A child should grow up in a community.

A child should grow up in a community. This indisputable truth came to my father's mind when I was finishing sixth grade. For some reason he did not consider school, friends in the country and in the yard for the team, and I, in his opinion, just needed to go to a real pioneer camp at least once in my life. The grandmother’s moaning and timid objections of her mother were severely ignored by her father. As a real parent, he simply had no right to deprive me of my pioneering childhood.

The final decision was made – to raise all ties, and get a ticket to the “good pioneer camp” where, in his opinion, I should have been interesting and exciting.
I will spend 28 days in the company of new friends that I will make.
I must say that at that time I was fond of chemistry, and not the part where it was necessary to learn formulas and delve into the deep meaning of the periodic system discovered by the great author of Russian vodka. My main interest was in the practical part of this science, which lay in the pyrotechnic plane, where something could be blown up or, at least, set on fire. I think a lot of people have been through this. My parents knew about this, of course.
As a result, in mid-June, a happy father came to the country and proudly announced that the issue with the camp had been resolved. According to him, lifting everyone and everything to their feet, he with great difficulty got me a ticket to the camp for the second shift. It's not just a camp, he said in secret. This is a chemist's camp. The time before departure flew by unnoticed. I dreamed of mugs rich in chemical reagents and new friends - winners of chemical Olympiads.
It seemed that ahead of me was waiting for the cheerful and loud fervor of the pure energy of a happy childhood, so familiar to all of us from the popular at the time pioneering television series “Three Funny Shifts”.
Finally, two weeks later, equipped with a red suitcase and the latest parental guidance, I eagerly boarded the pioneer bus with the sign “Camp Crystal” on the windshield. In my suitcase.
There were signed items on the list, favorite candy and subscription of the magazine "Young Technician" for the past year. The bus moved and took us somewhere to the border of the Moscow region.
We weren't cheated. The camp was really a chemistry camp. In every sense of the word. There were no chemical circles (as were all the others). It's just that 20 percent of the pioneers who vacationed there were accidental.
Muscovites, ironically, fell into this pioneer paradise, and the remaining 80% – the children of local residents who served a sentence “chemistry” at a nearby chemical plant. In general, as they say, hit, so hit, and, mind you, at blat.
There was not a lot of entertainment in our camp, but rather one – the labor troops. Twice a day we went to the fields of the nearest kolkhoz and amicably fulfilled the norm of collecting in old cans of Colorado cans.
The beetles that bred that year in incredible numbers. At the same time, we had an incentive: the pioneer, who gathered the most, was allowed to light a fire, in which all the unfortunate people we collected were subsequently ruthless.
arthropods. I don’t want to remember before bed even now. The only outlet in this joyless camp life was our counselor Timur. He had two remarkable qualities: a love of literature and regular seizures, slightly resembling epilepsy. I must say that he did not have them often - only twice in my memory. Both times he was saved by our pioneer guide Angelina by means of a spoon with a drilled pen, always hanging around Timur’s neck. However, at first Angelina asked the head of the camp to replace her partner. The boss flatly refused, arguing at all times: "Thank you for finding such a thing for you in this fucking camp." We, twelve-year-olds, did not bother at all, but on the contrary, filled our attitude to the counselor with a certain mystery and romanticism. With Timur's love of literature, things were much more complicated. He was.
monopathy. Of all literature, he loved only one book, read it regularly, and could recite by heart entire chapters. Surely, warmed his soul and the fact that he was the namesake of the main character of this immortal.
The works of the red commander and later grandfather of the father of the Russian economic reforms of the early nineties. This beautiful pioneer fairy tale is so sunk into the soul of our leader that he decided with our help.
Finally make it come true. He's got one particular snippet. If you remember, in the yard of a lonely old grandfather, the Timurians managed to put scattered firewood in a strawberry in such a way that the grandfather did not even do this.
I noticed. Grandpa is nice - and the Timurians are fine. They did a good job and kept it incognito. According to our Timur, we had to repeat this feat.
