Literary and musical composition "the man on whom the house rests." I can’t find Yu. Yakovlev’s work “When the Heart Glows” Yu Yakovlev the blacksmith was stripped to the waist

I leaned towards the bucket and took a sip. The boy also took a sip. So we drank delicious well water together, as if we were arguing who could outdrink who.

The boy started to make me angry. I would gladly drink the whole bucket so as not to see him. I couldn’t drink anymore - my teeth were already throbbing from the cold - I swung my hand and poured water on the road. And he hit a chicken, which clucked displeasedly and ran away. I poured out the water, but the double remained. And when I walked through the village, he kept making himself known.

I suddenly felt that for a long time I did not remember many events of my former life. The people with whom I once lived next to have moved far into space, and their outlines have been erased. A failure has formed. An emptiness that made me feel uneasy. Now this uncut man with an abrasion on his forehead has brought the distant time closer. I saw my childhood in many details.

I remembered the cracks in the logs above my bed, the hay rack on the bench, the curtains nailed with wallpaper nails, the stove damper with a loose handle, the horned grips. I heard the creaking of the floorboards - each has its own special sound: the old cracked boards were the keys of some mysterious instrument. I really smelled the baked milk - a sticky, sweet and sour smell that suddenly flowed out of the oven and crowded out all other smells from the house.

I saw my mother. At the well, with steamed buckets. In the straw rays of the sun.

My grandfather, Alexey Ivanovich Filin, was from White Lake. As a twelve-year-old boy, he came to St. Petersburg and never returned to the village. Life was difficult. Worked a lot. After the revolution he became a Hero of Labor. City life did not kill his rural roots. Sometimes he spoke sadly about the milky water of White Lake, about bees, about horses, about how homemade beer was brewed in a large vat in the village. Sometimes, when drunk, grandfather sang his village laconic songs.

Every summer, my mother and I went to the village.

City man rarely meets the earth. The earth is hidden from his eyes by stone slabs, hardened asphalt lava. She rests in the depths black, brown, red, silver. She held her breath and hid. The city man does not know what the earth smells like, how it breathes in different times year, how he suffers from thirst, how he gives birth to bread. He does not feel that his whole life, his well-being depend on the earth. But he worries about the dry summer, he does not rejoice at the heavy snowfall. And sometimes he is afraid of the earth, as a vague, unfamiliar element. And then the necessary, natural feeling of filial love for the earth subsides in the soul.

In the village, my mother and I walked barefoot. It was quite difficult at first. But gradually natural soles formed on my feet, and my feet stopped feeling small pricks. These soles served me well - they didn’t wear out, they didn’t wear out. True, they often had to be doused with iodine. And before going to bed, wash it.

My mother accustomed me to the earth, just as a bird accustoms its chick to the sky, and a polar bear accustoms its cub to the sea. Before my eyes, the black earth became green, then a light blue spread, then bronze shimmered - this is how flax is born. Mom and I pulled flax. Mom deftly twisted the rope and knitted short sheaves. She had a white scarf on her head, like the village ones.

Sometimes I was assigned to herd the cow Lyska. Then we had to get up very early. And I was angry with Lyska because she didn’t let me sleep, walking on the cold grass, sulking at her. I even wanted to hit her with a rod... She walked slowly, with the dignity of a cow, and the homemade tin bell rattled dully on her neck.

Then, in the role, I walked away. I approached the cow and pressed myself against her warm, breathing side - warmed myself. Sometimes I talked to Lyska. He told her whole stories. Lyska did not interrupt me; she knew how to listen carefully and silently nodded her head.

Her head is heavy and large. And the eyes, large wet eyes, were saddened by something. Lyska quietly approached me and poked my cheek with her pink nose. Her breathing was loud and warm. She treated me patronizingly, like a calf.

At times I felt surges of love for our cow. Then I went with her far into the field where clover and peas grew. He found a deep gulley, descended the steep slope and plucked tasty green shoots for her. I made a “smoke”: I lit dry rot in a tin can and waved it near Lyska so that horse flies and hornets would not overpower it. Lyska became a sacred animal, and I became a servant with a censer. Then Lysk had to be sold. When she was taken away from the yard, she cried. I understood everything. I felt grief. And then I promised myself that when I grow up and earn money, I will buy Lyska back. I promised this to Lyska.

The uncut man with a bruise on his forehead, looking at me from the bucket, reminded me of this unfulfilled promise. He mocked me and silently, unforgivingly reproached me for deceiving Lyska. He promised to buy it back and didn't.

In general, my awkward double reminded me of many things.

I once asked my mother:

Is my heart glowing?

“Well, how can it glow,” my mother objected.

I saw glowing heart in the forge. The forge stood on the edge of the village. The smell of coal smoke reeked from her, and she shook from the ringing intermittent blows. I heard the leather bellows breathing wheezingly and how their breath in the forge awakened the fire in the coals with a slight whistle.

The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. The flames of the forge reflected on his wet chest. The blacksmith swung his hammer, tilted his body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And each time the reflection of the flame trembled. I thought it was the heart that was shining through. It burns inside and shines through the chest.

I showed my mom a glowing heart.

Do you see? - I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

“It will be,” said my mother.

I immediately got to work. I applied firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to fetch water. And every time he finished the job, he asked:

Is it glowing?

And my mother nodded her head.

1 part

The forge stood on the edge of the village. It gave off a bitter smoke, like a samovar, and the earth shook from the ringing intermittent blows of a heavy hammer. I cautiously looked inside the forge and heard the leather bellows wheezing and the fire awakening in the forge with a slight whistle. The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. And on the wet chest reflected the flame of the forge. The blacksmith swung the hammer, tilted the body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And each time the reflection on the chest trembled. And I decided that it was the blacksmith's heart that glowed. It burns inside and shines through the chest.

I showed my mother a glowing heart and asked:

Do you see the heart?

“I see,” my mother responded.

Why does it glow?
Mom thought and answered:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow? - I suddenly asked.

Show your attitude to the read part with 1 color. Discuss in a group and find similarities.

FRONT DISCUSSION

WHY DID YOU CHOOSE THIS COLOR, EXPLAIN WITH AN EXAMPLE FROM THE TEXT?

My parents were hard workers. I remember how they got ready for work in the morning. They hurriedly drank tea. They looked at their watches, afraid of being late. It seemed to me then that they were rushing to catch a train or had matters of national importance awaiting them. Maybe they are in a hurry to build dams, invent new machines? But their work was very ordinary: this is what I concluded from the conversation between my parents.

