Stories from Soviet Childhood: MISHKA'S PORRIDGE (1)


Today we continue reading stories from my Soviet Childhood. How I already told that is very important to know what books people read and what movies watched when they were kids. That gives us a clue to understand who these people are. Today we start to read next story by Noikolay Nosov, first it was published in the magazine for children “Murzilka” then in the book Rat-tat-tat (Тук-тук-тук), 1945. Many generation of Soviet people were brought up on this stories. And I’ll tell you a secret that I like them all but maybe “Mishka’s Porrige” is my favorite ;).


(Part 1)

Last summer when I was living in the country with my mother, Mishka [a boy’s name] came to stay with us. I was very pleased to see him because I had been quite lonely without him. Mum was pleased to see him too.

“I’m so glad you’ve come,” she said. “You two boys can keep each other company. I have to go to town early tomorrow, and I don’t know when I’ll be back. Do you think you can manage here by yourselves?”

“Of course we can,” I said. “We aren’t babies.”

“You’ll have to make your own breakfast. Do you know how to cook porridge?”

“I do,” said Mishka. “It’s easy as anything.”
“Mishka,” I said, “are you quite sure you know? When did you ever cook porridge?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve seen Mum cook it. You leave it to me. I won’t let you starve. I’ll make you the best porridge you’ve ever tasted.”

In the morning Mum left us a supply of bread and some jam for our tea and showed us where the oatmeal was. She told us how to cook it too, but I didn’t bother to listen. Why should I bother if Mishka knows all about it, I thought.

Then Mum went away and Mishka and I decided to go down to the river to fish. We got out our fishing-tackle and dug up some worms.
“Just a minute,” I said. “Who’s going to cook the porridge if we go down to the river?”
“Who wants to bother with cooking?” said Mishka. “It’s too much trouble. We can eat bread and jam instead. There’s plenty of bread. We’ll cook the porridge later on when we get hungry.”

We made a lot of jam sandwiches and went off to the river. We went in swimming and lay on the sandy beach afterwards drying ourselves and eating our sandwiches. Then we fished. We sat for a long time but the fish wouldn’t bite. All we got was a dozen or so gudgeons, teeny-weeny ones. We spent most of the day down at the river. Late in the afternoon we got terribly hungry and hurried home to get something to eat.

“Now then, Mishka,” I said. “You’re the expert. What shall we make?”
“Let’s make some porridge,” said Mishka. “It’s the easiest.”
“All right,” I said.
We lit the stove. Mishka got the meal and pot.
“See you make plenty while you’re at it. I’m good and hungry.”
He nearly filled the pot up with meal and poured in water up to the brim.
“Isn’t that too much water?” I said.
“No, that’s the way Mother makes it. You look after the stove and leave the porridge to me.”
So I kept the fire going while Mishka cooked the porridge, which means that he sat and watched the pot, because the porridge cooked by itself.

Before long it got quite dark and we had to light the lamp. And the porridge went on cooking. Suddenly I looked up and saw the pot lid rising and the porridge spilling out over the side.

“Hey, Mishka,” I said. “What’s the matter with the porridge?”
“Why, what’s wrong with it?”
“It’s climbing right out of the pot!”
Mishka grabbed a spoon and began pushing the porridge back into the pot. He pushed and pushed, but it kept swelling up and spilling over the side.
“I don’t know what’s happened to it. Perhaps it’s ready?”

I took a spoon and tasted a little, but the meal was still hard and dry.
“Where’s all the water gone?”
“I don’t know,” said Mishka. “I put an awful lot in. Perhaps there’s a hole in the pot?”
We looked all over the pot but there wasn’t any sign of a hole.
“Must have evaporated,” he said. “We’ll have to add some more.”
He took some of the porridge out of the pot and put it on a plate; he had to take out quite a bit to make room for the water. Then we put the pot back on the stove and let it cook some more. It cooked and cooked and after a while it began spilling over the side again.

