Summers with Grandmother

When I was a child summers were endless, hot and exciting. Days were long and nights were over quickly. Everything was of perfect colour and each day was another adventure..

And that was before we even left town. Father would pack the car with our little suitcases, my books, toys belonging to my sisters, which they could not do without on holidays, and then we would drive to pick up Grandmother. Her suitcase was't very large but her food baskets, bottles of juice, fruit and cake boxes were always deliciously generous in size and quantity. It didn't matter if our journey was short. The picnic was always the main part of it.

Every summer father decanted the four of us (he would only stay for the day) into the house belonging to my Grandmother's father in the country. Her brother lived next door and the week was full of cousins reacquainting themselves with one another after a year of growing up. My Great-Grandfather was slightly deaf and very fond of gathering wild mushrooms, which he would dry to flavour his winter stews. He would start for the woods early in the morning, when the sun rose over the river. 'Wake me before you go and I'll come with you' I pleaded. His answer was always the same. 'If you want to go, be ready at 4 am'. So, many a night I didn't dare to fall asleep in case I missed the appointed hour. A quiet man, who walked with a springing gait and climbed hills with ease, he patiently pointed out the subtle differences in fungi, going over the same ground until I felt safe in my gathering and shared my mushrooms with confidence. Even now, after many decades, I still feel that calm confidence when mushroom hunting..

My Grandmother indulged our creativity and took part in games others though peculiar. By others, I mean her  brother's wife. Perpetually pained and with a martyred expression, which did not sit well on her beautifully rounded face, she found us too avant-garde, too incomprehensible or just too 'weird' (her own words often repeated).. Our 'theatre evenings' were considered too arty, our games too creepy and our help in removing every scrap of soil from the back yard too dangerous. The chickens were the bane of our existence as we loved being bare foot all day. So after few days of screaming every time we stood in 'it', we scraped the yard clean. Feeling pleased and vindicated we did not count on summer rain swiftly transforming it into clay skating ring. Not everyone found dancing-on-clay entertaining and we were told not to 'help' in the future. In fact my Grandmother's sister-in-law was overheard wishing the week was over quickly.

Although the chickens were the bane of our existence when walking around without shoes, they proved to be great participants in games my sisters played. They enjoyed being wheeled around in wheelbarrows, dried with Grandmother's hand towels after a summer rain and fed with breakfast rolls with slivers of butter. 'Playing with fowl' was the scornful remark from the round-faced martyr. 'As if they did not have good toys!'

Each night, we would pile into a huge bed where Grandmother would weave a tale full of laughter and adventure. Her best stories were about her school days and we would beg her to repeat them over and over again. They were like the childhood summers. Warm, endlessly satisfying, predictable and yet exciting, safe and happily concluded..