A TITillating memory

It was early in the evening of one summer day when I was about ten. My father came in from the barn, where he was milking the cows, and told me he had a job for me. He needed me to go down to town, on my bike, and get a can of teat dilators at the drugstore.

I was excited. I'd never before been allowed to go such a long distance, alone, on my bike.

After being handed the money to purchase the dilators, I was off on the three-mile journey.

It was a beautiful, warm evening and a great time to out on a bicycle, feeling all grown up.

I pedaled alongside the Carrabassett River most of the way. I pedaled past the Newell farm, the Moodys, the Carlson farm, and into town. I pedaled past Elm Street Market, past the town library, past the First Congregational Church, and my destination came into sight.

I cautiously pedaled across Main Street, looking both ways, to the drugstore. As I kicked down the bicycle's stand, it hit me:

I was going to have to say "teat" (or, more likely, as my father said it, "tit") to the man behind the drugstore counter.

Panic overtook me. How was I going to get a can of tit dilators without actually saying the word "tit"?

My mind raced. My heart raced. I reluctantly entered the store.

The clerk asked if he could help me. I hemmed and hawed, then I finally blurted out, "I need some of those dilator things. You know, for cows."

"Oh!" he boomed. "You mean TIT DILATORS!"

He handed me the can, I handed him the money, mumbled a thank-you, and skeddaddled out of the drugstore as fast as my legs would carry me.