When my mother was my age, it was 1985. She had been married for 15 years, had a 13-year-old (yours truly)… and no idea that her world would crumble only four years later, at my father’s unexpected death. She had given up sewing for a living, but her eyes were still good enough to make fine embroideries while waiting for me to come out of French class. Her health was already fragile, but she had had her last surgery three years earlier, and things were relatively stabilised. Her life was not idyllic; her social life was very limited and money was chronically lacking, but it wasn’t particularly hard either, with only a small and increasingly self-sufficient family to look after.
On the other hand, when my grandmother (my mother’s mother) was my age, it was 1955, and a whole other world. She lived in a tiny village in the mountains of Northwestern Greece, a few kilometres away from the village she had been born and raised in. The house naturally had no indoor bathroom and was heated by wood stoves; I think it didn’t even have running water yet. She had been married for 13 years and had four children, aged 12, 9, 4 and 2, who were learning fast to fend for themselves. Apart from the house and children, she kept chickens, maintained a kitchen garden and made cheese from the milk of the goats grandfather herded. A year or so later, she would catch pneumonia, spend a couple of months in hospital and never quite recover fully, but still, she knew how to do so many things that her urban descendants never learned. Her other daughter, at that age, was already fossilised in small town petite bourgeoisie, with 21 years of marriage on her back, a 19-year-old away to university and no perspective beyond coffee mornings with friends.
I know very little about my paternal grandmother’s life, beyond the fact that she birthed nine children over 24 years (my father was the youngest, and the only one not yet born when she was my age), seven of which lived to maturity, and died in her mid-50s. Her one daughter never married and by 1961, when she was my age, with the siblings dispersed and the family house in the village gone, she had settled to a solitary life in town. Sociable, and doting on her nephews and nieces, but already developing the set patterns that make for spinster jokes.
Out of these three generations of women of my family, I’m the first one to learn foreign languages, earn a university degree, work a couple of white-collar jobs, travel (and live) abroad. The financial troubles that have always plagued my family are continuing, and I miss my old life something chronic, but I can’t wish for anything undone. I’ve lived a great romance, the kind that people read about, and if the ending was less than cinematic, it has still given me a life partner of unflinching support and a child, the only one I’m likely to bear, neither of which I would have got if I hadn’t broken away.
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This series will be taking a break during November to allow me to concentrate on NaNoWriMo. There will be inspirational excerpts from DailyOM instead. Resuming in December.












