Once the Soviet Union had collapsed, Nickoli made his way from the village where he had lived his entire life to Moscow, where he sought to prosper under the new system. After years of hard work and much hardship he had at last achieved some measure of success and determined to take the first vacation of his life.
Having been away from the place of his birth for many years, he was overcome with a desire to see the small village again. Dressing in the same shabby clothes he had worn when leaving the community long ago, he traveled by bus and after several days arrived in the town he had once called home.
He had always detested the place when he lived there, but nostalgia is a powerful force and he was now firmly in its grip. He looked about at the small shops, the dilapidated buildings. He watched the peasants in the streets going about their business. Tears came to his eyes as he said to himself,
"Here is the true source of ambition, drive, and creativity. Here is the strength and tradition of the Motherland."
Hardly was this thought out of his mind when he noticed an old man in earnest conversation with a young boy. The aged man, with a flowing white beard, long coat, old cracked shoes, and black hat was the epitome of the Russian patriarch. The boy, with eager face and bright eyes, was perhaps twelve and listened with eager anticipation.
"There," thought Nickoli, "is the essence of it all. Here is age, imparting its wisdom to youth. This is tradition being handed down the generations. I must listen, and catch the flavor of this precious conversation."
As unobtrusively as possible he drifted closer, finally catching the quivering voice of the old man, as he spoke to the boy:
"So that is how you speak to a grandfather? You say, 'drop dead, pop?'"