WRITE OUT 1 SENTENCE OR PHRASE that reflects the main thing in this part.

FRONT DISCUSSION

One day my dad took me to work with him, to the seaport. I saw ocean ships, cranes with long necks like giraffes, double-decker logging trucks. The port smelled of the sea and fresh boards. Next to the huge ships and cranes, my dad seemed small and quiet to me. But when I realized that it was by his will that huge bundles of logs and boards easily flew above the ground and disappeared into the deep holds of the ship, he began to seem huge to me. Okay, beautiful work resembled a performance. It became clear why dad was in such a hurry to get to work, why he and mom loved work so much.

Having made this discovery, I was very surprised. After all, I used to think that the most beautiful thing was to do nothing. Over time, I asked myself the question: “What can’t a person live without?” “No air. Without water. Without bread,” I answered myself.

But it turned out that a person cannot live without work.

Write down a sentence that reflects the main thing - “What can’t a person live without?”

Discuss in groups, note the similarities. Choose the most successful answer and who will answer the speaker?

How many == Do you have any match(s)

FRONT DISCUSSION

Work. What is this beautiful word! Work. Work. Don't be afraid of difficulties. It is no coincidence that in many words of our language “labor” is the root.

But “labor” is not only the root of many words. Labor is the root of all our life.

(don't pay attention to the assignments)

Read the recorded conversation and determine its topic. How many people are in the conversation? What is dialogue? How does each line of dialogue stand out in writing?

Guys, you sometimes ask why I didn’t give an excellent mark for the oral answer. How do you think you should answer to get an A? - Tatyana Ivanovna addressed the class.

Vanya was the first to answer, as always:

I think, first of all, you need to listen to the teacher and answer his question. If they ask for a definition, then you need to say it verbatim, as in the textbook, and give examples. If you are given a task to explain the spelling of words, then you need to refer to the rule.

And when they ask for a rule, they must not only say it, but also immediately give examples. “So it becomes clear to both yourself and the teacher that you understand what we are talking about,” Anya added.

You guys didn’t tell me how to answer in order for the grade to be excellent,” Tatyana Ivanovna noted.

Anya immediately understood what the teacher was talking about:

I think you need to answer clearly and confidently.

Yes, you’re right, all this is important to get an A for the oral answer,” Tatyana Ivanovna agreed.

Tell me, Tatyana Ivanovna, is this dialogue of ours a text? - Vanya became interested.

All our remarks relate to the same topic and are related to each other. And of course, this is a text,” Tatyana Ivanovna answered.

53. Read the polylogue that arose on parent meeting. What is its theme and main idea? Prove that this is text.

teacher after the greeting, she took the floor first: - I would like to discuss with you important question. Gorky wrote that proving to a person the importance of knowledge is the same as convincing him of the usefulness of vision. However, our children have to prove it. How would you convince them that they need knowledge?

Joined the conversation Maria Viktorovna:

Knowledge gives freedom. If we know a lot, then we are free to choose a profession and friends; we consciously choose our path.

And I believe that knowledge helps develop thinking. If training is needed to develop muscles, then knowledge is also needed to develop thinking,” Ivan Dmitrievich confidently supported the conversation.

A person who has knowledge sees the world as more diverse and multifaceted. With each new knowledge, some unknown part of the world begins to come to life, breathe, becomes understandable, close.

It seems to me - summed it up teacher, - that the school gives knowledge about the world as a holistic picture. Each person can bring something good, useful, and beautiful into this picture with his life. This is what I would like to convey to our children.

54. Select a dialogue from the text, copy it, add punctuation marks. Read it role-by-role, expressively. How would you title the text?

I showed my mom a glowing heart.

Do you see? I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow? Mom thought and said quietly: From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

Mom said it will.

(Yu. Yakovlev)

Compare the picture and text. Tell us about the blacksmith who is shown in the picture, taking into account the content of the text,

55. Read an excerpt from R. Rozhdestvensky’s poem “Spring Monologue.” Why do you think the poet named the poem that way?

Everything spring:
hints and actions
thoughtless steps along the pavement.
Everything spring:
boulevards and colds,
wind,
smelling like yesterday's grass.
I believe that there is a smile
in this wind.
I believe in kindness and strength
draft.<...>
And I don't believe it
only in blue snow.

