I showed my mother a glowing heart, you see. Summary of the lesson on literary reading “when the heart shines” yuri yakovlev. Directed Reading Method

I don't have my mother's letters. I did not remember them by heart, although I re-read them dozens of times. But the picture of life at home, which arose from my mother's news, is alive in my memory.
I saw our room with a large tiled stove. The stove was burning, and from it a hot spirit of resinous firewood was drawn. Firewood crackled and orange embers fell to the floor. Mom bent down and quickly, so as not to burn her fingers, picked up the coal and threw it into the stove. When the firewood burned out, she stirred the coals with a poker and waited for the bluish fire to disappear above them. Then she slammed the brass door tightly. Soon the white tiles were heating up. Mom pressed her back against him and closed her eyes.
In the icy wind I saw her by the stove with her eyes closed. This vision arose 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 came from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with the field mail number, no lines. It was my mother's voice. I heard it even in the roar of guns.
The smoke of the dugout touched his cheek, like the smoke of his own home.
On New Year's Eve, I saw a Christmas tree at home. Mom told in detail about the Christmas tree in a 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 the incomparable aroma of stearin and pine needles spilled from the fir branches around the room. The room was dark, and only the merry wandering lights flickered and flared up, and the gilded walnuts gleamed dimly.
I was lying on the snow in a heavy helmet, in a balaclava - in a woolen visor lowered, in an overcoat hardened by melting snow, and fragments of shells flopped loudly 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 my mother 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 goes and strikes midnight. The cricket, miraculously settled in a city apartment, works on a chirring typewriter. The Big Dipper bucket is on the roof of the house opposite. Smells like bread. Quiet. The tree went out. The oven is hot.
Then it turned out that all this was a legend that a dying mother composed for me in an ice house, where all the windows were shattered by an explosive wave, and the stoves were dead and people were dying from shrapnel. And she wrote as she died. From the icy besieged city she sent me the last drops of her warmth, the last drops of blood.
She wasn't just hungry. She was shot with starvation. It was not a famine. It was a deadly famine, a fascist famine. Hunger - shelling, hunger - bombing, hunger - fire.
And I believed the legend. He held on to her - 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 drawn by a hand devoid of strength, for which the pen was heavy as an axe. Mother wrote these letters while her heart was beating.
The last letter came in May.
The more water you draw from the well, the fresher and more abundant it is. She exudes the aroma of deep earth and the steady cold of melted snow. Each sip of well water sweetly quenches thirst and fills 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 a bucket does not ring in a semi-dark log house and the scattered links of the chain do not stretch with a bowstring, but rust from inactivity, if the gate does not creak merrily at hand and the drops that escape like silver coins do not fall back into the echoing depths - the spring stops beating, the well is dragged on with silt, withers away. The well is dying.
With the invasion of the enemy, dead wells appeared. They died along with the people. Dead wells were like unburied graves.
Now the wells came to life, or rather, they were revived by people - the living, who replaced the dead. Buckets jingle merrily, and chains glisten in the sun, freed from rust by the touch of many hands. Wells give water to people, cows, earth, trees. They pour water on the red-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. Clumsy, uncut, with an abrasion on his forehead, with 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 began to appear on the water: my little twin made faces and laughed at me - solid, adult, urban.
I leaned over to the bucket and took a sip. The boy swallowed too. So the two of us drank delicious well water, as if we were arguing over who would outdrink whom.
The boy got angry with me. I would gladly drink the whole bucket so as not to see him. I could not drink any more - my teeth were already crooked from the cold - I swung and poured water onto the road. And he hit the chicken, which cackled with displeasure and ran away. I poured out the water, but the double remained. And when I walked through the village, he always made himself felt.
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 near moved far into space, and their outlines were erased. A failure ensued. An emptiness that made me feel uncomfortable. Now this unshaven one, with an abrasion on his forehead, has brought a distant time closer. I saw my childhood with many details.
