As everyone sees that those are paraphrased verses of Great Russian poet Alexander Sergeyvich Pushkin (1799-1837) who started his novel in verse “Eugene Onegin” translated by Kozlov S.N., Moscow 1994, only he wrote about his uncle. Chapter one of it opens with “He hurries up to live, As well as he does to feel”, K. Vyazemsky.

Listen:“A Letter of Tatiana to Yevgeny Onegin”

On June the 6th many people remember the birthday of a great Russian as a founder of vernacular language and recite his poems by heart which were learnt from school years. So we all were brought up with the name of Pushkin. However for many Pushkin became life style. Such a person was my Dad Filin Nikolay Alexeyvich (1912-1985) who lived with the name of Pushkin, adored his creativity and analyzed his manner of composing and so on.

Interesting country Russia is! Its daughters and sons as my daddy was, for instance, a very common person by origin from village Orlovka of Orel region, possessed poetic thinking, loved verses, knew many of them by heart, knew about the rhythm of composing them, enjoying them but I never saw in my life his own verses. He was shy by nature and never opened up to anybody, even to me, his daughter although he realized we were very close by spirit. I observed his note pads full of poetic diagrams with alternately stressed or unstressed syllables, learning and imitating Pushkin. Watching from outside one could imagine that he was a writer by profession. No way. He was a draftsman, Pushkin was his passion and life style.

Enjoy a picture gallery “Pushkiniana” :

Besides, he liked to solve the arithmetic tasks, play chess and meditate. He was a thinker, he was having a rest while he immersed in thinking process. And he was fond of dreaming too. Latin “Cogito Ergo Sum”, it is all about Nick. Mama was quite his opposite: outspoken and energetic. One day such opposites come across and since then never part till the last birch, i.e. till their grave, where at their heads grows a white-stem birch of 26 years old, a leafy tree is glad to meet each and every passer-by who dropped by  into the Bryansk cemetery greeting them with gentle rustle of her green curls. Ah, how they are beautiful, those lovely birch trees, how eloquent they are if one listens to them attentively.

Whispering in secret, they will tell you how he was born on Mykola day, how he first met his beloved Musya, fell for her and was loyal to her and the family till the day he died. How courageous he was   on his final day, no groans, no complaints, just turned to the wall and quietly and graciously with no words left this world. Surrounded by the family circle next to Musya, who outlived him for 9 months, every day after his death praying to God :” Take me to my Nick. I want to be with him, life does not have sense without him any longer”( He looked after her for 13 years while she had a stroke and was paralyzed).

That was the first death in our family, this is why it was a real shock for all members of the family.

I remember how my brother and I on that 31st night of March while the crying woman was sitting and weeping the whole night at the head of the dead person by an Orthodox custom, we marched along nearby alley in opposite directions in grave silence under the burden of solemn thoughts and circumstances. We respected and loved our father, each of us in his/ her own way.

My verse to Dad:                                                                                                        

“My Dad, my soul mate, and coalition,

Always existed, I miss you so much,

So, by the Russian Orthodox tradition,

I wore a black mourning shawl and such.

You were gone, and I kept on working,

Typing the documents, sitting in veil,

People around me constantly staring,

As if I were a scarecrow with a long tail.

They could not grasp, poor little folks,

That in such a way I am releasing my grief,

“Fly, my memory, to the person who daily talks,

Warning with care not to fall off the cliff.”                                                                                                                                                            

We were recollecting him at the table,

Lain with different foods and drinks,

On the 7th and 40th day after death, and able,

To remember him even it time sinks.

Among Russians reigns a common saying:

“About dead people nobody talks bad,

So loaded with spirits, people were craving,

To speak lofty speeches about Dad.

He always kept to honest systems,

Silent and a hard worker he was,

Loving and caring about his family’s,

Members and his wife Musya, most of all.

Quiet and calm, never being mad,

Even at those who did him evil,

An all-forgiving, not by faith, lad,

But by heart, named Nikolay, called “Didko”.

Listen :“Russian People”