A winter storm blew through my town. The sky was dark in the middle of the day. Sheets of rain fell to the ground. There were tornado warnings and it seemed to be a time for staying inside, but we had appointments to keep so my husband and I were out and about during some of the most threatening times. As we drove towards the comfort of our home I found myself thinking of my mother just as I always seem to do when the weather takes a frightful turn I remember how she always smiled as she calmed me and my brothers on such days by pointing out how lucky we were to have a warm house with a strong roof to keep us safe. I suppose my lessons in gratitude began with her.
My mother was a child during the Great Depression of the last century. She often recalled how her parents had kept their eight children safe and fed during the worst of times. Her father had paid for their home as each room was built so when the crash came the family was assured of having a place to live. He worked at a meat packing plant and got special deals on cuts of meat that might otherwise have been thrown out. Her mother then concocted recipes that used the scraps along with vegetables from the garden that she grew in her backyard. The fare was often meager, but my mother boasted that they never missed a meal. Through hard work and ingenuity my grandparents kept their children safe during a time when so many across the globe struggled to find a safe place to sleep at night.
My mother’s childhood home was tiny. There were three bedrooms that were so small that it was difficult to imagine how a double bed fit inside each of the three bedrooms. Even harder to visualize was four children sharing each of the two beds that filled the spaces in the rooms designated for them. Mama laughed when she thought of how cramped the sleeping quarters had been. She described how the act of one person rolling to a new position prompted the whole crew to move in unison.
The family had few luxuries. They owned a radio around which they found entertainment and news. Their father purchased books which he encouraged them to read. They road a bus or walked to get to school or downtown. Hand me downs kept them in shoes and clothing. My mother being the youngest was always the last to get the worn and threadbare items which more often than not had been cleverly patched by my grandmother. For birthdays and Christmas each child received a nickel which they could save or spend any way they wished. Somehow in spite of what sounded like privations to me, my mother’s face glowed whenever she described how fortunate they were.
I suppose that the source of my mother’s ability to appreciate the simplest of pleasures grew from the bare bones existence of her childhood. It always took so little to make her happy. She was thankful for the smallest gestures of kindness and in turn her generosity if measured proportionately to her income was equal to the largesse of a billionaire. She considered herself a most fortunate woman even as her lifestyle remained quite simple for most of her life. Much like her parents she lived within her means even when that meant requiring her to be quite creative in stretching her tiny budget. When she died she owned her home and had no debts and no savings but she had been wise enough to secure an insurance policy that paid for her funeral. She left this world as simply and as happily as she had lived in it for eighty four years.
I sometimes chide myself for buying into the pursuit of wealth that so often distracts humans from truly enjoying the small things in life. I am reminded of a woman I knew whose husband showered her with exquisite and expensive gifts each year wrapped in gloriously beautiful packages. Instead of being thankful for his largesse she invariably found something wrong with everything he had lovingly purchased for her and spent the days after the holiday returning his offerings for the things that she really wanted. Somehow that always struck me as being a terrible thing to do as I noted the disappointed looks on her husband’s face. I wondered how she herself could be so unappreciative.
I know people who find fault and complain about their good fortune constantly. Instead of being thankful like my mother always was they comment about the flaws that they seem to find with great regularity. It makes me uncomfortable to be around people who will complain about a gift of wine when they should instead be voicing the joy of having a friend who thought of them by bringing them a gift. Such folks pick at perceived faults in every generous effort that comes their way. I often wonder what makes them so unappreciative of what they have. They seem unable to grasp the simple joys of life. They do not appreciate that it is the sacrifice and love involved in their gifts that is the true value.
I’m glad that my mother’s generous and gracious joy still guides me. She showed me how to treasure even seemingly small treasures. I smile each Christmas when I decorate my tree with, the crocheted pink bell that a student made for me. So too it is with the paper ornament created from an old Christmas card that a friend gave me decades ago. The thoughtfulness that prompted people to think of me is better than gold. The warm bed where I sleep at night is one of my most appreciated possessions. The gratitude that I feel makes me happy over and over again no matter how difficult life becomes. When it rains I see my mother smiling and reminding me of my good fortune. The legacy she left for me is magnificent!
All It Takes Is A Little Love 