Every summer the heat was miserable. This summer was no exception.

Jamal lay on the porch(门廊), holding a glass of sweet tea to his forehead, trying to absorb some of the cool. It was early afternoon, and his grandmother had lain down for her daily nap.

“Jamal! Jamal!” said Lisa, trying to get his attention.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m going to sort out the attic(阁楼). Want to come?” she asked calmly. Lisa was two years younger than Jamal and was used to being blown off.

“You’re crazy,” Jamal said. “It’s got to be 100 degrees up there, not to mention that it’s dusty and full of spiders and who knows what else.”

“Grandma said that if we see anything we want up there, we can keep it,” said Lisa.

“What makes you think I want any of that old junk?” asked Jamal.

“Suit yourself,” said Lisa. She went to the bedroom to change into old clothes that could get covered in sweat, dust, and possibly dead spiders.

Up in the attic, Lisa began to see Jamal’s point. The heat in the house rose upwards, only to be trapped in the small attic. Everything was covered in a fine layer of dust

As Lisa began going through the boxes, she realized that no one had touched them for years. After a couple of hours, Lisa’s back ached, and her shirt was wet through.

“Lisa, honey!” she heard her grandmother call. “Come take a break and have some tea.”

Lisa went downstairs and took a picture with her. “Grandma, is this really you?”

Her grandmother laughed. “What, you can’t believe it? Yes, that’s me; that was taken at my home coming almost sixty years ago.”

“You were beautiful, Grandma,” said Lisa admiringly.

“You’d be surprised, Lisa,” her grandmother responded. “Adults, all of us, were once young and irresponsible like you.”

“I don’t think Mom was ever like that …” said Lisa.

“Your mother…” her grandmother’s voice became low as she carefully chose her words. “When your father died in the service, your mother was still just a girl herself. You were a baby, and Jamal was only two. She had to grow up real fast.”

Lisa nodded. She finished her tea, thanked her grandmother, and turned to go back upstairs.

Our youngest daughter can be stubborn about receiving gifts, and I told her so.

“Where do you think I get it from?” she asked.

“I’m not stubborn when it comes to receiving gifts,” I said. “I used to be but not now.”

She has a birthday coming up and we want to get her some new cowboy boots.

Cowboy boots aren’t cheap, but we want to do something special and get her something she could use and enjoy for years to come.

But my daughter is pushing back, saying she’s happy with her current boots-which are old and worn-out.

I push back, she pushes back, and we become locked in a mother-daughter match over stubbornness and how much is too much to spend on a special gift.

She thinks my husband and I do too much for her. I used to think the same thing about my parents—my parents weren’t rich, but they were generous.

They kept saying they enjoyed giving me gifts, but all I could think about was how much money they were wasting on me.

Years ago, I mentioned to a friend that I thought my mother overdid it when it came to buying gifts for her children.

My friend, closer to my mothers age than mine, looked at me and said, “Who are you to tell your mother what she can do?”

I wanted to argue with her, but I didn’t. I didn’t fully understand it then but I understand it now—now that I’m a grandmother myself.

The longer you live, the more you see how often things go wrong.

Marriages fail, friendships break down， family members become estranged, and accidents and illnesses cut lives short.

There is a brokenness that fills many of our lives.

So, when you see life going well, families working hard and growing strong, you want to celebrate.

It took a lot of time for me to understand that giving is an expression of joy, as much as it is an expression of love, understand where my daughter is coming from, but I also understand where my parents were coming from—a place of pure and simple joy celebrating those moments when life goes well.

The Marches were a happy family, Poverty, hard work, and even the fact that Father March was away with the Union armies could not down the spirits of Meg, Jo, Beth, Amy, and Marmee, as the March girls called their mother.

The March sisters tried to be good but had their share of faults. Pretty Meg was often displeased with the schoolchildren she taught; boyish Jo was easy to become angry; golden-haired schoolgirl Amy liked to show up; but Beth, who kept the house, was loving and gentle always.

The happy days passed and darkness came when a telegram arrived for Mrs. March. “Your husband is very ill,” it said, “come at once.” The girl tried to be brave when their mother left for the front. They waited and prayed. Little Beth got scarlet fever (猩红热) when she was taking care of the sick neighbor. She became very ill but began to recover by the time Marmee was back. When Father came home from the front and at that joyful Christmas dinner they were once more all together.

Three years later the March girls had grown into young womanhood. Meg became Mrs. Brooke, and after a few family troubles got used to her new state happily. Jo had found pleasure in her literary efforts. Amy had grown into a young lady with a talent for design and an even greater one for society. But Beth had never fully regained her health, and her family watched her with love and anxiety.

Amy was asked to go and stay in Europe with a relative of the Marches’. Jo went to New York and became successful in her writing and had the satisfaction of seeing her work published there. But at home the bitterest blow was yet to fall Beth had known for some time that she couldn’t live much longer to be with the family and in the spring time she died.

News came from Europe that Amy and Laurie, the grandson of a wealthy neighbor, had planned to be married soon. Now Jo became ever more successful in her writing and got married to Professor Bhaer and soon afterwards founded a school for boys.

And so the little women had grown up and lived happily with their children, enjoying the harvest of love and goodness that they had devoted all their lives to.