I remembered the cracks in the logs above my bed, the sennik on the bench, the curtains nailed up with wallpaper nails, the stove damper with its handle riveted off, the horned tongs. I heard the creaking of the floorboards - each with its own special sound: the old cracked boards were the keys of some mysterious instrument. I really smelled the smell of baked milk - a sticky, sweet and sour smell that suddenly flowed out of the oven and forced all other smells out of the house.
I saw my mother. By the well, with sweaty buckets. In the straw rays of the sun.
My grandfather, Alexey Ivanovich Filin, was from the White Lake. As a twelve-year-old boy, he came to St. Petersburg and never returned to the village. Lived hard. Worked a lot. After the revolution, he became the Hero of Labor. City life did not kill the village roots in him. Sometimes he spoke with sadness about the milky water of the White Lake, about bees, about horses, about how homemade beer is brewed in a large vat in the village. Sometimes, drunk, grandfather sang his village songs of few words.
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 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. At first it was quite difficult. But gradually, natural soles formed on the legs, and the legs stopped feeling small pricks. These soles served me faithfully - they did not wear out, they did not rub. True, they often had to be filled with iodine. And wash before bed.
My mother accustomed me to the land, as a bird accustoms her chick to the sky, and a polar bear brings her cub to the sea. Before my eyes, the black earth turned green, then a light blueness spilled over, then bronze shimmered - this is how flax is born. Mom and I pulled flax. Mom deftly twisted the tourniquet and knitted short sheaves. She had a white headscarf on her head, like the villagers.
Sometimes I was assigned to graze the cow Lyska. Then I had to get up very early. And I was angry with Lyska that she did not let me sleep, walking on the cold grass, I was pouting at her. I even wanted to hit her with a cane... She walked slowly, with cow dignity, and a homemade tin bell rattled muffledly around her neck.
Then, in the role, I departed. I approached the cow and snuggled up to her warm breathing side - I warmed myself. Sometimes I talked with Lyska. He told her whole stories. Lyska did not interrupt me; she knew how to listen attentively and silently nodded her head.
Her head is heavy and large. And his eyes, big wet eyes, were saddened by something. Lyska imperceptibly approached me and poked my cheek with her pink nose. Her breath was loud and warm. She treated me patronizingly, like a calf.
At times, I experienced surges of love for our cow. Then I went with her far into the field, where clover porridge and peas grew. He looked for a deep gully, descended a steep slope and tore for her tasty green shoots. I built a "smoke": I lit dry rotten things in a tin can and waved around Lyska so that horseflies and hornets would not overcome her. Lyska became a sacred animal, and I became a servant with a censer. Then Lyska had to be sold. When they took her out of the yard, she cried. I understood everything. She experienced grief. And then I promised myself that when I grow up and earn money, I will buy Lyska back. I promised this to Lyska.
Uncut, with an abrasion on his forehead, looking at me from a bucket, reminded me of this unfulfilled promise. He mocked me and silently, unforgivingly, reproached me for deceiving Lyska. Promised to buy back and did not buy.
In general, my clumsy double reminded me a lot.
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 at the edge of the village. She smelled of coal smoke, and she shook with loud intermittent blows. I heard leather bellows wheezing, and how their breath in the forge, with a slight whistle, awakens fire in the coals.
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, threw the body back and with force brought down a blow on a piece of red-hot iron. 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.
- 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,” Mom said.
I immediately set to work. I brought firewood, turned hay, and even volunteered to fetch water. And every time he finished the job, he asked:
- Does it glow?
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 dropped the shard 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 I were a stranger. I could not 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 really opened up to me in the war. How much land I dug up, I shoveled for 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 ground up close like I've never been able to see before. I approached her like an ant. She stuck to my clothes, to soles, to a shovel - I was all magnetized, and she was iron. The earth was to me both a refuge, and a bed, and a table, it rattled and plunged into silence. On earth they lived, died, were less often born.
One, only one time, the earth did not save me.
I woke up in a cart, in the hay. I did not feel pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. Lips, head, chest wanted to drink. 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 can tackle me is my mother. A forgotten childish feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. It will quench thirst, relieve pain, soothe, save. And I began to call her.
