Be it a brooch, a book, a wardrobe... We are waiting for family stories about things that are dear to you and your family, without which a home is unthinkable. Or - about things given by loved ones, which are more to you than an inanimate object.
“The Story of One Thing” is a competition that anyone can take part in.
Conditions:You must send an interesting story about your favorite things. Be it a brooch, a book, a wardrobe. We are waiting for family stories about things that are dear to you and your family, without which a home is unthinkable. Or - about things given by loved ones, which are more to you than an inanimate object. Tell stories about “living” objects from home collections. Send your story to the Fontanka editorial office using the competition form below. Attach a photo. Don't forget to indicate your coordinates.
Results: The results of the competition will be announced on March 15. And the BODUM company, whose porcelain is kept in design museums around the world, will present a gift to the three authors. Prizes from the BODUM brand: coffee grinder, electric kettle, teapot. The brand has been producing tableware since 1944. Over the sixty-odd years of its history, it has created many things that have become legendary. The famous Osiris teapot is in the MoMA museum, and the French press BODUM coffee pot has become visually synonymous with Parisian coffee shops.
Yulia Arkadyevna Paramonova, St. Petersburg
Silver coin
My family keeps a silver coin, which, according to legend, was given to my great-grandmother by Nicholas II. She was just a little girl, it was the very end of the 19th century. Nicholas was not yet emperor and traveled around the world. With him are servants, and among them are my great-great-grandfather and his young wife, my great-great-grandmother. She cooked; my great-great-grandfather was an orderly. Anyway, halfway through the trip they found out they were having a baby. And so it happened that I had to give birth in Bombay! They were very worried, a foreign country, incomprehensible rules, everything unknown. Great-grandmother was born, thank God, without any difficulties. All was good. And it so happened that one day Nikolai saw my great-great-grandmother with her great-grandmother in her arms. And he gave me a coin. They immediately decided not to spend it on anything, but to store it. It became my great-grandmother’s talisman, and then a heirloom for the whole family. Nikolai and I then visited Egypt and Siam - that was such an interesting life.
Irina:
"Chicken God"
Lyudmila Vostretsova.
Dear Desk
About ten years ago I moved from my parents old table. It moves apart and can gather twenty people around it. The top tabletop is cracked along its entire length, but assembled by a skilled craftsman, the table still serves with dignity.
I remember well his grand entry into his parents' house in the early 1950s. The appearance of the table opened a procession of new furniture: a huge sideboard, a voluminous wardrobe, a flirtatious mirror in a wide frame rising above the dressing table and a small bookcase on the bedside table. The last to be brought in were chairs with straight backs (at that time there was no word ergonomics in our family’s vocabulary, and the straight backs of chairs did not yet carefully bend to support the lower back).
Residents of capital cities may find it difficult to appreciate such an event. We lived then in a small Siberian mining town. I don't remember furniture stores at all. There was no commission trade either. After graduation, my father received a teaching position at a mining technical school. In our first home - a room in wooden house– the main place was occupied by my grandmother’s chest (it is still alive to this day). Then a wardrobe and a chest of drawers appeared in a small apartment, and finally, a two-story house was built for the teachers next to the technical school, in which we ended up with a three-room apartment. This is where furniture was needed.
A folk craftsman was found who created our wonderful set for us. He made it from Siberian cedar, so so far not a single pest has left a single trace of damage on the tree. The sanded surfaces were tinted, probably with stain and varnished (still preserved), so they acquired the noble appearance of mahogany. It was a "luxurious" purchase.
Our family's lifestyle today would be called an "open house." Neighboring colleagues always sat at our table. Then my many classmates began to gather around him, then friends of my younger sisters joined them. When the family decided that it was more convenient to gather friends around a round table, ours, hospitable and already somewhat old, moved to the “children’s room”, where we did our homework behind him. For this purpose, it also turned out to be surprisingly convenient: the legs of the table are secured not only under the tabletop, but also at the bottom - with a spacer, just at the height where it was convenient to put your feet.
It is still very comfortable to sit at this table today. He has certainly aged. In addition to the deep wrinkle-crack, he also has bald spots on the varnish surface. Today he places his extendable wings not under plates and salad bowls, but under piles of books; in the center - patiently holding a computer. At the market - the vanity fair - hardly anyone will pay attention to him. But I feel comfortable working at this table. All my relatives, both living and deceased, are next to me.
Daria Selyakova.
