One of my favorite pictures of my grandfather is of him smoking a cigarette on the front porch of his house overlooking a field across the road, just past the pines. How many summers had I spent there, running around the three pine trees in the front lawn, staying away from the field because it has snakes? Now I'm older, the country life isn't as appealing to me as the city. And yet, whenever I'm not too caught up in my city life, I think about how it must have been for him. Grandkids playing around the house, wife making iced sweet tea, and no work on that Sunday. It's a gift to be simple, I've been told. I believe that. That day, my grandpa woke up at six am, made biscuits and gravy for me and my sister and my cousin (we had stayed up late and were sleeping in), smoked a cigarette as the sun rose, and I imagine he tinkered with a car or tractor or something before we woke up to cooking sausage. No responsibilities, just enjoying a pleasant summer day with family and some simple honest work. That's the kind of life I'd like.