they looked from behind the door with empty eye sockets. Parents sold some part of the samovars and foxes. But a lot is left. So part of our sold house turned into a hat and mother's collar.

Part of our sold house turned into a hat and mother's collar 1985, year of my birth. Mom says this is the happiest year of her life photo: from a personal archive

Not finding a hat in the wardrobe, I go to the toilet to wash off the combustible tears. And in one of the toilets I see her. Halfly drowned, with a pompom out. I squeeze the wet fox and put on my head. It is no longer fluffy. I'm going home and roar. In the cold, the hat becomes bone. Mom takes off the monster from my head. She does not swear, although she is bitter. The frozen hat is cracking. In the evening, my mother sews with each other bursting pieces of skin - now my arctic fox in patches, as in combat scars. This makes the hat even more expensive, I never leave it in my sleeve and wear it until my head grows out of it.

When I remember my childhood, I remember the good. Hide and hide and seek, delicious mother borsch and brushwood. God, how delicious she baked brushwood! I recall the dresses from Iris - my mother knitted them in the evenings, making captivating ruffles. And I also remember very well how, after lunch at school, we took off with the younger brother in the dining room and collected bread from the tables. Mom has been a seller all her life. The city is small, in the nineties it was, then it was not. Only his father had stability, he worked at the factory with a welder, was the best specialist. He was paid money on time, somehow enough. And then this terrible period came when the salary began to be delayed for months. I don’t remember how much it lasted. It seems to me, for a very long time, half of childhood. Unfortunately, it was impossible to eat blue foxes. And I really wanted to. Mom herself baked bread when there was flour. I cooked porridge from old peas. And when everything ended at home, my brother and I stormed the school canteen. When we first dragged a bag stuffed with pieces of bread for the first time, my mother stared her eyes, and then turned away to the window and cried. We did not understand why she was so upset? Here, bread! Do not bake! And we are miners! And when we dragged home a potato dug up in someone’s garden, my mother silently fired prey, but he did not touch herself. In general, she never did anything for herself. Only for us.

1990, I am in one of the dresses connected by my mother. At five, I already understood what a beautiful photo in them: from a personal archive

She often changed shops. Then one will close, in the other, shortages and fines, then they simply do not pay. But we came to each new one and salivated the shelves with a yummy. Chocolate, candies, gum, cookies. The stomachs were reduced, I wanted everything at once. "What have you come?" -Mom smiled from behind the counter. “We want it,” we said. And she cut the sausage with bread right in the store right in the store. And then we asked for chocolate. And my mother gave. And I wrote everything in a notebook. She had no money - everything she gave to us and brought home, she took "under the salary." And when the day of salary came, she did not receive anything, everything ate a notebook.

I also remember how they bought boots. I chose in the market more sympathetic, capricious when my mother said that she could not buy these on the platform, because it was expensive. Sighing, I agreed to what they gave. And dad seized his mother's felling apart. And then he sealed again. I remember her eyes, sharpened to a centimeter snap. Lipstick stood under the root. And blue-gray fox. Every year, every winter. For many years the same black coat with a favorite collar, in which it was so pleasant to burst with his nose and smell his mother. And then, when I was already in high school and it became easier, and there was always bread, and there were even cutlets, dad bought a jacket for mom. I did not like her, there was no fur collar on her. But my mother spun in front of the mirror and smiled, she clearly suited her.

“You want to take my coat,” she said. “If you like it so much.” I screeched with delight. She took it off the hanger, began to put on and stunned. The lining inside was wiped, in places there were seams - my mother hemmed. The sleeves were glossy. In some places the hem was blinking. And only the arctic fox was like new and sparkled with a painted wool under the light bulb.

It is very scary to become unemployed in Russia. because the arctic foxes with samovars in the house have long ended Mom, dad, me. I am three years old. There is no hair yet, but a bow already has a photo: from a personal archive

Now mom is retired. The state supports it, monthly transferring eight thousand rubles to the card. I am very far away, for thousands of kilometers, and I don’t see how it is supported by this money. She never asks for anything. And even when I propose something, it almost always refuses. But I know that parents have no extra money. They did not deserve the years of deprivation. In order not to starve, they save on things. Every 15 minutes, a ten -year -old mother's laptop is disconnected. Therefore, she watches films not for an hour and a half, but half a day. Buy new - what are you, unrealistic!

Dad still works the best welder at a dying factory. He puts off his pension (but sometimes you have to “climb”)-another attempt to save something. His salaries are enough for rent and food. Mom's pension goes to summer cottages - seedlings, flowers, fertilizers. She hardly buys clothes. Only the most necessary and cheap. Parents do not buy expensive medicines either. They do not starve only because dad does not dare to retire. Every year he says that this one is the last. But it does not leave. Because becoming a pensioner in Russia is very scary. And because the arctic foxes with samovars in the house have long ended.

90s poverty for children