My house
As strange as it may seem, I don’t yet have a favorite thing in my house. I just love my home. But this did not happen right away. It didn’t take me long to fall in love with my home. I moved into an apartment where other people lived and lived for two years, getting used to the new space. I never got used to it, especially when I discovered the ubiquitous drywall under the wallpaper. Then my confidence in the strength of my home literally physically shook. I knew that the house was built in 1900, and only this gave me confidence that there must be at least some human materials under the plasterboard. At night, i.e. Coming home late from work, I picked out this same drywall piece by piece, and started with the doors. Amazing things began to be discovered: the doorways turned out to be huge, as if specially for double doors (how romantic). Then the plaster fell in a hail of stones, the shingles tore off, and finally the real wall was exposed - a thick plank palisade with cracks and holes from knots. Yes, but the cracks were filled with ordinary tow, like hay. And I felt somehow calm. I realized that I have walls, those that “help”, and this is MY home. And I began to “build” it according to my own principles: the windows that I ordered were wooden and very durable - these are my favorite windows; doors (5 of them - 2 of them double-leaf, 1 glass), with a reminder of the former beauty and skill of the carpentry. And these are MY favorite doors. There is a roof over our heads, thank God, although the ceiling requires serious repairs. Next will be: your favorite wallpaper, your favorite tiles, your favorite paints, then good-quality items and nice hangers. But the main “thing” has already appeared - “small Motherland” (“here is my village, here is my home..”). And here there is no sentimentality, it’s instinct.
Vera Solntseva.
Doll
For my birth, my godparents gave me a Doll. An ordinary Soviet doll with a rubber head and blue eyes, yellow hard short hair, chubby face and plastic body. She was with me at a time when I didn’t remember myself. There are photographs where the Katya doll is larger than me, there are photographs where she is a little smaller than me, there are photographs where I seem to be already big and dragging my Katya by the hair. Katya became the most important toy of my childhood. She always ruled the doll tea parties. She had a friend - a Tanya doll, more
Katya is the same size, but for some reason much less my favorite. And the rest of the toys that appeared in my childhood were in no way comparable to Katya. Katya was the main and beloved.
My grandmother, with whom I spent a lot of time, loved to knit. She tied the whole family, including my Katya. The Tanya doll was also tied, but not with such love. Even when I was very little, I loved to sit and watch the thread disappear from the ball. Then somehow I took a hook and began to knit myself, this skill was passed on to me by itself, I didn’t even have to study much. Strange, thanks to my grandmother for this and eternal memory.
I remember once we were knitting with my grandmother Katya wedding dress: white skirt, blouse, Panama hat, scarf, handbag and socks. This became Katya’s favorite outfit; she mostly wore it. When I grew up, Katya for a long time was sitting in the closet. About once a year, her clothes were washed, and then they were put on the top shelf. Later they wrapped it in a bag and put it somewhere else
very far away. And somehow, in my opinion, when I was already studying at the institute, they were doing some general cleaning at home, and Katya was found. I took her and suddenly noticed that her eye was broken. There were eyelids with eyelashes that closed if you put Katya down.
So the little eye stopped opening. I suddenly felt hurt and offended for her, lying there for so many years, wrapped in a bag, forgotten, unnecessary. I was a little ashamed of my feelings for the plastic doll. But she still cried. I remember my mother’s bewilderment: “Vera, why are you crying?” “Katya’s eye is broken.” This is the last thing I remember about Katya. This feeling
affection and love, overshadowed by a feeling of shame for one’s emotions.
Svetlana.
Ficus 
My husband and ficus moved into my apartment at the same time. The husband held the ficus and a bag of things, the ficus held on with all his might. “He’s sick,” I thought. About ficus. “He’s kind of a dwarf,” my husband shrugged, “he’s been sitting in place for two years now, not growing.” From then on, our living together three of us.
Ficus turned out to be a typical man: he demanded a lot of attention and promised nothing in return. First, together we chose a suitable window sill for him: so that it is not hot, not cold, not drafty, not too bright, not too dark, and so that the neighbors are decent. The search for a suitable pot, soil, fertilizer and other male accessories was equally difficult. “I fed you, gave you something to drink, and heat a bath for me.” With a soft damp cloth, I washed each leaf from the dust of my bachelor years and told the ficus how good, shiny, beautiful, promising and unique it was. And he believed.
Every day I told my husband: " Good morning, beloved, - and to the ficus: Hello, ficus!" And the men began to grow. The husband mainly grew in the abdomen, and the ficus grew in height, like a short teenager who sat too long in the first desk. Every year we buy wider pants and bigger pots. And Now the critical moment has come: the ficus no longer fits on the windowsill. “I’ll have to give it to my mother or to her.” kindergarten“- said the husband. The ficus and I felt sad at the prospect of an imminent separation; the ficus even dropped a couple of leaves on my carpet. I remembered them on the threshold, embarrassed and young... My husband seemed to remember this too when the next day I returned from work, he greeted me with a mysterious smile. From the table in the corner of the hall, the good old ficus smiled with bright greenery :).
Dunya Ulyanova.
Old wardrobe
There has been an old wardrobe in our hallway for many years. The jackets of my grown son, my husband's raincoats, and my long-unworn coats are kept there. When guests arrive, wet from the usual St. Petersburg rains, there is always something in the closet to suit someone. The closet is called grandma's, and I remember it all my life.