“Hey, what’s the idea!” cried Mishka. “Why won’t it stay in the pot?”
He snatched up his spoon and scooped out some more porridge and added another cup of water.
“Look at that,” he said. “You thought there was too much water.”
The porridge went on cooking. And would you believe it, in a little while it lifted the lid and came crawling out again!
I said: “You must have put too much meal in. That’s what it is. It swells when it cooks and there’s not enough room in the pot for it.”
“Yes, that must be it,” said Mishka. “It’s all your fault. You told me to put a lot in because you were hungry, remember?”
“How do I know how much to put in? You’re the one who’s supposed to know how to cook.”
“So I do. I’d have it cooked by now if you hadn’t interfered.”
“All right, cook away, I shan’t say another word.”

I went off in a huff and Mishka went on cooking the porridge, that is, he kept scooping out the extra porridge and adding water. Soon the whole table was covered with plates of half-cooked porridge. And he added water each time.
Finally I lost patience.

“You’re not doing it right. This way the porridge won’t be ready till morning.”
“Well, that’s how they do it in big restaurants. Didn’t you know that? They always cook dinner the night before so it should be ready by morning.”
“That’s all right for restaurants. They don’t need to hurry because they have heaps of other food.”
“We don’t need to hurry either.”
“Don’t we! I’m starving. And besides it’s time to go to bed. See how late it is.”
“You’ll have plenty of time to sleep,” he said, throwing another glass of water into the pot. Suddenly it dawned on me what was wrong,
“Of course it won’t cook if you keep adding cold water,” I said.
“You think you can cook porridge without water?”
“No, I think you’ve still got too much meal in that pot.”
I took the pot, spilled out half the meal and told him to fill it with water.
He took the mug and went to the pail.
“Dash it,” he said. “The water’s all gone.”
“What shall we do now? It’s pitch dark, we’ll never be able to find the well.”
“Rats, I’ll bring some in a jiffy.”
He took matches, tied a rope round the handle of the pail and went off to the well. In a few minutes he was back.
“Where’s the water?” I asked him. .
“Water? Out there in the well.”
“Don’t be silly. What have you done with the pail?”
“The pail? That’s in the well too.”

We’ll continue to read the story next Wednesday.

Best wishes,


comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: THE CRUCIAN CARP(2)


As you remember on Wednesdays we publish Stories from Soviet Childhood – stories on situations my generation was brought up, and generation of our parents was brought up and we tried to bring up our children by reading them good children book. Today we are finishing a story by Nikolay Nosov “The Crucian Carp”. If you did not read the first part please click at the little picture. To the right —->

(Part 2)

…The boys stood watching the fish swimming back and forth in the jar. Seryozha was very pleased, but Vitalik felt a little sad. He was sorry he had given away his fish, and what is most important, he was afraid to tell his mother that he had exchanged it for a whistle.

“Perhaps she won’t notice that it’s gone,” he thought as he walked home. But as soon as he came home his mother asked him: “Where is your fish?”
Vitalik did not know what to say.
“Did Murzik eat it up?”
“I don’t know,” Vitalik mumbled.

“There you are,” said his mother. “He waited until everybody was out, fished it out of the bowl and gobbled it up. Look at all the water splashed about! The wicked cat! Where is he? Find him at once.”

“Murzik! Murzik!” Vitalik called, but Murzik was nowhere to be seen.
“He must have jumped out through the window,” said his mother. “Go outside and have a look.”
Vitalik put on his coat and went outside.

“Oh dear, what shall I do?” he thought miserably. “Now Murzik will get a hiding because of me.”
He was just about to go back and say he couldn’t find Murzik, when Murzik himself sprang out of an opening that led into the basement and ran over to the door.
“Murzik darling, don’t go home,” said Vitalik. “You’ll get a hiding from Mummy.”
Murzik purred and rubbed himself against Vitalik’s leg and meowed softly.
“Don’t you understand, you silly cat?” said Vitalik. “You mustn’t go in.”
But Murzik wouldn’t listen. He looked up adoringly at Vitalik, rubbing himself against his legs and pushing at him gently with his head as if begging him to hurry up and open the door. Vitalik tried to drag him away from the door, but Murzik insisted. Vitalik opened the door quickly, slipped inside and closed it before Murzik had time to follow him.
“Meow!” cried Murzik from the other side of the door.
Vitalik poked his head out: “Keep quiet, you silly. Mummy will hear and you’ll get beaten!”
He picked up the cat and started to push him back into the hole under the house. Murzik resisted with all four paws. He didn’t want to go back into the basement.
“Get in, silly,” muttered Vitalik. “And stay there.”
At last he managed to push the kitten through the hole, all except his tail which still stuck out. The tail wiggled angrily for a little, then disappeared inside. Vitalik was glad: he thought Murzik understood that he must sit tight in the cellar. But the next minute Murzik stuck his head out of the hole again.
“Where are you going, stupid!” hissed Vitalik, covering the opening with his hands. “Didn’t I tell you you can’t go home just now.”
“Meow!” cried Murzik.
“Meow yourself,” snapped Vitalik. “Oh dear, what shall I do with you?”
He looked around for something to cover the hole with. There was a brick lying on the ground near the cellar. Vitalik picked it up and stood it up against the opening.
“There,” he said. “Now you can’t get out. You stay there for a while. Tomorrow Mummy will forget all about the fish and then I’ll let you out.”

