They were poor—no, let's just say they weren't wealthy—my grandparents. Born at the end of the 19th century, they experienced and survived two world wars, started their family between the two wars, and had five children. The twins only lived a few months. They both died of whooping cough. Their father, my Grandpa Franz, was a master painter. So, of course, he carefully and lovingly painted and varnished the two children's coffins, because he couldn't do more for his two children. It was a matter of honor for him. For my grandparents, the many challenges they faced throughout their lives were matters of honor. Naturally, they took my brother and me in when our mother died—much too early. From then on, there were times for me, too, which, looking back, can't have been easy, filled with so much sadness, deprivation, and worry. The most memorable images from this time, however, are the fond memories of Grandma and Grandpa. They were always there! They were loving, sensitive, frugal, and always kind and benevolent. My grandma was a great storyteller. She had a suitable story for every situation, every occasion, every holiday, and I couldn't get enough of her stories. I wanted to hear some of them over and over again. They were exciting, sometimes a little scary, but also funny and cheerful. In the end, they always had a happy ending. Thank goodness! That was wonderful and suggested to me that everything would definitely turn out well. How well I knew my way around, how I could find my way around these stories! That made me a little proud, always gave me a feeling of confidence, belonging, and security. I can't thank my grandma enough for these rituals, for her wonderful poems and stories. To this day, they still bring so much more than just a smile to my face. To this day, when I think of Grandma's stories, I feel how healing they were, and it warms my heart.