I don’t have my mother’s letters. I did not memorize them, although I reread them dozens of times. But the picture of life is alive in my memory home, which arose from my mother’s news.
I saw our room with a large tiled stove. The stove was burning, and from it came the hot spirit of resinous wood. The firewood crackled and orange embers fell onto the floor. Mom leaned over and quickly, so as not to burn her fingers, picked up the coal and threw it into the stove. When the wood burned out, she stirred the coals with a poker and waited for the bluish fire above them to disappear. Then she slammed the brass door tightly. Soon the white tiles became heated. Mom pressed her back against him and closed her eyes.
In the icy wind, I saw her at the stove with her eyes closed. This vision appeared at night at the post. I had a letter in my pocket. A distant warmth wafted from him, smelling of resinous firewood.
This native warmth was stronger than the wind.
When a letter arrived from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with a field mail number, no lines. It was my mother's voice. I heard it even over the roar of the guns.
The smoke from the dugout touched my cheek, like the smoke from my home.
On New Year's Eve I saw a Christmas tree at home. Mom spoke in detail about the Christmas tree in her letter. It turns out that Christmas tree candles were accidentally found in the closet. Short, multi-colored, similar to sharpened colored pencils. They were lit, and with spruce branches The incomparable aroma of stearin and pine needles spread throughout the room. The room was dark, and only the cheerful will-o'-the-wisps died down and flared up, and the gilded lights flickered dimly. walnuts.
I lay in the snow in a heavy helmet, in a balaclava - in a woolen visor, in an overcoat hardened by melted snow, and fragments of shells loudly plopped on the ground - large torn pieces of metal. Here one fell very close... Burn, Christmas tree. Twinkle, gilded nuts. It’s good that somewhere near mom there is an island of peace where everything is the same. Warm and calm. And mom is in a safe place. And her only concern is me.
The old clock ticks and strikes midnight. A cricket, miraculously settled in a city apartment, works on a chirping machine. The Big Dipper's bucket stands on the roof of the house opposite. It smells like bread. Quiet. The Christmas tree went out. The stove is hot.
Then it turned out that all this was a legend that my dying mother composed for me in an ice house, where all the windows were broken by the blast wave, and the stoves were dead and people were dying from shrapnel. And she wrote while dying. From the icy besieged city she sent me the last drops of her warmth, the last blood.
She wasn't just starving. They shot her with hunger. This was not a famine. It was a deadly famine, a fascist famine. Hunger is shelling, hunger is bombing, hunger is fire.
And I believed the legend. He held on to it - to his NZ, to his reserve life. Was too young to read between the lines. I read the lines themselves, not noticing that the letters were crooked, because they were written by a hand devoid of strength, for which the pen was heavy, like an ax. The mother wrote these letters while her heart was beating.
The last letter arrived in May.
The more water you draw from a well, the fresher and more abundant it is. It smells of deep earth and the steady cold of melted snow. Every sip of well water sweetly quenches thirst and fills you with vigor. In the morning the sun rises from the bottom, in the evening it sinks to the bottom. This is how the well lives.
If in a semi-dark log house the bucket does not ring and the scattered links of the chain are not pulled by a bowstring, but rust from inactivity, if the gate does not creak cheerfully under your hand and the drops fall silver coins do not fall back into the echoing depths - the spring stops flowing, the well is filled with silt, and withers away. The death of the well comes.
With the enemy invasion, dead wells appeared. They died along with people. The dead wells looked like unfilled graves.
Now the wells have come to life, or rather, they have been revived by people - the living, who replaced the dead. Buckets clink merrily, and chains glisten in the sun, freed from rust by the touch of many hands. Wells water people, cows, land, trees. They pour water onto the hot black stones of the bathhouses, and the soft, breathtaking steam does its pure work, settling in drops on the sluggish, fragrant foliage of birch brooms.
The wells came to life. But the one who died in the war died forever.
I picked up a heavy, cold bucket, slowly raised it to my lips, and suddenly saw myself as a boy. Ungainly, uncut, with an abrasion on his forehead, and a peeling nose. This boy was looking at me from a bucket of water. I held my old life in my hands. She was not easy. My hands began to tremble slightly, and wrinkles appeared on the water: my little double made faces and laughed at me - respectable, adult, urban.
I leaned towards the bucket and took a sip. The boy also took a sip. So we drank delicious well water together, as if we were arguing who could outdrink who.
The boy started to make me angry. I would gladly drink the whole bucket so as not to see him. I couldn’t drink anymore - my teeth were already throbbing from the cold - I swung my hand and poured water on the road. And he hit a chicken, which clucked displeasedly and ran away. I poured out the water, but the double remained. And when I walked through the village, he kept making himself known.
I suddenly felt that for a long time I did not remember many events of my former life. The people with whom I once lived next to have moved far into space, and their outlines have been erased. A failure has formed. An emptiness that made me feel uneasy. Now this uncut man with an abrasion on his forehead has brought the distant time closer. I saw my childhood in many details.
I remembered the cracks in the logs above my bed, the hay rack on the bench, the curtains nailed with wallpaper nails, the stove damper with a loose handle, the horned grips. I heard the creaking of the floorboards - each has its own special sound: the old cracked boards were the keys of some mysterious instrument. I really smelled the baked milk - a sticky, sweet and sour smell that suddenly flowed out of the oven and crowded out all other smells from the house.
I saw my mother. At the well, with steamed buckets. In the straw rays of the sun.
My grandfather, Alexey Ivanovich Filin, was from White Lake. As a twelve-year-old boy, he came to St. Petersburg and never returned to the village. Life was difficult. Worked a lot. After the revolution he became a Hero of Labor. City life did not kill his rural roots. Sometimes he spoke sadly about the milky water of White Lake, about bees, about horses, about how homemade beer was brewed in a large vat in the village. Sometimes, when drunk, grandfather sang his village laconic songs.
Every summer, my mother and I went to the village.
City man rarely meets the earth. The earth is hidden from his eyes by stone slabs, hardened asphalt lava. She rests in the depths black, brown, red, silver. She held her breath and hid. A city person does not know what the earth smells like, how it breathes at different times of the year, how it suffers from thirst, how it produces bread. He does not feel that his whole life, his well-being depend on the earth. But he worries about the dry summer, he does not rejoice at the heavy snowfall. And sometimes he is afraid of the earth, as a vague, unfamiliar element. And then the necessary, natural feeling of filial love for the earth subsides in the soul.
In the village, my mother and I walked barefoot. It was quite difficult at first. But gradually natural soles formed on my feet, and my feet stopped feeling small pricks. These soles served me well - they didn’t wear out, they didn’t wear out. True, they often had to be doused with iodine. And before going to bed, wash it.