Vitalik went back into the house and told his mother he couldn’t find Murzik anywhere.
“Never mind,” said Mummy. “He’ll come back. I shan’t forgive him for this.”
At dinner that day Vitalik felt very miserable. He didn’t want to eat anything.
“Here I am having dinner,” he thought, “and poor Murzik is sitting there in the dark cellar.”
When his mother left the table, Vitalik took his portion of meat from his plate, hid it in his pocket and ran out to the cellar. He moved the brick aside and called softly: “Murzik! Murzik!”
But Murzik didn’t answer. Vitalik bent down and peeped through the hole, but it was too dark to see anything.
“Murzik! Murzik!” Vitalik called. “Do come out, there’s a good cat. I’ve got a nice bit of meat for you.”
But Murzik did not appear.
“You won’t? All right, you can stay there hungry,” said Vitalik and went home in a huff.
At home he felt very lonely without Murzik. Besides, his heart was heavy because he had deceived his mother.
His mother saw that he looked unhappy.
“Cheer up,” she said. “I’ll get you another fish.”
“I don’t want a fish,” he said.
He wanted to own up to his mother about everything but he hadn’t the courage, so he said nothing. Just then there was a faint scratching noise outside the window, followed by loud “Meow!”
Vitalik looked up and saw Murzik standing on the window-ledge. How had he got out of the cellar?

“Aha!” cried Vitalik’s mother. “There he is, the rascal! Come here, you bad cat!”
She opened the little window and Murzik came in. She tried to grab him, but he must have guessed that something was wrong because he darted under the table.
“Oh, the cunning little beast,” said Vitalik’s mother. “He knows he’s guilty. Vitalik, help me catch him.”
Vitalik crawled under the table. When Murzik saw him he fled for cover under the sofa. Vitalik was glad, and though he dutifully crawled after him, he made as much noise as he could so as to give Murzik a chance to escape. Murzik sprang out from under the sofa and Vitalik started chasing him round and round the room.
“Don’t make such a noise,” said his mother. “You’ll never catch him that way.”
Murzik jumped on to the window-sill where the empty fish bowl stood and was about to jump back through the window but missed his footing and fell into the fish bowl with a great splash! The next moment he was out, shaking himself furiously. Mother seized him by the scruff of the neck.

“Now, I’ll teach you a good lesson.”
“Mummy, Mummy! Please don’t beat him!” cried Vitalik and burst into tears.
“Now, don’t go pitying him. He didn’t pity the fish, did he?”
“He isn’t to blame, Mummy.”
“Oh, isn’t he? Who ate the fish, then?”
“It wasn’t him.”
“Then who was it?”
“It was me….”
“What? You ate the fish?”
“No, I didn’t eat it. I … I exchanged it for a whistle.”
“For a what?”
“For this.” And Vitalik pulled the whistle out of his pocket and showed it to his mother.
“You naughty boy, you ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“I didn’t mean it, Mummy. Seryozha said: ‘Let’s change,’ so I did.”
“I meant you ought to be ashamed of yourself for not telling the truth. I blamed it on Murzik. Is it nice to shift the blame on others?”
“I was afraid you would scold me.”
“Only cowards are afraid to tell the truth. How would you have felt if I had punished Murzik?”
“I’ll never do it again.”
“Well, mind you don’t. I forgive you this time because you owned up.”

