I remember going to visit my great-grandmother fairly regularly as a child. My great-grandmother, and namesake, lived in a lovely little neighborhood off of South Blvd. in Charlotte, back when there wasn't a great deal going on. The main highway was just miles of telephone poles and ugly buildings and, to be honest, not much has improved since then either. That being said, on one particular visit, I don't remember whether we were coming or going, my Dad and I stopped for dinner at a Captain D's nearby. Being that I was tiny, my Dad ordered the battered and fried shrimp kid's meal for me. I don't really remember if there were three or four shrimp, but either way, there wasn't much. By the time we sat down, I was ravenous; and before my Dad realized it, I had eaten all of my shrimp, tails and all.
As he assessed the situation, he smiled, chuckled, and said, "Baby, you're not supposed to eat the tails."
Somewhat embarrassed by my apparent faux pas and still a little hungry, I looked toward my empty plate. I didn't even know which part of what had eaten was the tail of the shrimp. Shrimp had tails? Why had no one warned me? I thought for a moment and looked back towards my Dad, defending myself I declared, "Daddy, I am only five. I don't know everything."
