Ivan Sergeevich Shmelev was born in Moscow, in Zamoskvorechye. The world of the white-stone ancient capital in the forties fed the writer with strength and inspiration until the end of his life.
(all information was found on the Internet)
Ivan Sergeevich practically does not write about his mother, but he writes endlessly about his father, Sergei Ivanovich Shmelev. With admiration, love and tenderness.
Undoubtedly, the death of his father was a heavy blow for the boy. Many years later, he would describe these events in great detail in his novel The Summer of the Lord. 
And no matter how much you re-read these pages, your heart again and again contracts with compassion for the boy who faced death for the first time.
In fact, Shmelev will end his most famous work, “The Summer of the Lord,” with his father’s funeral. With the passing of my father, childhood ended. A completely different life has already begun - adulthood. 
After graduating from the 6th Moscow Gymnasium, Ivan Sergeevich entered the Faculty of Law of Moscow University.
In the spring of 1891, Shmelev met Olga Alexandrovna Okhterloni; then he was 18 and she was 16 years old. The marriage took place on July 14, 1894. They will live together for 41 years. On January 6, 1896, their only son, Sergei, was born. 
In June 1918, he, along with his wife and son, poisoned by gases on the fronts of the First World War, left for Alushta. From there, Seryozha’s beloved son was mobilized into Denikin’s army. During the retreat of the White Army, the Shmelevs were forced to stay: Sergei developed tuberculosis. 
Sergei, like many of his colleagues, believed in the amnesty announced by the Bolsheviks. But he turned out to be cruelly deceived.
He was shot without trial in January 1921, after three months in prison cellars. 
Shmelev spent the years of World War II in Paris occupied by Nazi troops. He was often published in the pro-German emigrant newspaper Parisian Messenger. His old age was overshadowed by serious illness and poverty. Shmelev died in 1950 from a heart attack and was buried in the Parisian cemetery of Sainte-Genevieve-des-Bois. In 2000, his ashes, along with those of his wife, were transported, according to his dying will, to his homeland, where they were buried next to the graves of his family members in the necropolis of the Moscow Donskoy Monastery. 
" Christmas. " 
“You want me, dear boy, to tell you about our Christmas. Well, well... If you don’t understand what, your heart will tell you. 
It's like I'm just like you. Do you know Snowball? Here it - rarely, falls out - and melts. And here it would fall - sometimes there would be no light for three days! Everything will fail. There are snowdrifts on the streets, everything is white. On the roofs, on the fences, on the lanterns - that’s how much snow there is! Hanging from the roofs. It hangs and collapses softly, like flour. Well, he'll fall asleep at the collar. The janitors are raking them into heaps and hauling them away. If you don't rake, you'll get stuck. It's quiet and deaf here in winter. The sled is rushing, but you can’t hear it. Only in cold weather do the runners squeal. But in the spring you will hear the first wheels... - what a joy!.. 
Our Christmas is coming from afar, quietly. Deep snow, stronger frosts. When you see frozen pigs being delivered, Christmas will be coming soon. They fasted for six weeks and ate fish. Who is richer - beluga, sturgeon, pike perch, navazhka; poorer ones - herring, catfish, bream... We, in Russia, have a lot of all kinds of fish. But for Christmas - pork, that's it. In meat shops, frozen pigs used to be piled up to the ceiling like logs. The hams are chopped off for salting. They lie there in rows, pink stains are visible, covered with snow. 
And the frost is such that the air freezes. It stands with frost; foggy, smoky. And the carts are stretching - for Christmas. Convoy? Well, like a train... only not wagons, but sleighs, but in the snow, wide, from distant places. They pull the goose, one after another. Steppe horses for sale. And the men are healthy, Tambovites, from the Volga, from near Samara. They are bringing pork, piglets, turkeys - “ardent frost”. The hazel grouse is coming, the Siberian grouse, the wood grouse... You know - the hazel grouse? Such a motley, pockmarked... well, hazel grouse! It will probably be from a pigeon. It's called a game bird, a forest bird. It feeds on rowan, cranberry, and juniper. And the taste, brother!.. You rarely see it here, but here they pulled it in cartloads. They will sell everything, both sleighs and horses, they will buy red goods, calico - and go home with cast iron. Cast iron? And the railway. It’s more profitable to go to Moscow with a convoy: your own oats and horses to sell your factories, from the wall jambs. 