It is simple and at the same time elegant - a large mirror with wide chamfers is inserted into the right door, and the left door is decorated with a carved flower on a long stem, a familiar sign of the undying Art Nouveau in the furniture business. The wardrobe appeared in a communal apartment on Ligovka, in a former Pertsov house, back in the thirties. It was purchased through a so-called “subscription”, announced to support the production of a furniture factory, that is, they contributed money and later received a beautiful “furnishings” among the first buyers. In 1934, the family moved to the Petrogradskaya side into a cooperative house, and the closet took its place in the new apartment. He kept his grandmother's elegant colorful dresses, his grandfather's white trousers and shirts, his mother's school robe - things that pre-war photographs remind of. During the blockade they didn’t burn it, they just carefully swept away all the crusts from old sandwiches that accidentally got under it. In 1949 the family shrank and the grandmother changed apartments. Now aged faces were reflected in the mirror of the faded wardrobe, and not very much was hanging on the hangers. fashion clothes. Decades have passed, young people who love other subjects live in our house. An old wardrobe stands in the hallway, its mirror has darkened and is covered with small cracks and wrinkles. But now a little girl is looking into it, thinking of something, and the closet quietly answers her...
Irina Zhukova.
Chair number 14
This is a wooden object with a curved back in a circle, an object of stunning harmony. I cringe at him as I get to work. And if the eye catches it in the middle of the day, then it invariably pleases - such a perfect and unpretentiously simple form. Its back is two dignified arches or two semicircles. The seat is two perfect circles - one carefully goes around the other, fitting tightly, so that the eyelids are not scary. Chair number fourteen! I didn’t even know that there was such a chair in history by the famous Viennese carpenter Michael Thonet. That in the 50s of the 19th century it was the most popular and widespread, that, in fact, all the Viennese chairs in the world and the romantically refined concept of “Viennese furniture” came from it. That after its launch to the masses, Thonet and his sons opened the production of rocking chairs, dressing tables, cradles, beds, and tables made of bent wood. It was the simplest chair. There are only six parts in the set, and the joints with the back and legs are lapped and stitched with wooden screws, which seems impossible today. The 14th model was “licensed”. The previous ones, from which the image was formed, now seem to not count... Re-reading the history of this chair, I imagined how difficult it was for the German Thonet in Austria the first time to receive privileges for the manufacture of armchairs and table legs from bent wood, “pre-steamed with water.” steam or soaked in boiling liquid." I imagined in every detail how once upon a time this chair of mine was held by the hands of a master. Was it Thonet himself or his son: Franz?, Michael? Josef? or August? One of my paired sets was then repaired in a completely unprivileged manner: the chair was trimmed with small nails around the perimeter of the seat, which did not spoil its charm, but added drama.
After my grandmother died, my mother wanted to get rid of the chairs. But I didn’t give it, because his shape always fascinated me. And then a friend came to visit with her sister, who said: “Yes, this is Thonet’s chair.” I nodded, adding that it could well be, but I still haven’t been able to find the master’s print. Then we turned the chair over again and found an inscription under the rim of the seat.
Two Thonet chairs coexisted in my apartment with my grandmother’s closet, sideboard and round wooden table. Despite their external sophistication, I know how strong they are. The durability of Thonet's chair was once demonstrated in a spectacular publicity stunt: it was thrown from the Eiffel Tower without breaking. No piece of modern furniture could withstand such a test.
What else did I learn about my chair: that the cost of one of these at the beginning of the 19th century was about three Austrian forints. Just think, he is over one hundred and fifty years old. One can only imagine what kind of people sat on it and what kind of conversations they had.
Elena Alekseevna.
Casket
I have a box: a wooden box with a hinged lid, on which there is a simple landscape in oil - green fir trees and birches surrounded by a simple carved frame. It seems to me that 50 years ago there were people like this in almost every family. I remember her as much as I remember myself, for almost half a century. As a child, the box seemed to me like a magic chest. Buttons were kept in it. I loved sorting through them, playing with them, for some reason always in “Mowgli”. Laying out buttons on the table different forms and flowers and appointed some as Hathi and others as Bagheera. And on back side I liked to scratch the lids with a colored pencil. The box survived many family disasters and moved with me from apartment to apartment. I still keep buttons in it, some of them are the same ones I played with as a child, and on the inside of the lid are my childhood scribbles. I hope to leave this family heirloom to my grandchildren, if they ever have them.
Tsvetkova Valentina.
Gift
There is one thing without which my home has been unthinkable for some time now. It has no family significance, and even the situation surrounding its appearance is not worth ranking among the memorable events of my life. She has no history, she IS history, and a reminder, and a memory. The awareness of her presence is enough. By itself, it does not evoke affection; perhaps it could easily be replaced by another. With an absolute minimum of object value, its purpose is much higher than its value. Gradually a feeling or even confidence arose that it was not you, but she who had found you.
In fact, on occasion, at an Orthodox fair, I bought a reproduction of Andrei Rublev’s “Trinity”, glued to a board and covered with a thick layer of varnish - an ICON. And by acquiring it, she found it. An opportunity to join the absolute in Love. And to understanding the essence of things.
Irina Igorevna.
