Warm and good Soviet time. Good fishing time.
How time has changed ...
No, not the category of measurement in units that are based on the definitions of astronomy data, and not the exact atomic time, but our time in which we live, that segment of time called generation. Despite the fact that life is short, I managed to catch the Soviet era, and its very “stagnation”, as the period of economic stagnation under the “dear Leonid Ilyich Brezhnev” is now called. Moreover, as they say, stagnation was not only in the economic spectrum. I recall listening at night to the VEF receiver, which was produced by our Latvian "friends" at the factory built by the USSR, the programs from Washington made for us with "love" by the Voice of America radio station. I listened at night, not only because such voices were forbidden by our KGB and were often drowned out by all sorts of buzzes and fakes, but also because the dead of night was only for us, but, for example, in New York it was the beginning working day. The forbidden novel of Alexander Solzhenitsyn “One Day of Ivan Denisovich” walked around.
Our class teacher, who later became a police officer, turns out to “knock” on me at the “organs” that we are fighting, gathering a gang at my place, throwing weights and bringing the girls with whom we are engaged in debauchery. I also “staked” the stalls, was a radio hooligan and committed a number of unlawful acts, as was indicated in the protocol, which our valiant policemen tried to force me, a schoolboy, a student in grade 8 of the middle Soviet school to sign.
The leader of the gang was our "Sharp Falcon" - a one-eyed kid, a student in our class. So, offensively, of course, classmates called him by analogy with characters from films about Indians. In the minutes he was the leader of our gang, and in the class he was a shy and timid boy. But according to the tradition of “37”, our classroom skillfully made denunciations, which became the reason for the delivery of me and my friend to the Ministry of Internal Affairs regarding the robbery of the youth library ... Then I, having read novels like “Police Sergeant”, received for the first time from the authorities in person that he refused to sign the protocol and expressed angry indignation at all of the charges indicated in the protocol. Getting in person was not a special event for me. Then I was engaged in boxing and in a day or two I came home with a broken nose and lips. In addition, we still fought on the streets, as advised by the coach. But I was surprised that the very same “sergeants of the police” were given in the face and, most importantly, they weren’t at all ... This is fine, but my friend and classmate was hit in the face just like that with the words: “Wow, tadpole ...”. Another policeman entered the office, where he was interrogated, and he didn’t like Kolka, apparently, with his big head. So I met with the police, where I later visited more than once and probably would have received a term if it weren’t for the woman with blond hair - the police major - who decided to close the case and give me the opportunity to serve in the army. There was nothing special about my crimes - just a fight. A common thing in adolescents.
On a long morning in the bullpen, when all the detainees had already been taken out, and for some reason they left me, I painted on the yellow wall of the cell something like an autograph. Thug romance never caught me. But then, lying on the bunk, where the inclined board and hat served as a pillow, I was overcome by real longing. From the trellised window the sounds of the street were heard, cars rushed, children had fun somewhere, birds sang. And so we wanted to go fishing, somewhere to our Bolshoi Martyn lake, where we caught powerful pikes and perches on summer fly-bucks. Perch was often heavier than a kilogram, and pike came across poods. Probably, then, in the solitude and anguish of the camera, my first lines of prose about fishing began to take shape. I wrote poetry from 11 years old.
But back to the USSR
If someone robbed a library now, not an archive with valuable editions, but an ordinary provincial library, that would be NEWS of the day. And then it happened. I did not participate in this, although I received it in the face and was released without explanation or apology. But from the age of five, I was in this library a privileged reader who was allowed to choose books on any shelf. And the thickest books were read by me then, at the age of six or seven, including about fishing. In those years, people stood in lines for books, ordered by subscription, waited for years. The almanac "Athlete-fisherman" was read to the holes in the libraries. Now people have forgotten how to read and write. Illiterate scribbles belonging to adults and now becoming the norm, in Soviet times would be a disgrace for some "high school" high school.
Then fishing was somehow kind and incredibly popular.
There were convoys of cars on the Volga, in South Toleshevo, to the Semenov pit, in Kanyshevo, in Sidelnikovo. And everyone caught, drank, enjoyed life. There was no fear for the future. Enough salaries. There were no pickles, but it was all natural, and they got the "deficit", knew how to get it. Enough for everyone.
As for rock music, which we initially “wrote” from the same “voice” in the “Program for night owls” or in “Music for recording”, and then we paid five for recording from a disc from the Farts, there were no repressions from the authorities, although it was so-called "stagnation" and officially-nominally rock music was banned. When I went of my own free will to the Soviet Army, our small team, swinging at the headquarters from the sober-hopper in the car, was met by powerful rock music rattling from the speakers above the door to the 1st company barracks. And then, when I became a sergeant and a “scoop”, I myself cut down on all the power and our unit together with the artillery battalion “Smoke over the Water” of the glorious group “Deep Purple”. Amplifier and speakers allowed this. It was a warm and good Soviet time. Good fishing time.