From among the most desperate (read hooligans), he formed a reconnaissance group, which was released by the power of the counselor from collecting the Colorado beetle and sent to the nearest villages with the task: to find a suitable grandfather and try to contact him. The top camp leadership of Timur in his plan decided not to devote yet - how to drink will be banned. As they say, the winners are not judged. The band returned only after dinner, tired, proud and slightly smelling of beer. At the report in the senior group leader seriously looked at Timur, endured a theatrical pause and said: "There is a grandfather." Timur joyfully rubbed his hands - it went down - tell.
According to intelligence, the right grandfather lived a forty-minute walk from the camp and satisfied us on all counts. However, to come into direct contact with the grandfather scouts failed (apparently, the grandfather had already had).
Repeated experience of communication with the pioneers of our camp and when the parliamentarian tried to approach, waving a weighty stick, he uttered a monologue in which only the words “It”, “Mother” and “Pioneerskaya” appeared in print.
scoundrel. However, after a survey of the local population, it was found out that the grandfather was abandoned by relatives who applied to the city, lives alone and desperately needs help. But the most interesting thing for us was the firewood machine.
dumped in the yard of his grandfather and a shed where they could be put in a neat latch.
The next day after breakfast, Timur personally went to conduct reconnaissance on the ground before the upcoming operation. He returned to dinner in a state of extreme thoughtfulness. Raising our serious
In his eyes, he said with sadness in his voice: It's not working. Grandpa will. Whatever it is, he will. In the two hours that the nettle with binoculars lay, eight times in the yard. And it will not be possible to distract - suspicious
It hurts. It was easier for them, they grew up there, the area knew people. We have no chance, unless at night. We went to work at 00:30, when it was finally dark, and the camp commander went to work.
asleep. The Timur group consisted of our detachment as a whole and several people from the senior detachment (their counselor was friends with Timur). There were forty people in total. In complete silence, trail to trail, we're chained.
They went deep into the night forest, feeling at least like scouts going beyond the front line to conduct reconnaissance in battle. We got there by half past two. Grandpa's light wasn't on. Waited.
Ten minutes later, we entered the courtyard and formed two chains.
True, I had to break the locks on the gate and barn, but this is small. The firewood was handled quickly - in two hours. Nobody failed. Everyone worked as one and everything went smoothly. Even the locks were hung back for a look. In
At the beginning of the fifth, we were all tired, but happy laying on our armored beds. Timur went to all the chambers and thanked everyone. It was nice to fall asleep for the remaining three hours, feeling real.
A hero is a Timurovite who did a good deed completely unselfishly and remained unknown. We have only read about it in books before. That might be the end of the story, but it’s actually a story.
It had its continuation. The next day, the whole village was awakened by the fervent old man’s cry: “S*** you, bitches, I’ll kill you!” After that, the grandfather told the whole village in colors.
about the pioneers, cold winter and firewood, without which he will freeze "to the benefit of his mother." Neighbors managed to calm the grandfather in an hour and a half, promising to help with firewood and generally help, after which the grandfather sighed hard.
I went to the barn.
Directly from the open gate on the grandfather looked neatly folded in the full width of the pile up to the ceiling. Even the hardest peasants in the country had never heard half the words spoken by their grandfather.
the next twenty minutes. Well, could not Timurovtsy knew that in the depths of the barn could lie anything else that might need grandfather. Well, they just couldn't, and so could God.
With him, because the grandfather managed to get to shovels and other equipment on the third day, other things necessary in a difficult rural economy saw the light of day in five days. However, he managed to free his motorcycle from wood captivity only two weeks later, transferring the remains of firewood from the barn under the canopy.
P.S. This story reached the camp chief. Timur was called to the carpet, where he had a third seizure, after which his boss sent him home. His grandfather refused the help offered by the pioneers twice.
Having significantly replenished the already rich pioneer lexicon with many interesting words. I never spent the rest of my shift in camp. A couple of days later, there was an amnesty in the form of a parent's day, and
I was taken back by my mother to the dacha. In the movie "Three Funny Shifts", I was completely disappointed, but now I can honestly and boldly say,
Like all my friends, I had a pioneering childhood.
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