My Monday anecdote: Why I Never Believe My Mother.
When I was a kid, my brother and I were fascinated with stories about Mom’s childhood. She grew up in the country, on a farm. She even had a pony! A real pony!
“Mom, didn’t you have a pony?”
“Yes, kids, his name was Sambo.” (that wasn’t racist in the ’50s, by the way)
“What happened to it? Why doesn’t Grandma still have it?”
“Well, kids, we were poor. So we had to kill it and eat it.”
We believed that story for *way* too long.