On Grandma’s last story

-featuring Wavelength charity

Grandma was born in 1921, in a city at the bottom of the mountains. Her father was a shepherd. He would gather all the sheep from their neighbours, he’d take his own flock and climb up to the sheepfold on the first days of Spring. He came down from the top of the mountain with the first frost, bringing with him white cheese, milk, and sheep wool.

My Grandma was one of 13 and one of the 9 siblings who lived to see old age. The oldest boy got the house. The middle, the sheep. The other boys, the lands.

When she was 8 years old, Grandma was sent to clean a lady’s house in the city. There was no money left in her own household for the girls. She lived in the old Lady’s house for a few years, but she ran away when the Lady said she would adopt her. It wasn’t because she didn’t like the Lady, Grandma said. It was because she did not want to settle down.

Grandma learned how to sow, knit and embroider and taught herself to read and write. She became a voracious reader. She would read anything: prayer books, magazines, novels and tabloids. She found information and delight in anything.

At 20, Grandma got engaged. Her fiance was tall, very handsome and had blue eyes. His name is engraved on the Second World War memorial in her home town, together with other casualties of the year 1942.

At 22, Grandma packed a small bag and and with that her grief and crossed the Carpathian mountains. I gather it was not an easy journey, but she made it through.

At 24, Grandma met Grandpa, in the South. He was nine years her senior, not so handsome, but ‘a really good man’. ‘He was God’s manna to me.’ ‘He was the light of my life.’ ‘He loved me, your Grandpa.’

At 68 years old Grandma was widowed. And from that point on, Grandma never stopped talking. One story followed by another. Stories about her brother who had drowned in the river; her mad sister; her best friend, the nun. The neighbour’s old dog. The violinist. The French tutor. Story, upon story, upon story.

Grandma lived, as she had predicted, to ninety years old.

Twenty days before she died, in my mother’s house, my mother asked Grandma why she was quiet.

‘I’ve told all my stories’, she said, and she never spoke again.

WAVELENGTH

Grandma was on her own for almost thirty years. On her own, she managed the house, the garden, the chicken and the turkey (but on the turkey, another time!) and us – my sister and me-, during school holidays.

I remember spending my holidays at Grandma’s and, during cold winter nights, hearing the wind howl outside; or hearing a little mouse creeping into the house. I remember wondering how come Grandma never looked scared. I also remember the TV her children had bought her, big screen, blaring all day. She could hear it from the back of the garden. She was always the most up to date with news, gossip and the latest folk song. Grandma needed company. During the day, it was her friends from down the road, us, the garden. During sleepless nights, it might have been the awareness of others, and I am sure the TV played a part.

I have recently become aware of a fantastic and unique charity. Wavelength deliver radios and TVs to people who are in need of one. They may be too secluded, or afraid to leave their homes. They may be in financial need. Wavelength beneficiaries say the TVs and radios they receive are ‘lifelines, because they connect them to the outside world. They can also comfort them during long days and lonely nights.

This, to me, is making a difference. Sometimes, a small difference can have a big impact on someone’s life. You can read more about Wavelength here, as well as on their Twitter or Instagram feed.

My Grandma is a constant inspiration to me. Have you had the chance of meeting an older person who has changed your life? Drop me a line in the comments!

StoriSSe a similar charity here

Would you like to know more about Grandma? I’ve written about her here and here.