Clean and wholesome. Fresh, young, full of cheer and on the way to responsible adulthood.
That's what seems to be the case with a clutch of blogging young people associated with the 100 Hour Board, an unofficial but complimentary spinoff of Brigham Young U. I was curious about the blog I came across the other day which struck me as a cut above the average. It goes with the territory, but being young also often means being vacuous, smarmy, and crass to the edge of rudeness. A young person who is genuinely respectful, quick to smile and make others smile, and careful about good manners is hard to find these days.
Here is a delightful snip from Petra from this group.
I am in love with a mechanic. Head over high heels, I fell for a balding middle-aged man this morning, and, in the midst of this burning passion, I wish to shout my good news from the rooftops. (Or, you know, post it on the internet. Same thing.)
[Snips here. These kids aren't into editing yet...]
Clearly, it was time to visit a mechanic. The problem, though, is that I try to avoid practical matters at all costs. ...
Auto mechanics are even worse than doctors, insurance agents, or customer service representatives. I know nothing about cars...and I'm convinced that I'll betray that within the first five seconds of our interaction...If asked to diagnose the problem, I'm sure I'd be even worse, and would end up looking like a total fool: "Maybe it's the muffler...belt?"
Nonetheless, this morning, I girded up my loins, gathered my courage, gritted my teeth...and drove over to the mechanic, my car practicing its high-pitched vowel sounds the whole way. ("AAAAEEEEEIIIIIIOOOOOUUUUU!") Reminding myself that muffler belts do not exist, I pulled into the auto shop's parking lot--screeeeeeeeech!--and idled for a moment, looking for a likely place to deposit my car before humbly approaching the mechanic, as a devotee to an idol.
I was startled out of my reverie by a tap on the window. It was the mechanic, bald, fortyish, overweight, henceforth to be called my One True Love. I rolled down my window, cringing in anticipation--thousands of dollars on repairs, maybe, or a long lecture chastising me for even daring to defile his workshop with my ignorance. Or was I about to park illegally?
"Your brake pads are shot," he said. "I could hear it as you drove in. $120. I'm not open today, but if you bring your car back next week I'll fix it. " My OTL walked away. I never even had to get out of the car.
The light broke through the clouds, and angel choirs harmonized with the dolphin sopranos in my brake pads. In my rear view mirror, the mechanic's bald pate shone like a nimbus of celestial glory. He was beautiful. The music was beautiful. Provo was beautiful. Life was beautiful.
Hélas. It won't last, I know. He's probably already married. I mean, how could a man like that not be snatched up like the last Green Power Ranger on the Toys 'R Us shelf? And, as it turns out, I particularly don't care; I'll indulge myself in the joy of the moment instead of pondering our future together. I'm more the mistress type anyway.
Now what's not to love about a kid like this? I never saw her and never expect to, but on the basis of this post alone I could give her a hug. Fortyish...middle-aged. Hehe. Some guy's gonna get a real gem one of these days. And I don't think for a moment that she's "the mistress type." My instinct is that we are reading the fantasy of a sharp, together young woman.
By the way, that's the reason I keep Andrew Cusack on the blogroll. Clean as a pin, and with a silver spoon to boot. I look in on him from time to time to remind myself that the next generation is not going to hell.
Now I have another place to look.