I was the youngest child in my family, and given that, my siblings took delight in messing with my understanding of the world. Escalators, for instance. Their perpetually replenishing stairs eventually filled the basement at JC Penney's, and a man had to come clean them all out. He was called an Escavator, which for years made plenty sense. So too did Grandma's hard attack. As for ellomenopee, I thought that was one letter of the alphabet until I was 27.
The oldest, Linda, ran screaming from our mother's presence when I was eight, and since I lived with Mom, I have few memories of Linda. One memory bubbled up during a trip to the grocery yesterday, though. We were driving through Ohio farmlands, presumably on a trip to see our grandmother, when we passed some cows. It was then that Linda sought to educate me.
"John, do you know where chocolate milk comes from?"
I had no idea.
"Brown cows."
I nodded gratefully, feeling stupid for not having known, or at least not having guessed, something this obvious.
"Then where does skim milk come from," I asked Sensei.
"Skinny cows, stupid."
I just noticed this product for the first time and emailed her the photo.
