Notorious

One of the interesting things about living in or just outside of a small town is that everyone knows you. I'm not sure what the reason is, but people seem to know me more than I know them. I go shopping and someone says, "Hey Cellar Door." [Not my real name, of course!] I go to pay a bill with cash. I've seen the woman once before, and she says, "I know it's Cellar Door, but how do you spell it?" I don't know her name. I ask it. I come up with a mnemonic device to remember it. I forget it. Those are the store people, the ones who have an interest in my business. Those people, I understand. They have their reasons for remembering me.

[Little Z's picture of an Eastern Bluebird. I think her teacher wrote "bluebird."] There's a second group, though. People who have no vested interest in me remember me and Little Z. Everyone from Little Z's preschool knows us. There must be a hundred kids and all of their parents, etc. A woman stopped me at the grocery store today and talked for ten or fifteen minutes. No idea who she was. She knew Little Z's name, she knew our car, she knew all about us, it seemed. I have no clue who she is! Smile and nod. We're just notorious, I guess.