My mother and I didn’t go to see my grandparents often, and for some reason usually in the winter. Maybe,

My mother and I didn’t go to see my grandparents often, and for some reason usually in the winter. Maybe because in warmer times the mother’s other brothers and sisters visited there with their children. And there were many of them. They happily enjoyed the hospitality of their father’s house, and it was difficult for their grandmother because there wasn’t enough of her for everyone. And my mother felt sorry for my grandmother. But I always looked forward to these trips. There, at my grandparents’ place, it was delicious and interesting. I remember my grandmother’s extraordinary pies, pancakes and borscht. I still remember the honey extractor that stood in the large room. I probably only saw something like this there, with them. A round barrel with an upper superstructure that turned into a handle, which could be twisted a little and then released. And the entire inside of the barrel, merrily tapping and rattling, continued to spin on its own. It was so interesting for me and my cousins, with whom I sometimes ended up at my grandfather’s house at the same time, that we competed and tried in every possible way to extend the rotation time of the barrel mechanism. And time was measured using wall-mounted walkers with chains and weights.

Walkers were another mysterious mechanism. In it, weights were pulled up on a ratchet, when the clock should have stopped. No one was ever allowed to touch the walkers, not even Grandma Maria! Mom said that only her dad, my grandfather Pavlo, was responsible for their work, including pulling up weights. This created the impression of the absolute authority of the head of the family, even managing time.

I also remember another mysterious grandfather’s unit. Behind the house, on the right under the canopy, there was a machine for sharpening knives, scissors, axes and other cutting and piercing equipment. On the machine, at a level just above grandfather’s belt, two or three grinding wheels were mounted on a common axis. And at the bottom is a pedal connected by a belt to this axis. Grandfather Pavlo used the machine constantly. Among the local residents, he was known as a great specialist in the craft of sharpening. Neighbors and acquaintances, even knowing my grandfather as an “avid shtunda,” did not shy away from bringing a knife or a scythe to “sharpen.” At the same time, those who came, just in case, secretly signed themselves with the sign of the cross, so as not to “be defiled.” Grandfather responded to this with a smile under his gray mustache. After a short time, an instrument brought in in a non-working state took on a new life. The neighbors were happy and grateful.

But for me, the most interesting thing in all this grandfather’s miracle was that the sharpening process was noisy, accompanied by squealing and sparks flying in all directions. I loved watching this spectacle. Even though I was kept at a distance from the machine, I still wanted to get as close as possible. Sometimes Grandpa Pavlo, satisfying my childhood curiosity, took some strange, dark piece of iron and suddenly created an “appearance” for it. The surface went from rusty and unsightly to shiny. And as soon as grandfather touched the grinding wheel with it, it also became a mirror. I really enjoyed stroking this still warm surface with my palm.

But there was one more strange thing about the operation of my grandfather’s sharpening mechanism. As soon as it turned on and the metal touched the grinding wheel, silence reigned in the goat shed and chicken coop. Why this was so, I didn’t know then. It was later that my mother told me that sometimes turning on the sharpening machine meant that, alas, it was time for one of the pets to go under the knife. Then the grandmother, with a rooster under her arm, walked around the yard for a long time, wiping away her tears, then, after praying, she began this unloved work. Grandfather specialized “in a big way.” The day before he began sharpening a special knife. And then, after a short lull, a confused noise, bleating and alarming cries of the kids began. Where and why did they sense someone's near end? I haven't found the answer to that question yet.

And the next morning everything passed in complete silence. Nobody heard anything. Mom said that when everyone woke up, there were pieces of already cut meat on the table, sprinkled with salt and covered with gauze.

Here are literally a few episodes from the life of conservative Baptists, in whose family my mother grew up.