"There Once Lived Granpa and Grandma..." :)

Hi, recently, my last grandfather moved on to a place considered better by general belief 😌 And though the event itself isn't cheerful, now it's impossible to think about him without positivity in my heart.

All my grandparents were wonderful; look at them in their youth:

I resemble Grandpa Tolya most (in his youth, not in the photo; although I feel exactly as he looks in the photo 😀), but I spent significantly more time with Grandpa Misha. That's what we called them—"Grandpa Tolya and Grandpa Misha"—because Grandpa Tolya grew tired of human existence much earlier and decided to move on to the next level.

Since childhood, I have been close with my relatives due to the "wild 90s." Half of my early childhood was spent with one set of grandparents and half with the other. Memories, or rather sensations, are exceptionally warm and pleasant. Memories from that age are sparse but incredibly warm and pleasant.

Mom`s parents

I look like Grandpa Tolya in his youth (not as he is in the photo, though I feel exactly how he looks there 😀). Among my childhood memories are silly hide-and-seek games always behind the same giant lemon tree near the balcony, being scared each time by a cousin hitting a plastic panel with gum wrappers because being found wasn't enough—he had to scare and chase me home)) And an unforgettable phrase from my cousin Vanya: "Children! Matches aren't toys! Buy lighters!" 😄

There was also a thermometer-hygrometer at the entrance, a cushion with pins, soft padded doors to crash into at full speed, Grandpa's countryside landscape paintings, and the distinct sounds of old Soviet-era radios. Grandpa walking around in underwear, extinguishing cigarette butts on his heel 😀 Grandma's violets and Grandpa's balcony tomatoes whose aroma filled the room. And essential Soviet home decor: Lenin's complete works and a creaky elevator.

Visiting them was excellent! Grandpa Tolya sat at the head of the table, always telling funny stories from work and life, always ending with grandma's "Napoleon" cake, Grandpa with a guitar, singing duets with Grandpa Misha. Sometimes, my aunt Svitlana joined, making a trio. Grandpa introduced me to my favorite tune: "Earth, Earth, I'm Khabibulin. Who am I?" and "Do you hear, Falcon, Falcon, you're a sheep."

Incidentally, Grandpa Misha deeply respected Tolya because Grandpa Tolya was a TB specialist who once cured Misha, saving his life. One of Tolya's best stories was about a lab assistant transporting stool samples stolen by thieves. I bet the thieves were hilariously disappointed with their loot! And unforgettable New Year's trees...

Grandma Valya was a pediatrician whose nurse and office remain vivid in my mind, along with a traumatic dentist experience featuring the approach: "Drill until it hurts." Grandma had diabetes and always balanced sweets with insulin shots.

Ah! Their toilet always had newspaper instead of toilet paper, which had to be softened between your palms first—a peculiar Soviet-era memory.

They had a TALKING CLOCK! Legally questionable to have it near the ceiling, yet fascinating. Push a button and hear: "Beep! Eighteen o'clock exactly!"

This was the first time I consciously remembered my parents' ages. Ask me now, and my brain instantly says, "28," and then calculates reality from there.

Later, recalling Grandpa Tolya shouting, "Allah is the only god, and Muhammad is his prophet!" when Jehovah's Witnesses knocked—effectively ending any conversation before it began.

Dad's parents 🙃

I spent a lot of time with them, especially during summer vacations in the village. Grandma cared for my brother Roma and me until my parents came home.

Grandma was incredibly kind, cheerful, and humorously mischievous. Once, as kids, we threw dry cow dung into a well. Grandma cried when we were scolded, laughing simultaneously because the idea amused her immensely.

Every day, we walked around Lake Telbin, where I'd pretend to be a trolleybus dragging a willow branch. Grandma explained patiently why we never entered the local church, humorously dismissing it as a place "where fools rob people."

She had a special feeding method: she'd ask if we were hungry. If we refused, she'd quietly put cut apples or food on the table, and it always disappeared quickly. Her homemade dumplings and pancakes were unmatched.

Oddly, Grandma called melted cheese "Dirol," after a chewing gum brand. Strange but delicious!

When I began attending a gym near their house at age 14-15, Grandma fed me afterward, and Grandpa drove me home, sometimes allowing me to drive on quiet roads at night.

Grandpa taught me to drive because Dad didn't have the patience. Grandpa stayed calm even when I dangerously overtook cars, calmly remarking after close calls: "That was quite risky." Now, this phrase is an inside joke among my friends.

While Dad often raised his voice (with reason), Grandpa never did. Dad says Grandpa was strict with him as a child, but with me, he became the ideal gentle grandfather—the way my dad is now with my daughter Ksyusha, who lives by the creed: "Nothing is true, everything is permitted."

Grandpa was a role model, especially in sports. He exercised regularly even after a stroke/heart attack (unclear diagnosis), insisting on independence and doing exercises with an empty barbell. Until he was 60, he swam in winter lakes, a habit I adopted. His house was filled with exercise equipment, which I amusingly used to set "traps" for him after work.

He was sincere, hardworking, principled, and dedicated to his job—a Soviet-era state auditor who consistently rejected bribes, once only accepting a humorous gift of pencils.

Towards the end of his life, Grandpa often regretted things he'd do differently if given a second chance. Still, his integrity made the world better.

An amusing detail—when called to eat, Grandpa always delayed at least half an hour, irritating everyone. Now I understand perfectly—there's always something urgent along the way.

Letum non omnia finit (Death doesn't end everything) :)

Initially, I planned this article only about Grandpa Misha on his funeral day, but memories of my other grandparents naturally emerged. Sorry for nearly a month's delay in writing.

Buddhist teaching speaks of six realms of rebirth, with the human world somewhere in the middle. At Grandpa's funeral, I felt no sadness, confident his life earned rebirth among heavenly beings, perhaps meeting Grandma there. After she passed, she was all he talked about.

I'll conclude with the text my daughter sent Grandpa after the funeral: "Goodbye, you were the best." 😊