This is what I shared with my kids about my childhood.
We live in a small village where villagers raise pigs to sell for cash, hens for eggs, cattles and horses for farming and transportation; where eggs and meats are only reserved for special occasions at weddings or funerals, for the lucky few, at birthdays.
Compare to stories that I hear from my grandparents, we are relatively well off, we have productive farm land, and we have reasonable cadets. We always have corn flour, wheat flour during the harvest season, and fresh vegetables in the growing season, and picked vegetables in the off season.
There are folks who are much less fortunate, especially displaced folks for whatever reason. They are from outside our county or province. They speak a different dialogue, and I do not understand what they are saying, or I am too afraid of them to even pay attent to them when they come begging in our yard. (I just made up term "displaced" now when I wrote this sentence, for my owned understanding).
Not my grandma. Everytime there is a begger approaching our yard, my grandma always makes sure that the person does not leave empty handed. She always shares a piece of corn bread, boiled water, or wheat bread if we have, or starts a conversaion. Sometimes, I am tasked in handing over a piece of bread. The gratititude and the smile in exchange is unforgetable. I never once heard my grandma utter any disrespectful word.
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