The cart rumbled, drowning out my voice. Thirst sealed her lips. And with the last of my strength I whispered an unforgettable word - mommy. I called her. He relied on her, as on God, the Mother of God, the Human Mother, the Mother.
I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold life-giving water gushed out to put out the fire: it flowed over the lips, over the chin, behind the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of hurting me. She gave me water from a cold ladle, averted death from me.
I felt a familiar touch of a hand, heard a native voice:
- Son! Son, dear...
I couldn't open my eyes. But I saw my mother. I recognized her hand, her voice. I revived from her mercy. My lips parted and I whispered:
- Mommy, mommy...
I have accumulated a lot of words. They burst my chest, knock on my temple. They rush out, into the light, onto the paper. But they are green. It's too early to pick them off the branch. I suffer and wait for them to ripen.
In childhood, green apples are plucked because they do not have the patience to wait until they ripen. They vomit and eat and get spicy pleasure. Now the green apples are cramping your mouth.
But you can not stand the words to cloying. Sometimes you have 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 a strange mother for my own. Apparently, all mothers have a great similarity. And if one mother cannot come to the wounded son, then another becomes at his head.
Mother. Mommy...
In childhood, we easily accept sacrifices from our mother. We demand sacrifice all the time. And the fact that this is cruel, we learn later - 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 gone, and if he is, then he has another beautiful lady - with pigtails, with capriciously pouted lips, with a blot on her dress ...
One of the "harsh days" I came home from school hungry and tired. Dropped the briefcase. Undressed. And straight to the table. There was a pink circle of sausage on the plate. I ate it instantly. He melted in his mouth. It was like he didn't exist. I said:
- Few. I want more.
Mom was silent. I repeated my request. She went to the window and, without looking back, said softly:
- No more... sausages.
I got up from the table without saying thank you. Few! I walked noisily around the room, rattling chairs, and my mother was still standing by 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 a mother for bread when she does not have it. And nowhere to take. 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 be excruciatingly hurt by 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 first subside, then wake up. You will be under her heavy power and, looking back, you will say: "I'm sorry!" No answer.
There is no one to whisper a merciful word: "I forgive."
As Mom stood by the window, her shoulders trembled slightly with silent tears. But I didn't notice it. I did not notice my April footprints on the floor. Didn't hear the door slam.
Now I can see and hear everything. Time moves everything away, but it brought this day closer to me. And many more days.
Forgive me, dear!
In old huts, a woman with a child in her arms looks from darkened images. Sad, thoughtful, smiling, preoccupied, happy, unhappy. These are not icons, these are portraits of mothers - many, living and living.
I know a lot about the exploits of women: those who carried wounded soldiers from the battlefield, who worked for men, who gave their blood to children, who followed their husbands along the Siberian highways. I never thought that all this had to do with my mother. To the quiet, shy, ordinary, concerned only with how to feed us, put shoes on, protect us ...
Now I look back at her life and see: she went through it all. I see this belatedly. But I see.
I was walking under a surprisingly 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 over the houses and quickly went at low level. I got ice in my face.
The next moment I found myself entangled in a white ice net. I could not get out of it, I only fought back with my hands, tried to tear it apart. And everything around was buzzing, moaning, spinning. Rigid ice grits hit in the face, whipped on the hands. And suddenly a cloudy yellow sun flashed in the grid and caught in the net! There was a blow. The sun went out. It was not the sun, but winter lightning, a thunderstorm with snow.
The cloud kept moving forward. She entangled the entire city with ice nets. And she pulled him along, knocked him down with elastic threads. The sun flared up again and went out again. There was a dry roar in the city.
Another flash illuminated the inscription on the wall of the house:
"This side is the most dangerous under shelling."
I have crossed over to the other side.
Grass is green at the Piskarevsky cemetery. There are large graves at the Piskarevsky cemetery. Large, common, 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 cling to. But the eternal love of sons determined - here. And I bowed to the ground.
I stroke the grass of the Piskarevsky cemetery with my hand. I'm looking for a mother's heart. It cannot decay. It became the heart of the earth.
SON OF A PILOT