Grandma's book
I will write about my grandmother’s favorite book, or rather, about my grandmother. She has been gone for a long time, there is almost no one to remember her. All my life I'm damn sorry that my daughter didn't meet her. It could have, but it didn't happen. My grandmother died young, barely having time to see me as a schoolgirl. With the passing of my grandmother, childhood did not end, but it ceased to be totally happy, it became multi-colored. Something fundamental was forever shaken, but even in death, the grandmother did good, causing the first critical thought: is everything here as well organized as it seems?
The memory tape is rewinding. New Year. Huge apartment of friends. Everything is interesting and mysterious and magical. Children's performances. Problems from Perelman - who will figure it out first? The tree is of unprecedented, forgotten height - we now have low ceilings at home. Sudden silence, floorboards creaking. My parents came for me and hugged me: my grandmother was no more. I roar theatrically: this is how it should be. But I don't believe them. How is it - no? I am, that means she is too.
First grade. Uncle Borya (he is not an uncle at all, he is his grandfather’s colleague) grows unprecedented gladioli, receiving bulbs from Holland (Holland is only from a book about magic skates, there is no other one, but there is no doubt what they can send from it. Uncle Borya has everything maybe: he has a TV, we go to him to shout “puck-puck” for Spartak). Grandma grows Uncle Borin's bulbs on the balcony. There are always onlookers under the balcony. They look at the gladioli, which does not exist: they are green, black and purple, - I go to first grade with them, - with an avant-garde bouquet. The sun through black petals - from pink to purple. Grandma tied a particularly tight, strict schoolgirl! - the pigtails, apron and collars were sewn by her, the cambric was starched. The balcony smells of sweet peas until October, summer lasts - this is also grandma. She is delighted with the first large Oka refrigerator (he is taller than me), and is delighted by the egg compartments - how did they come up with it, eh?! - with special recesses. My real uncle sent him in a roundabout way across the country (it turned out that my grandmother has a son, he is my mother’s older brother, but I don’t know him, he is a military engineer, he serves in Kyrgyzstan. - Where is it? I climb into the Encyclopedia - green roots - she at the bottom of the shelf, it's interesting to read there). My new word is that he sent it in a “container”. Everyone is excited and happy.
Country house. We are “filming.” In the city, I woke up and heard voices in the kitchen through the wall: the price has increased, 150 rubles! What to do? Smiling, I fall asleep, what nonsense, summer and the sea will happen, and my grandmother so tenderly says to my grandfather: “My dear, Bubble needs the sea.” I sleep and my pillow smells so delicious.
Country house. Dark. The sound of the surf and fir trees. A moth knocking on a lampshade. The crackle of jammers. Words: BBC, Voice of America, Seva Novgorodians. Grandmother plays solitaire, grandfather makes crafts, he has “golden hands.” Listening to the radio, they look at each other furtively, for some reason they are having fun. I need to sleep a lot: I have “rheumatism.” Grandma says: Leningrad is in the swamp, you will get better soon, it is in everyone’s family. I don’t know the word “genus”, I’m asking. Wow: my grandmother also had a grandmother, she came to her from Warsaw in a carriage (wow! she was a princess?), and then the Whites came, then the Reds. Grandfather's voice: girls, sleep! Grandfather is always next to grandmother, he just goes to work. Looking in, am I asleep? - they kiss. Like I don't know? They always kiss: “My dear Grandma” and “Irishenka is my beloved.”
Morning, sun: there will be so many interesting things today! Grandmother’s hands are in uniform motion: knitting, sewing, typing, washing. Grandma has freckles, she is covered in gold dots, and she has grey eyes, she’s lucky, she has huge, enormous ones. They say they glow. And she has extraordinary hair, they say: a mop. Words: Vrubel's angel. What is this? Interesting.
House, 17th line. The silhouette of a sleepy grandmother: her back is straight, her eyes are laughing, she is very young with her back to the light. - “Did the squirrel come? She came and brought you 3 nuts.” I'll rush out of bed: that's great! The squirrel (she is drawn on a bookmark, and comes to life at night, and therefore only grandma can see her) was here again: here they are, the nuts. What a great life it is.
First memory. The sky is scary-huge, I fell off the swing, paralyzing with pain and horror. Below the sky, the grandmother’s face floats into the frame, and the smell of perfume, both strong and gentle hands, - it just seemed scary.
An old box containing letters and documents. 1909, telegram Perm-Pyatigorsk: “A dark-haired daughter was born. Everyone is healthy." Leningrad University. “Not accepted by social media. origin." Laboratory assistant, teacher, typist. Profile: “There was a brother: shot in 1918.” Sister: sentenced in 1948. Uncle - March 1935, his wife - 1935. The rest - 1938. Karpovka 39, apartment 1. Post-war letters to her husband: “Bob, dear, don’t worry, we are all healthy and miss you..”
