Alright, here's mine.

My siblings and I went with our mother to Georgia about 1963 to visit the
ancestral farm, which included a pony named Buttermilk, some number of cows,
and all the usual rural appurtenances.  My father was smart and stayed home
in LA to tend to business.

Our cousins were accustomed to drinking what they called "cow's milk," which
as one might expect came direct from their own cows. We city slickers found
"cow's milk" to be unacceptably warm and had all manner of odd and disgusting
(but natural!) things floating around in it.  What this meant was that my
aunt and/or uncle had to go out and buy pasteurized milk from the grocery
store for their snotty nieces and nephews who were too refined and dignified
to drink the real thing.  Seems to me I was somewhat embarrassed by this at
the time, but I sure as hell wasn't drinking that stuff, either.

This was the same summer, which some of you may remember from prior epistles,
during which your faithful correspondent was invited to attend a
cross-burning.

Ralph