I can guarantee that I have never heard of the pilot Presnyakov. But his face in the photo seemed surprisingly familiar to me. He was taken after the flight, in 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 immediately notice this in the photo, because it is shot to the waist. On the other hand, broad cheekbones, and slitted eyes, and uneven eyebrows, and 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 his forehead in a difficult flight.
This photo belongs to Volodya Presnyakov. It hangs above his bed. When a new person comes to the house, Volodka brings him to the photo and says:
- My father.
He says this as if he were really introducing the guest to his father.
Volodya lives in Moscow, in the passage of the Straw Gatehouse. Of course, on Volodkina Street there is no gatehouse, and even thatched one. There are big new houses all around. It was under Peter the Great that there was a gatehouse here. I wonder where she was? Near the deli or on the corner, by the savings bank? And what was the name of the guard who, on a rainy, blizzard night, ran into a warm lodge to take a breath and warm his hands, wooden from frost, by the fire? Just for a minute! A guard is not supposed to hang around in a warm lodge while on duty ...
Dump trucks rumble day and night under the windows of Volodya's house: construction is going on nearby. But Volodya is accustomed to their roar and pays no attention to it. But not a single plane will fly over his head unnoticed. Hearing the sound of the engine, he shudders, alert. His anxious eyes rush to find the small silver wings of the machine in the sky. However, he, even without looking at the sky, can determine by the sound which plane is flying, simple or jet, and how many "engines" it has. This is because from childhood I got used to airplanes.
When Volodya was little, he lived far, far from Moscow. In a military camp. After all, cities, like people, are military.
Volodya 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 and how he said the first word. Now, if he fell and broke his knee - he remembers this. But Voldka didn’t fall and didn’t break his knee, and he doesn’t have a scar above his eyebrow, because he never broke an eyebrow either. And he doesn't remember anything at all.
He does not remember how, having heard the noise of the engine, he was looking for something in the sky with bulging 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 in this place.
When Volodya was very young, he only knew how to ask. And when I got older - at the age of three or four - I began to ask. 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, while the Nazis have crosses with tails?"
Volodya lived with his mother. He didn't have a dad. And at first he thought that it should be so. And it didn't bother him at all that there was no dad. He did not ask about him, because he did not know that he was entitled to 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 my mother was silent. "Let him think," Volodka decided, and began to wait. But the mother never answered her son's question.
Volodya was not very upset by this, because his mother left many of his questions unanswered.
Volodya 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 a dad, and he began to wait for a dad to appear.
Oddly enough, Volodya knew how to wait. He did not look for dad at every turn and did not require mom to find him the missing dad. He began to wait. If a boy is entitled to a father, then sooner or later he will be found.
“I wonder how dad will appear?” Volodya thought. “Will he come on foot or come by bus? No, dad will arrive by plane - he is a pilot, after all.” In the military camp, almost all the guys had dads who were pilots.
Going for a walk with his mother, he looked at the oncoming men. He tried to guess which of them his dad looked like.
“This one is very long,” he thought, looking back at the high lieutenant, “you can’t even climb on such a dad’s back. And why doesn’t he have a mustache? Dad must have a mustache. Only not like a seller in a bakery. He has a red mustache And dad's mustache will be black..."
Every day Volodya waited more and more impatiently for the arrival of his father. But dad never came.
“Mom, make me a boat,” Volodya once said and handed the board to mom.
Mom looked at her son helplessly, as if he had asked her one of those questions she couldn't answer. But then suddenly there was determination in her eyes. She took a plank from her son's hands, took out a large kitchen knife and began to plan. The knife did not obey his mother: he did not cut as his mother wanted, but as he pleased - at random. Then the knife slipped and cut my mom's finger. There was blood. Mom threw the unplaned piece of wood aside and said:
- I'd rather buy you a boat.
But Volodya shook his head.
- I do not want bought, - he said and picked up a plank from the floor.
His friends had beautiful boats with pipes and sails. And Volodya had a rough, unplaned piece of wood. But it was this nondescript board, called the steamboat, that played a very important role in Volodya's fate.
Once Volodya was walking along the corridor of the apartment with a plank-ship in his hands and came face to face with his neighbor Sergei Ivanovich. The neighbor was a pilot. For days on end, he disappeared at the airport. And Volodya "disappeared" in kindergarten. So they barely met and didn't know each other at all.
