When Grandma and Grandpa were still alive, I considered them my main family. Why, you ask?
Well, because Mum was always busy with her work as a social worker helping mothers without family support. And Dad… Dad was the artistic one in our family, constantly searching for his place in painting, theater, or something else, eventually fading away into the vast sea of life.
Mum loved me, but in a rather frantic manner. Once a week, she’d visit us, bringing food and gifts. She’d kiss me heartily, have lunch, drink with Grandpa, tossing back her head with a flourish (Grandma would lower her eyes and smooth out the tablecloth), and then she’d disappear again for a week or sometimes longer if work got hectic.
So, it was just us with Grandma and Grandpa carrying on with life quietly and steadily. Grandma had her garden; Grandpa had his walks in the woods, and there were their endless “philosophical discussions” about life.
My Grandma was dignified and, as I realize now, quite beautiful. She was large and had luxurious hair until old age, which she combed weekly with a curved comb her mother had given her. Grandpa, on the other hand, was lean and had this artistic look with wrinkles that began on his forehead and ran down his neck, under the collar of his always clean and pressed shirt, thanks to Grandma.
In our village, we – myself and Grandpa – were known to be well-groomed: washed, shaved (especially my face was always clean-shaven), and always in clean clothes. Later, in school, it took me a while to get used to the word “street” instead of “village,” as that’s what we called it at home.
Whom did I love more? I still can’t say because they were a solid unit for me, a blend of scents: soup, tobacco, milk, and our garden and woods.
In the morning, the first thing I saw upon waking was Grandpa’s sculpted face leaning over me. His lips, always dry and warm, would whisper as soon as my eyes opened:
“Get up, Johnny. Grandma’s made scones with garlic. A hedgehog awaits in the woods to share new tales with us.”
Then Grandpa would kiss me briefly, just brushing my cheek with his lips and his sandpaper-rough face. I’d whine, not understanding back then that such moments were happiness:
“No, Grandpa, I don’t want to yet. I’ll sleep a bit more… and I want the scones with jam, not garlic.”
“We can sort that,” Grandpa would say, a flurry of enthusiasm in his voice. He’d call towards the kitchen:
“Margaret, oh Margaret! Our little king wants scones with jam, do you hear?!”
Moments later, Grandma’s face would appear in the doorway, saying:
“Of course I know! There’s jam ready in the blue bowl. Come along!”
While I washed up, they both stood by, Grandma holding a towel with an embroidered kid on the edge, while Grandpa made playful attempts to snatch the towel away.
Then we’d eat. Just Grandpa and me, since Grandma never sat down, bustling about, adding warmth and importance to the meal we, the men of the house, enjoyed.
Afterward, we’d rise and briefly, in our manly manner, praise our hostess:
“We’re full, Mum…”
“Yeah, Grandma!”
And off we’d go to the garden for Grandpa’s smoke.
Of course, only Grandpa smoked. I’d sit beside him, lean against him, glancing sideways, and place my hands on my knees just like he did.
“So, you ready for another day?” Grandpa would ask.
I’d reply with deliberate slowness:
“Yeah…”
We’d rise from the porch, both spit on the cigarette butt (Grandpa would offer it to me after his own spit), and inquire of the unseen Grandma, busy inside clanking pots:
“Do you need anything, dear? Or shall we head to the woods?”
“Yes, Grandma!”
From somewhere within, her voice would call:
“Go ahead; I’ll think of something to keep you busy later.”
Grandpa would take the big wicker basket and the smaller, almost toy-sized one he’d woven for me, and off to the woods we’d go. Along the way, he’d tell me why woodpeckers have red heads, why pine needles are longer than spruce, why Mum seldom visits, why hedgehogs snuffle if you pick them up, where Dad disappeared to, why mushrooms have slimy caps, why Grandma is so lovely, and why, as he put it, Grandpa isn’t quite as handsome.
By noon, when the woods became warm, we’d return with our trophies: mushrooms, berries, or fragrant herbs for tea.
Grandma would feed us again, then tuck me into the cool porch for a nap so my lunch would settle. Grandpa would drape his old, comforting coat over me, staying by my side until… until a vast bird with blue eyes would swoop by, gazing at me, asking, “Johnny, were you good today? Did you behave for your grandparents?”
I’d honestly gaze back at the bird… then wake up… to find Grandma with a cup of milk and a thick slice of freshly baked bread, ready for me.
Later, Grandpa and I would tackle some tasks around the house or yard while Grandma busied herself in the garden, “puttering about,” as she’d say, checking on things, pulling a few weeds, watering, and more.
We understood that “men’s work” was ours, while “women’s work” was Grandma’s.
Now, I’m older than Grandma and Grandpa were back then. After my heart attack, I lie here in the hospital, post-surgery, wishing I survive, so someone remains to cherish these memories.