Vitalik picked up Murzik and took him over to the stove to dry. With his wet fur sticking up all over Murzik looked more like a hedgehog than a cat. He looked skinny too, as if he hadn’t eaten for a whole week. Vitalik felt very sorry for him. He took the piece of meat out of his pocket and laid it on the chair in front of Murzik. Murzik ate it up with great zest and settled down on the chair to dry. After a while he climbed on to Vitalik’s lap, curled up in a ball and began to purr as loudly as he could. The sound of his purring made Vitalik somehow feel very happy. It must have been the purring because what else could it be?

Best wishes and next Wednesday we will read next story!


comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: THE CRUCIAN CARP(1)


Today we continue reading stories for kids what were written by Nikolay Nosov. These stories were published first in the magazine for children “Murzilka”. Then many of them make up the foundation of the Nosov’s first collection Rat-tat-tat (Тук-тук-тук), 1945. And today we’ll divide this long story on two parts like they did it when they published the stories in magazine.
(Part 1)

Vitalik’s mother made him a present of a crucian carp and a small aquarium for it to live in. It was a beautiful little fish and Vitalik was very excited about it at first, he fed it and changed the water in the bowl regularly. But after a time he lost interest in it and sometimes he even forgot to feed it.

Vitalik had a kitten, too, called Murzik, a grey fluffy kitten with large green eyes. Murzik loved to watch the fish swimming about in its bowl. He could sit for hours beside the bowl with his eyes glued to the carp.

“You’d better keep an eye on Murzik,” Vitalik’s mother warned him. “He’ll eat up your fish one of these days.”
“No, he won’t,” said Vitalik. “I’ll see he doesn’t.”

One day when his mother was out, Vitalik’s friend Seryozha came to see him. When he saw the fish he said:
“That’s a nice little carp you’ve got there. I’ll give you a whistle for it if you like.”
“What do I need a whistle for?” said Vitalik. “I think a fish is much better than a whistle.”
“No, it isn’t. You can blow on a whistle, but what can you do with a fish?”
“You can watch it swimming in its bowl. And that’s more fun than blowing a whistle.”

“Rats,” said Seryozha. “Besides, the cat can gobble up your fish any time and then you won’t have a whistle or a fish either. But the cat won’t eat a whistle, because it’s made of iron.”
“Mummy doesn’t like me to swap things. She’ll buy me a whistle if I want one.”

“She’d never get one like this,” said Seryozha. “You can’t buy them in the shops. This is a real militiaman’s whistle. When I go outside in our yard and whistle everyone thinks it’s the militia.”
Seryozha took a whistle out of his pocket and blew a piercing blast on it.
“Let me have a try,” begged Vitalik.
He took the whistle and blew on it. It responded with a loud trill. Vitalik was enchanted. He longed to own the whistle but at the same time he didn’t want to part with his fish.
“Where would you put the fish if I changed with you? You haven’t got an aquarium.”
“I’d put it in a jam jar. We have a big one at home.”
“All right, take it,” said Vitalik, finally giving in.
They had a hard time taking the fish ,out of the bowl. It kept slipping out of their hands. At last, after splashing water all over the floor, Seryozha managed to catch it, wetting his sleeves up to the elbow in the process.
“I’ve got him!” he shouted. “Quick, bring me a glass of water.”

Vitalik brought a mug full of water and Seryozha dropped the fish into it. Then the two friends went to Seryozha’s place. The jam jar turned out to be not quite so big as Seryozha had said, and the fish had much less room than in its bowl. The boys stood watching it swimming back and forth in the jar. Seryozha was very pleased, but Vitalik felt a little sad. He was sorry he had given away his fish, and what is most important, he was afraid to tell his mother that he had exchanged it for a whistle.

To read continue please click at the little picture….

Best wishes and we’ll continue next Wednesday!


comments always welcome

Stories from Soviet Childhood: Cucumbers!


Today we continue to read stories for kids what were written by Nikolay Nosov. These stories were published first in the magazine for children “Murzilka”. Then many of them make up the foundation of the Nosov’s first collection Rat-tat-tat (Тук-тук-тук), 1945.


Once Pavlik took Kotka fishing with him (Pavlik and Kotka – names of the boys). But they had no luck that day: the fish simply wouldn’t bite, so they went home. On the way, they climbed over the fence into the collective-farm vegetable garden and filled their pockets with cucumbers. The watchman saw them and blew his whistle, but they ran away. Pavlik was afraid he would get into trouble for picking vegetables from the collective-farm plot, so he gave all his cucumbers to Kotka.

