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The holidays are in full swing. Despite the freezing temperatures, the children are going ice skating. Our village's skating rink is simple—a large pond, the ice of which is cleared by the villagers themselves. This time, a grandfather came to clean it. His three grandchildren love skating, so he put aside everything else he does—he's a director at a Moscow theater—and used a special machine to clean the entire pond. Now all that's left to do is keep the ice clean, and that's easier. So, all the children in our village are skating, a whole crowd of them, playing tag, racing, and just skating. Our blind son is eager to join in, and we can't say no to him. We take out his skates and lead him to the pond. Friends, neighbors, and acquaintances join him. Snow dust flies in all directions, and little G. races on his skates after his brothers and sisters. And then a man comes to the pond, bringing a real samovar. He places it in a snowdrift, melts it, and offers everyone hot tea. And on the way back, a minor accident occurs. From the pond, you can go along a well-cleared road or through the woods. The second route is shorter. Everyone at the pond is frozen, so they choose the path, and then boy G., who always follows the steps and movements of others, doesn't notice the turn and, instead of turning right, crashes into a tree. A bump appears on his forehead, and for the next hour and a half, I apply a cold copper spoon to it, and he cries—mostly out of frustration, of course. The winter day is short—we've just had a walk and lunch, and already evening has arrived. It's time to repeat the caroling; the younger children are planning a "house-to-house" party with their friends during Christmastide. Last year, they really enjoyed it. Every house invited them to the table and gave them candy to take home. stake: PavelDed13

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