My mother accustomed me to the earth, just as a bird accustoms its chick to the sky, and a polar bear accustoms its cub to the sea. Before my eyes, the black earth became green, then a light blue spread, then bronze shimmered - this is how flax is born. Mom and I pulled flax. Mom deftly twisted the rope and knitted short sheaves. She had a white scarf on her head, like the village ones.
Sometimes I was assigned to herd the cow Lyska. Then we had to get up very early. And I was angry with Lyska because she didn’t let me sleep, walking on the cold grass, sulking at her. I even wanted to hit her with a rod... She walked slowly, with the dignity of a cow, and the homemade tin bell rattled dully on her neck.
Then, in the role, I walked away. I approached the cow and pressed myself against her warm, breathing side - warmed myself. Sometimes I talked to Lyska. He told her whole stories. Lyska did not interrupt me; she knew how to listen carefully and silently nodded her head.
Her head is heavy and large. And the eyes, large wet eyes, were saddened by something. Lyska quietly approached me and poked my cheek with her pink nose. Her breathing was loud and warm. She treated me patronizingly, like a calf.
At times I felt surges of love for our cow. Then I went with her far into the field where clover and peas grew. He found a deep gulley, descended the steep slope and plucked tasty green shoots for her. I made a “smoke”: I lit dry rot in a tin can and waved it near Lyska so that horse flies and hornets would not overpower it. Lyska became a sacred animal, and I became a servant with a censer. Then Lysk had to be sold. When she was taken away from the yard, she cried. I understood everything. I felt grief. And then I promised myself that when I grow up and earn money, I will buy Lyska back. I promised this to Lyska.
The uncut man with a bruise on his forehead, looking at me from the bucket, reminded me of this unfulfilled promise. He mocked me and silently, unforgivingly reproached me for deceiving Lyska. He promised to buy it back and didn't.
In general, my awkward double reminded me of many things.
I once asked my mother:
- Is my heart glowing?
“Well, how can it glow,” my mother objected.
I saw a glowing heart in the forge. The forge stood on the edge of the village. The smell of coal smoke reeked from her, and she shook from the ringing intermittent blows. I heard the leather bellows breathing wheezingly and how their breath in the forge awakened the fire in the coals with a slight whistle.
The blacksmith was stripped to the waist. His body was glistening with sweat. The flames of the forge reflected on his wet chest. The blacksmith swung his hammer, tilted his body back and struck a piece of hot iron with force. And each time the reflection of the flame trembled. I thought it was the heart that was shining through. It burns inside and shines through the chest.
I showed my mom a glowing heart.
- Do you see? - I said in a whisper.
- I see.
- Why does it glow?
Mom thought and said quietly:
- From work.
- And if I work, will my heart glow?
“It will be,” said my mother.
I immediately got to work. I applied firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to fetch water. And every time he finished the job, he asked:
- Is it glowing?
And my mother nodded her head.
And the unshaven double with an abrasion on his forehead reminded me how he found a fragment of a shell on the ground and showed his mother:
- Look, what a stone!
"It's not a stone," Mom replied. - It's a shell fragment.
- Did the shell crash?
- It shattered into many pieces.
- For what?
- To kill.
I threw the fragment on the ground and glanced at it warily.
- Do not be afraid, - said my mother, - he will not kill anyone. He himself is dead.
- How do you know? I asked my mother.
“I was a sister of mercy.
I looked at my mother as if she were a stranger. I couldn’t understand what the sister of mercy had to do with my mother.
At that distant moment, neither she nor I could even imagine that in ten years I would be lying on the ground in an overcoat, in a helmet, with a rifle pressed to my side, and such sharp-edged stones would fly at me. Not dead, but alive. Not for life, but for death.
The land truly opened up to me during the war. How much earth I dug up, shoveled during the war! I dug trenches, trenches, dugouts, communication passages, graves... I dug the earth and lived in the earth. I recognized the saving property of the earth: under strong fire I clung to it in the hope that death would pass me by. This was my mother’s land, my native land, and she kept me with maternal fidelity.
I saw the earth as close as I had ever seen before. I approached her like an ant. It stuck to my clothes, to my soles, to the shovel - I was all magnetized, but it was iron. The earth was my refuge, my bed, and my table; it thundered and fell into silence. They lived on earth, died, and less often were born.
Once, only once, the earth did not save me.
I woke up in a cart, on the hay. I felt no pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. The lips, head, and chest were thirsty. Everything that was alive in me wanted to drink. It was the thirst of a burning house. I was burning with thirst.
And suddenly I thought that only person who can tackle me is mom. A forgotten childhood feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. She will quench thirst, take away pain, calm, save. And I started calling her.
The cart rumbled, drowning out my voice. Thirst sealed my lips. And with the last of my strength I whispered the unforgettable word - mommy. I called her. I trusted in her as in God, Mother of God, Mother of Man, Mother.
I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold, life-giving water poured out to extinguish the fire: it flowed over the lips, down the chin, down the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of causing pain. She gave me water from a cold ladle and took death away from me.
I felt the familiar touch of a hand and heard a familiar voice:
- Son! Son, dear...
I couldn't open my eyes. But I saw my mother. I recognized her hand, her voice. I came to life from her mercy. My lips parted and I whispered:
- Mommy, mommy...
I have accumulated a lot of words. They burst my chest, knocking on my temple. They rush out, into the light, onto paper. But they are green. It's too early to pick them off the branch. I suffer and wait for them to ripen.
As children, they pick green apples because they don’t have the patience to wait for them to ripen. They tear and eat and get a spicy pleasure. Now the green apples are mouth-watering.
But you can’t endure words to the point of cloying. Sometimes you need to find mischievous joy in green apples and green words.
My mother lay in a mass grave in besieged Leningrad. In an unfamiliar village near a well, I mistook someone else’s mother for my own. Apparently all mothers have great similarities. And if one mother cannot come to her wounded son, then another mother stands at his bedside.
Mother. Mommy...
As children, we easily accept sacrifices from our mother. We demand sacrifice all the time. And we learn later that this is cruel - from our children.
"Golden days" are not eternal. They are replaced by “harsh days,” when we begin to feel independent and gradually move away from our mother. And now the beautiful lady and the little knight are no longer there, and if he is, then he has another beautiful lady - with pigtails, with capriciously pouting lips, with a blot on her dress...
One “harsh day” I came home from school hungry and tired. He threw his briefcase. Undressed. And straight to the table. There was a pink circle of sausage on the plate. I ate it instantly. It melted in your mouth. It was as if he didn’t exist. I said:
- Few. I want more.
