15 min read

There is something special about older generations. I’m not exactly sure what, but I’m trying to figure it out.

They have this way of life, it’s…slower. When they talk to you, they look at you directly, as if waiting for you to reciprocate, and when you do, their eyes lit up and they tell you stories. And the way they tell those stories is…I don’t know, raw, without pretense?

They just are.

My favorite memories from childhood is when I would spend the summer at my grandparents’ village and the electricity would randomly shut off in the evening. Grandpa would light a candle and we’d sit and look at it for a while…then grandma would join us.

Silence. Warmth. The wood in the fireplace would slowly burn. And the crackling sound of the fire, maybe it’s the nostalgia in me, but there’s truly nothing like it.

Then my grandpa would take a long sigh…and start telling stories, about his childhood, about life. I would ask him to dive into more details, and he would. He was a history teacher, so stories come naturally to him.

Time is still, the candle is burning, and there’s nowhere else to go. Just the three of us, the tiny light of the candle and the crackling of the fire.

Slow down, have a conversation with someone

When I was a kid, the front gates of their property seemed so big, now I’m taller than them. Everything seems so tiny, all the childhood places. I’m sure you’ve felt it too.

With each visit the sensation changes a little bit. Lately I visit them every 2 years or so. I’m across the Atlantic Ocean now, so it’s not “an hour-hour and a half drive” anymore.

By sensation I mean the details. Grandma’s hearing is getting worse, but beside that she’s quite physically fit and very active for her 70’s. Grandpa is slower, he’s getting visibly older. He’s more nostalgic in his moods. He talks about death more often. I try to cheer him up more, as if I knew what he felt. I don’t. I cannot know. But every time I visit him now I listen to him more passionately, I listen to him because he’s lived more than me on this Earth, and he has stories. And when his homemade Moldovan wine is involved, oh boy, game is ON.

I think the phrase “Here, have one more glass of wine, let’s talk” is too familiar for us Moldovans. I probably started drinking wine when I was 10? Maybe earlier, I don’t know. Of course, grandpa would give me just a few sips, but it made me feel part of the crowd, part of the conversation.

Needless to say, when I got older it’s not just sips anymore. Grandpa has literally so much wine in his two huge barrels that he has no one to drink it with. So when I come to visit, which is rare, I get…a little tipsy.

Say what you want about alcoholism and statistics which show that Moldovans are among the most drinking nations in the world (which is probably true), but if you do it in moderation, it makes the conversations livelier, and it shuts down our self-made inhibitions.

On one of my last visits, about 2 years ago, I sat on the porch with grandpa and tried to have a more mature conversation, as we both felt it was about time. I was 23, big boy.

I asked him, frankly:

“Grandpa, what did you like about grandma when you first met her?”

He started smiling a bit…

Then paused, laughed to himself for a moment, and continued:

“Well…It was some event a long time ago, where people danced… I don’t exactly remember, but your grandma looked good, she seemed nice.”

“Come on grandpa, be more specific maybe?”

“Well…” his smile got larger

“She had this blouse on her with a lower cut, and…her tits looked good in it”

My face widened and I just burst out laughing, he couldn’t hold it and burst out laughing too.

It was probably the realest moment I’ve had with him. It felt like a real man-to-man conversation. No filters.

I said to him, “Wow grandpa you’re so typical… her tits looked good? Hahaha”

He was barely holding his breath “yeah…what can I say, It’s true.”

Appreciate what you have

My grandpa has had the same car for more than 30 years. The car barely works anymore, well it does, but only when he fixes it so it can at least drive him to the nearest gas station where he can refill the gas tank for their kitchen.

He’s literally squeezing everything out of that car until it will eventually die completely. He probably doesn’t have much choice, he’s not rich, and getting a new car at his age doesn’t make much sense, considering he doesn’t need to drive that often. But he worked with what he had, rarely complained. It’s an old Lada from the Soviet times, it’s a bunch of crap now if you ask me, but he’s been taking care of it all these years, because it’s what he has.

There’s something to learn here. Contentment? Resourcefulness? Call it what you want, but there’s an admirable quality the older generation has, maybe it’s specific to the ex-Soviet region, where people always had less options and had to live with what they were given. But we lack, or should I say, I lack that resourcefulness. If I were him I would’ve given up a long time ago on that car. I would move on. I would see it as a waste of time.

But with age I start to realize that what grandpa was doing wasn’t just stubbornness or a strange character trait. He was building a skill, he was trying to figure out things on his own, with his own hands, like when he build that house. With time it made him appreciate what he had, the house he had built, which is big and beautiful and fits all our family and relatives.

Yes, it would be dishonest to say that he never compared himself to his neighbors or other people in the village. We all do that, it’s in our nature. But he never did it excessively. He still built new fences and painted the old ones because he wanted to make what he had better. He invested time and sweat in it. And I’m sure he is proud of it. And he should be.

Do the work first, complain after

It seems incredible to me that grandpa with the help of a few men built his house from scratch. That’s crazy. With his own hands, and he’s not even in the construction industry or something. He just figured it out, because he had to, and he didn’t have time to complain.