Grandma never insisted on anything. She listened, understood, loved everyone. “If you please,” was the most angry verb in my grandmother’s vocabulary: “If you please, ask for forgiveness, Hero of the human race.” The only firm thing was that “coffee” of the neuter gender is “utter stupidity”, and “if you want in masculine terms, then if you please: “coffee” and “coffee”. But the amendment was also strict: “We were not “evacuated.” It was a business trip of the People's Commissar." Grandfather was not allowed to go to the front as a specialist. “He kept trying to leave us, running to the military registration and enlistment office.” At the end of March 1942, they were taken out of Leningrad on a military plane: husband, wife, two children. The children could no longer get up; they had to learn to walk again. The weight of the cargo was strictly limited. Grandma bandaged her favorite book into the pit of her stomach. It was thick, but the hole in the hypochondrium up to the spine contained it, it was unnoticeable. Everything left was lost. The whole memory, the whole library. Grandmother brought three books to the children: Alice in Wonderland, Little Lord Fauntleroy, Knights of the Round Table. And this one, which I couldn’t part with, although I knew it by heart: Lermontov. Works. M., 1891. Anniversary edition. Illustrations by Aivazovsky, Vasnetsov, Vrubel. Pictures of my childhood.
I prefer the poem about “the trembling lights of sad villages,” and my grandmother, Irina Ivanovna, read with inspiration: “Open the prison for me.” She simply flew away from me with her ever-beloved Lermontov. It was not done by “grandmother” at all. It seems that now I already understand what it was about. But, probably, not about everything.
Elena Alekseeva.
WITH part 
I want to talk about a family heirloom. This is an old dessert plate from the Kuznetsov factory. She is all that remains of her grandmother's set. Sometime in March 1929, her parents gave her this set as a wedding gift. My story is about the history of this plate.
In September 1941, German troops approached the small town of Malaya Vishera, where my family lived. The city was bombed, and the grandmother and her two children were hiding in the garden in a hole dug in the ground. Her husband, my grandfather, was a machinist. Drivers were not drafted into the active army, since in fact the Oktyabrskaya Railway and was the front. One September day, grandfather managed to get home. He ordered the grandmother and children to get ready and take with them only the bare essentials. Grandmother refused to leave without dishes. After arguing for a long time, grandfather found a way out. He suggested burying the dishes in the ground so that when they returned, everything could be retrieved. Granny packed her sets, figurines, vases carefully and for a long time. She put everything in boxes and late at night, in the dark, they buried everything. Early in the morning, on a hired cart, the grandfather took the grandmother and the children to the remote village of Klyonovo. There was nowhere else to take: on the one hand, Leningrad was surrounded by the enemy, on the other hand, Moscow, where battles were also taking place. A grandmother and her sons lived in this village for about two years. She worked on the collective farm along with the village women. And then the day came to return home.
The city was unrecognizable. Granny immediately started looking for her boxes. Some of them have disappeared. Apparently they dug it up and stole it. And most of it was simply broken. Of all the porcelain she loved so much, only one plate remained. All her life her grandmother took care of her. For her, it was a kind of line between life after 1945 and that life before the war, when she was so happy. Her parents, brothers, sisters were alive then; she had her own big house and two beautiful little sons. Grandmother was a soloist in the choir at the club, drowned in her husband’s love; she could afford to get on the train and go to Leningrad for the concert of Klavdia Shulzhenko. Until the end of her days, grandma loved to sing: “I am a cucaracha, I am a cucaracha...” And most importantly, she was so young and carefree.
When the war ended... Beloved younger brother Yurochka went missing, another brother, Misha, died in the bombing of a diesel locomotive. The same bomb damaged the hands of her husband Shurik. Brother Victor lost his leg and after the war became addicted to alcohol. Sister Susanna died of typhus. At the end of the forties, the eldest son brought a grenade from the forest and, while playing, threw it into the fire. The shrapnel made my youngest son disabled.
Grandparents lived a very long life. Grandfather died at 95 years old, and grandmother at 92 years old. After the war, they had a daughter - my mother. They built new house, planted and grew a huge apple orchard.
And only when the grandmother took this plate in her hands, her eyes filled with tears, and she very quietly repeated: “How happy I was then.”
We recently had a competition for the best fairy tale about some subject. Here are all the texts starting with the winner:
OLD SLIPPERS
Part 1.
In one city there lived two slipper brothers. Poor old grandmother wore them. Their names were Top-Top and Clap-Clap. They very often fought among themselves: who of them is more beautiful? But this did not last long. They were tied up and taken to the trash heap. They fell in love, but a week later they went on a trip in a garbage truck.
Part 2.
They drove along and saw a lot more garbage, but suddenly they swayed and they spilled onto the board. The board began to move, and they fell into a special machine. They were washed there, sewed and much more. And they sang:
Cheers cheers! We are clean!
Beautiful, good,
Wired, beautiful -
Cheers cheers! Irie!
But suddenly they fell silent! They were scared. And it turns out they put labels on them and went to the store!
Part 3.
Before they had time to get there, someone pointed a finger at them, and they went in the cart to the checkout. But they fell into good hands and lived happily ever after. They were sewn up and washed every day.
(
THOUGHT TRAFFIC LIGHT
Chapter 1.
Once upon a time there was a traffic light. His name was Forik. He did a good job at his job. Then one day he became thoughtful and daydreaming. Forik thought: “I wish I could go home and rest; I’m already tired of working.” Suddenly someone started knocking on him, and he woke up.
