I have long wanted to talk about my passion. Here the fishermen are fishing and everyone thinks, but I'll catch the same, like three years ago, Soma took, almost two meters in length! Remember their noble trophies, as once in such circumstances, he fished a buck - yes this... Remember all the nuances and what preceded the cherished and unforgettable catch. And any small in general, though weighty weight, and do not remember.
And I, I tell you, have their own fishing. Fishing for snags. Oh, and it tightens. You dream already from spring where you will go, what Volga coasts and where it would be necessary to survey. And now comes the cherished moment. The little boy on the boat quietly rowed along the shore, side by side. I go where it's dry, but where to waist. The weather is sunny, warm, the water is affectionate. All you inspect is that it's just a swipe, not suitable, and something can become an unprecedented floor lamp or table lamp. The shore of the Volga is like a warehouse of semi-finished products, and the enty's semi-finished products are made with a wave of sand and grease that grinds the wood so bizarrely and unusually, and the wind and the sun are silvering them in such an unusual color that there are no colors to create them.
Somewhere stumps with roots suitable for the legs of a wonderful table, And somewhere not seen for a coffee table, put glass on top - that's a miracle. But with all the abundance and fullness of the Volga coast with these roots and stumps, the efficiency is very, very small. That shape and size is good, but everything in the earth and clay, you will not take. On the contrary, everything has already decayed. And it is more often found and washed, and almost dry, but form and plastic is boring - there is no music, melody in the movements and forms of the root. And so you go and go - for example, wading for water, then on dry jumping from stone to trunk, from trunk to shingle.
There are also dangers. The banks are high and vertical, somewhere they hang over you and at any moment can go to you, burying them alive. I recently walked along the road and saw a huge scree-the size of a two-story house, you can not jump off such a one, and you will not escape. Only you pray that it will be carried away. But the joy of finding an unusual trophy all outweighs. What is of interest, immediately sawed, processed; stones and clay are partly removed from the roots and cracks and the most difficult is to load this weight into the boat.
And, like found, and sort of like the root is not bad, but something is not right, not quite perfect, and the breed is not valuable and hard. But you take, because, as such, you can find luck, so that the form is successful, and not rotten, and not small, and not huge, because sometimes such masterpiece finds, but not raise them-only with a crane. Is there a tap here? And everything goes, and you look around, and you are waiting for a miracle that suddenly behind this turn the luxurious oak root awaits me - both dry and washed, and with an extraordinary plasticity of shapes and lines. And the turns and ravines that descend to the Volga - do not count and the banks of the Volga are endless... And I understand that somewhere somewhere the root of the oak or elm must lie. And after all, even Chuika says that something will now happen, something unusual will happen, that a person will never come up with - ask, pray, show, give.
And he gave, unexpectedly, and immediately two: one - a pine, well, such an incredible specimen, and the other - an oak, but so huge, but with such a bend charming. And after all, he fell from such a top, so much so that the curve to the top, and so he remained to dry, untouched by the waves and sand. Just getting rusty with time. Well, on top of a centimeter, I was dying from many years of waiting for me... Oh, you're a little girl, my happiness, I've waited, my hands are shaking, my eyes are wet. Here it is happiness - the happiness of a fisherman, no, the happiness of a root. And the soul, and the heart does not stop - and what's next for me there: there, in the distant blue... How would I wander and look for my king-snag, the king-stump. Man is restless, and summer is running out. And the water cools.
How to wait, how to live until the next season of their research. I used them and did not make tables, but I took it, and put it on display, for admiration. What are they wonderful, washed and weather-beaten, what story, and what kind of life they had, what they bear in their memory and dreams... If not for fun, but seriously, then I will tell you that they are living philosophers of the ages - it is only necessary to understand them silent language, to hear what they say. Uh-huh. This you will not read in the most wise works of mankind. Oh, my stumps, my driftwood...