One of my dearest memories of childhood are of my grandfather. I spent a lot of time with him, since I wasn't a very social kid and I did not want to go to kindergarten.

I often sat in the kitchen, drawing pictures and he would sing for me while making dinner. We often danced in the kitchen as well; I would stand on his feet and hold his hand and he danced around.

In the basement he had a workshop. A bench loaded with tools and stuff. He tought me how to use a knife to carve wood and he often made beautiful stuff for me. Once he made me a boat, which I still have. We were best of friends.

My grandmother was crafty as well. She made clothes for my dolls and even myself. I remember when she got her drivers licence, she was probably way over 60 years old.

She often told me stories about the hidden people that lived in the rocks in the nature. They look like humans, but usually they make themselves invisible. There was this big rock in the garden which she said was inhabited my a family of hidden people. She told us kids not to play on top of it because that could make them angry. If something was missing she told me that they had borrowed it and we should only wait for a couple of days and then they would return it. Sometimes when I lose stuff, only to find it the next day sitting in front of me, I think about her and wonder if the stories were true.