When my grandparents were alive, I considered them my main family. Why? Because my mother was always busy with work, helping mothers who didn’t have family support. She was a social worker of sorts. And my dad… well, he was the creative one in the family, always searching for his place, whether it was in painting or theater. Gradually, he just seemed to drift away into the vast ocean of life.
My mum loved me, but it was a kind of frantic affection, in waves. Once a week, she would visit us with my grandparents, bringing food and gifts. She would kiss me passionately, have lunch, and drink whiskey with Grandpa as she shared all her ideas and stories before disappearing again for a week, sometimes longer if work got busy.
Meanwhile, my “parents,” as I called them, were there to carry on, living quietly and steadily. Grandma tended to her garden while Grandad took me on walks through the woods, where they’d engage in their endless “philosophical discussions” about life.
My grandma was stately and, looking back now, quite beautiful. She was tall with gorgeous hair that remained thick into her later years. Every week after her bath, she’d comb it with a half-moon comb her mother had given her. Grandad, on the other hand, was lean, with a face made fascinating by a network of wrinkles that began on his forehead and trailed down past his collar, always impeccably neat thanks to Grandma.
Our grandma had a standard for us boys (Grandpa and me) — washed, shaved (especially me, of course!), and always in clean clothes. That’s how people on our “street” saw us. When I went to school, it took me a while to get used to saying “street” instead of the term our family used.
Who did I love more? I still can’t say because they felt like an inseparable unit, one that smelled of stew and tobacco, milk and sweat, and our garden and the woodlands.
Each morning, I woke to see Grandad’s sculpted face bending over me. His lips, always dry and warm, would whisper as soon as I opened my eyes:
“Wake up, Jamie. Gran’s made fritters with garlic. We’ve got a hedgehog in the woods waiting to tell us new stories.”
Grandad would give me a light kiss, just grazing my cheek with his bristly chin. I’d whine, not realizing then that this was happiness:
“No, Grandad, not yet… I want to sleep… And I want fritters with jam, not garlic.”
“Well, that’s easily sorted,” Grandad would say, hurrying to the kitchen, “Gran, our king prefers jam fritters!”
In moments, Granny’s face would appear at the doorway with a knowing smile:
“Of course! I’ve already got jam ready in the little blue dish. Come along now!”
As I washed up, they both stood nearby. Grandma held the towel, which had a little kid embroidered on it. Grandad would playfully try to snatch it away.
Then we’d eat, Grandad and me, because Gran never sat down but bustled around, setting a cozy stage for the men of the house dining.
Once we finished, we’d rise from the table, giving brief but heartfelt thanks to our host:
“We’re full, love…”
“Yes, Gran…”
Then we’d step outside for a smoke. Well, Grandad smoked, while I sat close by mimicking him, resting my hands on my knees just as he did.
“So, how are you feeling? Ready for the day?” he’d ask.
I’d respond solemnly:
“Yes…”
We’d get up from the porch, each of us flicking our cigarette butts into the yard. Once back in the house, Grandad would ask Gran if she needed anything before we set off into the woods.
“No, go on then, and I’ll think of something to keep you busy for the day!”
Grandad would take his big woven basket, and I’d have my small, almost toy-like one. Off we’d go into the woods, and he’d tell me stories. Why the woodpecker has a red head, why the pine tree’s needles are longer than the fir’s, why Mum doesn’t visit often, why hedgehogs “huff” when you pick them up, why Dad disappeared, why the mushrooms are slippery, why Gran is so beautiful, and why he’s not quite as good-looking (his words, not mine).
By lunchtime, when the woods grew too hot, we’d head home with some bounty: maybe mushrooms, berries, or fragrant herbs for our tea.
Gran would feed us again, and then lay me down for a nap in the cool, airy scullery. Gran would cover me with a worn old coat of Grandad’s and sit by until… until a giant bird with blue eyes would come, asking me if I’d been good for Gran and Grandad.
I’d stare wide-eyed at it, only to wake up to find Gran with a cup of milk adorned with poppies and a generous slice of bread she baked that morning with the fritters.
Later, Grandad and I would do some tasks around the house or yard while Gran went to the garden to “eavesdrop,” as she put it, checking if everything was alright. She’d weed, water, and do whatever else needed doing.
We worked, knowing “men’s chores were ours, while women’s were Gran’s.”
Now, I’m older than my grandparents were then and recovering from heart surgery in the hospital. As I lie here, I’m determined to survive so I can be the one to cherish these memories and keep them alive.
