When I think back to my childhood, I realize that the most important lessons my grandparents ever gave me weren’t spoken at all. They didn’t sit me down and say, “Listen to this, it will shape your life.” Instead, they lived their lessons. And in the small, ordinary moments, I absorbed them.
Papou and his Stockbroker
I called my grandfather “Papou,” as we do in Greek families. He was an unforgettable character. He always had a cigar in one hand, a glass of red wine nearby, and Bloomberg Radio humming in the background. He was deeply invested in the stock market, both financially and intellectually, and he had a mind like a steel trap for numbers.
One afternoon, I remember overhearing him on the phone with his broker. Back then, commissions were percentages, not fixed fees. The broker tried to rush through the numbers, probably assuming an older client wouldn’t notice. But Papou had already calculated the percentage in his head. He stopped him mid-sentence, corrected him, and made it clear he knew exactly what he was owed. The broker backed down and complimented my Papou for knowing his math.
That moment taught me something I’ve carried for decades: pay attention, do the math, trust your own mind, and don’t let anyone take advantage of you. Papou never gave me a lecture about self-reliance. He just lived it, cigar smoke curling around him as he outsmarted the so-called professionals.
Yiaya’s Love Served in Food
Then there was my Yiaya, my Papou’s wife. She didn’t speak in lessons either. Her language was food. She’d show up at our house with trays of cookies, or invite us in for dinner—stafava we called it, a warm, abundant Greek meal that made everyone feel at home. For her, love wasn’t said, it was served. From her I learned that showing up with something in your hands, something you made with care, was a way of saying: You matter to me. I want you to be full, in every sense of the word.
My Yiaya Who Prayed with Every Meal
My other grandmother also Yiaya, as we called both of them was a different kind of teacher. She was partially blind, diabetic, and lived with limitations I didn’t understand as a child. But what I remember most is her faith. She was always the first person in church, clutching her napkin in her hands, and the last one to leave. She prayed with quiet intensity, not for show, but because it was the center of her life. Watching her, I learned that faith isn’t a speech you make. It’s not even the words you say out loud. It’s the rhythm of your daily choices.
Three grandparents, three ways of living, three sets of lessons I carry with me even now at 55. None of them ever gave me a formal talk about discipline, love, or faith. They just were who they were, and I watched.
And here’s the part that hurts, my son will never know them.
What My Son Will Never Know
He’ll never see Papou do mental math faster than a calculator, never smell the cigar smoke or hear Bloomberg Radio in the background. He’ll never taste Yiaya’s cookies warm out of the oven, or sit at her dinner table as dishes keep appearing until you can’t eat another bite. He’ll never watch my other Yiaya slip quietly into the front pew, whispering her prayers with devotion that filled the whole church.
Those lessons, the ones I didn’t even realize I was learning until later died with them, unless I remember to share their stories.
Why Stories Matter Now
And that’s why I’ve started writing these memories down. Because even though my parents and my brother are gone, even though my grandparents are gone, my son deserves to inherit the lessons they left in me. He deserves to know where he comes from, not in an abstract “family tree” way, but in the form of living stories: Papou’s sharpness, Yiaya’s sweetness, the other Yiaya’s faith.
I often think about what my grandparents would have thought of today’s technology. Papou would have devoured it—spreadsheets, stock apps, financial news at his fingertips. He would have been a day-trader before the word existed. My baking Yiaya would’ve used Zoom to send recipes and check in on her grandkids, making sure we followed the directions exactly. And my praying Yiaya? She would’ve led the family in virtual services if it meant we could all join her from afar.
The truth is, their lessons don’t have to end with me. I can pass them forward, piece by piece, story by story. And if you’re reading this, so can you.
Because here’s what I’ve learned: grandparents don’t always realize they’re teaching.
They just live, and in the living, their grandchildren absorb the lessons. Sometimes those lessons are loud and obvious. More often, they’re quiet and ordinary. But they matter.
If you’re lucky enough to still have your grandparents—or if you are a grandparent today—don’t wait. Don’t assume your stories, your habits, your quirks are too small to matter. They’re exactly what your children and grandchildren will remember.
I lost my chance to capture my mother’s voice, my father’s presence, my brother’s laugh. But I can keep telling the stories of my grandparents so my son doesn’t lose them too.
And if you still have the chance, I’m begging you…share yours while you can.