By Libbie Summers
Assisted by Candace Brower
When I was very young, my mother pulled me in a red wagon up a bumpy hill to our small town’s Main Street to watch a parade. Regardless of my tender age, I was old enough to recognize the lameness of this parade. I didn’t see one clown, nor a single baton twirler and there were no sugary confections being sold on a stick. My mother had duped me. Her parade enthusiasm had me so excited I waited in the wagon for nearly an hour before she emerged from our house looking like she was going to some fancy party and not to a stop on the side of a road that only went one way.
The so-called parade consisted of a line of shiny race cars and one particular car that caused the crowd of showily dressed middle-aged women to scream, and two to faint. The driver of the car was Paul Newman.
Since that day, long before salad dressing, and maybe just to have one thing in common with my mother, I became a Paul Newman fan. I’ve watched every one of his movies –too many times to count. Cool Hand Luke will forever be my favorite.
Fast forward to a silly day in my studio working on content for a hard-boiled egg story and this happened.
He said he could eat 50. I new I could eat 51. We both lied and at least one of us puked.
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