The prolonged drought and devastating summer fires made rain a desperate longing. At first, it was very welcome, but as the reservoir near our village greedily filled and the rain gauges registered high levels, it became clear that the disaster would be considerable for agriculture. The torrential downpours were compounded by hail and wind, which toppled walls, trees, and old farm buildings. Almond trees, grapevines, citrus groves, and other fruit trees and low-lying garden crops were affected, and the roads became impassable.

It was still summer. Since the storm prevented them from working in the fields, a neighbor, a family friend, accepted my grandfather’s invitation to spend the morning at our house. After lunch, which my grandmother had cooked, they settled down to play cards. Between jokes and serious moments, the two septuagenarians thoroughly enjoyed themselves until lunchtime, but it was I who most enjoyed observing their gestures and expressions of generational complicity. Meanwhile, in a corner of the dining room, undisturbed by their background conversation about the fortune the cards held in store for them—quite the opposite, in fact—I was reading Aunt Tula, the intimate and poignant novel by Miguel de Unamuno (1864-1936).

As I delved into the twists and turns of the daily life of Rosa, Gertrudis, and Ramiro—the central characters of the story—a magical surge of primal happiness settled within me. It was a penetrating and lasting sensation. I always cherished the memory of it, but never before, until today, had I paused to analyze its meaning. Now, fifty years later, I’ve realized that this experience reflected the deep-seated feeling of being vitally protected by my paternal and maternal grandparents. Its effects have stayed with me throughout my life.

Without the slightest hesitation, I can say that I always detected in them a unique ability to reveal the truth about reality and to communicate to me their profound knowledge of the richness and limitations of existence. Their wisdom, acquired through the distillation of experiences over the years, has been a magnificent lesson for me, offering a systematic and transparent unity of life and preventing me from getting lost in its maelstrom.

They played a decisive role in my upbringing, but above all else, it was their worldview that taught me how to be a person. They instilled in me their understanding of moral principles, but also the equally important folk wisdom of customs and traditions from bygone eras, representative of a largely rural society that has almost vanished. Hence, what I sometimes say spontaneously, as if it were the latest revelation of my own unique thoughts, is an idea from one of my grandparents that, lodged in my brain since early childhood, suddenly breaks free and, seizing my neurons, asserts itself and acquires a new, fundamental nature.

These qualities, discovered through living with my grandparents, left a unique biographical imprint on me, one that is further confirmed when, in many moments of daily life, I feel their presence in my physical features, gestures, tendencies, hobbies, and even my health problems. Sometimes I have the impression that I am still under their authority and influence, as if they continue to live within me and, in turn, I live through them.

But my opinion on this matter is not an anthropological exception: in general, the same thing happens in almost all families across different cultures, past and present. Witnesses to personal and communal history, grandparents are not only an undeniable treasure for their grandchildren, but thanks to their legacy—affective, emotional, cultural—a fruitful intergenerational balance is achieved. There is no doubt: on the tightrope of life, grandparents are always the secure net that protects us from the plummeting fall of our existential flight. Let us hope that this continues to be the case for future generations!

Pedro Paricio. Give me three minutes