Chapter 2.
While the traffic light was dreaming, this is what happened: the traffic light showed red for people, but green for cars, all at once. Everything was mixed up, cars were driving out of order, and people just stood there. Some people needed to go to work, others needed to pick up their children from school. Everything was bad. But suddenly someone thought of knocking on the traffic light.
Chapter 3.
***
Forik never dreamed at work again.
Dear reader!(
I hope you found this book interesting and were able to take a good example from it!!!
ABOUT MAGNET
Chapter 1. Brave Magnet.
Once upon a time there lived a brave Magnet. He complained that he was not being used. One day he was accidentally taken to war: a soldier played with Magnet and mechanically put it in his pocket, and then went off to fight. As the soldier ran across the battlefield, Magnet magnetized the dagger of the slain enemy. The soldier took the dagger in his hands and looked at it: the blade was golden, and there was an inscription on it. Here are the words: “Whoever takes this dagger will get rid of his enemies, and they will not appear again.” And indeed all the enemies disappeared. The soldier lived happily when he came home. And Magnet helped the soldier defeat his enemies.
We forgot to tell you that our Magnet's name is Chick-Chick. Chick-Chick found his friend Vik-Vik. You probably know that magnets become magnetized if they are placed next to each other. That was the problem with Vik-Vik. Chick-Chick became magnetized to Vik-Vik. And Vik-Vik was old. As a result, Vik-Vik cracked, although from the outside it seemed unharmed. But the owner of Vik-Vik was good. He glued these pieces together. And Vic-Vik was glad that he was useful.(
A TALE ABOUT A BOOK
Chapter 1. Lonely book. How she lived.
Once upon a time there was a lonely book. She sat and was bored. Nobody paid attention to her. And no one took her to read. Oh, how many interesting things there were in it! She traveled throughout the country of Germany. And now she was sitting on a bench and stayed here for the night.
Chapter 2. Restaurant.
In general, this is not what I want to tell you about. Not how she lived, but how she traveled and what happened to her. Listen carefully. I ask you a task: what was this book like and what is the end of the story - sad or happy?
The next morning she was very hungry and went to a restaurant. There she ate ice cream and a cocktail. She liked it here and stayed here. The birds are singing, the sun is warming. Birds are singing. Every day she ate at the restaurant. There she usually ate potatoes and cutlets. And she lived in a house where the owners went to Moscow for a week on business.
Chapter 3. The book becomes a favorite.
Once she thought about children. Soon she was ready and went to kindergarten. On the way she met an uncle and he took her there. On the way, his daughter read the entire book. All of it - because it was childish and very interesting. The girl told her friends about her. Now the children were so interested in it that they did nothing but read it. So this book is happy until the end of time.(
We are surrounded by many things without which we simply cannot imagine our lives, they are so “for granted” for us. It's hard to believe that once upon a time there were no matches, pillows or forks for eating. But all these objects have gone through a long path of modification to come to us in the form in which we know them.
We have already told you. And now we invite you to find out complex history such simple things as matches, pillow, fork, perfume.
Let there be fire!
In fact, the match is not such an ancient invention. As a result of various discoveries in the field of chemistry in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, objects resembling the modern match were simultaneously invented in many countries around the world. It was first created by the chemist Jean Chancel in 1805 in France. On wooden stick he attached a ball of sulfur, bertholite salt and cinnabar. With sharp friction of such a mixture with sulfuric acid, a spark appeared that set fire to a wooden shelf - much longer than that of modern matches.
Eight years later, the first manufactory was opened, aimed at mass production of match products. By the way, then this product was called “sulfur” because of the main material used for its production.
At this time, in England, pharmacist John Walker was experimenting with chemical matches. He made their heads from a mixture of antimony sulfide, bertholite salt and gum arabic. When such a head rubbed against a rough surface, it quickly flared up. But such matches were not very popular among buyers due to the terrible smell and huge size of 91 centimeters. They were sold in wooden boxes of one hundred each and were later replaced by smaller matches.
Various inventors have tried to create their own version of the popular incendiary product. One 19-year-old chemist even made phosphorus matches that were so flammable that they lit themselves in a box due to friction against each other.
The essence of the young chemist’s experiment with phosphorus was correct, but he made a mistake with the proportion and consistency. Swede Johan Lundström in 1855 created a mixture of red phosphorus for the head of a match and used the same phosphorus for incendiary sandpaper. Lundstrem's matches did not ignite on their own and were completely safe for human health. It is this type of matches that we use now, only with a slight modification: phosphorus has been excluded from the composition.
In 1876, there were 121 match production factories, most of which merged into large concerns.
Now factories for the production of matches exist in all countries of the world. In most of them, sulfur and chlorine were replaced with paraffin and chlorine-free oxidizing agents.
Item of excessive luxury
The first mention of this tableware appeared in the 9th century in the East. Before the advent of the fork, people only ate food with a knife, spoon, or with their hands. The aristocratic segments of the population used a pair of knives to absorb non-liquid food: with one they cut the food, with the other they transferred it to the mouth.
