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.