- Greetings, brother! - said Sergei Ivanovich, meeting Volodka in the corridor.
Volodya lifted 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. A towel hung over his shoulder.
- Hello! Volodya replied.
He called everyone "you".
Why are you walking down the hallway alone? the neighbor asked.
- I'm walking.
- Why don't you go outside?
- They're not allowed. I cough.
- I suppose you ran through the puddles without galoshes?
- No. I ate snow.
- It's clear.
At the end of the conversation, which took place in a dim corridor, the neighbor noticed a plank in Volodya'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.
- Volodya, then?
Volodya. This is good. Mom called him Volodenka, and here - Volodya. Very beautiful!
While Volodya was thinking about a new name, the neighbor took out a folding penknife from his pocket and deftly began to plan the plank.
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 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. Volodya 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 overturn! - he warned the other menacingly, although his ship was the most stable ship of the courtyard fleet.
Who made this ship for you? one of the guys asked Volodya.
Volodya hesitated. Then he took in more air and boldly blurted out:
- Dad!
- You're lying, - said a friend. - You don't have a dad.
- No, there is! No, there is! Volodya replied decisively. He won't do it for me yet!
... In the evening, my mother noticed Volodya's boat. She picked it up from the floor, examined it carefully, and asked:
- Where did you get that?
“Dad did it,” Volodya replied.
- Dad? Mom raised her eyebrows in surprise. - Which dad? You don't have a dad...
The last words my mother squeezed out with difficulty. But Volodya was not in the least embarrassed by her 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 stared at her. There was so much determination and desperation in them that my mother said nothing. She realized that character was being cut through in the little son, that he would not so easily deviate from what he was supposed to, which was determined by nature itself.
Mom lowered her eyes and walked away. And he still did not move from his place a little man who decided to fend for himself. He pressed his boat to his chest, as if someone wanted to take away this precious object from him.
... Sergei Ivanovich had no idea what the boat had done with the little neighbor. And of course, it could not have occurred to him that Volodya, in search of his father, had chosen him.
Returning from kindergarten, Volodya asked:
- Dad is at home?
Mom didn't answer. Then, seizing a moment, he slipped out into the corridor and headed for the next door. He pushed the door with his shoulder. She did not give in: dad was not at home. Volodya did not lose heart. It's a shame that dad is not at home! It is important that there is a father.
Gradually, Volodya developed his own idea of papa. His dad lived in another room, ate in the dining room and put on his own kettle. And if a button came off, he sewed it on himself. And he did not report to anyone where he was going and when he would return. Volodya decided that this is exactly what dad should be.
It happened that Volodya fell seriously ill. This time he ate too much snow and got a fever. He lay in bed and burned. It seemed to him that the bed was on fire and the fire heated the pillow, blanket, shirt. And they often put a thermometer on him, because they are afraid that he would not burn out at all.
Volodya did not moan, did not sigh, did not call for his mother. He courageously endured the disease. He sniffled. And at times he coughed, and then a rough, gurgling ball rolled in his chest.
A grandmother from a neighboring apartment sat with Volodya all day. Grandmother wanted Volodya to fall asleep, she told him fairy tales. In the end, it was not Volodya 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 apartment next door.
Mom was more fun. She walked back and forth, brought something, took it away, dropped it on the floor. She shook Volodya, gave him either medicine or sour drink. She put a cool hand to her forehead - it was nice. I turned the pillow over to the "cold side" - it was also good. The only pity is that the pillow quickly heated up.
Mom always asked:
- Doesn't your head hurt? What to give you? What do you want?
But Volodya didn't want anything. He didn't know that the cold snow would make it so hot. And it's so boring. He was silent.
And suddenly the boy said:
- Mom, call dad.
Mom turned to the window. She pretended not to hear her son's request. She hoped that he would immediately forget about her.
But after waiting a little, Volodka repeated:
- Call your 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 a tasty one. I could work for him from morning to evening. She could give him her blood, her life. But where could she get him a dad?
And Volodya was waiting for her to go after dad. And she went. She went out into the corridor and slowly walked to the next door. She went to a stranger to ask him to be a dad for a few minutes.

