The first house next to ours was the home of Grandma Mara and Grandpa Đukan Novković. I do not remember Grandpa, but I remember Grandma Mara clearly and vividly—a devilish, sharp-witted, perceptive old woman.
Grandma liked to have a little glass of rakija, and since only a wall separated our houses, she would often drop by. Her fiery “Jaska rakija” – brandy, twice as strong as the Lika variety, suited her particularly well—especially when the glass was filled to a proper measure.
Her ringing voice, loud as if she were shouting, was always accompanied by a joke. Grandma could not be fooled. She always had the right answer, delivered at exactly the right moment—and often a rather cheeky one at that.
I remember one occasion when she told us how, on the road somewhere near Grandma Seja’s house, two militiamen had stopped her while she was carrying water from the village cistern. They began questioning her, trying to find out what was new in the village.
“Good day, Mother!” one of them said.
Grandma looked at them sideways. She had not been born yesterday.
“Good day!” she replied.
“Is it heavy, Mother?” they asked.
“Well, when it is heavy, I put it down!” Grandma answered.
“And how are you, Mother?” the same man asked, trying once again to loosen up the conversation.
Grandma slyly replied:
“Better yesterday than today!”
The militiaman was already at a loss for words, but made one more attempt:
“And where do you live, Mother?”
“My address is the open sky, and my house number is ‘Stop and stand still,’” Grandma Mara replied.
Seeing that Grandma was not going to give them anything, the militiamen left without a word, their mission unaccomplished.
Grandma Mara also had two grandsons, Duško and Milan. Duško was a year or two older than me, while Milan was already a young man, perhaps six years older.
They spent the whole summer in Vrebac. They knew everyone and everything that was going on, and for me they were pleasant and good company.
I would often go over to their house. We would lie beneath the ash tree, read, or find some other way to amuse ourselves.
Their mother was a good woman, pleasant, cheerful, and simple in character. She would always offer me some homemade delicacy whose enticing aroma could be smelled from far away.
With Duško and Milan, I would sometimes go to the Jadova around Ćorinac, or to the flat rocks above the house of their uncle Joco Bobić. We would spend the whole day swimming, wander around the mill at Alaginac—which, half-ruined as it was, had a mysterious attraction for us—and return home late, tired from the day’s adventures.
Željko Narančić