Stars Above Us: Memories of Grandmothers
Like everyone else, I had two grandmothers. Different as night and day, yet equally devoted to me. Their names were nearly identical: Anna Federovna, my mother’s mother, and Antonina Federovna, my father’s.
Anna lived in the heart of a little town, in a spacious flat filled with books and antique furniture. According to my dad, she was a “proper city lady”—elegant, with just a hint of snobbery. She came into my life first. Antonina, on the other hand, was country through and through, simple as could be. Mum would tease, “Three years of schooling, what can you expect?” Dad would correct, “Not three—she finished primary!” She moved in with us when I started Year Six.
When I was seven, Anna fell seriously ill. Mum quit her job and moved in to care for her, leaving Dad and me in our tiny flat, bought with my grandfather’s savings. At first, it was grand fun—Dad smoked indoors, and I stayed up late watching telly. But soon, we grew weary. He got sick of cooking; I got sick of eating sausages. In the end, we moved in with Anna too. Temporarily, we thought, but it became permanent—one wage wasn’t enough, so we rented out our place.
While Anna was unwell, I tried to be quiet as a mouse. Her flat was a mystery to me: shadowy cupboards, towering wardrobes, heavy curtains I’d hide behind for hours. But sometimes I’d “overdo it.”
“Get this little ruffian out of here!” Anna would shout. “Why isn’t he being raised properly?”
“Well, raise him yourself then,” Dad would retort.
“And I will!” she’d threaten, only to pat my head tenderly moments later.
And she did. I started primary school, and Anna decided to teach me piano, insisting I had “perfect pitch.”
“At least he’ll stop running about like a wild thing,” she’d mutter.
I plodded through scales, counting the minutes till freedom. Dad, meanwhile, channelled my energy elsewhere—he signed me up for rugby.
“You’re ruining the boy!” Anna fumed. “He’s got talent, and you—”
“Did you ever ask if he wants your music?” Dad shot back.
I didn’t want music or rugby. Truth be told, I didn’t know what I wanted.
When Anna recovered, Mum went back to work, and I stayed “Granny’s problem.” That’s how I finished Year One. Summer became a battleground—where to dump me so Anna could rest. After endless debates, they shipped me off to the countryside, to Antonina’s.
I was terrified. Mum warned of her “rustic ways,” Anna of “filth, stodgy food, rivers to drown in, poisonous mushrooms, and wolves in the woods.” But the village was magic. Fields, ponds, dark forests on the horizon. Chickens, geese, cows—all things I’d only seen in books. The local kids, under Antonina’s orders, took me under their wing. The socks Mum had neatly packed gathered dust—everyone ran barefoot, unbothered by mud or cow pats.
Antonina was Anna’s opposite. Gentle, with a kind smile, she’d look at me so lovingly it took my breath away. Petite, round-faced, with wrinkles and dimples, she smelled of fresh bread and milk. “My little chick, so thin,” she’d coo, hugging me. The food was plain but delicious—warm milk at dawn, eggs with bacon, potato cakes with cream, pies from the oven. I drank milk, which I’d hated in the city, and fell asleep happy.
Days in the village were pure freedom. I fished with the boys, picked berries, sweated in the sauna where the men slapped me with birch branches. Evenings, Antonina and I sat on the porch, swatting mosquitoes. She sang old songs, told fairy tales and war stories. The worst—she’d lost four children to hunger and illness. I’d press close, whispering I loved her and would never leave.
Summer flew by like a dream. At goodbye, Antonina wept, begging forgiveness. I swore I’d return, but next summer I went to camp. She wrote letters—scrawled, misspelled, full of love: “Have you lost weight?” I tried to reply, but words failed me. I resented my parents, Anna, imagining Antonina alone on the porch, humming, “Oh, the birch tree in the field…”
Then, news—Antonina was moving in! The farm had collapsed; her house was crumbling. I whooped, “Now I’ve got two grannies!” Mum fretted, “How will we manage?” Dad whispered, “At least we’ll eat properly.”
Antonina arrived sad, guilty, apologising again.
“Enough moping!” Anna cheered. “We’ll make the best of it.”
“Sorry to be a burden, sister,” Antonina wept.
“Burden? There’s room for all,” Anna soothed.
Antonina moved into my room—I was thrilled but hid it to spare Anna’s feelings. Miraculously, the grannies became friends. Anna, though “a right pain” (Dad’s words), softened. They sipped tea, dissolving toffees, bickered warmly. When Antonina baked pies, Anna grumbled they were unhealthy—then sneaked them to her room. Everyone knew, but we played along, grinning.
Anna teased Antonina: “Federovna, chop off those plaits—you’re not in the village!”
“Since when do old ladies crop their hair?” Antonina retorted, braiding her thin plait.
Sometimes they’d share a nip of homemade wine.
“Sister, a wee dram?” Anna offered.
“Go on then,” Antonina 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 howl with laughter.
They were always losing spectacles, keys, notebooks. “Federovna, why did I come in here?” Anna would ask, and I’d laugh, loving them more than anything.
Under their watch, I finished school, music lessons, and earned my rugby stripes. Fit and well-fed, I got into uni. Then came girl trouble—lads fancied me, but I was clueless. Once, thinking the grannies were out, I brought home a classmate. We’d barely settled when they bustled in, gasping. They fled red-faced to the kitchen; the girl fled altogether.
“Is that your sweetheart?” Antonina asked.
“He’s got a sweetheart in every lecture hall!” Anna snorted.
They scolded me, warned of “flighty hussies,” but praised one—Kate from next door.
“Kate’s pure gold,” Antonina said.
“Nice, but a bit plain,” Anna mused.
“Plain? Some of us see deeper,” Antonina countered.
In spring, Antonina died. Quietly, suddenly—a gasp, then gone. Ambulance, chaos, the wake. That evening, I stepped outside. From the dark, Kate appeared with a bin bag.
“Your gran’s gone?” she asked.
“Yeah. Come by tomorrow, if you like.”
“I will,” she nodded. “You’re lucky—you’ve still got one gran, and your parents. I’ve just Mum.”
Under the streetlight, I really looked at her. She blushed, but I thought, “Huh. She’s not wrong.”
Back inside, I found Anna smoothing a lace handkerchief, whispering:
“I’ll be along soon, Tonia. Save me a spot. We’ll watch over them together.”
I hugged her and wept like a boy.
“Don’t cry, duck. We’re all on the same train—just getting off at different stops,” she comforted, echoing Antonina.
Anna passed the next year. The flat felt hollow; fresh paint couldn’t warm it. I took a proper look at Kate. The grannies were right—they’d seen what I’d missed.
Kate sat beside me.
“Tired?” she asked.
“Just thinking of them. They spotted you first. Said you were a treasure.”
“Well, we’ll see about that,” she laughed, resting her head on my shoulder.
I looked up at the stars. They twinkled, and I knew—my grannies were up there, smiling down at us, happy as larks.
