When my grandma and grandpa were alive, I always thought they were my main family. Why? Well, because my mum was always busy with her social work, helping mothers who had no family support. And Dad, well, he was the creative type, always trying to find himself in art, theatre, or something else, until he just sort of dissolved into the vast sea of human life.
Mum loved me, but it was a bit frantic and sporadic. Once a week, she would visit us, bringing food and gifts. She’d give me a quick, strong kiss, then have lunch with a drink of whiskey with grandpa (during which grandma would lower her gaze and smooth her tablecloth), share a flood of ideas, and then vanish again for a week or more if work got busy.
So it was just me and my ‘parents’, living a quiet, steady life, tending grandma’s garden, going on grandpa’s woodland walks, and listening to their endless philosophical chats about life.
My grandma was majestic, and I realize now, quite beautiful. She was a big woman with luxurious hair even in old age, which she combed weekly with a curved comb her mother gave her. Grandpa was lean and wiry, his face etched with a picturesque network of wrinkles that started on his forehead and disappeared behind the collar of his always clean and well-pressed shirt, courtesy of grandma.
In our household, we men (grandpa and I) were considered ‘the clean and tidy ones’ — washed, shaved (especially me!), and always in clean clothes — as the entire street would say. Later, at school, I struggled to adjust to the ordinary word ‘street,’ still pronouncing it the way we did at home.
Whom did I love more? I still can’t decide because to me, they were a singular entity, smelling of soup, tobacco, milk, and sweat, mingled with the scent of our yard and forest.
Every morning, the first thing I’d see was grandpa’s sculpted face leaning low over me. His lips, always dry and warm, would whisper as soon as I opened my eyes, “Wake up, Johnny. Grandma’s made some puffs with garlic, and a hedgehog in the woods is waiting to tell us new stories.”
Grandpa would kiss me lightly, brushing my cheek with his rough, whiskered one. I’d whine, not understanding yet that this was real happiness, “No, grandpa, I don’t wanna… I’m still sleeping… And I want puffs with jam, not garlic.”
“That can be arranged,” he’d say, ruffling his feathers. He’d call out to the kitchen, “Mary, our king fancies some puffs with jam! Heard that?”
In a moment, grandma’s face would appear in the doorway, saying, “Of course, I know! The jam and a blue bowl are ready. Come on, now.”
When I washed up, they both stood by, grandma holding a towel embroidered with a young goat, and grandpa feebly attempting to snatch it from her hands.
We’d then eat — grandpa and me — since grandma fluttered around, enhancing the significance of men eating in the house.
After getting up from the table, we would offer our brief masculine praise, “We’re full, mum…” and “Yes, grandma…” Then we’d step outside for a smoke.
Grandpa smoked, of course. I just sat beside him, leaning against him, mimicking his posture with my hands on my knees.
“So, are you ready for the day?” Grandpa would ask. I’d answer, calm as ever, “Yes…”
We’d rise from the porch, spit (both of us, since after spitting Grandpa would offer me a cigarette!), stepping on the cigarette end, then ask the invisible grandma inside the house, as she clattered dishes, “Need anything, mum? We’re headed to the woods.”
“Alright, then! I’ll think of something to keep you busy for the day!” she’d shout back.
Grandpa would pick up the woven baskets — a large one for him and a small, almost toy-sized one he’d crafted for me. Off to the woods we went, where he explained why woodpeckers have red heads, why pine needles are longer than spruce, why mum visited so rarely, why hedgehogs snort when picked up, why dad vanished, why mushrooms have slimy caps, and why grandma was so beautiful while grandpa… ‘not as much’ (which he joked about himself).
By midday, when the woods got warm, we’d return home, always with treasures: mushrooms, berries, or aromatic herbs for tea.
Grandma would feed us again, then lay me down to nap in the cool hallway, saying it’s so the ‘lunch bits can settle’. Grandpa would cover me with his old, fragrant coat and sit by till… until… until a giant bird with blue eyes appeared, looked at me, and asked, “Johnny, have you been good today? Were you nice to grandpa and grandma?”
I’d stare back honestly at the bird… and wake up… to find grandma with milk in a cup decorated with poppies and a large slice of white bread freshly baked that morning.
Then grandpa and I would find chores to do in the yard or house, while grandma went to the garden to ‘idle about’ and ‘see if all is well’, weeding and watering, doing this and that.
Grandpa and I worked, understanding that ‘men must do the men’s work, and women’s work is for grandma’.
Now I’m older than grandpa and grandma were back then, and I’ve had a heart attack. Lying here after surgery, I think I must survive to be the one who remembers these cherished moments.
