Buckets of Love

During our morning bakes my great-grandfather and I would watch as the day begins. Some of the townsfolk would gather at the watering hole to get their day’s supply of fresh water, some would do laundry, some just hung out.

One morning, two young men both left the watering hole -- each carrying two full buckets of water, one in each arm. The bigger, taller young man sped home while the smaller one took his time getting to his destination.
“Both young men are trying to fill up the same size of water barrel, which of the two will get it done more quickly?” Grampa asked.
“That’s easy” I said, the taller one. “Think again.”
I thought about it, already sure in my mind that the taller and faster young man would get the barrel filled first.

As we watched, it took the smaller young man two trips to fill up his barrel. It took the taller one five trips to fill up his. In his rush, the taller one didn’t notice that most of the water had spilled out before he reached his destination. The smaller one placed a lid on his buckets.
Upon Grampa telling me the moral of the scene, my great-grandmother passed by us carrying a big bucket as she headed towards the watering hole. Grampa winked at me and smiled. I excused myself and got up to take the bucket from Gramma.

For all the grumbling I had done in the past about carrying water back and forth, from that day on I happily fetched water for Gramma while thinking about Grampa’s smile.