“ WHEN THE HEART SHINES "Yu. YAKOVLEV .

TARGET- introduce students to the work “WHEN THE HEART SHINES ”, the plot, which is aimed at the development and education of MORAL qualities, through literary works. Develop cognitive processes, develop mental skills, be able to write syncwine on a given topic. Cultivate moral qualities, hard work, love for loved ones.

TYPE - a lesson in gaining new knowledge

METHODS- associative map, directed reading, cinquain.

TECHNOLOGY -RWKT

FORM OF WORK - group, individual, frontal.

Equipment - thematic illustrations.

1. MOTIVATION

Let's start the lesson with a game called "Say a word"

At the end of the game, you must answer the question of what unites all the words you have named.

The teacher reads the beginning of the sentence and the students have to finish it.

Tractor drives... (tractor driver),

The electric... (driver),

Painted the walls... (painter),

Planked the board... (carpenter)

Held light in the house ... (fitter),

Working in the mine... (miner),

In the hot forge - ... (blacksmith),

Who knows - well done!

What unites all these words? (these are professions)

The teacher starts a conversation about professions, reads a poem by J. Rodari "What crafts smell like."

Worker's blouse - Machine oil.

The confectioner smells like Nutmeg.

Doctor in a dressing gown - A pleasant medicine.

Loose earth, Field and meadow Smells like a peasant,

Following the plow.

The fisherman smells like fish and the sea. Only a slacker

Doesn't smell at all!

-....And now I want to read you a poem

Each case has a special smell:

The bakery smells like dough and pastry

Past the carpentry You go to the workshop - It smells like shavings And a fresh board.

The painter smells of turpentine and paint.

The glazier smells like window putty.

Driver's jacket Smells like gasoline.

Of course, each person should not become an idler, but must choose a business in life, a profession.

Pay attention to illustrations.

Now, let's make an associative map for the word PROFESSION.

WE WILL TALK IN TURN, WITHOUT REPEATING.

...................

STAGE RESULT.

2. IMPLEMENTATION

METHOD OF DIRECTIONAL READING.

We continue the lesson

Today at the lesson we will get acquainted with the work of Yakovlev "WHEN THE HEART SHINES".

He gets acquainted, WITH THE STORY WE WILL BE IN PARTS, after reading each part you will perform a certain task on the pieces of paper, discuss in groups and then share with the class.

1 part

The forge stood at the edge of the village. From her, as from a samovar, a bitterish smoke was drawn, and the earth trembled from the sonorous intermittent blows of a heavy hammer. I cautiously looked inside the forge and heard leather bellows breathing with a wheeze and 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 waved his hammer, threw the body back and brought down the blow with force on a piece of red-hot iron. 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, said my mother.

Why does it glow?
Mom thought about it and said:

From work.

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

Show your attitude to the read part with 1 color. Discuss as a group, look for matches.

FRONT DISCUSSION

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

part 2

My parents were hardworking. I remember howin the morning they were going to work. They hurriedly drank tea. They looked at the clock, afraid to be late. It seemed to me then that they were in a hurry to get on the train or they were waiting for matters of national importance. Maybe they are in a hurry to build dams, to invent new machines? But their job was the best chnaya: so I concluded from the conversation of the parents.

WRITE 1 SENTENCE OR PHRASE., which reflects the main thing in this part.

FRONT DISCUSSION

part 3

Once, my dad took me with him to work, to the seaport. I saw ocean-going ships, giraffe-necked cranes, double-decker timber trucks. The port smelled of the sea and fresh planks. Next to the huge ships and cranes, my dad seemed small and quiet to me. But when I realized that it was at his will that huge bundles of logs and boards easily flew up above the ground and disappeared into the deep holds of the ship, it began to seem huge to me. Fine beautiful work resembled a performance. It became clear why dad was in such a hurry to get to work, why he and mom love work so much.

When I made this discovery, I was very surprised. After all, I used to think that the most beautiful thing is to do nothing. Over time, I asked myself the question: “What can a person not live without?” “Without air. Without water. Without bread,” I answered myself.

But it turned out, that a person cannot live withoutlabor.

Write out a sentence that reflects the main thing - “What can a person not live without?”

Discuss in groups, mark the matches. Choose the most successful answer and the speaker who will answer?

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

FRONT DISCUSSION

part 4

Work. What a wonderful word! Work. Work. Do not be afraid of difficulties. It is no coincidence that in many words of our language "work" is the root.

But "work" is not only the root of many words. Labor is the root of all our life.

Answer the question by writing out a sentence from the text WHAT IS WORK?

Discuss in groups, mark the matches. Choose the most successful answer and the speaker who will answer?

What professions can be added to the associative map after reading the text.?

Why do we need to work?

When will a person's heart glow brightly?

Your hearts are glowing too, why do you think?

3. REFLECTION

COMPOSE SINKWINE FOR THE WORD LABOR.

Group discussion.

Mark the most successful OPTION.

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 and video equipment.