Kotka came running home all excited. “Mummy, see what a lot of cucumbers I’ve brought you.”
His pockets were full of cucumbers, he had cucumbers inside his shirt and a large cucumber in each hand.

“Where did you get them from?” asked his mother sternly.
“The vegetable plot.”
“What vegetable plot?”
“The collective-farm plot down by the river.”

“Who allowed you to take them?”
“Nobody. I picked them-myself.”
“You stole them, you mean?”
“I didn’t steal them, I just took them. Pavlik took some, so I took some too.”

Kotka started pulling the cucumbers out of his pockets.
“Wait a minute,” said his mother. “Don’t empty your pockets yet.”
“But why?”
“Because you are going to take them back at once.”

“Oh, but I can’t take them back. They grew on the vegetable bed and I picked them. They won’t grow any more just the same.”
“Never mind, you’ll take them and put them back where you got them from.”
“I’ll throw them away.”
“No, you won’t. You didn’t plant them and take care of them, so you have no right to throw them away.”

Kotka began to cry. “There’s an old man there, a watchman. He whistled at us and we ran away.”
“Now, you see how naughty you are. Suppose he caught you?”
“He couldn’t catch us. He’s an old man.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said his mother. “That old man is responsible for the cucumbers. When they find out at the farm that all those cucumbers have gone, they will blame the old man. Is that nice?”

Mother stuck the cucumbers back into Kotka’s, pockets and Kotka wept loudly and protested:
“I shan’t go. The old man has a gun. He’ll shoot me.”!
“It would serve you right if he did. I don’t want a son who steals.”

Kotka only cried the louder. “Mummy, come with me, please. It’s dark outside. I’m afraid.”
“You weren’t afraid to take the cucumbers, were you?”

Mother gave Kotka the two cucumbers which didn’t fit into his pockets and led him outside.
“If you don’t put the cucumbers back you needn’t come home.”
She went inside the house and closed the door. Kotka started off slowly down the street.

It was quite dark.

“I’ll throw them into the ditch and say I took them back,” Kotka said to himself, glancing around him. “No, I’d better not. Someone might see me, and besides, the old man will get into trouble all through me.” He went down the street, sobbing. He was very scared.
“It’s all right for Pavlik,” he thought. “He gave me his cucumbers and now he’s sitting at home safe and sound. He isn’t scared.”

He came to the end of the village and took the path over the field. There was not a soul in sight. He was so frightened he almost ran the rest of the way to the vegetable plot. When he got there he stopped outside the watchman’s hut and began to cry. The watchman heard him and came over.

“Why are you crying, little boy?”
“I’ve brought back the cucumbers, Grand-dad.”
“What cucumbers?”
“The ones me and Pavlik picked today. Mummy told me to put them back.”

“Oh, I see,” said the old watchman. “So it was you I whistled to this afternoon. You managed to pick the cucumbers after all. You little scamps!”
“Pavlik took some and I took some too. He gave me his.”

“Never mind what Pavlik does, you ought to know better than to steal from the vegetable plot. See you don’t do it again. Now give me the cucumbers and run home.”

Kotka pulled out the cucumbers and laid them on the ground.
“Is that all?” asked the old man.
“Yes.…No….not quite. All except one,” said Kotka and started crying again.
“Where is it?”
“I ate it, Grand-dad…. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”
“You ate it, did you? Well, you’re welcome to it, I’m sure.”
“But.…but, Grand-dad, won’t you get into trouble because of me?”

“So that’s what you’re worried about, is it?” laughed the old man. “No, I won’t get into trouble for one cucumber. If you hadn’t brought the others back I might have.”
Kotka said good-bye and ran off down the path. Suddenly he stopped and called back: “Grand-dad, Grand-dad!”
“What’s the trouble now?”
“Grand-dad, that cucumber I ate, will they say I stole it?”
“Now, I don’t know as to that,” said the old man. Then he added: “Very well, we’ll say you didn’t steal it.”
“Let’s say I made you a present of it.”
“Thank you, Grand-dad. Good night.”
“Good night, son.”
Kotka raced across the field for all he was worth. He jumped over ditches and across the bridge and when he reached the village lie slowed down to a walk. He felt very happy……


comments always welcome

Svet Sunday: Stories from Soviet Childhood!


