The door opened and Mom entered the room with a half-glass of sugar and sprinkled a teaspoon of it over our personal achievements, but I was already sick and tired of them those foolish seeds, no matter sugared or not, and in my following life I stayed indifferent forever to the delights of sunflower seed orgies.

(…but still and all, consumption of seeds is much more than a trifling pastime combined with a sapid side-effect, no!. it's grown into a real art in itself.

To start with the purely Slavonic lavish way of eating them in the “piggy” style when the hollowed, or simply chewed together with the hearts, black hulls are not vivaciously spat out over the nearby environs, nope, they are set instead, by sluggish pushes of the tongue, on the move from out the corner of the mouth and keep sliding in a mutual, saliva-moisturized, mass down the chin to finally plop onto the eater’s chest. Excessive satiety, yes.

Or for a contrast, again a Slavonic but this time graceful “filigree” style when seeds are tossed by the snacker, one after another, into their mouth from a distance no less than twenty-five centimeters (20”).

And so on, down to the chaste Transcaucasia manner, when a seed for crushing is fed into the (yes, inescapably) mouth from a fixed position between the thumb tip and the joint of the index finger, so as to screen the intake of the seed, and then the processed husk is not spat out randomly but carefully returned into the burka-like contrivance of finger-screen to be scattered somewhere, or collected into something.

On the whole, the last of the presented methods leaves an impression of the eater biting their own thumb on the sly. But at who?

" Did you bite your thumb at me, Sir?!."

Oh, yes, sunflower seeds are miles aloft of dull popcorn. However, that’s more than enough about them.

Back to the green, cut-up, carpet runner…)

It was on those runner pieces where my brother felled my authority of the eldest by 1 dire blow… That day coming home after a PE lesson, I thoughtlessly stated that performing one hundred squats at one go was beyond human power. Sasha silently sniffled for a while and then said that he could do it.

Natasha and I were keeping the count, and after the fifteenth squat, I yelled that it was all wrong and unfair because he didn’t fully rise, but Sasha went on with squats as if I never said a word, and Natasha continued to keep the count. I shut up and soon after joined my sister in counting, though after “eighty-one!” he could no longer rise even above his bent knees. I felt pity for my brother over-strained by those incomplete squats. He staggered, tears welled up in his eyes, but the count was brought to a hundred and he barely hobbled to the big sofa. My authority collapsed like the colonialism in Africa; good news that before the fall I hadn’t promised any gingerbread…

~ ~ ~

Where did the filmstrip projector come from? Most likely, our parents bought it from a store. And in their room there appeared Radiola—combination of the radio and record player. 2 in 1, as they call it now.

The lid on top and both sidewalls of Radiola shed gentle gleam of brown varnish. The rear side had no gloss because it was hard cardboard with multiple rows of tiny portholes facing the wall. However, pulling Radiola a little forward, you could peep thru them and catch a patchy view of the murky interior landscape: the white of aluminum panel-houses, the dim glow in the pearly black turrets of vacuum-lamps of different height and thickness, and from one of those holes, a brown cable ran out ending by the plug for a mains socket.

Over the Radiola’s face was pulled a special sound-friendly cloth thru which you easily could trace the big oval speaker beneath the round sleeping eye whose glass flashed up with green when you clicked on the Two-in-One on. The long low plate of glass inserted along the front side bottom bridged the control knobs: the power and volume adjustment (2 in 1) above the range selection switch on the right, and only one knob on the left—for fine-tuning to the wavelength. The glass plate was glossy black except for four horizontal transparent stripes, from end to end, marked with irregular hair-width vertical snicks and the names of capital cities, like, Moscow, Bucharest, Warsaw. While twirling the knob of fine adjustment, you could follow, thru those transparent stripes in the glass, the progress of the thin red slider crawling from city to city along the inner side of the plate.

The radio was not very interesting though, it hissed and cracked and swished along with the slider movements, sometimes there would float up an announcer’s voice reading the news in some unknown Bucharestian language, a little farther along the stripe it would be replaced with a Russian voice repeating the news from the wall radio. Yet, lifting the lid on top of Radiola, you kinda opened a tiny theater with the round stage of red velvet having a shining pin in the center to slip on it the hole in a record disk when loading it on the pad. Next to it, the slightly crooked poker of the white plastic adapter sat on its stand.

With the turntable switched on and spinning the disk, the adapter had to be carefully picked up from its stand, brought over the whirling disk's surface and lowered in between the wide-set initial grooves running round and round and after a couple of hissing turns there would start a song about Chico-Chico from Costa Rica, or about O, Mae Caro, or about a war soldier marching in a field along the steep river bank.

The cabinet under Radiola held a stack of paper envelopes with gleaming black disks made at the record factory in the Aprelev City whose name was printed on the round labels about the center hole, beneath the song’s title, and the name of the singer, and the instruction that the rotation speed was 78 rpm.