Evidence has also emerged that the fork actually first appeared in Byzantium in 1072 in the emperor's house. It was made one and only from gold for Princess Mary because she did not want to humiliate herself and eat with her hands. The fork only had two tines for stabbing food.
In France, until the 16th century, neither a fork nor a spoon was used at all. Only Queen Jeanne had a fork, which she kept from prying eyes in a secret case.
All attempts to introduce this kitchen item into widespread use were immediately opposed by the church. Catholic ministers believed that a fork was an unnecessary luxury item. The aristocracy and royal court who introduced this subject into everyday life were regarded as blasphemers and accused of being associated with the devil.
But despite the resistance, the first widespread use of the fork was in the homeland of the Catholic Church - in Italy in the 17th century. It was a mandatory item for all aristocrats and merchants. Thanks to the latter, she began traveling throughout Europe. The fork came to England and Germany in the 18th century, and to Russia in the 17th century it was brought by False Dmitry 1.
Back then, forks had different numbers of tines: five and four.
For a long time, this subject was treated with caution, vile proverbs and stories were composed. At the same time, signs began to appear: if you drop a fork on the floor, then there will be trouble.
Under the ear
Nowadays it is difficult to imagine a home without pillows, but previously this was the privilege of only rich people.
During excavations of the tombs of the pharaohs and Egyptian nobility, the first pillows in the world were discovered. According to chronicles and drawings, the pillow was invented with a single purpose - to protect a complex hairstyle while sleeping. In addition, the Egyptians painted various symbols on them, images of the Gods, to protect people from demons at night.
In ancient China, the production of pillows became a profitable and expensive business. Ordinary Chinese and Japanese pillows were made of stone, wood, metal or porcelain and shaped into a rectangular shape. The word pillow itself comes from the combination of “under” and “ear”.
Woven pillows and mattresses stuffed with soft material first appeared among the Greeks, who spent most of their lives on beds. In Greece, they were painted, decorated with various patterns, turning them into interior items. They were stuffed with animal hair, grass, down and bird feathers, and the pillowcase was made of leather or fabric. The pillow could be of any shape and size. Already in the 5th century BC, every rich Greek had a pillow.
But the pillow is most popular and respected, both in the past and today, in the countries of the Arab world. In rich houses they were decorated with fringe, tassels, and embroidery, because it testified to the high status of the owner.
Since the Middle Ages, small pillows for feet began to be made, which helped to keep warm, since in stone castles the floors were made of cold slabs. Because of the same cold, they invented a pillow under the knees for prayer and a riding pillow to soften the saddle.
In Rus', pillows were given to the groom as part of the bride's dowry, so the girl was obliged to embroider a cover for it herself. Only rich people could have down pillows. Peasants made them from hay or horsehair.
In the 19th century in Germany, doctor Otto Steiner, as a result of research, discovered that in down pillows, at the slightest penetration of moisture, billions of microorganisms multiply. Because of this, they began to use foam rubber or waterfowl down. Over time, scientists synthesized an artificial fiber that is indistinguishable from fluff, but convenient for washing and everyday use.
When the world's manufacturing boom began, pillows began to be mass produced. As a result, their price dropped and they became available to absolutely everyone.
EAU DE PARFUM
There is ample evidence of the use of perfume in Ancient Egypt during sacrifices to the Gods. It was here that the art of creating perfumes was born. In addition, even in the Bible there is mention of the existence of various aromatic oils.
The world's first perfumer was a woman named Tapputi. She lived in the 10th century BC in Mesopotamia and created various scents through chemical experiments with flowers and oils. Memories of her are preserved in ancient tablets.
Archaeologists also discovered on the island of Cyprus an ancient workshop with bottles of aromatic water that are more than 4,000 years old. The containers contained mixtures of herbs, flowers, spices, fruits, pine resin and almonds.
In the 9th century, the first “Book of the Chemistry of Spirits and Distillations” was written by an Arabian chemist. It described more than a hundred perfume recipes and many ways to obtain the aroma.
Perfumes came to Europe only in the 14th century from the Islamic world. It was in Hungary in 1370 that the queen first ventured into making perfume to order. Flavored water has become popular across the continent.
The Italians took over this baton during the Renaissance, and the Medici dynasty brought perfume to France, where it was used to hide the smell of unwashed bodies.
In the vicinity of Grasse, they began to specially grow varieties of flowers and plants for perfumes, turning it into a whole production. Until now, France is considered the center of the perfume industry.
Everything that surrounds us has a history!
These stories were told by my eighth graders after they met M.A.’s story in a literature lesson. Osorgina "Pince-nez".
Party ticket
I really liked the story “Pince-nez” by Mikhail Andreevich Osorgin. After reading it, I began to carefully observe different things around me, and became convinced that things really live their own lives, each of them has its own story.
I have one such story. About the ticket. I was going to go to the camp along it. He was issued three weeks before departure. I decided to photocopy it so that I could keep it as a keepsake, and went to the Service Center.
