During the time when my grandparents were alive, I believed they were my main family. Why?
Well, my mother was always preoccupied with finding employment for mothers who had no family support. She worked as some kind of social worker. As for my father… he was the artistic soul of the family, always searching for himself in painting, theater, or some other pursuit, gradually dissolving into the vast sea of life.
My mother loved me, but her affection was impulsive and sporadic. Once a week, she would visit us at my grandparents’ place, bringing food and gifts, planting a loud kiss on me. She’d then have a meal, share a drink with Granddad, tilting her head back with gusto (while Grandma lowered her gaze and smoothed out the tablecloth), brim with ideas and words, and then vanish again for another week or more if work got hectic.
Grandma and Granddad were the ones who stayed with me, living quietly and steadily. We managed Grandma’s garden, went on Grandpa’s woodland excursions, and engaged in endless “philosophical discussions” about life.
My grandmother was regal and, as I now realize, truly beautiful. Tall, with luxurious hair she combed weekly after her bath with a curved comb her own mother had given her. Granddad was lean, very upright, and vividly etched with wrinkles that ran from his forehead down his neck.
In our neighborhood, people would say the men in our house (that’s me and Grandpa) were always “spick and span: washed, shaved (especially clean-shaven in my case!), and in clean clothes.” Later at school, I struggled to get used to calling our lane just “street,” so I continued to refer to it the way we did at home.
Whom did I love more? It’s still hard to say, as they formed a solid unity that I associated with the smell of soup, tobacco, milk, and the earthy scent of the forest and our garden.
Upon waking, the first thing I’d see was the sculptural visage of Granddad, leaning closely over me. His dry, warm lips would whisper as soon as I opened my eyes:
“Rise and shine, Christopher. Grandma has baked garlic buns. A hedgehog in the woods is waiting with new stories for us.”
Granddad then grazed a kiss on my cheek, pressing his rough one against mine. I would whine, not realizing then that this was happiness:
“No, Granddad, I don’t want to yet… I want to sleep… And I want buns with jam, not garlic.”
“That we can arrange swiftly,” Granddad would say and call out towards the kitchen, “Lydia, our prince wants buns with jam! Understood?”
In a moment, Grandma’s face would appear at the doorframe, “Of course! And I’ve already set out the jam in the blue dish. Come on in!”
As I washed up, both of them would stand by me. Grandma held the towel, embroidered with a little goat by her hands, while Granddad cheekily tried to tug it from her grasp.
Then, me and Granddad would sit to eat. Grandma never joined us at the table; she was too busy fussing around, creating a cozy atmosphere while the men ate.
After breakfast, we’d rise from the table and give restrained but sincere compliments to our hostess:
“We’ve eaten well, haven’t we, Grandma!”
“Indeed, Granddad!”
Then we’d step out to the yard for a smoke, although only Granddad smoked. I just sat closely with him, mimicking his posture.
“How are you? Ready to tackle the day?” Granddad would ask.
I’d reply ponderously, “Uh-huh…”
We’d then stand up, flick our cigarette stub (Granddad passed it to me so we could do it together!) toward an unseen Grandma, who by then was busy with the dishes:
“Do you need anything before we head off to the woods?”
“Off you go, I’ll think of something to keep you busy later,” came her response from inside.
Granddad and I would take our woven baskets—a large one for him, a small, practically toy-sized one he made for me—and head into the woods. He’d tell me why woodpeckers have red heads, why pine needles are longer than fir, why Mum seldom visits, why hedgehogs snort when picked up, where Dad disappeared to, why mushrooms are slippery, why Grandma is so beautiful and Granddad “not so much” (his own words).
By midday, when the woods got too warm, we’d return home—always with trophies of mushrooms, berries, and fragrant herbs for tea.
Grandma would feed us again, and then lay me to rest in the cool hallway for a nap, saying it was needed for the lunch to settle. Granddad would cover me with his old, fragrant coat and sit beside me until… until… until a giant bird with blue eyes would visit in my dreams and ask, “Have you been good today, Christopher? Haven’t upset Granddad or Grandma?”
I’d honestly gaze into its eyes… and then wake up.
There would be Grandma, already having poured milk into a cup adorned with poppies and placed a large slice of white bread, baked alongside the morning buns, for me.
And then, Granddad and I would do some work around the yard or house, while Grandma would attend to her garden, “taking it easy” or “checking if everything is alright.” She’d do some weeding, water the plants, and get busy with other chores.
Granddad and I worked understanding that “men’s work should be done by men, and women’s work by Grandma.”
Now, I find myself older than my grandparents were then. I’ve had a heart attack and am recovering in a hospital bed. As I lie here, I think to myself: I must survive, to cherish and preserve these memories for the world.
