My grandmother in army boots — life with a greek grandmother

A guy I hardly knew approached me as I got off the dance floor, wiping sweat off my forehead as I moved towards the bar and the cold drink waiting for me.

The location was Parikia, Paros, Greece. The time, the late 70s.

I’d just finished dancing a pretty fancy hasapiko with the guys who performed at Psarades disco every night during the summer season, to attract tourists and kamaki the girls (pick up girls to non-greeks). Psarades was the first indoor disco in Parikia. Airconditioning was provided by opening the big window at the front of the building to let fresh air in and cigarette smoke out.

The guy leaned in and shouted over the music: “Is that your grandmother at the window?” I looked, and yep. Sure enough. There was my Yiayia Zafeiroula, peering into the smokey gloom, her grey hair a halo around her head, hands on her hips, a scowl on her face.

Psarades wasn’t on the list of ‘approved’ places for 16yr old good greek girls. There stood she stood, in a floral house-dress and slippers, disapproval emanating from every cell in her body. I was sure that if I’d approached her, she’d have dragged me home by the ear, so I stayed inside, seeking refuge amongst my ‘unapproved’ male friends.

My grandmother. Zafeiroula Fameli. My father’s mother. Born and raised on Mykonos, married at 16, with 7 live children. The woman I was named after and who undoubtably sprinkled her creative DNA into the family line.

She was the undisputed matriarch of the family, with never a good word to say about anyone. She was illiterate, stood 5 ft nothing, yet she managed to scare the crap out of all her children, grandchildren and husband. Our family spent summers on Paros at the family ‘compound’ in Souvlia, which consisted of 4 separate buildings, housing at least 7 kids and 8 adults at any given point during the holidays…

As kids, we joked about Yiayia’s ability to be everywhere at once, always on top of everything that went on, the sound of her heavy footfalls in the quiet of the countryside as loud as if she was wearing army boots. We nicknamed her ‘Gestapo’, only partly due to her loud footsteps, more she had ways of getting any information she wanted…

Her room was the old stable which had been converted into the compound kitchen, the heart of the place, where she reigned. It held a table large enough to serve the extended family of 15 plus numerous guests (though admittedly in shifts) and a double bed that she slept in on and off at night. She would sit in an old chair on the small balcony outside that kitchen day or night, holding a pair of binoculars in her hand, a cup of coffee resting on her ample bossom, a keen eye turned to any movement in the vicinity.

When she saw something in the valley below she’d raise the binoculars and mutter to herself — ‘Ah… there goes Kir’Adoni… Off to meet his gomena while his wife is with her mother in Athens’. ‘Well look at old Barba Mitso, stealing watermelon from his neighbour’s garden’. ‘And who is that at Kira Magda’s door… not her son… not her husband…’ clucking her tongue.

Back then, there was no road to the compound. The main road passed by on the hill opposite, and we had to walk down a donkey track to the beach, then up a goat track to the house. Yiayia Zafeiroula, from her prime location, could see everyone who came and went in the little valley below. There was one light post on the road, just above the steep donkey track and everyone coming and going was clearly visible day or night.

If I was late coming home from wherever I shouldn’t have been, she would pull out her trusty binoculars to see who had dropped me off on his motorbike so she could inform my parents.

But she also had good superpowers, not just the ones that scared us. She was practical and knew how to make the best of any situation. After all, she’d raised 7 children more or less on her own, with an abusive husband who spent more time at the kafeneio than earning money. She’d had to be clever to survive. And she was certainly clever.

She made the best kolatsio (snack) for hungry kids — what is now popular in restaurants is what we enjoyed as ‘kolatsio tis yiayia’s’ — a greek rusk, dipped in water, tomato chopped up over it, cheese, kapari, olives and olive oil. We’d come running in from the beach to bed ‘Yiayia, can you make us a kolatsio?’

She could crochet beautiful tablecloths. She made a chest full of them for my prika (dowry).

She had a sense of humour. Like the time she used Brylcream instead of toothpaste because they were both in red and white tubes and she couldn’t read. ‘This toothpaste is off’ she’d said…

Ok, so maybe we were laughing at her instead of with her… but it was funny.

She could also make anything right, including fixing birds with broken wings and bottle-feeding orphan kittens. She could hand raise small farm animals then wring their neck and cook them for dinner.

She gave great advice. She told me that a successful marriage is one where the woman makes all the decisions but lets the man think he is the head of the household.

While I was still in my teens she advised me that hanging out with boys would earn me a reputation and no one would want to marry me. She told me that if I didn’t learn to iron properly, no one would want to marry me. T hat unless I learned to peel potatos properly (and not wastefully) with a knife not some newfangled gadget, no one would want to marry me. And years later, I’m here to tell you she was right — No one ever married me.

Yiayia Zafeiroula also had great projection, she knew how to use her diaphragm to full effect, very effective in calling us home from the beach. There was no way you could tell her you didn’t hear her calling. The entire west side of Paros could hear her calling.

On the flipside her high pitched voice could easily pierce your eardrums in small enclosed spaces. It was always advisable not to ride in the car with her.

Yiayia Zafeiroula was a larger than life figure in my childhood, but as I grew, I distanced myself from her as did most of the family. Her meddling, troublemaking ways pushed people away as she grew more cantankerous with age. In the end she managed to alienate everyone in her family, except for her youngest son.

Years later, in a small apartment in Athens, sitting in an old stuffed chair with one of her handmade doileys on the back, a crochet blanket over her knees, the small table lamp and TV the only illumination in the room, Yiayia Zafeiroula took her final breath, alone.

I wish I’d been old enough to appreciate her instead of seeing her as a bully. And that I’d taken the time to learn from her and to hear her story.