...on wheels

He was the second child from the first marriage in the house of the Cremena family.
I guess you go along with your name pinned as a coat of arms on your chest in case you are not from the local gentry.
There is a distinct difference between the ones who have lived for generations in the same family house and those who had to build one along with a well in their yard.

The nice thing about wells in remote villages apart from cooling your summer drinks down in their bellies is that someone's witty approach left a mark in the concrete as it was still soft like a sand to write on so whoever is around would definitely notice what year this asset was acquired in. And now that we had this well, of course it's cold water was not lavished in terms of needs of any entertainment purposes during the warm season. In no way. For one could observe the slow and firm rise of the vegetable empire, square meter per square meter, which had its own demands of watering. So it went, almost smooth as in one of those PC games, in which you are on your own at the very beginning and you start with digging a well. Then eventually you end up with the wide open car trunks of your heirs ready to swallow a great deal of your harvest to the last red bell pepper your hands took gentle care of.

He didn't mind at all, though the remarks he may accidentally introduce would point to the necessity of certain gratitude by side of the above mentioned heirs. There's no Thanks giving day all the way this latitude and I guess we were bound to express thankfulness with the sun rise and the first coffee for the day until the dusk every day...until forever. Here and there one can hear him mumbling on neighbour's children being at hand on daily bases whenever the crop is on the top of the agenda. The lack of us being at hand was apprehensively obvious out of numerous reasons each of us had in their sleeves and magical cylinders for the purpose.

She loved us being around. It would usually take two or three days to prepare the specialties she knew we loved and she would spread the abundance of her abilities as a fan as she loved each one of us to get all these cakes, pasties and chocolate bars just on time for our arrival. On the leave, at the gate of the house and the very end of the vine lane, she would tuck her hand beneath her apron for the secret funding while silently saying something like not giving her up to him as if he would not know, we may be obliged with some of his secret funds too.

She was from a wealthy family. When she fell in love with him - one of the non-locals, first she was warned of the type of life ahead of them and second - she was given a right to choose. She preferred to hide one evening and run three streets up the hill instead of just walking by a couple of houses in the very same neighbourhood to get to his house and marry him. She fancied they would live in the main town, walking cobble stone streets, dancing at the ball of the general... Instead they went to the periphery and spent almost their whole common life at each of its four sides.

He was on service during the nights and she was left to make a home of the single room they were accommodated in on her own. He was a confirmed smoker. One cold winter night, trying to blow in the cigarette smoke through the heater's hole, the smoke, pressed by the wind outside flew back in the room with sparkling remains of wood and coal and he choked. He choked so bad that looking from aside one may have come to the conclusion that one was being witnessing the hour of the poor man's death. Instead, he got up vigorously and started to take out an endless number of cigarette packs from their secret hidden places - all kind of pockets, cuffs and pleats of his officer's uniform - all these flew up in the smoke through the chimney to never return again in his life. She would later add that he hated asking people for a cigarette and never left without his abundant stock.

We were fond of this story, not precisely because of the "death" of the cigarettes' packs but mainly because of the absence of the yellowish tobacco smoke remains on the top of his mustaches as the best we loved about him was them, his heavy overcoat and his bowler. And yes, we are still quite thankful he wore them along with the Cremena coat of arms invisibly stitched on his chest.