At 11 I moved in with my bohemian stepfather. It was like being admitted into life’s best University. P.B.S., Sagan, Cavett, Welk, Benny Hill, holidays, coffee, nudity, art, society, pets, take-out, classical music, naps, tea, nature, and hours of documentaries.

The documentaries caught me up on past and present world events. It was during one of these programs that I learned of the Jewish Holocaust. Bulldozers pushing naked bones into huge pits. A dump truck backs up and unloads white powder on top of the bodies. “Why are they dumping chalk on them?” my stepsister asks. “It’s called lime” I tell her. My stepfather turns down the T.V. “Where did you learn that son”?

I’m 6. Our family is visiting a farm. Old men in coveralls are shoveling flour into holes. I remember asking my dad “What’s a carcass?”. I’m elbow deep in the bags, “Don’t get the lime in your eyes” one of them says. Lime? Sugar? I dip.

I discovered “lime” doesn’t taste like “Lime Kool-Aid”. I refused to clean chalk erasers after that too.