Today we want to introduce you to our new series: Stories from Soviet Childhood!

Childhood is the most important period in the life for everybody. Most of our beliefs we get from childhood. We learn what is good and bad when we are kids. And these beliefs are very difficult to change later in life… So we [my generation] are like we were brought up in our Soviet childhood.

So in these series we’ll try to tell what was the cultural ground where we grew up. Another reason to make this series – we think that is just interesting to read and watch – and if you have your children maybe you would like to show or to read it for them? Believe The Stories from Soviet Childhood would not teach your kids something bad!

We plan to have this series on Wednesdays. But we’ll start today! Nikolay Nosov (Николай Николаевич Носов) wrote his stories about Mishka in 1945. Today we’ll read one of them:


When Mishka and I were little we wanted very badly to go for a ride in a motor car, but we couldn’t get anyone to take us. We begged all the drivers we knew but they were always too busy to bother with us. One day, as we were playing in the back yard, a car drove up. The driver got out and went off somewhere. We ran over to look at the car.

“It’s a ZIS,” I said. (ZIS is a car)

“No, it isn’t, it’s a Pobeda,” said Mishka. (Pobeda is a car)

“It’s a ZIS, I tell you.”

“And I say it’s a Pobeda. I can tell by the front.”

“In the first place it’s not the front, but the bonnet. Look at the back. See that luggage rack? Did you ever see a Pobeda with a thing like that?”

Mishka looked and said: “Let’s get on it and have a ride.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want to.”

“You needn’t be afraid. We’ll go just a little way and then we’ll jump off.”

Just then the driver came back and got into the car. Mishka ran to the back, climbed on the luggage rack and whispered to me: “Come on! Hurry up!”

“No, I’m not going to.”

“Come on. Don’t be a coward.”

I ran up and hopped on beside him. The car started and before we knew it we were racing down the street. Mishka got frightened.

“I’m going to jump off!” he shouted.

“Don’t you dare!” I said. “You’ll get hurt.”

But he kept on shouting: “I’m going to jump! I’m going to jump!” And he already put one leg down. I glanced back and saw another car coming behind us. “Stop!” I shouted. “You’ll get run over.”

Passers-by stopped to stare at us. A militiaman (militiaman is policeman) at the intersection blew his whistle. Mishka jumped off, but he didn’t let go of the rack and his legs dragged along the ground. I leaned down and started pulling him up by the coat collar. I tugged and tugged until at last I got him safely back on the luggage rack.

“Now hold on tight, you silly,” I shouted. Just then I heard a laugh and looked up to see that the car had stopped and a crowd had gathered. I jumped down.

“All right,” I said to Mishka, “you can get off now.”

But he was too scared to move. I had to pull him off. The militiaman came running up and took the driver’s number. The driver got out and everyone jumped on him.

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, letting children hang on behind like that!”
There was quite an argument and Mishka and I were forgotten.

“Let’s clear out,” I whispered to Mishka. When nobody was looking we dived into a side street and ran home. We were all out of breath when we arrived.

We did look a sight! Mishka’s trousers were torn at the knees and his knees were scratched and bleeding. He got a proper scolding from his mother!

“I don’t care about my trousers, and my knees will soon heal up too, but I’m sorry for that poor driver,” said Mishka. “He’ll get into trouble through us. Did you see the militiaman taking down his number?”

“Yes, we ought to have stayed behind and told them the driver wasn’t to blame.”

“I tell you what,” said Mishka. “Let’s write the militiaman a letter and tell him what happened.”
I agreed and we sat down to write a letter. We wasted a lot of paper before we got it done. Here’s what we wrote:

Dear Comrade Militiaman,

You took down the number of a car, and it isn’t right. That is, the number is right, but it wasn’t right to take it down because the driver wasn’t to blame. Mishka and me are to blame. He didn’t know we were riding behind. So please don’t punish him because he is a good driver and it was all our fault.

We addressed the envelope as follows: “To the Militiaman at the corner of Gorky Street and Bolshaya Gruzinskaya.”

We sealed the envelope and dropped it into the letter-box.

We do hope he got it!


comments always welcome

Tales From a Soviet Childhood…