Mom said nothing. I repeated my request. She went to the window and, without looking back, said quietly:
- No more... sausage.
I left the table without saying thank you. Few! I walked noisily around the room, rattling chairs, and my mother still stood at the window. I thought she was looking at something, and I also went to the window. But I didn't see anything.
I slammed the door - not enough! - and left.
There is nothing more cruel than asking your mother for bread when she doesn't have it. And there is nowhere to get it. And she has already given you her piece... Then you can get angry and slam the door. But years will pass, and shame will overtake you. And you will feel excruciatingly painful from your cruel injustice.
You will think about the day of your shame even after the death of your mother, and this thought, like an unhealed wound, will either subside or awaken. You will be under her heavy power and, looking back, you will say: “Sorry!” No answer.
There is no one to whisper the merciful word: “I forgive.”
When mom stood at the window, her shoulders trembled slightly from silent tears. But I didn't notice it. I didn't notice my April marks on the floor. I didn't hear the door slam.
Now I see and hear everything. Time keeps moving away, but it has brought this day closer to me. And many other days.
Forgive me, dear!
In old huts, a woman with a child in her arms looks out from darkened images. Sad, thoughtful, smiling, worried, happy, unhappy. These are not icons, these are portraits of mothers - many, living and living.
I know a lot about the exploits of women: carrying wounded soldiers from the battlefield, working for men, giving their blood to children, following their husbands along the Siberian highways. I never thought that all this had to do with my mother. To the quiet, shy, ordinary one, concerned only with how to feed us, put on shoes, protect us...
Now I look back at her life and see that she went through it all. I see this late. But I see.
I walked under an amazingly blue, azure sky - where does such azure come from in a northern city? And then a low dark cloud with sharp edges appeared. She crossed the houses and quickly walked at low level. Ice blew into my face.
The next moment I found myself entangled in a white ice net. I couldn’t get out of it, I just fought back with my hands, trying to tear it apart. And everything around was humming, groaning, spinning. Hard ice pellets hit my face and slapped my hands. And suddenly a yellow, dim sun sparkled in the net and was caught in the net! There was a blow. The sun has gone out. It was not the sun, but winter lightning, a thunderstorm with snow.
The cloud kept moving forward. She entangled the entire city in ice nets. And she pulled him along, knocking him off his feet with elastic threads. The sun flashed again and went out again. There was a dry roar in the city.
A new flash illuminated the inscription on the wall of the house:
"This side is the most dangerous during shelling."
I moved to the other side.
The grass is green at the Piskarevskoye cemetery. There are large graves at the Piskarevskoye cemetery. Large, general, filled with people's grief. My mother is buried here.
There are no documents. There are no eyewitnesses. There is nothing for an inquisitive mind to latch on to. But eternal love has determined sons - here. And I bowed to the ground.
I stroke the grass of the Piskarevsky cemetery with my hand. I'm looking for my mother's heart. It cannot decay. It became the heart of the earth.
SON OF A PILOT
I can vouch that I have never heard of the pilot Presnyakov. But his face in the photograph seemed surprisingly familiar to me. He was filmed after the flight, wearing a pressure helmet, in which you can breathe where there is no air. In this attire he looks more like a diver than a pilot.
Captain Presnyakov is short. But you won’t notice it right away in the photo, because it’s shot from the waist up. But wide cheekbones, slitted eyes, uneven eyebrows, grooves above the upper lip, and a scar on the forehead are clearly visible. Or maybe it’s not a scar, but a strand of hair stuck to the forehead during a difficult flight.
This photo belongs to Volodka Presnyakov. Hangs above his bed. When he comes to the house new person, Volodka takes him to the photograph and says:
- My father.
He says this as if he were actually introducing the guest to his father.
Volodka lives in Moscow, in the passage of the Solomennaya Storozhka. Of course, on Volodkina Street there is no gatehouse, and even a straw one. There are large new houses all around. It was under Peter the Great that there was a guardhouse here. I wonder where she stood? Near the grocery store or on the corner, at the savings bank? And what was the name of the guard who, on a stormy, blizzard night, ran into the warm guardhouse to catch his breath and warm his hands, wooden from the frost, by the fire? Just for a minute! A guard is not supposed to hang around in a warm guardhouse while on duty...
Under the windows of Volodka’s house, dump trucks rumble day and night: construction is going on nearby. But Volodka is accustomed to their roar and does not pay attention to it. But not a single plane will fly over his head unnoticed. Hearing the sound of the engine, he shudders and becomes wary. His anxious eyes rush to find the small silver wings of the car in the sky. However, without even looking at the sky, he can determine by the sound whether a plane is flying, a simple one or a jet one, and how many “engines” it has. This is because I have been accustomed to airplanes since childhood.
When Volodka was little, he lived far, far from Moscow. In a military town. After all, cities, like people, are military.
Volodka was born in this town and lived in it for a good half of his life. A person cannot remember how he learned to walk or how he uttered his first word. Now, if he fell and broke his knee, he remembers that. But Voldka didn’t fall and break his knee, and he doesn’t have a scar above his eyebrow, because he never broke his eyebrow either. And he doesn’t remember anything at all.
He doesn’t remember how, having heard the noise of an engine, he was looking for something in the sky with convex blue eyes. And how he extended his hand: he wanted to catch the plane. The hand was plump, with a crease at the wrist, as if someone had traced it with an ink pencil.
When Volodka was very little, he only knew how to ask. And when I got older - about three or four years old - I started asking. He asked his mother the most unexpected questions. And there were some that my mother could not answer.
“Why doesn’t the plane fall from the sky?.. Why do we have stars, but the Nazis have crosses and tails?”
Volodka lived with his mother. He didn't have a dad. And at first he believed that this was how it should be. And it didn’t bother him at all that there was no dad. He didn’t ask about him because he didn’t know that he was supposed to have a dad. But one day he asked his mother:
- Where is my dad?
He thought it was very easy and simple for mom to answer this question. But mom was silent. “Let him think,” Volodka decided and began to wait. But the mother never answered her son’s question.
Volodka was not very upset by this, because his mother left many of his questions unanswered.
Volodka did not ask his mother this question again. What's the point of asking if mom can't answer? But he himself did not forget about his question with the ease with which he forgot about others. He needed dad, and he began to wait for dad to appear.
Oddly enough, Volodka knew how to wait. He did not look for dad at every step and did not demand from his mother that she find him the missing dad. He began to wait. If a boy is supposed to have a dad, then sooner or later he will be found.
“I wonder how dad will appear?” thought Volodka. “Will he come on foot or come by bus? No, dad will arrive by plane - after all, he is a pilot.” In the military town, almost all the children's fathers were pilots.