Visibility:

wall newspaper "Mom in my life" (see Appendix 1);
slide show with photos of children and parents;
poster "Motherland is calling";
reproduction of the painting "Sistine Madonna" by Raphael;
epigraph; title.

Event progress

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

To the tune of "Ave Maria" a poem sounds S. Ostrovoy "Woman with a child in her arms."

presenter: Despite the fact that we all grow up sooner or later, we all come from childhood. What is childhood? First of all, this is a family, mom: this is what our meeting is dedicated to today.

Leading:"Good afternoon" we say today to our closest and dearest people - our mothers!

Mother! What a wonderful word, what a warm and gentle, so strict and educative: and the most important word on Earth for each of us! No wonder it sounds almost the same in all languages: mother, mother, mutti (mutti), mia, baba: everyone will be understood and warmed by mother.

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

Leading: Mother's Day meets the best traditions of Russians' attitude to motherhood, unites all layers of Russian society on the ideas of kindness and reverence for the woman-Mother. In addition, as many believe, it is necessary to raise the status of a woman-mother. 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 terms of meaning and content this is the most holy holiday.

The poem "Mother's Day is a holiday while young ..."

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

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

V. Gin "Do not offend mothers"

R. Gamzatov "Mom"

E. Asadov "Brave mother"

E. Asadov "Bear cub"

Leading: The first word a person utters is "mom". It is addressed to the one

gave him life. Children are the most precious thing for a mother. The happiness of a mother is in the happiness of her children. No

nothing is more disinterested and holy than her love. The mother is the first teacher and friend of the child. 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 mom is around. But are we always aware of the price paid for our peace, happiness? Which? Self-sacrifice, self-forgetfulness of the mother. These ancient words, almost gone from colloquial speech, most accurately characterize maternal love. The mother's heart is the most merciful judge, the most sympathetic friend, it is the sun of love, the light of which warms us all our lives.

A folk Ukrainian melody sounds.

Dramatization of D. Kedrin's poem "Mother's Heart".

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

Mom mom! I remember your hands from the moment I became aware of myself in the world. During the summer, they were always covered with a tan, he no longer departed in the winter - he was so gentle, even, only a little bit darker on the veins. Or maybe they were rougher than your hands - after all, they had so much work in life - but they always seemed to me so tender, and I loved kissing them right on their dark veins ...

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

A. Dementev "I believe that all women are beautiful"

The light goes out. Illuminated poster "Motherland is calling!". Under the melody, excerpts from the work of Y. Yakovlev "Heart of the Earth" sound.

Young men come out with candles in their hands.

Readers:

1. In the icy wind I saw her by the stove with her eyes closed. This vision arose 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 came from my mother, there was no paper, no envelope with the field mail number, no lines. It was my mother's voice. I heard it even in the roar of guns. The smoke of the dugout touched his cheek, like the smoke of his own home.

2. On New Year's Eve, I saw a 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 the incomparable aroma of stearin in the needles wafted from the fir branches around the room. The room was dark, and only the merry wandering lights flickered and flared up, and the gilded walnuts gleamed dimly. I was lying on the snow in a heavy helmet, in a balaclava - in a woolen visor lowered, in an overcoat hardened by melting snow, and fragments of shells flopped loudly 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 my mother 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 goes and strikes midnight. The cricket, miraculously settled in a city apartment, works on a chirring typewriter. The Big Dipper bucket is on the roof of the house opposite. Smells like bread. Quiet. The tree went out. The oven 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 at the edge of the village. She smelled of coal smoke, and she shook with loud intermittent blows. I heard leather bellows wheezing, and how their breath in the forge, with a slight whistle, awakens fire in the coals.

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, threw the body back and with force brought down a blow on a piece of red-hot iron. 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.

See, I said in a whisper.

What makes it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

It will, my mother said.

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

Glowing?

And my mother nodded her head.

4. Once I found a fragment of a shell on the ground and showed my mother:

Look what a stone!

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

Did the shell crash?

It shattered into many pieces.

To kill.

I dropped the shard 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 a stranger. I could not 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 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.

5. I woke up in a cart, not hay. I did not feel pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. Lips, head, chest wanted to drink. 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 can save me is my mother. A forgotten childish feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. It will quench thirst, relieve pain, soothe, save. And I began to call her. The cart rumbled, drowning out my voice. Thirst sealed her lips. And with the last of my strength I whispered an unforgettable word - mommy. I called her. I trusted her like a god. Mother of God. Human-mother. Mother. I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold life-giving water gushed out to put out the fire: it flowed over the lips, over the chin, behind the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of hurting me. She gave me water from a cold ladle, averted death 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 revived from her mercy.