Now, I would be a liar if I’d say that he doesn’t complain at all. Of course he does, but it’s mostly about his health that’s getting worse, and existential fears. He’s becoming more religious with age, which he never was much in the past, and I understand him, I’m sure he feels lonely a lot of times. The village is not the same as before. A lot of people left, mostly young families. Old people have nowhere to go, their houses that they built are here, their memories are here, their friends, the ones still alive, are here.

My grandma, to be honest, is a freaking machine. I don’t know how she does it. She’s very active. Always running around the property, feeding the animals, taking care of the garden, cooking food, fixing something here and there, and watching Russian television at strict times and strictly something about crime or fake judges. She’s always on the clock, Bam bam, here, there, done and done.

Rarely ever complains. Again, the complaints are usually regarding her health or her usual sarcastic digs at my grandpa. It’s kind of cute sometimes to see them “fight”. Usually they end up laughing at each other, but sometimes their verbal fights can get quite intense. Grandma can be ruthless. I feel you grandpa, she’s a lot to handle.

I always keep them in my mind, especially when I feel like I’ve got it “tough”. I don’t think I’ve ever had it as tough as they did. I’m privileged. I had the chance to immigrate to a 1st world country, which has plenty of opportunities. They never had these opportunities, and I humble myself down every time I think I’m the sh*t. I’m an amateur compared to them.

My first job when I came to Canada was working at a lawn-care company. The window for the lawn-care business is open for only about 4 months a year here in Eastern Canada, so every morning (about 6 days a week) from late April till about mid-June I would get in a van with about 10 co-workers and travel across GTA (Greater Toronto Area) and knock on hundreds of doors, trying to convince people with my not-so-perfect-English at first, that they need our lawn care services, all while carrying along an “aerating machine” on wheels which probably weighed about as much as me. All that for about 14 hours a day, straight cash, all commission. It was a real hustle. The faster I was the more money I would make. No excuses, it was all on me. I probably lost about 15 pounds in the first few months. I would barely have time to stop and eat lunch.

That was fun, in a weird way. But the toughest part was in July-August, when we would switch to a different service: driveway sealing, which is basically spraying a few layers of liquid asphalt on driveways to make it look fresher. It was by far the dirtiest job I’ve ever had, if you got some of that asphalt on your clothes, you’d say bye bye to them clothes. Can’t wash it off. And did I say it was hot? Oh boy, it was scorching hot in mid-summer. And I was in the sun all day. And yes, I did complain, because it was physically exhausting. But I would never make it a habit, I would limit my complaints, because it meant more time wasted if I kept doing it. And when your work is 100% commission, you learn that quickly.

There was some skill involved, it was in the details. With driveway sealing, I’d have to learn where the wind was blowing, and adjust my spraying accordingly, so the asphalt doesn’t blow onto the owner’s house. The process of sealing had a certain technique to it, sort of like painting with oil, except the brush was much bigger and the consequences of f*cking up could be a few hours of free work that originally costed 180$.

I found solace in it, in the exhaustion, In fact, at the end of each day, I would get a sense of satisfaction, knowing that I ran like a dog all day to get that money, to really earn it with my sweat. It was a bit of masochism, because it surely wasn’t good for my health, but it was a good learning experience. Mostly the lesson was that I wouldn’t want to do this my whole life, and it made me more respectful towards people that do really physical jobs.

Don’t be so stubborn and ask for help when you need it

I have to be honest, it’s not all rainbows and roses with my grandparents. They have some negative qualities. One quality that they both have is never asking for help. Never. In fact, they mention they needed help only after something bad happens, as if to make us feel guilty, I don’t know, it’s a bit passive-aggressive.

I mean, I know where they come from, it’s just stubbornness (which I’ve inherited) and wanting to get more attention. If you look at it emotionally, it makes sense, and it’s really maybe a wake-up call for me and my mom to talk to them more often. But I still think it’s an immature trait. I don’t think it serves them well. It makes them suffer unnecessarily, and I want the best for them, so I hope they will do this less, and tell me their issues more when I ask. But then again, I know they won’t change, because they’re stubborn like me. I’ll just keep in mind that I’ll have to confront them more often and take the initiative of helping them and asking if they need something.

On the second thought, I think what they really need is usually someone to listen to them, to talk to them, to make them feel valued and appreciated. I think they feel lonelier with age, but they’re embarrassed to mention it. I understand it. I empathize with them.

Love is more complex than just “feelings”

If I would be to describe the love they have between each other with one word, I’d call it teamwork.

They see their relationship, first and foremost, as two adults living together and helping each other. Sometimes I feel like they don’t show enough affection to each other. But then if I investigate closer, that affection is much deeper than it looks.

I felt that affection when grandma visited us in the city and mentioned “I’m worried about grandpa back home, he’s all alone with animals and things to take care of”

I felt that affection when grandpa told me with a smile about how grandma “annoys him” and doesn’t leave him alone, yet complains when she’s visiting her grandkids in the city too often.

I felt that affection when they have a “fight”, say nasty things to each other, then laugh it off at the end and grandpa says something sweet like “look at her, she’s so feisty”.

