So, I bet you are wondering who Grandma Brenda is. Well, I will tell you because it is one of the main points of this post. Grandma Brenda is The Kid Who Farts' grandma.
I heard him refer to his grandma as Grandma Brenda, and I thought to myself, "You know, grandmas who refer to themselves as 'Grandma Insert-my-first-name-here' are just plain out there weird." These are the same women who refer to pants or jeans as "trousers" or "slacks." These are the same women, I would dare to venture, who, when they dress, dress in "outfits."
Don't you think that's weird? I guess not everyone can be as classy as me in my clothes consisting of pants and shirt.
Also, though this has nothing to do with Grandma Brenda, at least I hope not for Grandma Brenda's sake, I have been noticing the hitch-hiking bums who are hitch-hiking right at the on-ramp to I-80. Have you noticed that it is always someone different? I mean, how do all these different people know that this is a good place to catch a ride? I wouldn't think it would be, since who wants to slow down and pick up a guy with dreds down to his saggy-baggy butt just when they are speeding up to get onto the interstate? I don't know, but somebody must stop to pick him up because the next day it somebody different standing in his place, like a man with a 120 pound hiker's pack slogging along next to his 120 pound female counterpart, or an old man sitting on a cooler with the brim of his cap pulled down low to block the sun.
Doesn't something in your heart and your curiosity want to stop to give them a lift? I've been down to thinking it would be a miracle to have diapers and milk in the house, and that part of me truly does want to pull over and offer these people a ride. Where are they going? Do they really need to go there? Are these people without food? Are they without money? Jobs? Are they simply without transportation, which I happen to have and can offer up? Are they on vacation from all of these things? I don't know. I guess that's where the curiosity comes in.
As a woman traveling either alone or with children and with no bear mace in the car, I know it is realistically not safe for me to pick anyone up and take them anywhere. And don't you think it's sad that I can't? Remember those people who picked up our whole family on 21st south when our car broke down? Remember that guy that let me and Dave ride in the back of his truck that was filled with junk when we broke down by Honeyville, who took us to a friend's in Brigham City who could diagnose the car and thus saved us towing and mechanic fees? An old man bum in a junky truck who wouldn't take any payment from us even if we had had it to give?
So, does it mean anything that I would rather hang with the hitch-hikers and the old man bums than with Grandma Brenda in her pants-suit consisting of trousers and blouse and tailored jacket?
I was thinking last night as we were talking as a family about philanthropic endeavors, about helping people out on a personal level. And I was thinking that unless we live and work among people who need help, there's no way we could be aware of them and their needs. It's sort of like Book of Mormon stories about, say, Ammon, how he couldn't have taught Lamoni unless he had lowered himself to the social level of a servant. How missionaries in prison taught their jailors. How Jesus himself taught the poor, the sick, the needy, the afflicted.
Anyway, these are just some random thoughts I've been having. I thought maybe if I wrote them down I could let them go and they would stop flapping around in my head.