When he went for a walk with his mother, he looked at the men he met. He tried to guess which of them his dad was like.
“This one is very long,” he thought, looking back at the tall lieutenant, “you can’t even climb onto daddy’s back like that. And why doesn’t he have a mustache? Dad should have a mustache. Just not like the seller in the bakery. He has a red mustache And daddy's mustache will be black..."
Every day Volodka waited more and more impatiently for his dad’s arrival. But dad didn’t come from anywhere.
“Mom, make me a boat,” Volodka said one day and handed his mother the tablet.
The mother looked at her son helplessly, as if he had asked her one of those questions that she could not answer. But then suddenly determination appeared in her eyes. She took the board from her son’s hands, took out a large kitchen knife and began to plan. The knife did not obey his mother: he cut not as mother wanted, but as he pleased - at random. Then the knife slipped and cut my mother’s finger. There was blood. Mom threw the half-planed piece of wood aside and said:
- I’d rather buy you a boat.
But Volodka shook his head.
“I don’t want the one I bought,” he said and picked up the board from the floor.
His friends had beautiful boats with funnels and sails. And Volodka had rough, unplaned wood. But it was this nondescript board, called the steamer, that played a very important role in Volodka’s fate. important role.
One day Volodka was walking along the apartment corridor with a ship-like plank in his hands and came face to face with his neighbor Sergei Ivanovich. The neighbor was a pilot. He spent whole days at the airfield. And Volodka “disappeared” in kindergarten. So they hardly met and did not know each other at all.
- Greetings, brother! - said Sergei Ivanovich, meeting Volodka in the corridor.
Volodka raised his head and began to examine his neighbor. He was dressed to the waist in an ordinary white shirt, and his trousers and boots were military. There was a towel hanging over his shoulder.
- Hello! Volodya replied.
He called everyone "you".
- Why are you walking along the corridor alone? the neighbor asked.
- I'm walking.
- Why don't you go outside?
- They don't let me in. I'm coughing.
- Perhaps you ran through puddles without galoshes?
- No. I ate snow.
- It's clear.
At the end of the conversation, which took place in the darkened corridor, the neighbor noticed a tablet in Volodka’s hands.
- What do you have?
- Ship.
- What kind of boat is this? “This is a board, not a boat,” said the neighbor and suggested: “Let me make you a boat.”
“Just don’t break it,” Volodya warned him and held out the plank.
- What is your name? - incidentally asked a neighbor, looking at a piece of wood.
- Volodya.
- Volodka, that is?
Volodka. This is good. Mom called him Volodenka, and here - Volodya. Very beautiful!
While Volodka was thinking about a new name, the neighbor took a folding penknife from his pocket and deftly began to plan a piece of wood.
What kind of boat is this! Even, smooth, with a pipe in the middle, with a cannon on the nose. The boat did not stand on the floor, it fell on its side, but in the puddles it felt great. No waves could overturn it. Squatting down, Volodya's friends examined the ship with curiosity. Everyone wanted to touch it, pull the string. Volodka was triumphant.
- Don't splash! - he shouted to one of his friends, as if the ship was afraid of water. - Don’t pull, you’ll knock it over! - he warned the other menacingly, although his ship was the most stable ship in the courtyard fleet.
Who made this ship for you? one of the guys asked Volodya.
Volodka hesitated. Then he took in more air and boldly blurted out:
- Dad!
“You’re lying,” said the friend. - You don't have a dad.
- No, there is! No, there is! - Volodka answered decisively. - He won’t do anything to me yet!
...In the evening, my mother noticed Volodka’s boat. She picked him up from the floor, examined him carefully and asked:
- Where did you get that?
“Dad did it,” Volodka responded.
- Dad? - Mom raised her eyebrows in surprise. - Which dad? You don't have a dad...
Mom barely squeezed out the last words. But Volodka was not at all embarrassed by his mother’s objection. He said:
- Why is there no dad? Eat! After all, even girls have dads, and I’m a boy.
Mom suddenly stopped arguing. Two large stubborn eyes looked at her. There was so much determination and despair in them that my mother remained silent. She realized that in little son character emerges that he will not so easily give up what is due to him, which is determined by nature itself.
Mom lowered her eyes and walked away. But he still did not move, a little man who decided to stand up for himself. He clutched his boat to his chest, as if someone wanted to take this precious item away from him.
...Sergei Ivanovich had no idea what the boat had done to its little neighbor. And of course, it could never have occurred to him that Volodka, in search of his dad, had chosen him.
Returning from kindergarten, Volodka asked:
- Dad is at home?
Mom didn’t answer. Then he, seizing a moment, slipped into the corridor and headed to the next door. He pushed the door with his shoulder. She did not give in: dad was not at home. Volodka did not lose heart. What a shame that dad is not at home! It is important that there is a dad.
Gradually, Volodka developed his own idea about dad. His dad lived in another room, had lunch in the dining room and put on the kettle himself. And if a button came off, he sewed it on himself. And he didn’t report to anyone where he was going and when he would return. Volodka decided that this is exactly what a dad should be.
It happened that Volodka became seriously ill. This time he ate too much snow and developed a fever. He lay in bed and burned. It seemed to him that the bed was on fire and the fire was heating up the pillow, blanket, and shirt. And they often put a thermometer on him, because they are afraid that he will completely burn out.
Volodka did not moan, did not sigh, did not call for his mother. He bravely endured the illness. He sniffled. And at times he coughed, and then a rough, gurgling ball rolled in his chest.
The grandmother from the neighboring apartment sat with Volodka all day. Grandmother wanted Volodka to fall asleep, she told him fairy tales. In the end, it was not Volodka who fell asleep from the fairy tales, but the grandmother herself.
When my mother returned from work in the evening, my grandmother silently got up and went to her neighboring apartment.
It was more fun with mom. She walked back and forth, bringing something, taking it away, dropping it on the floor. She bothered Volodka, gave him either medicine or sour fruit juice. She put a cool hand to her forehead - it felt nice. I turned the pillow over to the “cold side” - that was also good. It's just a pity that the pillow got hot quickly.
Mom kept asking:
- Does your head hurt? What to give you? What do you want?
But Volodka didn’t want anything. He didn't know that the cold snow would make him so hot. And so sickening. He was silent.
And suddenly the boy said:
- Mom, call dad.
Mom turned to the window. She pretended that she had not heard her son’s request. She hoped that he would immediately forget about her.
But, after waiting a little, Volodka repeated:
- Call dad.
Mom didn't move. She stood with her back to her son, and he did not see how her face became helpless, and her eyes filled with tears. She could do a lot for her son. Give him an expensive toy, buy him something tasty. I could work for him from morning to evening. She could give him her blood, her life. But where could she get his dad?
And Volodka was waiting for her to follow her dad. And she went. She walked out into the corridor and slowly walked towards the next door. She went to a stranger to ask him to be a dad for a few minutes.