Their love is not based on feelings. Their love is based on many things, things that stand the test of time and the test of struggles.

They dislike some parts about each other, but they overlook them, because they’re human beings, and they both have negative traits.

Grandpa snores, and it’s loud. Like, REALLY loud sometimes. Grandma hates it. She used to complain a lot about it when I was little, but after a while she just accepted it, and found a workaround. On days when his snoring is unbearably loud she just moves to another room and sleeps there without waking him up.

Grandma says some really nasty things to grandpa sometimes. She’s just direct like that. Never sugar-coats it. Ever. That’s not about my grandma, she’s as straight as they come when it comes to expressing herself. That, obviously, can hurt. But grandpa counters that with humor, and he has that in abundance. When grandma is extra nasty, grandpa is extra sarcastic and humorous, and grandma eventually gives up and starts laughing too. Grandpa is a magician. Speaking of which:

Even when things are bad, don’t lose your sense of humor

Grandpa broke his leg a few weeks ago, and he did it in a super dumb way. He was tying the vines on top of his front yard. He fell off the ladder and his leg hit a big rock (that was randomly sitting there, of course). He had surgery and had a metal support inserted in his leg. He probably won’t walk for at least a few months, so he uses crutches or the wheelchair that my mother just brought to him, which ironically was made in USSR (like grandpa).

At first I was really worried when my mom told me about the incident, but then a few days ago I called them and all they did was laugh about it like a bunch of immature goofs. Grandpa was lying in bed, and apparently they put a bar above him so he could get out of bed by grabbing it and pulling himself out. They were all making jokes of how grandpa will have huge biceps soon and will compete in arm wrestling with me when I come and visit.

Goofs. They were supposed to be sad and sh*t.

Also, my mom mentioned how my little brother (he’s 7) is obsessed with playing chess lately and was making grandpa play chess marathons all the time. And when grandma was visiting the city my brother was complaining that she didn’t know how to play chess.

What a bunch of goofs. Love them.

Be practical. Be simple.

If there’s one lesson that’s been the most valuable, it surely has to be this one. Grandpa, being a storyteller and all, is still a bit of dreamer, albeit a much “grounded” dreamer. And still, he always reminded me of practical things, like money, having a stable job, investing in my education.

Grandma on the other hand, is the most practical human being I’ve ever known. She’s so “straight-to-the-point” it’s scary sometimes. I admire that in her. She has zero tolerance for bullsh*t. She’s smart, yet simple. She was a chemistry teacher. I hated chemistry in school. Couldn’t even do real experiments because we never had the required tools. We literally had to write in “laboratories” that “I’m pouring X into Y, it became blue” while imagining everything, I never actually poured anything. Those real lab experiments only happen in American movies, and well…in any other country that actually has facilities and investments in education.

Anyways, this trait — of being practical — is necessary in times of adversity. And oh boy did my grandparents had that adversity. In Soviet (and post-Soviet) times, adversity was common. You had to be practical, and you had to make pragmatic decisions. I’m still learning to do that. I know one thing for sure: at least I have good role models in my life that I can follow.

They often mention money, how it’s important to have it and take care of it, and when I was younger and overly-idealistic, I’d scorn at that suggestion, but now I realize what they really meant.

They meant that I should take care of money first, save up, find a good job, and then worry about the rest. It’s not about “money is everything”, it’s more about “money is important, don’t forget that”. I think it’s good advice. It’s not romantic, but it’s practical, and simple.

Value your family

Oh, the family gatherings, the late nights, the “come on, stay for a little bit longer, grandma will make some plăcinte and colțunași”. These are the moments that matter, that truly matter. Conversations with people close to you, sharing stories, laughing, being sad together, remembering those who passed away. Is there more to life? Yes, there is, of course. But to me, those are the moments I’ll remember the most. That’s how I want to remember my grandparents: full of life and eager to talk. It saddens me to see them getting older and older, but such is life. They were young once, like us, they were uncertain of the future, they had dreams and they have regrets, they had to make tough decisions, and they persevered.

The grandparents from my father’s side passed away a decade ago, and I can’t say I didn’t have some regrets for not spending more time with them. In retrospect, I should have called them and told them I love them more often. I can make the excuse that “I was a confused teenager” but, I’m partially responsible for not taking the initiative.

The ones from my mother’s side, I still have a lot to learn from them, they’re still alive, with all their quirks and mannerisms. My grandpa slurps loudly when he eats his soup. “Sluuuurrppp.. ahhhhh”. I hate it, yet I find it endearing. Every time I hear somebody slurp loudly it reminds me of him.

My grandma has the habit of thinking of worst case scenarios and being very dramatic. It’s frustrating and hilarious at the same time. Sometimes, when I’m overly dramatic I remember her and smile inside.

They are simple people, yet in my eyes they are my heroes, for educating my mother and for giving me an unforgettable childhood, with hot summers and fresh watermelons. With red borscht and late night tales. With practical advice and with being living role-models.

Thank you grandma and thank you grandpa. I hope you’ll live till I’ll have my own kids and you’ll be great-grandparents.

I’ll stop now because I’m tearing up.

What I’ve Learned From My Grandparents