Stars Above Us: A Memory of Grandmothers
Like everyone, I had two grandmothers. As different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical: Ann Foster, my mother’s mother, and Antonia Foster, my father’s.
Ann lived in the heart of a small town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. According to my father, she was a “city lady”—refined, with a hint of pride. She entered my life first. Antonia, on the other hand, was countryside-bred and plainspoken. Mum would chuckle, “Three years of schooling, what can you expect?” Dad corrected her: “Not three—she finished primary!” She moved in with us when I started Year 6.
When I was seven, Ann fell seriously ill. Mum left her job to care for her, and Dad and I stayed behind in our modest flat, bought with my grandfather’s savings. At first, we enjoyed ourselves—Dad smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, boredom set in. Dad grew tired of cooking, and I of eating sausages. Eventually, we moved in with Granny Ann. We thought it temporary, but stayed for good—surviving on one salary was impossible, so we rented out our place.
While Ann was ill, I tiptoed around. Her flat was a mystery: dark storage closets, towering wardrobes, heavy curtains I hid behind for hours. But sometimes, I pushed my luck.
“Get this rascal out of here!” she’d shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Then raise him yourself,” Dad would snap.
“And I will!” she’d threaten—yet moments later, she’d stroke my hair gently.
And she did. I started Year 1, and Granny insisted on piano lessons, convinced I had perfect pitch.
“At least he’ll stop tearing about like a wild thing,” she grumbled.
I slogged through scales, counting the minutes until freedom. Dad, meanwhile, channeled my energy elsewhere—enrolling me in judo.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Granny protested. “He has talent, and you—”
“Did you even ask if he wants your music?” Dad shot back.
I wanted neither music nor judo. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I wanted.
When Granny recovered, Mum returned to work, and I stayed in Ann’s care. That’s how I finished Year 1. Summer sparked a debate—where to send me so Granny could rest? After much deliberation, I was packed off to the countryside with Antonia.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “rustic ways,” Ann of “dirt, greasy food, rivers where I’d drown, poisonous mushrooms, and wolves in the woods.” But the village was magical. Fields, ponds, dark forests on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—things I’d only seen in books. Local lads, at Antonia’s request, took me under their wing. Mum’s neatly packed socks gathered dust—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cow pats.
Antonia was Ann’s opposite. Soft-spoken, smiling, she gazed at me with such love it stole my breath. Petite, round-faced, with dimples and wrinkles, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little sparrow, so thin,” she’d murmur, hugging me. Meals were simple but delicious—warm milk at dawn, eggs with bacon, potato cakes with cream, pies from the oven. I drank milk I’d despised in the city and fell asleep blissful.
Days there were pure freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, bathed in the sauna where the men whipped me with birch branches. Evenings, Antonia and I sat on the porch, swatting midges. She sang old songs, told fairy tales and war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I clung to her, whispering I loved her and would never leave.
Summer vanished like a dream. At our goodbye, Granny wept, begging forgiveness. I vowed to return, but next summer, I went to camp. She wrote letters—messy, misspelled, brimming with love: “Have you lost weight?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I seethed at my parents, at Ann, picturing Antonia alone on the porch, humming, “The birch trees sway in the field…”
Then—news! Antonia was moving in. The farm had collapsed; her house was crumbling. I cheered, “Now I’ve two grannies!” Mum fretted, “How will we manage?” Dad muttered, “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonia arrived mournful, apologetic.
“Enough gloom,” Ann chided. “We’ll make the most of our time.”
“Forgive me, coming here a burden in my old age,” Antonia wept.
“Burden? There’s room for all,” Ann soothed.
Antonia stayed in my room—I was thrilled but hid it to spare Ann’s feelings. Surprisingly, the grannies grew close. Ann, though “a proper nag” (Dad’s words), softened. They sipped tea, dissolving butterscotch, bickered warmly. When Antonia baked, Ann clucked about “unhealthy habits”—yet sneaked pies to her room. We all knew, grinning in silence.
Ann teased Antonia: “Foster, chop off those plaits—you’re not in the sticks anymore!”
“Since when do old women crop their hair?” Antonia retorted, braiding her thinning plait.
Sometimes they shared a nip of sherry.
“Foster, a wee dram?” Ann offered.
“Go on then,” Antonia agreed.
After a glass, they’d cackle over jokes about aging. One stuck with me:
“What’s your name? I’ve forgotten.”
“Is it urgent?”—and they’d dissolve in laughter.
They forever misplaced glasses, keys, notebooks. “Foster, why did I go to the kitchen?” Ann would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them more than anything.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my judo belt. Healthy, well-fed, I started university. Then trouble: girls fancied me, but I was clueless. Once, sneakily bringing a classmate home, we’d barely settled when the grannies bustled in. Flustered, they fled to the kitchen; the girl bolted.
“That your sweetheart?” Antonia asked.
“He’s got a sweetheart in every lecture hall!” Ann snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “scheming minxes,” but praised one girl—Kate from next door.
“Kate’s a gem,” Antonia insisted.
“Pretty, but a bit plain—no flair,” Ann demurred.
“Flair’s overrated. The right one will see her worth,” Antonia argued.
Spring came, and Antonia died. Quietly, suddenly—a gasp, then stillness. The ambulance, the fuss, the wake. That night, I stepped into the yard. From the shadows, Kate appeared, bin bag in hand.
“Granny’s gone?” she asked.
“Yeah. Come to the wake tomorrow.”
“I will,” she nodded. “You’re lucky—you’ve still got one granny and your parents. I’ve only got Mum.”
In the lamplight, I studied her. She blushed, but I thought, “She’s right—she’s lovely.”
Back inside, I found Ann smoothing a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“Won’t be long now, Tonia. Save me a seat. We’ll mind the youngsters together.”
I hugged her, weeping like a boy.
“Don’t cry, love. We’re all headed the same way—just different stops,” she comforted, echoing Antonia.
A year later, Ann was gone. The flat felt hollow, renovations couldn’t warm it. I took a closer look at Kate. The grannies were right—they’d seen what I’d missed.
Kate sat beside me softly.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Thinking of the grannies. They noticed you first. Called you ‘treasure.’”
“We’ll see if they were right,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I looked up at the stars. They twinkled, and I knew—my grannies watched over us, smiling down with them.