Goals:

instill in students spiritual and moral values;
develop moral and ethical qualities; develop a sense of love and pride for your family;
cultivate respect for the older generation.

Equipment: musical works on the topic, television, video equipment.

Visibility:

wall newspaper “Mom in my life” (see Appendix 1);
slideshow with photographs of children and parents;
poster “The Motherland is calling”;
reproduction of the painting “The Sistine Madonna” by Raphael;
epigraph; title.

Progress of the event

I don't know anything more beautiful
Worthy of a happy mother
With a small child in her arms.
Taras Shevchenko

A poem sounds to the tune of "Ave Maria" S. Ostrovoy “Woman with a child in her arms.”

Presenter: Even though we all grow up sooner or later, we all come from childhood. What is childhood? This is, first of all, family, mother: this is what our meeting is dedicated to today.

Leading:“Good afternoon” we say today to our closest and dear people-to our mothers!

Mother! What a wonderful word, so warm and gentle, so strict and educating: and the most important word on Earth for each of us! It’s not for nothing that it sounds almost the same in all languages: mother, mother, mutti (mutti), mia, baba: mother will understand everyone and warm them with her warmth.

Presenter: By decree of the President of the Russian Federation B.N. Yeltsin dated January 30, 1998, an annual Russian holiday was established - Mother's Day. The holiday is celebrated in last sunday november. And although this holiday has been celebrated recently, at all times mother has been and remains the most important and closest person for each of us.

Leading: Mother's Day meets the best traditions of Russians' attitude towards motherhood, unites all layers of Russian society on the ideas of goodness and honoring the woman-Mother. In addition, many believe that it is necessary to improve the status of women and mothers. Mother's Day is a relatively young holiday. It does not yet have established traditions; few people celebrate it in the family circle. But we hope that over time the significance of this day will increase, because in meaning and content this is the holiest holiday.

Poem “Mother's Day is a holiday while young...”

Leading: Today our guys have prepared dedicated to our dear mothers poems.

Against the background of a beautiful melody, several children read poems.

V. Gin “Don’t offend mothers”

R. Gamzatov "Mom"

E. Asadov "Brave mother"

E. Asadov "Bear cub"

Leading: The first word a person utters is “mother.” It is addressed to the one

gave him life. Children are the most precious thing for a mother. A mother's happiness lies in the happiness of her children. No

nothing more selfless and holy than her love. Mother is the child's first teacher and friend. She will always understand him, console him, help him in difficult times, protect him, protect him from trouble. There is no person in the world dearer and closer than a mother.

Leading: Each of us has a feeling of security and peace when our mother is nearby. But do we always realize at what price our peace and happiness are paid? Which? Self-sacrifice, self-forgetfulness of the mother. These ancient words, which have almost disappeared from colloquial speech, most accurately characterize maternal love. A mother's heart is the most merciful judge, the most sympathetic friend, the sun of love, the light of which warms us all our lives.

A Ukrainian folk melody sounds.

A dramatization of D. Kedrin’s poem “Mother’s Heart.”

Leading: Love for mother is inherent in us by nature itself. This feeling lives in a person until the end of his days. Let us remember the words of Oleg Koshevoy, addressed to his mother and full of filial tenderness:

Mom mom! I remember your hands from the moment I began to recognize myself in the world. Over the summer they were always covered in tan, and it didn’t go away even in the winter - it was so gentle, even, only a little darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher than your hands - after all, they had so much work to do in life - but they always seemed so tender to me, and I loved kissing them right on the dark veins...

Leading: Woman is a great word. It contains the purity of a girl, the dedication of a friend, the feat of a mother. Mother gives each of us, from a lullaby to her last breath, selfless love, care, and affection.

A. Dementev “I believe that all women are beautiful”

The lights go out. The poster “The Motherland is Calling!” is illuminated. Excerpts from Yu. Yakovlev’s work “Heart of the Earth” are played to the melody.

Young men come out with candles in their hands.

Readers:

1. In the icy wind, I saw her at the stove with her eyes closed. This vision appeared at night at the post. I had a letter in my pocket. A distant warmth wafted from him, smelling of resinous firewood. This native warmth was stronger than the wind.

When a letter arrived from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with a field mail number, no lines. It was my mother's voice. I heard it even over the roar of the guns. The smoke from the dugout touched my cheek, like the smoke from my home.

2. Under New Year I saw my Christmas tree. Mom told the letter about the Christmas tree in detail. It turns out that Christmas tree candles were accidentally found in the closet. Short, multi-colored, similar to sharpened colored pencils. They were lit, and from the spruce branches the incomparable aroma of stearin in pine needles wafted across the room. The room was dark, and only the cheerful will-o'-the-wisps faded and flared up, and the gilded walnuts flickered dimly. I was lying in the snow in a heavy helmet, in a comforter - in a woolen visor lowered, in an overcoat hardened by melted snow, and fragments of shells loudly flopped to the ground - large, torn pieces of metal... Here one fell very close... Burn, Christmas tree. Twinkle, gilded nuts. It’s good that somewhere near mom there is an island of peace where everything is the same. Warm and calm. And mom is in a safe place. And her only concern is me. The old clock ticks and strikes midnight. A cricket, miraculously settled in a city apartment, works on a chirping machine. The Big Dipper's bucket stands on the roof of the house opposite. It smells like bread. Quiet. The tree went out. The stove is hot.

3. I once asked my mother:

Is my heart glowing?

“Well, how can it glow,” my mother objected.

I saw a glowing heart in the forge. The forge stood on the edge of the village. The smell of coal smoke reeked from her, and she shook from the ringing intermittent blows. I heard the leather bellows breathing wheezingly and how their breath in the forge awakened the fire in the coals with a slight whistle.

“You see,” I said in a whisper.

Why does it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

“It will be,” said my mother.

I immediately got to work. I applied firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to fetch water. And every time he finished the job, he asked:

Is it glowing?

And my mother nodded her head.

4. One day I found a shell fragment on the ground and showed it to my mother:

Look what a stone!

“It’s not a stone,” my mother answered. - It's a shell fragment.

Did the shell crash?

It exploded into many pieces.

To kill.

I threw the fragment on the ground and glanced at it warily.

Don't be afraid, Mom said. - He won't kill anyone. He himself is dead.

How do you know? I asked my mother.

I was a sister of mercy.

I looked at my mother as if she were a stranger. I couldn’t understand what the sister of mercy had to do with my mother. At that distant moment, neither she nor I could even imagine that ten years later I would be lying in an overcoat, wearing a helmet, with a rifle pressed to my side, and such stones with sharp edges would fly at me. Not dead, but alive. Not for life, but for death.

5. I woke up in a cart, not hay. I felt no pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. The lips, head, and chest were thirsty. Everything that was alive in me wanted to drink. It was the thirst of a burning house. I was burning with thirst. And suddenly I thought that the only person who could save me was my mother. A forgotten childhood feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. She will quench thirst, take away pain, calm, save. And I started calling her. The cart rumbled, drowning out my voice. Thirst sealed my lips. And with the last of my strength I whispered the unforgettable word - mommy. I called her. I trusted in her as in God. Mother of God. Mother of Man. Mother. I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold, life-giving water rushed out to extinguish the fire: it flowed over the lips, down the chin, down the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of causing pain. She gave me water from a cold ladle and took death away from me. I felt a familiar touch of a hand, heard a familiar voice...

