dedushka

A Russian grandfather.

There they were, the devoted babushkas and dedushkas, mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers of Bobby’s companions, lugging their bags, their bulging packages and bundles.

More than anything else, even the health of my dedushka, I dreamed that he would invite me to the sixth-grade dance.[…]If I squinted my eyes, I could see the slumping form of my dedushka, standing at the bus stop, amidst young mothers, bored siblings, and Polish nannies.

A Russian old man.

Yet, much as I loved to listen to it, standing there in the heat of all the lighted candles and dressed in my heavy shuba and felt boots, I invariably, halfway through the service, would begin to feel an intolerable pain across my shoulders which would spread across my back, gradually getting worse, until in the end I was forced to go to the back of the church and find a corner on a bench especially placed there for all the old babushkas and dedushkas who were also unable to bear the strain of standing throughout the whole service.

The babushki and dedushki bring the flowers in from their garden plots on the outskirts of town.