Riding in the car yesterday, me, Em, my best friend. My friend says, “The flamingo festival starts this weekend.”
“FLA-MEN-CO,” Em corrects from the back seat. My friend and I look at each other, burst out laughing.
“Whaaaat? Nanny always says it that way too,” Em says by way of explaining herself.
It’s true. My mom still calls it flamingo dancing. (Somehow seeing the pink, long-legged birds at the zoo reinforced the logic of it all for me as a kid.) And my brother, who plays classical guitar for the local flamenco repertory, still corrects her.
This gets me thinking of all the words I grew up understanding to be one thing when they were actually another. For example, I thought there was such a thing as vanilla envelopes. Were there chocolate ones, too? And all my childhood, I heard the story of how I almost died at the age of 18 months when my croup turned to ammonia.
Em, my best friend, and I end up on the back patio. My friend and I are drinking a beer. We hear a scratchy call in the distance.
“Was that a pheasant,” my friend asks.
“Yes, it’s out picking potatoes in the field.”
Related to post My Manger Is In The Saloon.