By Stamatina Notaras
Aside from your parents, grandparents are the most important relationship, especially in Greek culture. They are always there to wrap you in a blanket of love, feed you all the treats Mum and Dad said you couldn’t have, and attend your dance recitals, cello performances, and soccer games with a prideful grin plastered on their face the whole time.
With their love being unconditional, they’re arguably the only people in the world who give you all of them – including the food on their plate sometimes – and want absolutely nothing in return.
As well as this, anyone who has grown up with their grandparents in their pockets knows that they might even be funnier than most of your friends. And most of the time, it’s not even intentional.
So, with that being said, let’s talk about intergenerational living. Because when you put three generations under one household, the stories practically write themselves.
Do you ever get this feeling like someone’s watching you? Like, you’re asleep and you can’t shake the sense that someone’s nearby. Then, you tell yourself, “Don’t be silly, no one’s watching me sleep – that would be ridiculous.” Well, I’m here to tell you that you are 100% right – that it is ridiculous – but not impossible.
In the household I grew up in, that was just another Tuesday. It was only when I’d peel my eyes open and rub the sleep away that I’d see Yiayia, who would swiftly bust the barely open crack in the door wide open before bounding in to say “Oh, you’re up!” Then, she’d find a comfy spot on the corner of the bed, ready to start the day – together – as one. I saved so much money on alarm clocks.
My sisters and I were lucky enough to grow up under the same roof as our grandparents. Aside from being overfed and developing an unhealthy affinity for Deal or No Deal, Judge Judy, and The Chase (Yiayia answered every question – correct or not), we also picked up a fair few life skills.
I’d bet the clothes off my back, and then some, that my sisters and I would feel pretty comfortable behind the Genius Bar at an Apple store. My specialty was turning the phone off and back on, which in most instances, worked every time – magic, I know. But when it came to wifi, phone bills, and ‘hacked’ Facebook accounts, I palmed that off to my sister. Because if you want to test your will to live, this is the perfect instance. And it was her turn.
You’d think that living with your Greek grandparents would mean you’d pick up at least a bit of Greek – or Greeklish. Well, this wasn’t the case. Instead, I’d be sitting smack-bang in the middle of the car on the way to school, making stops every few streets to pick up Yiayia’s friends for the morning church service, being involved in conversations, in which I barely knew the subject. For all I knew, they were asking if I was training to be a fighter pilot, and I’d just smile and say, “Yeah aha…” with a confident look on my face, ready to change my answer to “no” if facial cues called for it. When I inevitably gave the wrong answer – 50% of the time – Pappou would glance at me in the rearview mirror. His mouth was silent, but his eyes said disappointment.
It wasn’t just in the car where we had run-ins with friends, though. It wasn’t uncommon to wake up, walk into the kitchen in my pyjamas (a singlet and shorts only a mother should see), and be greeted by a great-uncle, a neighbour delivering silverbeet, or maybe the postman. And when that did happen, I began to welcome the morning conversation. You never knew what you were going to get – gossip that someone’s grandchild recently got divorced or that a certain member of the community’s kourabiedes (Greek biscuits) weren’t that good this year.
I could probably write an article a week on what happens between the four walls of an intergenerational household. But for now, I’ll leave you with a few unexpected upsides.
I always had a heart monitor nearby, and emergency groceries were just a quick trip upstairs. If I didn’t look my best before a date, I was told. And if I ever missed family, it was only a matter of time before my auntie, cousin, Yiayia’s cleaner, or – at this point, probably Oprah – would pop her head through the blinds (always when I’m in a compromised state, like getting changed) to say a quick hello.
I had a personal chauffeur if ever needed, who had the best streets in Brisbane’s Fortitude Valley for a 2am pickup mapped out, and a Mr. Fix-it was on site for whenever I broke the washing machine by accidentally washing handfuls of bobby pins or had broken a heel on my favourite pair of shoes (super glue was my Pappou’s Windex).
But the best part? If I was ever home alone, I knew that I wasn’t really alone. I had a best friend upstairs with a kettle ready to boil, a couch that reclines, and a smile that could brighten up any room. I’ll count my lucky stars for having experienced something not many people get to. That being said, if anyone ever asks me if I’d move back in, I’ll have to plead the fifth.
So, to anyone who drives past the red-brick house on West End’s main strip, the one with the pink roses and wet concrete, make sure to wave to the man on the balcony swing. Even though he’s probably deep in sleep, do it anyway. Or beep. I’ve got to keep him on his toes – even from Melbourne.
