Gentle advice

⏱ ~5 min reading

In the village of Krynychka, in the farthest hut under an old pear tree, lived grandfather Panas. He was eighty-two years old. His back was already bending a little, like a willow branch, his beard was white as the first snow, and his eyes were light gray, with gentle rays around them, as if someone had drawn the sun with a pencil. The whole village went to him for advice. The old people went too. And the young people went even more.

Grandfather Panas didn't have a wise book. He didn't have glasses on a chain. He didn't sit on a high chair. He sat on a simple wooden bench under a pear tree, peeled an apple with a knife or spun fishing line — and he always had time.

When someone came, my grandfather never started with advice right away. He would first smile—wide, with dimples. He would push the bench over. He would ask:

"Sit down, my dear. Tell me how you're doing. How's your mother? And is the cow still milking well?"

And the man sat down. And spoke. And the grandfather listened — without interrupting, without nodding impatiently. Only then, only when everything had already been said, the grandfather said his most important phrase:

"I'm not teaching you, but..."

These were the words that began every piece of advice he gave. «I don’t teach you, but.» «I don’t order you, but.» «I don’t force you, but.» That’s what he always said.

Once his grandson, Ostapko, came to him. The boy was ten years old, with curly hair and a perpetually crooked lip. Because he didn't make friends with anyone at school. All the children ran together, played tag, and shared sandwiches — and Ostapko stood aside and frowned.

"Grandpa," he said, plopped down on the bench, "I don't want to go to school. They're all stupid.".

Grandfather Panas did not scold. He did not say, "You fools, go away." He did not shake his head reproachfully. He carefully placed the thread he was weaving on the bench and asked:

"And why are you so stupid, Cossack? Tell me.".

"Because they play ball. And I don't like ball. And they laugh when I can't.".

"Yeah," the grandfather nodded. "Of course. What do you like?"

Ostapko shrugged his shoulders.

— I like to draw. And also to look at beetles. I have a notebook - I draw in it. A deer beetle, a rhinoceros beetle, a ladybug...

Grandfather smiled. His eyes sparkled.

"Wow. You're a little explorer. You know, I was like that once too.".

— How?

"I'm not teaching you, but..." the grandfather slowly looked at his grandson. "Once, when I was little, I didn't like playing with the village boys either. They threw stones. And I... I liked watching the swallow fly. And I was sad. Everyone had friendship, and I was only a swallow.".

"And what did you do?"

— I found one. Just one. Not a whole flock. A boy who was also standing aside. His name was Hrytsko, and he carried a cricket in a matchbox in his pocket. We sat with him by the stream. I showed him how a swallow catches a fly. And he showed me how a cricket sings in the palm of his hand. We didn’t start running with everyone. We started walking together — and we felt good.

Ostapko listened. Grandfather didn't look at him directly — he continued to weave his thread. That was important. Because when an adult doesn't bore you with his eyes — it's easier to listen.

"Maybe it will suit you," the grandfather continued. "Or maybe not. You decide. I just told you how it was for me. If there is someone like you in your class, sit down with him. Ask him what he likes. That's all.".

— And if there is none?

"Then there will be. There's always at least one.".

Ostapko was silent. He watched the pear leaves move overhead. From afar he could smell the evening milk—somewhere the neighbors had milked a cow. It smelled of fresh grass, earth after rain, and a little bit of smoke from the stove.

"Thank you, grandfather," the boy said quietly.

"You're welcome. You go now, because mom is waiting.".

Ostapko left. And the next day at school he watched for a long time. And he noticed one girl - Ulyana. She was also standing aside and drawing something on the chalk board with her finger. Ostapko approached. He took out his notebook with bugs.

— Do you want to take a look?

Ulyana raised her head. Her eyes were surprised—and warm.

— I want to.

A month later, there were two friends in the class, who brought twigs, scales, feathers and drew them together in a large notebook. And a year later, they were joined by Timko, who collected stones of unusual shapes. And then — Marinka with a herbarium.

When Ostapko grew up and became an adult himself — and then a grandfather — he too would sit on a bench under the old pear tree. And when his grandchildren or neighbor's children came to visit him, he would smile, peel an apple, and begin his most important phrase:

"I'm not teaching you, but..."

Because he knew: when a word is soft, like a kitten's fur, it flies straight to the heart. And when it is sharp, like a knife, it bounces off the defense. And nothing gets through.

And so wisdom quietly passed on—from bench to bench, from pear to pear, from grandfather to grandson.