Son! Son, dear...

I couldn't open my eyes. But I saw my mother. I recognized her hand, her voice. I came to life from her mercy.

My lips parted and I whispered:

Mom, mommy...

My mother lay in a mass grave in besieged Leningrad. In an unfamiliar village near a well, I mistook someone else’s mother for my own. Apparently all mothers have great similarities. And if one mother cannot come to her wounded son, then another mother stands at his bedside. Mom, mommy....

The waltz of D.B. Kabalevsky sounds " School years", a poem sounds in the background. One couple is dancing a waltz.

Leading: A mother's love for her children is limitless. A mother always remembers her child, no matter where he is. Many mothers, having received notice of the death of their son during the Great Patriotic War, did not believe in his death and for the rest of their lives hoped for a miracle, a miracle of return.

To the tune“Requiem” by Mozart sounds a poem by N. Rublev “All people sleep”

To the melody of a drawn-out Russian song, K. Kuliev’s poem “Oh, why are you, red sun…” sounds

“Native lands are waiting for us, like moorings…”

Leading. Women have an important and responsible duty - to be the soul of the family, to bring light and warmth. The life of a mother is an everyday, sometimes imperceptible, everyday feat.

S. Ostrovoy "Noise, any trouble will rush off ..."

Leading. Our mothers so often have a hard time with us! We upset them with bad deeds, laziness in studies. We don't always remember how many sleepless nights mom spent at our crib. Taking mother's care for granted, we forget to thank her.

Scene "One day in the life of a woman"

Son: Spring! On the street, drops ring in vying with the stream! We managed to get our feet wet, walked without hats during the day!

Daughter: We walked, as always, without mom, she was at work, as always, from that work, let’s face it, mom’s head hurts.

And then my mother came home from work,
Throws her bag on the table
From there sprats fell out,
Little boots for my son
Three kilograms of sausage,
For Dad new watch,
Shoelaces, hair clips, paper clips, hat!

Son: What a handsome dad will be!

Mother: And I forgot about my grandmother, I didn’t buy her anything!

Son: Mom, I didn’t understand the topic, explain the theorem to me.

Daughter: And who is an orangutan? How to remove ethylbutane?

Son: The birdhouse needs to be put together!

Daughter: Whitewash the fence near the school!

Together: We still need to play

sing, jump, dance!

Mother:

I I don’t understand the theorems
I don't know orangutans.
I'm tired, children, I'm very tired!
Oh, get away from me! (Leave)

I even forgot about myself (takes the mirror)
Let me paint my eyes,
And I'll put a mask on my face.
I won't forget about the manicure
I will be very beautiful! (drying nails)

Well, hello daughter, how are you?
Oh! My back suddenly hurt.
Tell me what they write in the press.
What's new in the political process?
Another problem happened!
Put your jaw here for me! (shows)
And where are the pills for vision?

Mother: Ah, grandpa, go to grandma.

Mother: Let me rest now.

Mother: Who's there?

Neighbour: Open up, your neighbor. I would like some Blendamed paste.

Mother: Come in, I am now. Who turned on the gas in the kitchen?!

Mother: Here, hold Blendamed. I don't have time! Now the series will begin on how Jose became rich.

(Dad enters)

Dad: My dear wife, aren’t you tired, dear? I want to eat, I'm dying! I would bake some pies,

I would boil the horns and fry the cutlets, feed them an omelet, cook pea soup and wash the dishes!

Mother(delirious): What? Dishes? Pies?! Children, school and horns? Orangutan and Blendamed? Newspaper, press, old man!!

All: That's the kind of mom she is! Both the hostess and the lady! We all love her very much, she is no more valuable, more expensive!!!

The song "Mama" is playing. Muses. Gerard Bourgeois, Temistokle Popa, lyrics. Yu.Entina

Leading: We are in eternal, unpayable debt to our mother, whose love accompanies us all our lives. Therefore, we must and are obliged to tenderly love, respect, take care of her, and not hurt the mother with our words and actions

A. Dementiev “At night a hysterical cough sounds…”

R. Gamzatov “Don’t leave mothers alone...”

Leading: We bow to all women, mothers for your selfless love, kindness, for your hands, which do good and justice on earth, decorate life, fill it with meaning, make it happy.

The guys take turns standing up and saying their words.

Readers:

1. A down scarf, the light of a friend's smile,
Eyes that can forgive and understand
What is always in anxiety:
- Well, where are we and what are we?
This is how I remember my mother from childhood.

2. In times of trouble it will warm you up, cover you with itself,
Sometimes he scolds and forgets immediately...
- Thank you, moms, thank you very much
For everything you have done in life for us!

3 .Thank you for your care and affection,

4 . For the good life that was given to the family,

5. For the first song, for the first fairy tale,

6 . For years of anxiety, for nights without sleep.

7. Sometimes we notice you too late
Snow on the temples, cobwebs around the eyes...

8 .Thank you, moms,
Thanks a lot -
For all,
What have you done in life for us!

9 . We bow to you, mothers, for your great maternal feat.

10. We bow to you, mothers, for your understanding, cordiality, patience, and care.

11. We bow to you for bringing light and warmth to children and people around you.

12 . We bow to you for your great, selfless work.

13 . We bow to you - the soul of the family, the guardians of the family hearth.

14. We bow to you, who guard the peace and happiness of the human race.

15 . Peace to your home, your family, dear mothers.

All. We bow deeply to you, woman whose name is Mother!

Leading: And at the end of our evening, we say: What is family? Mother? What can it be compared to? This is the firmament on which the sun always shines. The rays of this sun are mutual understanding, respect, love, friendship, joint affairs. And let's remember that everyone: both adults and children, want to live in a world of beauty, fantasy and creativity. And also that what our family is like, our Mothers are like this, our children are like this, our future will be like this, and Russia will be like this.

Leading: Remember, the main law of the family is to take care of each family member, and each member takes care of the whole family. You must firmly know this law, then your family, home, will be a place where you are loved, expected, understood and accepted for who you are, where it is warm and cozy.