After a while, I remembered that my ticket had not caught my eye for a long time, I looked at the shelf where, as I remembered, I had put it - no. The scanned one is there, but the real one is not there.
I looked for it, turned the whole apartment upside down, was worried, asked everyone, but no one could help me: no one had seen the ticket. I even went to the Service Center in the hope that I accidentally left it there. But...alas! And there was no ticket.
At home they told me that they wouldn’t let me in based on the photocopy, and, completely upset, I decided to take a walk.
In the vestibule, putting on my sneakers, I found... a ticket. He lay calmly, dormant behind the shoe cabinet. When I moved the cabinet slightly, he... as it seemed to me, he stood up and looked at me in surprise, apparently, he was dissatisfied with being disturbed.
You probably thought that when I came home from the Service Center, I simply accidentally dropped it behind the cabinet. But I am absolutely sure that this could not have happened, and I am convinced that my ticket decided to take a walk around the apartment and, tired from a multi-day walk, the reveler decided to rest in the vestibule.
Yes, all things live their own lives.
Ekaterina Kachaeva
How the mug punished me
All things live their own special life. Sometimes it happens that they get lost. But I think a person is always involved in their disappearance. Even if they disappear “of their own free will.”
One day my mug went missing. I once poured tea into it, drank it, and left the mug on the coffee table, near the chair. I had no idea that she could disappear. But when I decided to drink tea again, I discovered it was missing.
I spent a long time looking for my favorite mug throughout the apartment, but it seemed to have disappeared into the ground. When I no longer had the strength to look, I took another mug and soon forgot about the old one.
After some time, renovations began in the apartment. They began to take things out of the room, including a sofa and armchairs. Imagine my surprise when I found my mug behind the chair! It turns out that all this time she was lying, or rather, “sagging,” pressed against the wall with the back of her chair.
Apparently, she cleverly decided to hide from me, punishing me for not putting her back in her place.
Roman Tarkov
Strange things happen to things...
Surprisingly, things have a habit of disappearing at the most inopportune moments. Sometimes it’s impossible to find an eraser, sometimes a pencil, sometimes a pen. You turn the whole apartment over, search it up and down - and not a trace. It’s amazing, but then they appear, and most often when you have already found a replacement for them.
My leaders in the number of “escapes” are pencils. You put it in one place, and a minute later you look and it’s gone. You search and search - to no avail. You find it completely by accident and in the most unexpected place. Books also have a strange habit of constantly hiding.
Yes, strange things sometimes happen to things...
Anna KurdinaPencil with the soul of a traveler
Throughout a person’s life, he is surrounded by all sorts of things that he creates for his own convenience. These things can be anything - from pencils to furniture and cars. But it is with pencils (and even with pens) that we have the most problems. We constantly forget them somewhere and lose them. There is probably no person on Earth who has never lost a pen or pencil in his life.One such incident happened to me.
For New Year I was given a wonderful retractable pencil. He lived with me for about three months. During this time I managed to lose him several times. I found it in the most unexpected places: sometimes in a vest pocket, sometimes under the bed, sometimes in a crevice of the sofa. But the last time he disappeared forever. Having interrupted the entire apartment, I was annoyed and bought myself a new pencil.
Sometimes it seems to me that every thing has a soul. Perhaps my pencil had the soul of a traveler. Having traveled around the apartment and explored all the interesting corners in it, he probably decided to expand the boundaries of his world and went for a walk outside the apartment. Maybe one day I’ll meet him somewhere and tell him: “What a reveler you are!”
Pavel Mitryaykin
Curious pen
One day an amazing story happened to me. One day during the school year they bought me a new briefcase. When we brought the briefcase home, I began to carefully study it and, having discovered a secret compartment in it, I immediately decided that I would put pens, pencils, a ruler and an eraser in it. I have had good mood, and I completely forgot about the lessons, about the essay assigned for that day. But homework had to be done. I finished writing the draft essay only at midnight. I quickly washed my face and went to bed.
The next day, when I came to school with an old briefcase, I didn’t find a single pen in it. During class, I asked my friend Maxim for a spare pen. Returning home, I sat down at the table, took out a draft, a notebook for essays, and then I remembered that the pen was in my new briefcase. I unzipped the secret pocket and put my hand in there, but, to my great surprise, there was nothing there. I searched my pocket for another minute until I was completely sure that it was empty.
After a few minutes I realized the seriousness of this incident. There was not a single pen in the house. Except for a few non-writers. I didn’t have money to go to the store for a new pen, and neither of my parents were at home. True, my grandmother was supposed to return from work in an hour, but I was given a lot of lessons and I might not have time to learn them until the evening. However, there was nothing else to do but wait for the grandmother to arrive.
Half an hour later the phone rang. I picked up the phone and heard my grandmother's voice:
Sanya, I’ll stay at work for another hour. If you want to eat, there are dumplings in the refrigerator. Cook and eat.
Okay, grandma, bye,” was all I could say.
Entering the room, I gave the briefcase a hearty kick. Something flew out of it, hit the wall and fell on the carpet nearby. Looking closer, I saw that it was a pen. He picked her up and began to do his homework.