My lips parted and I whispered:

Mommy, mommy...

My mother lay in a mass grave in besieged Leningrad. In an unfamiliar village near a well, I mistook a strange mother for my own. Apparently, all mothers have a great similarity. And if one mother cannot come to the wounded son, then another becomes at his head. Mommy, mommy....

D.B.Kabalevsky’s waltz “School Years” sounds, a poem sounds against its background. One couple is dancing a waltz.

Leading: A mother's love for her children is boundless. A mother always remembers her child, no matter where he is. Many mothers, having received notice of their son's death 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 melody“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 ...”

“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 my mother, she is at work, as always, from that work, let's face it, my mother'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,
New watch for dad
Laces, hair clips, paper clips, a hat!

Son: What a beautiful dad!

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

Son: Mom, I did not understand the topic and explain the theorem to me.

Daughter: And what is an orangutan? How to remove ethyl butane?

Son: The birdhouse must be put together!

Daughter: Whitewash the school fence!

Together: We still need to play

sing, jump, dance!

Mother:

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

I even forgot about myself (takes a mirror)
I'll paint my eyes
And put on a face mask.
I won't forget about the manicure
I will be very beautiful! (dries 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!
You stick your jaw here! (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 Blendamed pasta.

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, how Jose became rich.

(Dad enters)

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

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

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

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

The song is "Mom". Muses. Gerard Bourgeois, Themistocle Popa, op. Yu.Entina

Leading: We are in eternal, unrequited debt to the mother, whose love accompanies us all our lives. Therefore, we must and must tenderly love, respect, protect her, not hurt her mother with our words and deeds.

A. Dementyev “At the night, a hysterical cough sounds ...”

R. Gamzatov "Do not leave mothers alone ..."

Leading: We bow to all women, mothers for your selfless love, kindness, for your hands that 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 downy scarf, the light of a familiar smile,
Eyes that can forgive and understand
What is always in anxiety:
- Well, where are we and what are we?
This is how my mother was remembered from childhood.

2. In trouble it will warm, close itself,
Sometimes he scolds and immediately forgets ...
- Thank you, mom, thank you very much.
For all that you have done in life for us!

3 .Thank you for your care and kindness,

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

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

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

7. We notice you late sometimes
Snow on the temples, cobwebs at the eyes ..

8 .Thank you, moms,
Thanks a lot -
For all,
What have you done in your 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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leading: Remember, the main law of the family is to take care of each member of the family, 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 as you are, where it is warm and comfortable.

I showed my mom a glowing heart.

See? I said in a whisper.

What makes it glow?

Mom thought and said quietly:

From work.

And if I work, will my heart glow?

It will, my mother said.

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

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, my mother answered. - It's a shell fragment.

Did the shell crash?

It shattered into many pieces.

To kill.

I dropped the shard 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 I were a stranger. I could not 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 really opened up to me in the war. How much land I dug up, I shoveled for 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 ground up close like I've never been able to see before. I approached her like an ant. She stuck to my clothes, to soles, to a shovel - I was all magnetized, and she was iron. The earth was to me both a refuge, and a bed, and a table, it rattled and plunged into silence. On earth they lived, died, were less often born.

One, only one time, the earth did not save me.

I woke up in a cart, in the hay. I did not feel pain, I was tormented by inhuman thirst. Lips, head, chest wanted to drink. 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 can tackle me is my mother. A forgotten childish feeling awakened in me: when it’s bad, my mother should be nearby. It will quench thirst, relieve pain, soothe, save. And I began to call her.

I knew that she would respond and come. And she appeared. And immediately the roar ceased, and cold life-giving water gushed out to put out the fire: it flowed over the lips, over the chin, behind the collar. Mom supported my head, carefully, afraid of hurting me. She gave me water from a cold ladle, averted death from me.

I felt a familiar touch of a hand, heard a native voice:

Son! Son, dear...

I couldn't open my eyes. But I saw my mother. I recognized her hand, her voice. I revived from her mercy. My lips parted and I whispered: