A Commonality of Contentment

I visited with my uncle this weekend and we spent some time talking about his mother, my grandmother. While his stories and memories were from a different passage of time than mine, a commonality of contentment existed in each of our anecdotes.

The house that my grandparents lived in was small and gray, covered with an oddly shingled roof. It had no bathroom, no plumbing or running water, a potbellied stove that attempted to heat the entire house from the living room, and a shaky back porch that swayed if the wind blew just right.  On the acreage surrounding the house stood a shack where they stored firewood, a well-house, and a big vegetable and flower garden. In the front yard, several bushes with orange and black-spotted tiger lilies congregated on either side of a dirt pathway that lead to a front porch, on which galvanized metal tubs and water buckets, always brimming with water, hid among overcrowded plant shelves.

Although my grandparents lacked many of the modern conveniences that would have made their lives a little easier, a sense of contentment always permeated their house, due in no small part to my grandmother's attitude and approach to life. She never complained about what she did not have, nor the effort required to just enjoy simple things, such as bath water or a warm room. She chose instead to focus on what she enjoyed - her family, church, sewing, and her garden. And, generations later, this sense of contentment continues to influence her children and her grandchildren.

Remembering to Celebrate

When I was a kid, my grandmother had three books in her house - The Bible, The Five Little Peppers and How They Grew, and Little Women. I read the latter two books each summer when I went to visit. Sadly, I never read from my grandmother's Bible until after she passed away.

It was during the process of cleaning out her house after her passing that I was surprised to find several Farmer's Almanacs in one of her trunks. The publication dates at first seemed to be random, leaving me to wonder why she had kept these particular books, and why I had never seen them before. I soon realized, however, that each book represented the year of birth of one of her grandchildren, myself included. Yes, there it was in plain sight on the front cover; the year I was born. With a sense of loss and bewilderment, I reclined back on the linoleum floor and contemplated everything I thought I knew about my grandmother.

She was born in South Carolina on a farm, and her southern accent let everyone who met her know right away she was a respectable, southern lady. She was proficient at sewing, quilting (by hand and machine, and never on Sundays), and of course, gardening. She wore homemade dresses everyday, even when working outside in the woodpile and in the garden, and when she did eventually consent to wear pants, they were polyester and pulled up snugly beneath her dress as to avoid any wardrobe malfunctions. She grew thriving plants and was known on more than one occasion to return home from a visit with her family carrying snippets of a philodendron or a Chinese evergreen, which she would put in water to root-out and eventually transfer over to a dirt-filled pot. She believed in God, attended church every time the doors opened, and always made sure my sister and I, as well as my cousins, attended Bible school when we visited each summer.
 
Feelings of ignorance and perplexity stayed with me for days as to why she kept the Farmer's Almanacs hidden away in a trunk. Then one afternoon, while putting away some pre-cut quilt squares I had found stashed inside a second trunk with some small, inexpensive gift items, the answer presented itself.  The quilt squares, the little presents she had bought at the local dollar store for future birthdays and Christmas mornings, all were meant to celebrate us, her family. And the almanacs? They too were celebratory items, notifying anyone who cared to read that during a year of planning, sowing and reaping, a grandchild was born to a traditional southern lady who was also my grandmother. And for anyone, including this grandchild, to be remembered and celebrated in such a way is to know the true meaning of love.

The Nature of Gardening

Sweat bees live underground and are attracted to the salty taste of perspiration. They zigzag through the air, barely visible, looking for a glistening arm to land on, or better yet, the sweaty fold of a neck that has flapped open for a brief second or two. Then, just as that arm bends or that neck fold flaps back over, they land, begin to feel claustrophobic, and sting in self-defense.

As a kid, I thought sweat bees were pesky little nuisances. They followed me around as I played in my grandmother's yard each summer, buzzing as they flew, just waiting to sting me when I least expected. Now however, as an adult and a gardener, I understand these tiny bees mean me no harm, and are crucial in the pollination process for many flowers and vegetables that grow in my garden. Additionally, the duality of the sweat bee is worth noting. While they elicit a negative response when they sting, they offer positive benefits to many plants.

Looking back, I viewed the sweat bee as an invader of my summer vacation, but my grandmother never complained about the bees that shared the space of her yard and garden. Maybe she understood their value far outweighed their sting. Likewise, I hope she felt the same way about me. 

Perception

My mother tells a story of me as a child, freshly washed and clad in a little yellow dress, sitting on the couch beside of my grandmother, waiting to go to church. My mother was concerned that I would get myself and my dress dirty before we left, so she gave my grandmother strict instructions that I was to sit still and not move around. Unfortunately, I left the couch to play and by the time my mother had finished getting ready, I was what she called "a mess." When asked why she hadn't made me sit still  instead of letting me run around and get dirty, my grandmother's response was that I had only moved around a little bit, not enough to affect my appearance. Frustrated, my mother cleaned me up, again, and we left for church.

Perception is not based on what something actually is, but what it is viewed to be. Two or more people, such as my mother and my grandmother, may look at the same situation and see something different. Or, in an effort to be helpful, someone may try to solve a problem before they have all of the facts, and end up generating more tension and strife than the problem warrants.  

The same is true in the garden. This year, for example, I underestimated the amount of space needed between my cantaloupe plants and my cucumber plants. In reality, the area I perceived to be adequate for each row of plants to spread out and grow effectively was not big enough, and as a result, I ended up with a cluster of tangled vines in one section of my garden. With much patience, effort and furrowing of the brow, I eventually disentangled and redirected the vines so that I was able to tell which plant was which. Next year, I plan to plant the cantaloupes and the cucumbers on opposite ends of the garden. Lesson learned.


When we make decisions based on perception instead of facts, we may find ourselves at odds with the task at hand, and this can lead to undue stress, tension-filled relationships and the desire to give up. However, if we gather as much information as possible before addressing a situation or problem, we will lower our stress levels and maintain healthy relationships.