“...I never imagine it in the summer, always only in the winter. A strange thing is imagination: I see not only the snow that makes the pavement white and fluffy, but I smell it, I lick it from my hot palm, having just hit it painfully on the icy path, which we called “ice pads” and on which we always fell loudly , especially dashingly running away. When I was born, there was no steam heating in our house yet, we heated it with wood, and it was a special pleasure to go with my grandfather to the wood warehouse - in the early pink frost - to choose firewood. There was such a wonderful smell of the forest, frozen with amber resin on the logs, that it was a pity to leave this kingdom shimmering with snow and pine needles, where fresh firewood lay in tall woodpiles and buyers patted them with their mittens, listened to the sound and sometimes even sniffed..."