Before Christmas, on Horse Square in Moscow - where horses were traded - there was a groan. And this square... - how can I tell you?.. - it will be more spacious than... you know, where is the Eiffel Tower? And everything is in the sleigh. Thousands of sleighs, in rows. 
Three days before Christmas, there are forests of fir trees in markets and squares. And what Christmas trees! There is as much of this goodness as you want in Russia. Not like here - stamens. At our Christmas tree... as soon as it warms up and straightens its paws, there is a thicket. There used to be a forest on Theater Square. They are standing in the snow. And the snow starts to fall - you’ve lost your way! Men, in sheepskin coats, like in the forest. People walk and choose. Dogs in Christmas trees are like wolves, really. The fires are burning, warm up. Pillar of smoke. The sbiten workers walk around calling in the trees: “Hey, sweet sbiten! The rolls are hot!..” In the samovars, on long arms, there is sbiten. Sbiten? And so hot, better than tea. With honey, with ginger - fragrant, sweet. A glass is a penny. The roll is frozen, the glass of sbitnu is so plump, cut, it burns your fingers. In the snow, in the forest... nice! You sip a little, and the steam comes out in clouds, like from a steam locomotive. Kalachik is an ice cube. Well, dip it and it will soften. You'll stroll through the fir trees until nightfall. And the frost is getting stronger. The sky is in smoke - purple, on fire. There is frost on the Christmas trees, if you step on a frozen crow, it will crunch like glass. Frosty Russia, and... warm!.. 
On Christmas Eve, before Christmas, they didn’t eat until the star. Kutya was cooked from wheat with honey; broth - from prunes, pear, whispered... They put it under the icon, on the hay. Why?.. It’s like it’s a gift to Christ. Well... as if. He is in the hay, in the manger. It used to be that when you were waiting for a star, you wiped all the glass. There is ice on the glass from the frost. What a beauty, brother!.. There are Christmas trees on them, stains like lace. If you rub it with your nail, you can’t see the stars? It is seen! The first star, and there is another... The glass turned blue. The stove is firing from the frost, shadows are jumping. And there are more and more stars. 
And what stars!.. If you open the window, it will cut and burn with frost. And the stars!.. The black sky is boiling with light, trembling, flickering. And what stars!.. Mustached, alive, beating, pricking the eye. There is frost in the air, through it there are more stars, sparkling with different lights - blue crystal, and blue, and green - in the arrows. And you will hear the ringing. And as if these were stars - they were ringing! Frosty, echoing - straight silver. You won't hear that, no. In the Kremlin they will strike - an ancient ringing, sedate, with a deafness. And then - tight silver, like ringing velvet. And everything began to sing, a thousand churches were playing. You won't hear that, no. It’s not Easter, I won’t call back, but it spreads with ringing, covers with silver, like singing, without end and beginning... - hum and hum. 
To the all-night vigil. You put on felt boots, a sheepskin coat, a hat, a cap - the frost doesn’t sting. When you go out, there will be a melodious ringing. And the stars. If you touch the gate, it will be filled with a crash. Freezing! The snow is blue, strong, and squeaks subtly. Along the street there are snowdrifts and mountains. There are pink lights from lamps in the windows. And the air... is blue, silvery with dust, smoky, starry. The gardens are smoking. Birches are white visions. Jackdaws sleep in them. Fiery smoke in columns, high, up to the stars. Star ringing, melodious - floats, does not remain silent; sleepy, ringing-miracle, ringing-vision, glorifying God in the highest - Christmas. 
You walk and think: now I’ll hear a gentle chant, a prayer, simple, something special, childish, warm... - and for some reason I see a crib, stars. 
Your Nativity, Christ our God,
The rise of the world's Light of Reason... 
And for some reason it seems that long ago that sacred chant... has always been there. And will be." 
